“You did treat everyone the same,” LeAnn says. “I always admired that. You could certainly be . . . serious . . . even humorless at times . . . like you were carrying around the weight of the world, but for an adolescent Atlas you were all right, and you certainly were so nice to everyone—no matter their race or socio-economic level.”
“And unlike John, you were never serious back then,” Kim says to LeAnn.
“Still not if I can help it,” LeAnn says. “Best defense mechanism I’ve found against the slings and arrows. How is that for some self-perception, and what about throwing in a little Shakespeare since we’re at the theater lab? Are y’all as impressed with me as I am?”
“More,” I say. “Of course, it would have been even more impressive if you hadn’t felt the need, like Tristan, to tell us what you just told us.”
She smiles. “What he and I have to say is too important to take a chance that you might miss it. It’s our duty to break it down for you dullards.”
“And I was always pining after some guy,” Kim adds, looking away wistfully. “I’m sure we were self-absorbed and maybe even a little dramatic, but we weren’t anything like that.”
“See why we thought of them?” LeAnn says.
I nod.
“They could be our own little Mickey and Mallory, right?” she says.
I think about the mass-murdering couple from Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers and try to picture the goth girl I just saw in the role of Mallory and the pale, puffy boy as Mickey.
The original Mickey and Mallory were victims of traumatic childhoods who became a rampage killing couple, a bloody Bonnie and Clyde sensationalized and spurred on by the media.
“I’m sure y’all had this thought,” Kim says, “but . . . what if they . . . Do you think they could be planning on doing the shooting during or at the end of the play?”
I nod. “Very well could be,” I say. “Send the actors out with real guns loaded with live rounds, or . . . more likely . . . make everyone sit through that dreadful drivel and then—”
“We’ll all be begging to be shot,” LeAnn says.
As we near the music room, we hear the fine fingerings of a skilled musician playing an acoustic guitar in an arpeggiated manner, and LeAnn tells us about Chase Dailey’s alcoholic mom and the severe abuse he had suffered at her hands—hers and the parade of user-abuse boyfriends that had worn a path through their home and lives.
Kim taps on the door and we step inside.
As we do, Chase stops playing.
Looking up from his vintage-looking Guild guitar, his eyes widen when he sees the three of us.
Chase Dailey is a slight and slightly effeminate young man with long, dark hair and deep-set dark eyes. He has long, narrow fingers with nails in need of cleaning.
He’s alone, seated at a music stand in a large carpeted music room, his bare feet on the round, silver circle near the bottom of the stool he’s on.
“Everything okay, Miss Kim?” he asks.
She nods. “Everything’s fine, Chase.”
Foam egg crate acoustic panels mounted on the walls absorb much of the sound and all of the echo in the dead room.
“We were just walking by and heard your beautiful playing, thought we’d stop in and listen for a moment.”
“Chase isn’t just a great musician,” LeAnn says. “He’s an accomplished songwriter. Only problem is they’re so sad you can only listen to a couple at a time.”
Kim says, “Chase, this is John. He was in our class back when we went here.”
He puts his hands together and gives me a small, heartfelt namaste nod.
“How’s it going?” I say.
He shrugs. “Ah, you know . . . could always be better.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I say. “You play beautifully.”
Music is his escape, this music room his only sanctuary—one he remains in to avoid going home until the evening custodians finish cleaning and kick him out of the building so they can lock up for the night.
“Be a shame not to do the one thing you do . . . well,” he says.
“You mind playing a song for us?” Kim asks.
“I don’t want to sing, but I’ll play for you if you want.”
“Please.”
He does.
I’m not sure if what he plays is original or not—it’s a testament to his skill that I can’t be sure—but it’s extraordinary, complex, moving, intricate, impressive.
When he finishes the three of us clap for him.
“That was incredible,” I say. “Thanks so much for playing for us.”
He gives me his little namaste nod again.
“Well, we’ll go now and sorry to disturb you,” LeAnn says. She turns to leave, but then turns back toward him. “Oh . . . before we do. Remember what I spoke to your class about today? Can you think of any students who seem particularly stressed right now—bullied or just broken up with someone? Anything like that?”
“Everybody I know is like that,” he says. “And not just kids. The whole world is fucked. Whatcha gonna do?”
“Anything we can do to help you?” Kim asks.
He gives her a resolved look and shakes his head, his long, dark hair moving back and forth.
“Okay.”
“Well,” LeAnn says, “if you think of anyone who—”
“You thinkin’ someone’s gonna do something?” he asks. “Something violent or something?”
“What makes you say that?” she asks.
“Just from what you said today and how y’all’re acting.”
“Do you know of anyone who might do something drastic or violent?”
“If it were me . . . I’d look for someone who doesn’t have a thing—you know, a girl or a sport or a hobby or a passion or a . . . something. It weren’t for this guitar, I’d’ve offed myself a long time ago.”
“We’re glad you have the guitar,” Kim says. “And you’re so good at it. But we want you to have more. Come see me and Miss LeAnn tomorrow, okay? Let us help you get more, have a better life. Okay?”
He nods.
“I mean it. Promise me you’ll come see us tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he says, but doesn’t sound like he means it.
273
My thoughts and prayers are with you. May almighty God, the eternal father, hold you in the palm of his hand.
Baseball doesn’t get the crowd that football does in Pottersville, but it’s a good season, so the park is packed.
In the warm glow of a quiet, peaceful evening, the boys of spring stand in a greening field backlit by the sinking sun participating in the leisurely pursuit of their country’s official favorite pastime.
The outfield fence holds the homemade signs of hometown businesses whose advertising dollars spent here won’t net a single additional sale.
As LeAnn, Kim, and I walk up, the park lights buzz and wink and flicker on, the beams of those near the backstop catching the curling smoke from the concession stand grill.
LeAnn turns to us and says, “Who would want to shoot up this living Norman Rockwell painting?”
“There are those . . .” Kim says, shaking her head.
“I guess there are, but damn . . . Seems like some Taliban shit to me.”
Kim nods. “That’s exactly what it is. Same destructive impulse.”
We stop along the back edge of the ballpark and take in the scene.
The announcer is a soft-spoken, twenty-something, African-American guy who was once a star here and went on to play in the minor leagues and even a few unremarkable games in the majors before returning home to become a roofer for his dad’s company. His dad, who was a star some twenty years before his son, is doing color commentary.
“At the plate now is the right-handed-hitting catcher, Bradley Conroy, hitting two-seventy-three with eight RBIs so far this year. Short lead . . . and this one on one hop by the third baseman into left field. Well, Sanders was playing in, and that one was just over the glove
by about a foot and a half.”
“Back-to-back singles . . . Another nice piece of hitting by Conroy for the Sharks.”
The home bleachers are mostly filled with parents and grandparents and the siblings of players too young and small to be on their own. Most of the Potter High students are swarming around the park in small packs, socializing, seeing and being seen.
Because there aren’t many visitors, the guest bleachers are filled with spillover from the home side, mostly teachers and faculty and the suck-up students who don’t mind sitting near them.
Beyond the dugout, the right field fence is lined with clusters of students sitting in the grass or on blankets, paying far more attention to each other than the game.
“Watch them,” LeAnn says, pointing to the two students she had in her office earlier, DeShawn and Sierra. “See how they move about the various groups of kids. They aren’t part of any discernibly defined group, but they are friendly with all of them. It’s like they haven’t chosen a side—or been relegated to one—and so by not being part of any, they are welcomed by all. That’s why they’re helpful. That’s why I thought we could use them.”
“I’m sure we will be,” I say, watching the two move about, greeting and being greeted by all the various factions just as she has described.
“Absolutely,” Kim says, “we just couldn’t give them information about other students. That’s all.”
“I get that now,” LeAnn says. “I should’ve thought about that part. I just got excited about playing detective and being able to bring actual informants to the table like I’m on The Wire or some shit like that.”
Kim and I both laugh.
“Just want to be a top cop like y'all,” LeAnn says.
“Speaking of . . .” Kim says, staring off in the direction of the concession stand. “Look who’s here and who he’s with.”
We follow her gaze to see Chip Jeffers standing in between the sheriff, Hugh Glenn, and the principal, Tyrese Monroe—Merrill’s cousin and the first black principal Potter High has ever had.
“Shall we?” LeAnn says.
“Sure,” Kim says as I nod.
And we begin to walk in their direction.
On our way, as we pass the Pirates’ mostly empty dugout, we pause to talk to Evan Fowler, one of the sophomore suspects from Kim’s list.
Evan is small even for his age, the high school baseball uniform too big for him. He wears his hat pushed way down on his head, just over his eyes, as if he’s trying to hide, his bushy, too-long hair spilling out around it as if ready for a bowl cut.
“Hey, Evan,” Kim says. “How’s it going?”
He turns his red face toward us and uses his tongue to unstick his lip from his buckteeth before speaking. “Same old same old. Ridin’ the hell out of this bench. Doin’ my job and keepin’ it good and warm.”
“Hang in there,” she says. “You’ll get your chance to play when you’re older.”
He shrugs. “Not likely.”
I wonder if he’s talking about getting older or getting to play.
“Hey,” the coach and Kim’s boyfriend, Ace Bowman, yells from the other end of the dugout. “Arrest that woman if she continues to harass my players.”
His tone along with his big, easy smile is flirtatious.
He’s a tall, broad, once athletic man who has gone soft. His fleshy face is both puffy and loose, and his wide hips appear even wider in the piped knicker baseball pants.
“Hey,” Kim says, pointing at him, “you take care of baseball and leave policing to me before I arrest your cute ass for harassing a law enforcement officer.”
“Honey, you got the cuffs, I got the time,” he says, holding his hands out, wrists together.
As he talks, he has to shift the sunflower seeds around in his mouth. When he’s not talking, he’s chewing on them and spitting out the shells in a rapid, practiced manner.
In the stands closest to the home dugout, a set of male twins dressed identically in PHS T-shirts and jeans, the sleeves and legs of which are rolled up, and who look to be around sixteen or seventeen, are shaking pompoms and cheering loudly but insincerely.
Someone in the stands behind them tells them to hold it down, asks them why they’re even here, it’s obvious they don’t know anything about baseball.
“If you can’t be an athlete,” one of them says.
“Be an athletic supporter,” the other says, looking over at the dugout and adding, “Right coach?”
LeAnn notices me noticing them. “The Dupree twins,” she says. “Hayden and Hunter. Very troubled boys. Suffered horrendous abuse before being taken from their biological parents.”
“Why aren’t they on the list?” I ask.
“Never occurred to me,” she says. “They’re just so . . . soft and . . . I don’t know . . . effeminate.”
Kim steps over to us, “They’ll fuck anything that moves—or be fucked by them I guess, but . . . can’t see them hurting anyone.”
I wince at students being described in such a way, and LeAnn says, “Damn, Kimmy, don’t hold back.”
When we continue on and are far enough away so Evan can’t hear us, LeAnn says, “I just can’t see that sweet little bucktooth boy sawin’ down his classmates with a rifle either.”
“You’re probably right,” Kim says. “Hope you are. But there’s a lot of frustration and rage in that little body. I’ve seen it firsthand. Remember that fight he got in last year with that boy who had been bullying him? I thought he was going to kill him.”
“Oh, shit,” LeAnn says. “I forgot about that. You’re right. Keep him on the list.”
Up at bat is an enormous kid everyone calls Slow Stevie.
“Watch this,” LeAnn says. “If he hits a home run, which is what he usually does, he’ll walk the bases. Not run. Not jog. Walk every step.”
“Not a fast walk either,” Kim adds.
On the third pitch and his second swing, Slow Stevie drives a fastball so far past the right field fence it rolls into the swamp and nobody goes after it.
And as they described, he drops the bat and starts walking the bases.
When we approach the three men standing near the concession stand, Hugh Glenn steps toward me and extends his hand. “Hey, John,” he says. “Good to see you. How are you? How’s your dad?”
“He’s good, thanks,” I say. “Staying busier now than before he retired. Enjoying being a newlywed again.”
“That’s good. That’s real good. I’m glad to hear that.”
Like every extroverted politician, Hugh Glenn is warm and friendly and acts as if he not only cares deeply about you, but you’re one of his closest friends. And mostly pulls it off.
While Glenn is talking to me, Chip is getting onto Kim for not being in her office when he came by earlier and not being at the game when it started.
“I made sure I stayed here until you got here,” Chip is saying loud enough for Glenn to hear him.
“Leave her alone,” Glenn says, turning away from me and toward them. “She’s an outstanding SRO, and there’s only one of her. She can’t be everywhere all the time.”
“No, sir, she can’t. I was just letting her know I had it until she got here.”
“What you had,” LeAnn says, “is your head so far up the sheriff’s ass you wouldn’t’ve noticed if anything happened anyway.”
We all laugh as Chip pushes back, trying to defend himself, and Slow Stevie just reaches third.
“John,” Tyrese says to me, extending his hand. “Good to see you. How you been? Seen Merrill lately? Said he was gonna call me the next time you two headed to the gym for a little b-ball, remind y’all how springy young legs can be.”
“I’ll make sure he does,” I say.
“Good, ’cause he says y’all still got game and . . . I’ll have to see that to believe it.”
Above us, on the second story of the concession stand, its piece-of-plywood window propped open, the press box towers over everything else. At th
is angle, nearly directly beneath it, I am unable to see the father-and-son team calling the game, but I can hear them.
“Tommy Hudson, the right fielder, the hitter. Two outs. One runner on base. He showed bunt. Laid down. Picked up. Nobody covering first . . . and he’s on base.”
“Hudson snuck one by the Pirates on that one.”
“Can I speak to you for a minute?” Glenn is saying to Kim.
She nods. “Sure.”
The two of them step a few feet away from the rest of us.
LeAnn says, “We’re gonna step over here and see Zach while you do that.”
LeAnn starts walking away and, after saying goodbye to Tyrese, I follow her.
She leads me over to a platform next to the visitors’ dugout, and we climb up it.
“Hope they built this with big girls in mind,” she says.
When we reach the top, we find Zach Griffith, the only other sophomore on Kim’s list, videoing the game with one of the school’s cameras.
LeAnn waves to him.
“You can talk,” he says. “I’m not recording sound. Just video.”
“Oh, cool,” she says. “How’s it going?”
“Seventh circle of hell,” he says.
“Damn,” she says. “That’s pretty bad. John, Zach. Zach, John. Zach runs our school video production unit. He’s very good.”
I think of the many videos Harris and Klebold made and make a mental note for us to check Zach’s work.
“This silliness is just point-and-shoot shit,” he says. “You could train any monkey to do this.”
The media tower is high above the field and provides a unique perspective on the game and the ant-like individuals swarming around it below. It makes me think of Charles Whitman, the Texas Tower Sniper, who climbed to the twenty-eighth-floor observation deck of the tower at the University of Texas in Austin and started picking off strangers with his hunting rifle—this, after killing his wife and his mother and three people inside the tower below. Before being shot and killed by Houston McCoy of the Austin police department, Whitman wounded thirty-one people and killed seventeen—sixteen on that day and a seventeenth who died thirty-five years later from injuries sustained back then.
True Crime Fiction Page 108