Bloodshed
Page 7
Then the two mass murderers meet in the middle of the library and reload.
Eric noticing someone hiding nearby, asking, Who’s there?
It’s me, John Savage. You know me, Dylan. What’re you doing?
Oh, just killing people, Dylan responds.
You going to kill me?
What? Dylan asks.
Are you going to kill me?
Dylan hesitates, then, Nah. Go ahead. Get out of here.
Savage running out of the library.
As soon as he’s gone, Eric fires a round toward Daniel Mauser and grazes him.
Mauser fighting back, throwing a chair at Eric, Eric firing again, hitting Mauser in the face and killing him.
Dylan and Eric moving again, randomly firing under another table, injuring Jennifer Doyle and Austin Eubanks and fatally wounding Corey DePooter.
It is now 11:35 A.M. Eric and Dylan killed ten people in the library and injured many more.
This just isn’t as fun anymore, is it? Eric asks.
Maybe we should start knifing people, Dylan says.
They then move toward the main counter. Eric throws a Molotov cocktail toward one end of the library, but it doesn’t explode. He then goes around the counter and Dylan joins him.
They find a student wearing a hat.
Lift your head so we can see you, Eric says.
He does. It’s Evan Todd, wood splinters still embedded in his skin.
Dylan says, Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t off you right here and now.
I don’t want trouble.
Eric saying, You don’t know what trouble is.
You used to call me a fag, Dylan says. Who’s the fag now?
Dylan turning to Eric, Should I kill him?
Eric, still dazed, his nose bleeding badly not responding.
The taunting continuing, eventually Eric and Dylan walking away.
Dylan shooting a TV. Throwing a chair at a computer station. The two boys walking out.
Seven and a half minutes in the library. Twenty-two students shot. Ten killed. Twelve wounded.
When Dylan and Eric leave the library, the survivors begin to sneak out.
For the next twenty-seven minutes or so Dylan and Eric wander around the school, aimlessly, directionless, randomly shooting, examining their undetonated bombs, talking, shouting out threats, reloading.
All the while the cops wait outside and Dave Sanders bleeds out.
Today’s the day the world ends, Eric says. Today’s the day we die.
Reentering the now mostly empty library.
After firing a few rounds through the windows at the cops below, they kill themselves, Eric firing his shotgun through the roof of his mouth, Dylan shooting himself in the head with his handgun.
White middle-class teenage boys, rampage, mass-murdering little monsters, dead now because they chose to be.
The initial attack over, the residual trauma never will be.
Columbine echoing through time, waves of insidious inspiration, ripples of rampage like radiation infecting the ill minds and imaginations of other lost, lonely, boys.
13
You never really think anything like this can happen to you until it does. I will never be the same. Not ever. Am I glad to be alive? Of course. But is part of me dead? No question.
I wake the next morning feeling agitated and unrested, but knowing when the shooting will take place.
After not enough time with Anna, Taylor, Carla, and John Paul, I drive to Pottersville, through the town and to the high school.
On the drive over, I spoke to Reggie by phone, receiving her permission and blessing to help Potter County with this possible shooting, being reassured that they had everything in Gulf County in hand.
Entering Potter High through the gym, I rush through the commons and over to the back corner between the stage and the bank of microwaves.
Finding Kim and LeAnn’s office empty, I walk over to Tyrese’s.
There I find Tyrese, Kim, LeAnn, Chip Jeffers, Ace Bowman, and Hugh Glenn.
“John,” Glenn says. “I’m glad you could join us. We were just talking about what our response should be. How far we should take this. Do we warn everyone and risk creating a panic or do we continue investigating in secret?”
“We’ve got to do all we can to protect the students and faculty,” Tyrese says. “We can’t take a chance with something like this. The potential devastation is just too great.”
I’m struck again at how much Tyrese looks and sounds like Merrill. Even his mannerisms are similar. He’s younger than Merrill by about ten years and weighs less than him by about seventy-five pounds, but otherwise he resembles a brother more than a cousin.
“It’s true,” Glenn says, “the fallout . . . if we say nothing and something happens and the parents found out we knew . . . would be . . .”
“I’m not talking about political fallout,” Tyrese says. “I could give a damn about that. I’m talking about doin’ our damn jobs and protecting these kids who are in our care. We’re responsible for them.”
“I wasn’t talking about political fallout,” Glenn says. “You misunderstood. But it’s not like we can cancel school.”
“Why not?” Chip asks.
“We cancel school and the shooter just waits until we reopen,” Bowman says. “Doesn’t solve anything, just kicks the can a little further down the road.”
“It’s still possible there won’t be a school shooting,” Glenn says. “We have no definitive proof there will be. Just some notes. Hell, they could be a prank or part of some stupid lit assignment or something.”
“But—” Chip begins.
“What do you think, John?” Glenn asks. “I’d really like to know.”
“I think the threat is real,” I say. “I think there will be a rampage shooting here. And I think I know when it will take place.”
“Really?” Tyrese says.
“When?” Glenn asks.
I look over at Kim and LeAnn. “When did Tristan and Denise say their play was going to be?”
“Tomorrow,” Tyrese says before they can respond. “Why? Is that when it will be?”
“What is tomorrow?” I ask.
“Friday,” Kim says.
“The date,” I say.
LeAnn’s eyes grow wide as her mouth falls open. “Oh my God,” she says.
“What?” Glenn asks. “What is it?”
“Tomorrow is April twentieth,” Tyrese says. “The anniversary of Columbine.”
“Fuck me,” Glenn says.
“Tomorrow all over the country students plan to walk out of school in protest,” Tyrese says. “Inspired by the student survivors at Parkland and to remember Columbine and to protest our inaction in protecting them.”
“And someone is planning a school shooting here during a play about a school shooting while all that is going on around the country,” Kim says.
“And the eyes of the world are on us,” LeAnn adds. “Couldn’t be a better time.”
14
Reliably predicting any type of violence is nearly impossible. Predicting that an individual who has never acted out violently in the past will do so in the future is even more difficult. Accurately anticipating acts that occur as infrequently as school shootings would require a psychic with a crystal ball the likes of which we have never seen.
“If we think John is right,” Glenn says. “And I take it we all do. . . I mean, there’s no way to know for sure, but it’s the best theory we have and it all fits, right? It still leaves us with the question what do we do?”
Tyrese says, “I don’t think there’s any question about—”
“Before we—sorry to interrupt,” Glenn says. “But before we each say what we think we should do, let’s go over all our options. That sound good?”
Everyone nods.
Tyrese says, “Sure. Okay. First and most obvious option is to cancel the play and close the school.”
“Okay,” Glenn says.
Tyrese shakes his head. “That’s way, way too risky. What if he’s able to shoot someone or detonate a bomb before we catch him? If just one person got killed it wouldn’t be worth doing.”
“I know what you’re saying,” Bowman says. “I do. But if we cancel the play and close the school then all we do is stop him on that one day. He or they will still do it when we reopen. And we won’t be ready and we won’t know when it is. This way, we can be waiting for him or them. We can actually stop them and catch them. We can have the staff on high alert. We can have undercover police and extra security and . . . It’s our best chance—I know it’s a risk, but it’s our least risky option. It’s our best chance of preventing the loss of life.”
Tyrese shakes his head like he’s not convinced. “I don’t know . . . John what do you think?”
“First, whichever option you go with, we need to keep investigating the most likely suspects,” I say. “If you have school tomorrow, we need to visit all the suspects tonight, see if we can’t find evidence and stop him or them that way. And if you cancel the play and school, we need to keep investigating them for the same reasons—try to find them before you reopen. But Ace makes some great points. It’s actually safer to have school tomorrow when you’re expecting the attack and can have tactical law enforcement in place—I’d get the help of other departments and agencies and any and everybody we can find—than another random day when there’s no additional security in place and you don’t know what to expect or when to expect it. But it’s a hell of a risk. There’s no question about that.”
“Yes it is,” Glenn says. “But it’s Tyrese’s call to make. We can all have input, but ultimately the decision will fall on Tyrese—or maybe . . . I mean . . . if we need to go above your pay grade, we can let the superintendent decide. Maybe the school board.”
“I spoke with the superintendent this morning,” Tyrese says. “He said he’ll support whatever decision we make. Says it needs to be made here on the ground, in the trenches, not from the county office where they don’t know the situation like we do.”
The superintendent, like the sheriff, is a political position. They both have to stand for election again soon and don’t want to have been the ones to make the decision. If it goes badly they can blame Tyrese. But if it goes well and we actually prevent it from happening you can bet they will take the credit—even as they pretend not to.
I think about the weakness and lack of leadership manifest in the responses of both men, and it makes me ill.
Dad had been a very good sheriff—maybe even a great one. What Potter County has now is country miles from that.
Dad and I disagree about many things, but I never doubt where he stands or question his integrity, nor have I ever once seen him shirk a responsibility or duck accountability following difficult decisions.
“So the decision is yours,” Glenn says.
Tyrese looks at me. “What do you think I should do?”
“It’s an impossible situation,” I say. “But I’ve been thinking about it and . . . while originally I was in favor of canceling the play and closing the school, I think Ace is right. It could still happen, we just won’t know when. Being open, having the play . . . is a huge, huge risk, but I agree with Ace that it’s less of a risk than the other way.”
He nods.
“And I’ll go on record now and afterward—no matter what happens—and say so.”
His eyes lock onto mine. “Thank you,” he says. “I really—”
“I’ll go on record too,” Glenn says, though he doesn’t say what he’ll go on record as saying.
“The thing is,” I say, “if we do it, we’ve got to have plenty of help and cover every eventuality. Our plan has to be perfect. We’ve got to reduce the risks down as close to zero as we possibly can. And we’ve got to investigate all the suspects as thoroughly as we can between now and then. But even with all that there are no guarantees.”
“No there aren’t,” Tyrese says.
“I think we can do it,” LeAnn says. “I truly do. I think between all of us and all the help we get . . . I think we can stop him. If I’m being totally honest . . . I think John can catch him and we can help.”
Kim nods and says, “Me too. I agree.”
“It’ll take a team effort,” Glenn says, trying to insinuate himself back into the conversation.
“Yes, it will,” I say. “And the truth is . . . none of us would be here if it weren’t for Chip. It’s his conscientious police work that has given even the possibility to prevent a massacre from happening.”
15
To the Black Jack Crew. You guys are very cool. Sorry, dudes. I had to do what I had to do.
We find Mason Nickols and Dakota Emanuel where they can be found most nights—working at Sal’s Pizza.
We have spent the day preparing as best we can for tomorrow—enlisting the assistance of other law enforcement agencies, going over plans, searching the school, watching security camera footage, talking to suspects— every one of them except for Mason and Dakota, who have thus far eluded us.
Sal’s Pizza, a Pottersville fixture, is a small, independent storefront pizza joint on Main Street situated between an insulation place and an insurance agency. Primarily a carryout joint, there are only three small tables in the limited space between the plate glass front and the order counter.
When Kim, LeAnn, and I walk in, we find Mason and Dakota working behind the counter and a small group of teens sitting at two of the three tables, which they have shoved together.
The three of us sit at the remaining table.
“We have to order at the counter,” Kim says as if we don’t know. “How do you want to do this?”
“One of you go up with me to order and one stay here to keep the table. Let’s try to engage them as much as possible without being too conspicuous. Depending on how that goes, we may just have to question them directly before we leave.”
Kim nods. “I think it’s best if you go up with LeAnn,” she says. “And don’t mention you’re a cop.”
As LeAnn and I get up and walk over to the counter, I see that DeShawn Holt and Sierra Baker are among the teens talking and eating at the other two tables.
Sierra gives us a little wave and DeShawn nods.
“You want the usual, Miss LeAnn,” Dakota asks as we reach the counter.
LeAnn smiles and glances at me. “I eat here a lot.”
I nod. “I did too when I lived here.”
“Oh, Dakota, this is John. He’s a good friend of mine. Used to live here.”
“John Jordan, right?” he says. “I read about you. You’re a straight-up stone killer, aren’t you? Bunch of articles online about that serial killer in Atlanta, dropping bitches off Stone Mountain. Used to catch criminals, now you work with them in prison ’cause you got religion or some shit like that.”
I nod, deciding not to mention I was also an investigator again.
“That’s some kind of radical wicked man,” he says. “Hey Mason, check this shit out. This is the dude from that serial killer site.”
Mason sneers at me from the kitchen and says, “Smells like bacon to me.”
“No, he like takes care of monsters in prison now,” Dakota says. “He’s all right.”
“Take their damn order already and get your ass back here and help me cook all this shit,” he says. “And turn your pig detector back on and recalibrate that shit. He’s more of a doughnut eater than she is.” He nods toward Kim.
Hanging his head and revealing who the alpha is, Dakota quickly takes our order, seething as he does.
“It’s okay, Dakota,” LeAnn whispers. “You’re right. John is one of the good guys.”
He ignores her and hustles back to join Mason in the back.
; When we get back to the table, Kim says, “Whatever y’all ordered, don’t eat. No way Mason doesn’t do something disgusting to it now.”
I nod.
Sitting here inside Sal’s it occurs to me that Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold worked at a pizza place together, and I wonder if that’s the reason Mason and Dakota took the jobs.
Kim says, “If you’re planning on blowing up the school or going on a rampage shooting tomorrow, would you be at work slinging pizza tonight?”
“Two days before Columbine, Dylan did his math homework,” I say. “The day of the shooting, Eric went to his early morning bowling class and acted normally.”
“They worked in a place like this, didn’t they?” LeAnn says.
Kim nods. “Blackjack Pizza.”
“Lots of killers are calm and stick to their routines leading up to their crimes,” I say. “After Dylan did his math homework that night, he did several pages of personal writing. He wrote about the judgment that was coming in just twenty-six-and-a-half hours, but the most striking thing he put down was that knowing he was going to die gave everything a touch of triviality.”
“Absolutely chilling,” LeAnn says.
Kim nods and shivers a little.
I think back to what I read recently about the night before the Columbine massacre when Eric met Mark Manes to buy a hundred rounds of ammo for his TEC-9. Mark asked him if he was going shooting that night. Nah, not tonight, Eric had replied nonchalantly, but I might go shooting tomorrow.
“How can people like that be the same species as us?” LeAnn asks.
“I’m not sure they are,” Kim says.
Before I can respond, Ernie, Sal’s nephew and now the new owner of the place, walks in.
Ernie, who used to deliver pizza for Sal when he was a kid, had delivered a pizza to my old place at the Prairie Palm the day I first met Laura Mathers shortly after moving back here from Atlanta.
Sal, who had no children of his own and who acted as a sort of surrogate father for Ernie, had left the joint to him.