The Blue Nowhere

asked, “It’s true?”
    “Yep, Frank. Sorry. He got away.”
    Ramirez and Tim Morgan, who was presently canvassing witnesses along the streets around the school, had been among the first at the scene.
    Ramirez turned and led Bishop, Gillette and, behind them, Bob Shelton and Patricia Nolan into the school proper. Linda Sanchez, pulling a large wheelie suitcase, joined them.
    Outside were two ambulances and a dozen police cars, their lights flashing silently. A large crowd of the curious stood on the sidewalk across the street.
    “What happened?” Shelton asked him.
    “As near as we can tell, the Jaguar was outside that gate over there.” Ramirez pointed into a yard separated from the street by a high wall. “We were all on silent roll-up but it looks like he heard we were coming and sprinted out of the school and got away. We set up roadblocks eight and sixteen blocks away but he got through them. Used alleys and sidestreets probably.”
    As they walked through the dim corridors Nolan fell into step beside Gillette. She seemed to want to say something but changed her mind and remained silent.
    Gillette noticed no students as they walked down the hallways; maybe the teachers were keeping them in their rooms until parents and counselors arrived.
    “Crime scene finding anything?” Bishop asked Ramirez.
    “Nothing that, you know, jumps up and gives us the perp’s address.”
    They turned a corner and at the end of it saw an open door, outside of which were dozens of police officers and several medical technicians. Ramirez glanced at Bishop and then whispered something to him. Bishop nodded and said to Gillette, “It’s pretty unpleasant in there. It was like Andy Anderson and Lara Gibson. The killer used his knife again—in the heart. But it looks like it took him a while to die. It’s pretty messy. Why don’t you wait outside? When we need you to look at the computer I’ll let you know.”
    “I can handle it,” the hacker replied.
    “You sure?”
    “Yep.”
    Bishop asked Ramirez, “How old?”
    “The kid? Fifteen.”
    Bishop lifted an eyebrow at Patricia Nolan, asking her if she too could tolerate the carnage. She answered, “It’s okay.”
    They walked inside the classroom.
    Despite his measured response to Bishop’s question Gillette stopped in shock. There was blood everywhere. An astonishing amount—on the floor, walls, chairs, picture frames, white-board, the lectern. The color was different depending on what substance the blood covered, ranging from bright pink to nearly black.
    The body lay under a dark green rubberized blanket on the floor in the middle of the room. Gillette glanced at Nolan, expecting her to be repulsed too. But after a glance at the crimson spatters and streaks and puddles around the room, her eyes simply scanned the classroom, maybe looking for the computer they were going to analyze.
    “What’s the boy’s name?” Bishop asked.
    A woman officer from the San Jose Police Department said, “Jamie Turner.”
    Linda Sanchez walked into the room and inhaled deeply when she saw the blood and the body. She seemed to be deciding if she was going to faint or not. She stepped outside again.
    Frank Bishop walked into the classroom next door to the murder site, where a teenage boy sat clutching himself and rocking back and forth in a chair. Gillette joined the detective.
    “Jamie?” Bishop asked. “Jamie Turner?”
    The boy didn’t respond. Gillette noticed that his eyes were bright red and the skin around them seemed inflamed. Bishop glanced at another man in the room. He was thin and in his mid-twenties. He stood beside Jamie and had his arm on the boy’s shoulder. The man said to the detective, “This is Jamie, that’s right. I’m his brother. Mark Turner.”
    “Booty’s dead,” Jamie whispered miserably and pressed a damp cloth on his eyes.
    “Booty?”
    Another man—in his forties, wearing chinos and an Izod shirt—identified himself as the assistant principal at the school and said, “It was the boy’s nickname for him.” He nodded toward the room where the body bag rested. “For the principal.”
    Bishop crouched down. “How you feeling, young man?”
    “He killed him. He had this knife. He stabbed him and Mr. Boethe just kept screaming and screaming and running around, trying to get away. I . . .” He lost his voice to a cascade of sobbing. His brother gripped his shoulders tighter.
    “He all right?” Bishop asked one of the medical