An hour later he was back at the house, hot, invigorated, the demons that had been fighting for attention, suppressed. The anger was back, and that was what he could control.

He’d always been able to control his rage. It was the fear—the fear of failure—that made him weak.

He showered, made a sandwich, ate, and watched the recording of the news again. This time calmly, with a clear head. This time with focus.

The FBI agent had sent out a warning to everyone who worked in education. That annoyed him, but he had his contingencies. It was okay.

It would be okay.

He’d never had to use one of his backups before; he didn’t expect to now. But if he did, it would be okay. That’s why he planned things out.

So what if someone tried to stop him? That almost made it more fun.

He looked at the clock. Seven p.m. He wanted to leave now, but he had five hours. Five hours before he could kill.

But it wouldn’t hurt to follow up on his contingency plans. Make sure that everything was in place, should he need it.

He picked up his knife; stared at it. Balanced it on the back of his hand. Three fingers. Two fingers. One.

The calmness returned; he was at peace. He carved three marks into the table.

One for his mother.

One for his father.

One for him.

21

Spokane
7:20 p.m.

Anne Banks had worked exclusively in the emergency room of Spokane General for seven years. The first four were as a trauma nurse, the last three as a supervisor and head of triage. Most of the staff Matt spoke to hadn’t been there long enough to remember Anne, but he talked to one surgeon who remembered Banks very well. She’d been smart, competent and well respected.

Human Resources wasn’t open—it was after seven on a Friday night, and they wouldn’t be in until Monday. But after an hour of running around and talking to half a dozen people who couldn’t get him anything, one administrator finally promised to contact the head of HR and have staff come in personally first thing Saturday morning to pull all of Anne Banks’s employment records. If there had been any complaints against her from staff or patients, they’d share—provided that Matt produced a warrant.

“I’ll pull everything together,” the administrator said, “but HIPAA laws are serious. I need a warrant before I can turn them over to you.”

That was all they could do at that point. Driving back to the hotel, Matt stared into the darkness, frustrated. Tony was working on the warrant. It shouldn’t be taking this long—but it was three hours later on the East Coast, meaning ten at night. Matt hoped he had the warrant in hand first thing in the morning.

Michael Harris was right—Matt needed downtime. He was on overdrive but nothing good would happen if he had no sleep. He’d taken four hours each night, but two nights and a cross-country flight had taken its toll. It was the night of March 5 and Matt felt helpless. They’d done everything they could to warn educators, but in Matt’s experience, most people didn’t take warnings seriously. They would think, “Oh, that couldn’t happen to me.”