When Kim tries to get up, she struggles a bit until Anna takes her by her good arm and helps her.
“I’ll sign your cast if you want me to,” Johanna says.
“Would you?” Kim says. “I would love that. I was just about to ask if you would.”
As Anna searches through our junk drawer for a Sharpie and Johanna tells Kim how her name is spelled and what it comes from, Carla steps over to me. I immediately reach for John Paul, though that is not why she walked over to me.
“I’m so happy for you, John,” she says. “No one deserves it more.”
“Thank you,” I say, holding little John Paul to me, propping his tiny head on my shoulder.
“I know you’re going through some things right now,” she says. “I’m just glad something broke your way in the midst of everything.”
I remember having a bottle and a good buzz going at Rudy’s Diner late on the night when Nicole Caldwell had been murdered and how the much younger version of Carla had looked at me, how relieved she had been when Anna walked in. Anna and I weren’t together then, but I remember the fire in her eyes when she told me not to dare use the death of that precious little girl as an excuse to get drunk.
“Thank you,” I say again. “And thanks for being here with us and sharing this little fella with us.”
“I keep thinking we’re in the way,” she says. “That we’ve outstayed our welcome.”
“That’s something you could never do,” I say. “It’s such a grace to have you both here.”
“I can’t believe it’s taking them so long to get our apartment ready.”
“I wish they would take a lot longer,” I say. “We will be very sad to see you go.”
As a couple of media trucks pull up to the end of our property, Anna says, “They must have gotten the word. I wonder if FDLE released a statement. I feel like I should write a statement and go read it to them.”
LeAnn says, “I’m all for it as long as it has the words suck it in it.”
318
I think the reason there’s so many school shootings is that y’all don’t allow God in schools anymore. We need God back in school. And prayer. We need prayer back. And spankings. We need God, prayer, and spankings.
I’m just about to start drinking when Merrill calls.
“Got time for a little ride?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He pulls up and picks me up in his black BMW a few minutes later.
The night is bright, cool, and quiet beneath a nearly full moon. The streets are empty, dappled by faint nocturnal shadows.
“You remember D-Bop?” he asks.
“The drug dealer? Yeah? In prison, isn’t he?”
“Out. ’Bout a year now. Back to dealing but he’s expanded his product line. Moves some weapons now too.”
“Picked up some new tricks inside,” I say.
“Yeah, and contacts.”
“Good to see our justice system working.”
“Oh, it works,” he says. “Just not the way John Q think it do.”
I don’t respond and we ride in silence for a moment.
I haven’t heard Merrill slip into his playful, ironic use of ebonics in a while and it makes me smile. I’m sure it’s because he’s about to be mixing it up with D-Bop.
From his car’s finely appointed sound system I can hear the barely audible, nearly imperceptible singing of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On?”
“I’m pretty sure D-Bop the one sold the kids the guns used in the shooting,” he says. “Want you to hear what he has to say about it.”
I nod. “Where we meetin’ him?”
“Old Rish cow pasture on 73.”
I nod, grateful I’ve got my badge and guns back.
In the absence of our conversation I can hear Smokey Robinson’s “Being With You.” Being a trained detective I deduce that Merrill’s system is tuned to a Classic Motown station.
“Got word today that the two pair of boots found—ones on the stage and the ones in the video production room—were clean,” he says. “No traces of blood or gunpowder on either of them. What looked like blood on one of them was theatrical blood.”
“You got the list of who was wearing black boots the day of the shooting?” I ask.
“In the folder on the backseat.”
I reach around and grab it and begin flipping through it.
The list of who was wearing black boots the day of the shooting is far more important now that we know the boots found weren’t worn by the killers.
I locate the list and scan it.
Mason Nickols.
Tristan Ward.
Zach Griffith.
DeShawn Holt.
Josh Blunt.
Casey Box.
Sierra Baker.
Chase Dailey.
Denise Royal.
Sage Dalton.
Randy Haines.
Ray Ray Hill.
Deandre Wilder.
Matt Houston.
“Only suspects from our list not on that one are Evan Fowler and Dakota Emanuel, right?” Merrill says.
“Yeah, but Dakota didn’t have any shoes on,” I say. “So he could’ve had boots on and gotten rid of them somehow. Probably need to see if Tyrese can search the school for them again.”
“He’ll need help,” he says. “Maybe we can put together a crew for this weekend.”
“Sounds good.”
“Couple of rumors continue to persist,” he says. “Teachers and students gettin’ it on and that the bullyin’ and abuse that could’a motivated this shit came more from staff than the other kids. I asked Tyrese. Says he’s never heard even a whisper of either one, so . . .”
We ride the rest of the short way to the old Rish cow pasture in silence, Stevie Wonder’s “Master Blaster” taking us in.
We find D-Bop’s black Escalade idling in the middle of the pasture, the exhaust trailing up into the moonlight.
The fence of the old field is mostly gone and the pasture is a popular spot for drug deals because of the isolation and how easy it is to see anyone approaching.
As we roll up beside the SUV, the back window rolls down.
Merrill pulls out his .45 and places it on the seat between his legs. I reach down and unsnap my holster and let my hand hang there hovering over the butt of my 9mm.
Rolling down his window, Merrill comes to a stop next to the open back window of the Escalade.
After a few greetings and some bullshit, we get down to the reason we’re here.
“I ain’t know they’d be usin’ my gats to blast no damn school,” D-Bop says.
I wonder exactly what he thought they were planning to do with them, but don’t ask him.
“We tryin’ to make sure they don’t do it again,” Merrill says.
“I cool with that, long as I left out of it.”
Merrill nods.
“I got your word?” D-Bop asks.
Merrill nods.
“Want his,” he says, nodding toward me.
I nod.
“Well, so whatch y’all wanna know?”
“Who made the, ah, purchase?” Merrill says.
“Moved two ARs recently,” he says. “All this renewed racism, tribalism, whatnot . . . good for business. One was to a white boy. Can’t tell you much more than that.”
“Can you describe him?” Merrill says.
“He’s white.”
“Anything else?”
“He a high school kid, sorta scrawny, stringy cracker-ass hair needin’ a trim.”
That describes most of the guys on our suspect list—maybe even all depending on his definition of stringy hair in need of a trim.
“Nothing else?” I say.
“Ain’t got to the oh shit part yet,” he says.
“Which is?” I ask.
“Had a partner.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Merrill asks.
“That it wasn’t. It was a her. She had the money. She seem to be call
in’ the shots. She didn’t even get out of the car, but he had to run back and forth to ask her shit and to get the money from her.”
“You describe her?” Merrill says.
“White girl. That about it. She stay in the car. Got big sunglasses and a hat on.”
Someone from somewhere in the dark SUV says something I can’t make out.
“Tall Boy say dude coulda been a light skin nigga, but, shit . . . I don’t know. Maybe he was.”
“What about the other AR you sold?” Merrill says.
“That the weirdest shit of all,” D-Bop says. “These motherfuckers man . . . sayin’ shit like they heard I’s in prison and if I got a taste for it they’d suck me off or let me fuck ’em for a discount. These some messed up motherfuckers. I ain’t gonna lie.”
“They get a discount?” Merrill asks.
“Man, fuck you,” D-Bop says. “You know I don’t fuck with no faggots. But yeah, they gots a discount ’cause I got a little punk in my posse that like white boy penis . . . so I knocked off a few bucks so he could hold one. Some sick shit. He did ’em both—together. And they brothers and shit.”
“So you know who they are?” I say.
“That’s the strangest part of the whole strange motherfucker,” he says. “They them foster twins what were killed in the shooting.”
319
Usually in school shootings the shooters shoot themselves. It’s the only good thing they do. But they didn’t do that in our shooting. They didn’t do the one decent thing they could have.
The memorial takes place on the high school football field the next morning.
The stadium is surrounded by armed guards from various agencies and everyone who enters it is required to go through a metal detector and submit to a pat-down.
I and others had passed along the information about a possible second attack during the service and I’m glad to see the threat was taken seriously.
Instead of four coffins like Kim had imagined there might be, there are four enormous posters on stands with wreaths beneath them on a stage at midfield. A podium with Pottersville Pirates is in the center of the victims’ photographs.
The stage faces the home bleachers, which are filled to capacity with alumni, family, and members of the community. Current students and teachers sit on the field in folding chairs between the stands and the stage.
A single camera is centered on the field and is feeding all the networks and news outlets that want to carry the service. Media trucks and vans fill the side field near the gym, reporters and camera operators, who aren’t permitted in the stadium, standing and sitting and reporting in front of them.
Tyrese leads the service, assisted by various community leaders and clergy. An individual eulogy is given for each victim, and they vary greatly in quality. Kim does the best job with Ace’s, but ministers who do Janna, Hayden, and Hunter’s struggle through them with generic sentiments and platitudes like they didn’t know—and didn’t take the time to get to know—the person they’re eulogizing.
We decided our girls were too young to attend an event like this and that it was too dangerous for both of us to be here, so Anna is home with Johanna and Taylor. Carla was back and forth about whether to attend or not but at the last minute decided to—and to bring John Paul with her.
Merrill and I are standing near the bleachers along the waist-high fence that defines the field, observing the proceedings but mostly searching the crowd for threats and keeping an eye on our suspects.
Mason and Dakota are sitting together near the back of the student section, Tristan and Denise on the center right. Zach Griffith is perched on a riser on the left side videoing everything.
It’d be easy to take the guts out of a video camera and hide a gun inside it, I think. Wonder if anyone checked it.
As I look around and wonder if there’s going to be another attack today, I can feel a surprisingly high level of anxiety that lets me know I haven’t gotten over the earlier one.
I want to be at home drinking, and can feel myself looking forward to sipping my way toward oblivion late tonight.
Chase Dailey performed a song he wrote about the tragedy earlier, then disappeared into the crowd, and I haven’t been able to locate him since.
If Evan Fowler is in attendance I haven’t been able to locate him.
Ever the helpful, exemplary students, DeShawn Holt and Sierra Baker, who earlier passed out programs and helped usher, are now going through the crowd with the hand fans the funeral home provided.
The bright sun is beating down on us, and seeing them pass out the fans reminds me just how hot I am and makes me acutely aware of the bead of sweat rolling down the length of my back.
“Anything?” Merrill asks me.
I shake my head. “You?”
“That Nickols boy keep lookin’ back here glaring at us. I don’t know about shootin’ but there’s gonna be some school violence at this bitch.”
“He does have a very punchable smirky face, doesn’t he?”
“I’m guessing based on what D-Bop said it’s probably Tristan and Denise,” Merrill says, “but I ain’t gonna lie, I’s really wanting it to be Mason and Dakota and I’s sure hopin’ their punk asses would resist arrest at least a little.”
I nod.
“You figure anything out on why the twins would be buyin’ an AR?” he asks, nodding toward the posters of Hayden and Hunter Dupree.
I shake my head. “Not so far.”
“Could they’ve been involved and been double-crossed or something?”
“It’s possible.”
“Shee-it, virtually anything’s possible,” he says. “I’m asking for what you think happened.”
As I’m about to say that I just don’t know yet, Inez Abanes, who is giving the closing remarks at the podium, says something that causes the killers’ picture to begin to come into focus.
“We have to live every day as if it’s our last,” she is saying. “Life can be capricious but we can’t be capricious about life. We just never know. I keep asking myself, why didn’t the shooters come into my room. Ms. Harper’s asking herself the same question. They were right there at our doors. Why didn’t they come in?”
I recall watching one of the shooters on the surveillance footage with Tyrese go from door to door in the northeast hallway, the way he looked inside and pulled on the door.
“We have to live our lives as if we never know when our door is going to be opened, because we never do.”
I can feel certain connections start to be made but before they can be, I see Anna’s Mustang turn off the main road and into the drive between the school and football field.
Knowing she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important—wasn’t something she could’ve texted or called about, I begin to move toward the main stadium entrance.
By the time I’m nearing the ticket booth, she is coming into the arena, Taylor on her hip, Johanna on the opposite side holding her hand.
Even from several feet away I can see tears streaming down Anna’s cheeks.
“What is it?” I say as I reach her. “What’s wrong?”
At first she can’t speak, just starts crying harder.
Then Merrill and Kim and Reggie are there behind me.
Reggie takes Taylor and Kim kneels and embraces Johanna, as Merrill positions himself between us and the media in the field across the drive.
Behind us I hear the last amen of the final benediction and the crowd standing to its feet, a big portion of it beginning to head in this direction.
“Take your time,” I say to Anna. “Just breathe.”
Apparently back on stage, Chase Dailey begins to play the song he wrote again, a longer version this time that incorporates the Potter High School alma mater.
“John,” Reggie says, “we’re gonna take the girls out before the crowd tries to exit through here. Take your time. We’ll be over by the car when you finish.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry,�
�� Anna says. “I know I’m making it worse. I didn’t mean to cause a . . . I just had to be with you, had to be the one to . . . tell you.”
“Tell me what?” I ask.
“Oh, John, I’m so sorry,” she says, a fresh wave of tears flowing out of her red eyes and down her cheeks, “but Derek Burrell died a few minutes ago.”
320
God, I just want to wake up and have everything be back to normal. I’ve never had a nightmare this bad or this long before.
I killed a kid.
Regardless of the situation or circumstances, in spite of the outcome of FDLE’s investigation, irrespective of anything else, the unalterable, devastating reality is I had killed a kid.
How do I live with that?
How can I even begin to process something like that?
Now I understand why Anna is so upset, why she felt compelled to rush to be with me and—
My knees buckle and I actually fall to the ground.
Merrill quickly steps over and pulls me up, as the throng of exiting mourners descends upon us.
“Let’s move a little more over this way,” Merrill says, and leads me and Anna farther away from the exit.
Anna hugs me and whispers how sorry she is and how much she loves me.
She doesn’t try to downplay it or rationalize or justify my actions and their consequences. She knows enough to know how hollow all of that is in the face of the fact that I had ended the life of a child.
The slow moving herd has reached us and has bottlenecked at the exit.
I become aware of the crowd glancing over our way and several camera operators pointing their cameras in our direction.
I shake my head. “We can’t do this here. Let’s get the girls and get home.”
Anna dries her eyes and quickly pulls herself together.
“Y’all ready?” Merrill says. “Follow me and I’ll make a hole for us to—”
“Mr. Jordan, are you okay?” DeShawn Holt asks as he and Sierra walk up.
“Were you especially close to some of our victims?” Sierra asks.
True Crime Fiction Page 124