The Morning Of
Page 29
Kristin Benson entered psychiatric care for a month after her suicide attempt. At that time they deemed her to no longer be a danger to herself and was released. She never did return to Stanford West High School, officially resigning the day that she got out of the hospital. Her mother had to go and retrieve her belongings from the classroom, most of which Kristin would burn. Come the summer, Kristin and her mother moved from Stanford and never returned. Despite her mother’s insistence, Kristin had decided long before that her teaching career was over. Driving by a school often made her sick to her stomach, so she knew she would never be able to work within one. Instead, she found a job as an editor at a small publishing company and lived out her days in relative calm and peace. For years to come, she had to deal with the looks and whispers of people who recognized her, but in time that ceased. As did the calls from reporters begging to hear her story. After having been five years removed from Stanford, Kristin got married, thankful that she hadn’t completely scared off everyone else in the world. On a mental level, she finally accepted that she couldn’t take on the guilt of her students’ deaths. However, she would continue to struggle with it until the end of her days, never truly forgiving herself, often finding herself waking in the night as she heard the shots go off inside her head.
Dennis Clements was released and cleared of any connection with the shooting after Richard’s confession. This did little to shake the stink of jail from him. So many still assumed that he must have played some part. And if not, then he must have done something else that warranted their scorn. Dennis finished off the year being home schooled before his mother moved them a couple states over. This proved far enough to outrun the looks they received, but in the end Dennis still opted for changing his name once his eighteenth birthday hit. With this he reluctantly gave up his dream of becoming a writer, opting for a quiet life. He’d had more than enough excitement for several lifetimes.
Kara received a special commendation for solving the Stanford Massacre. It was with great reluctance that she actually took it. She wanted to be done with this case. And she felt like a fraud having a gold star hanging on the wall. You shouldn’t get an award for getting your partner killed.
She stood at the front of an endless crowd that came out for his funeral. She received a plethora of condolences along with pats on the back for nailing Lowe. All of it went right by her. After everyone passed by, she stood alone at his grave, where he shared a plot with his daughter. The sun beat down on her, ordering her to go inside a nice air-conditioned home. But she didn’t move. She stood there wishing there was a little bell that Brody could ring from below the earth.
Before leaving, she withdrew her commendation from her jacket and laid it on his grave.
Connor and Brandy Sullivan left Stanford at the conclusion of the school year, Connor finding a job teaching in St. Louis. They entered marriage counseling as they worked through all that had been left unsaid for years. One year after moving away, they welcomed their first daughter. They would have two more together.
On the day he left, he walked the halls one last time saying his farewells to the rest of the staff. While many were sad to see him go, none were surprised. Connor’s last stop on his way out the door was the plaque dedicated to Bradley Neuman. This time Connor didn’t hide his eyes like he had done so many times before. He faced it head-on and looked at the picture of the smiling teenager before him. An inch of a frown formed on Connor’s face as he silently nodded and walked out of the building one last time.
Fifteen years later, a man named Ben Timmons knocked on Connor’s door. Connor, a paunch having established its place on him and his hair now mostly gray, answered it to see someone whom he vaguely recognized.
“Mr. Sullivan?” Ben Timmons said in greeting.
“Yes. Do I know you?” Connor asked.
“It’s Dennis Clements. From back at Stanford.”
Connor fell back a step, never expecting that part of his life to come knocking at his door. He peered at the man in front of him. Dark hair lying flat on his head. A few wrinkles tearing across his face. Eyes set back behind a pair of glasses. And it was in those eyes that Connor saw the kid he once knew.
“If this isn’t a good time…” Dennis said.
“No. It is. Please, come in.” The two men went in the house, taking a seat on the couch.
“So… Dennis, what…” Connor said, trying to find the words.
“It’s Ben now actually.”
“What’s that?”
“I changed my name some years back.”
“I see. So what have you been up to all these years?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan. I don’t want to take up much of your time. I just wanted to come by and say thank you.”
“Thank you? For what?”
“When I was in jail, you were the only one who believed that I didn’t do it. And not only that, but you proved it.”
“No, please. You don’t have to do that.”
“No, I do. It’s long past due.”
“But I really didn’t do much. Most of it was dumb luck on my part.”
“The fact that you did anything, is just…” Dennis hung his head, not knowing what else to say.
“I’m just glad that it worked out.”
“Well, I just want you to know that it meant a lot. And I won’t forget it.”
Connor looked over at Dennis, and while it may have been a thirty-one-year-old man sitting on his couch, all he saw was a sixteen-year-old kid, scared and confused.
“You’re welcome,” Connor finally said. The two talked for another few minutes before Dennis excused himself. They parted with a handshake. Though they’d never see each other again, they would often think of one another.
In Stanford, life went on as it does. Over time the phrase Stanford Massacre took on a mythical quality, causing some vague sense of déjà vu whenever one said it. After enough time, no one was left that could recount to you what those couple months in the fall and winter of 2017 were like. The doubt and suspicion that hung over the town like a heavy miasma. The fear that it may all come crumbling down at any second. Still, much like the people who lived it, the town never truly forgot. Bullet holes were covered over. But still they laid there, scars beneath the surface.
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THE END
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the many who helped me along the way. First, I must thank my wife and my parents who have encouraged and enabled my writing even at times when I was ready to throw in the towel.
Further thanks is owed to those who helped me in developing this idea and giving feedback throughout the writing process: my wife Nicole and my friends Tammy Denton and Alex Dabney.
Of course, a huge thanks is due to everyone at Bloodhound Books for helping to make my dream of being a published author come true and for help in getting this book ready, particularly Ian and Tara for the help in editing. I am eternally grateful.
This book is influenced a great deal by my time in the classroom, both as a student and as a teacher. Therefore, a special thanks is owed to all those that have shared that time with me. Those I’ve learned from, those I’ve learned with, those I’ve taught, and those I’ve taught with.
And finally to my daughter Taryn, whom I’m thankful for every day.
A note from the publisher
Thank you for reading this book. If you enjoyed it please do consider leaving a review on Amazon to help others find it too.
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