The Morning Of

by S. B. Cody

  I agree that the Vigils are evil. At first glance, it would seem incongruous to compare the manipulation of a chocolate sale with evil acts such as murder, but it is those smaller transgressions that often lead to the larger ones later in life.

  I have never really given much thought to how I would define evil. It’s such a foreign concept that I suppose I’ve thought that it defied definition. The absence of empathy seems to be a perfect definition for it though. A hallmark of any psychopath is that they lack empathy, so equating that to evil seems rather fitting. After all, our ability to feel compassion and to feel the pain of others is what separates us from the animals. A sad fact of life is that there seem to be many people who lack empathy in certain situations. Certain people’s refusal to care about the death of Noah Spaulding is a recent example. Out in the larger world, when we refuse help to people in times of need, we lack empathy. People often don’t realize the kind of pain they are causing if they don’t see the victims of it first-hand. We all need to work on building empathy within ourselves and our society. If we did, perhaps we could put a stop to the endless cycle of violence that the world has found itself stuck in.

  Dennis’s writing proved to be at a much higher level than that of his classmates, but that was of little interest to him at the moment. Ever since he heard about Dennis’s arrest he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that a mistake had been made. He kept trying to quell these thoughts with the assumption that if the police had reason enough to arrest him, then he must have been the one. But what he read here… they were not the words of a killer. They were not the words of someone who an hour later would take out a gun and start shooting people. At that moment he felt assured that Dennis was innocent. And so he knew that Brandy had been right. He needed to say something to someone. If a chance existed that he could keep Dennis from rotting away in a prison cell, then he had no other choice. That, of course, raised the question of where to go from there. Would the police give a damn what he had to say? Could he possibly affect the outcome of something this big?

  The next day Connor made it a point to get out of school as soon as he could and drove straight to the police department. As he walked from the doors to the front desk he kept waiting to realize this as a fool’s errand. A schmuck English teacher was going to convince the police that someone was innocent with nothing more than a journal in hand? Still, he found himself at the desk asking to speak with the detective in charge of the Stanford shooting. After a brief wait, Kara arrived at the desk to welcome him back.

  “Hi. I’m Detective Smalls. Mr. Sullivan?” she asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Please follow me back.” Connor obeyed. He held the journal close to his chest like a scared high-school girl clutching her books as she walked through the halls. His eyes darted left and right, his mere presence here making him uncomfortable. Kara led him to an interrogation room and asked him to take a seat. The room managed to seem smaller from the last time he was here. Connor could immediately understand why these rooms tended to be so drab. Its whole architecture set him on edge. He felt ready to confess to something he hadn’t even done.

  “Please forgive the setting. With sensitive information pertaining to cases, we like to keep it as private as possible.”

  “Oh no problem,” Connor said with a nervous laugh.

  “So I understand that you have some information pertaining to the Stanford shooting?” she asked as she pulled out a notepad.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Now, we spoke to you before, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were the one that fought the shooter off?”

  “Yes,” Connor said, his voice filled with embarrassment. He didn’t want to talk about that aspect of it.

  “So did you recall anything that you couldn’t remember at the time?”

  “No. It’s about Dennis Clements.”

  Kara tilted her head at him, wondering what he could offer in this regard if it wasn’t related to the confrontation he had. “What about him?”

  “Well… I feel like a mistake must have been made when he was arrested.”

  “How so?” She attempted to suppress the tinge of hope that began to rise. She had been attempting to disregard whatever doubts she had about Dennis.

  “Well, it’s just that I know the kid, and I can’t picture him doing those things. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. He certainly isn’t a killer.”

  Kara pinched her sinuses as she listened to all of this. If she didn’t know better, she could have thought she was listening to herself. “Mr. Sullivan, while I can appreciate your point of view, I’m afraid that doesn’t do much in the way of evidence.”

  “I know. I get that, and that’s what I was telling myself for a while. But then I came across this,” he told her as he handed across the journal.

  “What is this?” Kara asked as she took it from him.

  “It’s a writing journal that Dennis keeps for my class. I give them writing prompts and they respond in these. I was going through them yesterday, and I came across something that he wrote the very morning of the shooting. Like not even an hour beforehand.”

  Kara flipped through it coming to an end at the page where Connor instructed. She took a moment and read through it.

  “Do you see what I mean? There is no way that someone would write something like that when they were about to kill a bunch of people.”

  Kara could see his point, but she told herself to stay focused. “Well I understand, but this doesn’t really prove anything.”

  “Well, what kind of evidence do you have against him anyway?”

  “I can’t discuss that. Now is this all you have?”

  “Yeah but…”

  “Then thank you for coming in. If you should happen to come across anything else that you think may be helpful, then please do share it with us.”

  “Please. This kid is innocent. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. I know it in my bones. I’ve been teaching for five years now, and I’ve come across a lot of different kids. Some of them I have been genuinely afraid of. Jesus Christ, I had a kid who got caught dissecting a cat out in the parking lot one day. I know a bad kid when I see one, and Dennis Clements isn’t one of them.”

  “Well, do you have any idea of who may have committed the shooting?”

  Connor hung his head. “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Then without that or something solid pointing away from the Clements boy, there is very little you can do.”

  “But this doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t. I’m sorry.”

  Connor ambled his way through the station and out to his car. He had felt good this morning when he woke up, for what seemed like the first time in years. He woke up with a sense of purpose and direction. Feeling like he could do something worthwhile, but it became clear that he was destined to live a life of quiet desperation.

  That night he went to bed, wondering what else he could do, if anything. For the first time since it happened, he actually replayed the shooting in his mind. He relived it, feeling that same sense of fear, dread, and uncertainty that he had that morning. The assuredness that he would end up on the receiving end of a bullet. He went through the face of every student that he knew, wondering which one of them hid a killer inside. But of the long line of students, no one stepped to the front.

  35

  The morning of Dennis’s arraignment had come. Brody and Kara wormed through the crowd. Despite walking side by side, there might as well have been an ocean between the two of them, neither of them having said a word to each other all morning. In fact, they hadn’t spoken since that night at Brody’s house. Kara had noted that Brody finally showed up not reeking of booze. His standoff with the bottle still happened every night, but so far Brody had been winning.

  Brody had been to the courthouse plenty of times over the years. Been there to testify. Been there to see people get convicted after he put them away
. Been there to see Mandy’s killer get the axe. In all the times he had been there, it had never been like this. Place was packed wall to wall, flashes from cameras making Brody feel like he was staring at the sun. Typically, Brody could shoulder his way through a crowd, but this time it felt like wading through wet cement. Even the waving of his badge wouldn’t make room for him. There was no room to be made.

  Once the courtroom doors swung open, the crowd cascaded in, and the two detectives moved with the rush. Once inside, their badges did manage to get them a spot up front. They sank into their seats and waited for it all to begin.

  The endless babble of the room came to a halt as Dennis shambled into the courtroom. Orange jumpsuit, hands and leg cuffs. His hair shielded his eyes a bit, but the vacant stare still came through. Kid didn’t even seem to know where he was. He sat in his chair right next to his lawyer who scribbled so furiously at a legal pad that he couldn’t even spare his client a glance. Dennis flinched with every flash of a camera and every hurled insult or question that came his way. Brody looked on, wondering what could possibly be going through the kid’s mind. What did go through the mind of someone who could kill a couple dozen people?

  “All rise for the Honorable Judge Manion!” the bailiff called out. Everyone stood, Dennis a step behind them, seeming unsure of what to do. The prosecutor looked over at him like a tiger ready to pounce. The judge entered, an older man with a gut bulging beneath his robe and a horseshoe of gray hair atop his head. He eased into his seat and slipped on a pair of glasses. Everyone took their seat.

  “Good morning, everyone. We have here case number 16-MR-5472. The People vs. Dennis Clements.” Not a murmur was uttered as he went through his spiel. “Mr. Clements, you have been charged with twenty-eight counts of first-degree murder and fifteen counts of attempted murder. How do you plead?”

  Dennis just looked on, not focusing on a thing, and saying nothing. His lawyer jabbed him in the side, bringing his attention back. He stood from his seat and looked around the room like a toddler getting his bearings on his surroundings.

  “Mr. Clements, how do you plead to the charges?” Judge Manion repeated.

  “Not guilty,” Dennis said, his voice flat. Brody expected a series of murmurs to pop up, but none did. Manion looked on at Dennis for another couple beats, almost as if he wanted to give the kid a second chance.

  “Mr. Durant?” Manion said as he turned towards the prosecutor. Patrick Durant stood with an air of grace, commanding the attention of all in the room. A strong jaw protruded from his face. Flecks of gray peppered his black hair which he seemed to own with pride.

  “We’ve reached out to Mr. Dillon offering a reduced sentence in exchange for a guilty plea and the identity of his accomplice. But all offers have been refused,” Durant replied, emphasizing every syllable.

  “Mr. Dillon?” Manion said, turning towards the defense.

  Dennis’s lawyer stood, wiping away the sweat that seeped out of him. He’d never been in such a situation and was constantly playing catch-up. “Your Honor. My client is innocent and can’t very well reveal information that he doesn’t have. We plan on fighting all charges.”

  “Very well. The trial shall commence on April 16 of next year. Anything else, counsel?”

  “Your Honor,” Dillon continued, quivering. “We would request that Mr. Clements be released under the supervision of his mother. At age sixteen, he is still a minor, has never been in any prior trouble, and hardly has the means to leave town. And with the widespread publicity of this case, there is no where he could go.”

  “Your Honor,” Durant shouted as he stood. “Given the severe nature of this crime, not to mention the extreme unrest in the community, it would be irresponsible to release him.”

  “Bail is denied,” Judge Manion declared without even a moment’s hesitation. “Is that all?”

  “One other thing, Your Honor,” Dillon said with a wince, like he worried that he’d be reprimanded. “Given the intense public opinion about this case and the amount of press that the case has already gotten, we would like to request a change of venue. It would be impossible for my client to get a fair trial from an impartial jury here.”

  “Your Honor,” Durant began the moment Dillon stopped talking. His typical poise had abandoned him. “This town has been victimized and has a right to take part in this case. And to suggest that the people of this town cannot hear the evidence and come to a just conclusion is, quite frankly, insulting.”

  “Hearing on change of venue will be held two weeks from today. We’re adjourned,” Manion declared with a swift bang of his gavel. The man had long had a reputation of keeping his courts running without a moment’s interruption, and he earned that reputation today. All stood as he exited. Once he did, the crowd began to file out.

  After a few quick words with Dillon, Dennis sagged down into his chair and hung his head. All energy had been zapped from him, and his feet couldn’t sustain him for more than seconds at a time it seemed. Seated right behind him, his mother wiped away at her tears, not able to catch more than a few at a time. Brody looked over at her, every bit of life drained from her. Looking like every bit of happiness in the world had been burned away. Like she would be happier in the grave than her current situation. And as much contempt as he felt for that kid, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sorrow for the boy and his mother. Both prayed for some relief that escaped them.

  Meanwhile, Kara focused in on Dennis, looking in his eyes. The fear, confusion, and pleading that resided there. Kara had looked many cold-blooded killers right in the eyes, and almost every time, she saw nothing there. Within them, there existed a deep black hole. But not with this kid. She’d tried her best to ignore the creeping doubt that sifted through her during this case. Assuming that she’d gotten it wrong once again, she’d resigned herself to let it go. After all, if she managed to screw things up on a case like this… well, she could kiss her career goodbye. But what if she had been right? Then some poor kid could kiss his life goodbye. She could deal with being a pariah within the department, but she couldn’t deal with the other thing. She was going to have to roll those dice.

  36

  Christmas fast approached, but in Stanford it came without the requisite holiday cheer. Businesses and occasional houses had been adorned with decorations, but far fewer than years previous. And the holiday greetings all sounded forced, made more out of a sense of tradition and obligation than anything else. Around town, fearful stares were made to any stranger. No one could go more than a couple blocks without a cop standing watch. When night came, most retreated inside, not to be seen again until the sun was.

  This sense of unease had permeated West High as well. The administration made the decision to not hold the annual Christmas pageant. The staff Christmas party had been canceled as well. The idea of festivities seemed inappropriate.

  In class, everyone went through the motions. Connor found it difficult to muster any enthusiasm for what he taught. His mind swirled with thoughts of Dennis, wondering where the truth lay. And it didn’t help matters that Dennis’s upcoming trial was all that students wanted to discuss. So many of them bragging of their insight to the human soul. After all, they all knew that Dennis had been bad news. Two weeks separated them from Christmas break, and Connor began the day with having to put the kibosh on one such exchange.

  “I’m telling you, I wish I could whip that bastard’s ass. I always knew he was a freak,” Jamie said as Connor began passing out papers at the start of class.

  “Jamie, let’s not go down that road today. Okay?” Connor told him.

  “Sure,” Jamie responded noncommittally. Connor proceeded with class from there and introduced the story for the day, The Lottery. It told the story of a town that met to stone someone as a sacrifice. Class progressed uneventfully enough until they got to the actual stoning. At that point, Jamie spoke up again. “I’d like for Clements to be on the receiving end of that.” A few snickers went around the room along with
a couple looks of disgust.

  “Jamie. I told you that I didn’t want to hear any more of that,” Connor said, setting his gaze firmly on him.

  “Come on, Mr. Sullivan, you got shot at. You wouldn’t want to crack him upside the head?”

  “Jamie, I’m telling you for the last time.” Connor attempted to control his voice, but the rise in tone was unmistakable, his temper at its breaking point.

  “Whatever. I’m just saying prison is too good for the freak.”

  With that, Connor’s temper snapped. His fist came down on the empty student desk beside him, waking the students who slept. “Dammit, Jamie! Get out of here!” Everyone looked around, wondering if this had just happened. Students all knew Mr. Sullivan to be laid back and low key.

  “Wha…?” Jamie asked, as perplexed as anyone else.

  “Leave. Go. I don’t want you in my classroom.” His voice had returned to normal, but no one would have mistaken him for calm. Jamie slunk out of his chair and walked out, eyes on him the entire time. Everyone looked around, wondering if one of them might be next. “Please finish on your own. Complete the worksheet and turn it in. No talking,” Connor instructed his class. They all got to work, the class never having been quieter. Connor retreated back to his desk. He sat down and looked out on the students, his eyes falling on the lone seat at the back where Dennis should have sat.

  Six hours later, Connor remained behind his desk, watching his final hour shuffle out, ready to meet the outside world. Typically, Connor would have been close behind them, but lately he had been staying longer and longer after school. While here, he could fill the time. He could distract from the creeping doubt and guilt that encroached during the unstructured hours of the night. Doubt over whether his student had really been a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Guilt over whether there was anything more he could do about it. He enjoyed the monotony of the work he completed. Here there were certainties that he could rely upon.