Fifteen Coffins

by Tony J. Forder

  Hours later, terror-stricken eye witnesses reveal their horror and incredulity, as well as an overwhelming guilt suffused with joy at surviving the attack in the first classroom. Each of them wonders why they were not also targeted, when clearly the gunman had other weapons at his disposal. Weapons he went on to use only moments afterwards.

  It is not the silence alone that prickles the flesh of all who see the CCTV footage. Other than the opening burst, the security system picks up no more shots, as the remainder occur inside classrooms. But the seemingly dispassionate way in which the gunman ambles around, emptying the magazines of various pistols, casting them aside and dipping into the holdall for another, apparently unconcerned by what he was doing, stalls breath and chills blood.

  He visits three classrooms in total before returning to the room from which his short reign of terror began. In his wake he leaves fourteen dead and twelve wounded. All of the deceased were fellow students, the teachers seemingly shot to wound rather than kill.

  The quality of the exterior footage is less distinct. Investigators come to learn that the gunman both entered and exited through an unlocked window in the art supplies room. There are no cameras overlooking that corner of the building from the outside, so the next time we encounter the gunman he is casually strolling across the quad towards the main school exit. Local police officers, the sheriff, and three of his deputies, all challenge the figure. Without breaking stride, the gunman reaches inside the holdall one last time. Before his hand reappears, every law-enforcement officer at the scene opens fire on him. When checked as the gunman lies dead on the ground, the holdall proves to be empty of weapons.

  What we know is that the gunman used six separate pistols, from which he fired fifty-four bullets. In turn, he received twenty-seven gunshot wounds. By the time mobile TV news teams arrive at the scene, the sound of weeping students and parents fills the air. Spread around the school grounds, none of those sobbing and wailing at that precise moment have any firm knowledge as to who lived and who died.

  Perhaps with the sole exception of the gunman, who was unmasked by the county sheriff, and named by the Principal four minutes after the final echoes of gunfire faded away, as Moon Falls High School student Kevin Muller.

  Spread throughout the article were still photographs taken from CCTV footage, plus a clip of the heavily edited video which various news outlets ran. Sydney read the entire piece first before watching the authorised release of security film for the first time. She understood what journalist Roy Clement meant when he described it as chilling. The gunman was both unhurried and uncaring as he strolled through the corridors delivering death along the way.

  Sydney shuddered and rubbed her bare arms, on which goosebumps spread like a rash of braille tattoos. She remembered watching similar footage of the Columbine school shooting, and of course there had been many more since. But this one had taken place in her home town. Her father had called her with the news on the same morning, and she had later watched several news feeds which fed the twenty-four-hour cycle lusted over by those drawn to the violence and mayhem of such incidents. It was all too close to comprehend at first, even though she was hundreds of miles away at the time. Although she failed to remain dispassionate, Sydney had made a conscious decision to steer clear of the aftermath, realising how distraught and devastated the people of Moon Falls would be as a single community.

  She was up to her neck in it. And all because some stranger had persuaded her that he was right and the entire rest of the world was wrong.

  Six

  When she was finished looking through the website and its many related links, Sydney made herself a cup of herbal tea before moving on to the Modesto Bee, the central valley’s main source of news in written form. She found the editorial style to be less parochial than the Democrat, and gleaned further information from their pieces which expanded on the general theme. A hard-hitting item on the fallout of the tragedy and how it was affecting school staff, caught her eye in particular.

  By the time she was through scouring online news, Sydney’s abiding take from the reports was how many people mentioned their complete shock at discovering the identity of the gunman. This was not the kid whose murderous yearnings had been written on the wall in blood-red letters for all to see, nor the damaged soul who nobody was surprised to find spraying bullets around inside a school building. Other than a terse note, the contents of which the sheriff had refused to reveal, the boy had provided no explanation for his actions, and the FBI had discovered no indicators from his past that his course of action had been both predictable and inevitable.

  No, Kevin Muller, lone gunman, was the kid who came as a complete surprise package to many of those quoted.

  Then there were the various comments at the foot of online articles.

  It’s the quiet ones you got to be worried about most.

  The kid was retarded. Who knows what goes on inside their heads.

  You dig deep enough into this kid’s life you’ll find a teen brainwashed by shoot-em-up video games.

  He had to have been on drugs. Goes without saying.

  Why has the father not been charged with anything? That’s what I want to know. He had to have been aware of what his kid was up to. And if not, aint that even worse?

  In addition, there were a few supportive words, including one that had to be alt-right inspired.

  Give the kid a medal. These snowflake students would only have gone on to create a Leftist generation of mindless dogmatic automatons with their free-space micro-aggressive multi-gender rhetoric.

  Sydney blew out a long breath. So much anger and vitriol from people, most of whom were separated from the events by miles, counties, or even entire states. The demonising of modern violent video games was a trope she had heard often before, and although the point being made was a valid one, as an earnest gamer herself she only ever immersed herself in those worlds while playing. Not once had she allowed the vivid emotions stirred up inside her avatar to bleed into her everyday existence.

  She sat back in her chair, sipped from the large stoneware cup and gave her mind time and space to appreciate the moment. The night had coalesced around her while she carried out her research. Most of the heat had moved over the horizon along with the setting sun, but by no means all of it. Crickets chirped in the long grass beneath the deck, and the automatic lights mounted to the wall out back had sprung to life, emitting a comforting amber glow. Sydney checked her watch. It was gone 9.00pm, and she had eaten nothing since her piece of pie at Big Bob’s diner. Two evening beers lay heavy in her stomach, though the tea had cleansed her palate.

  While she prepared a PB and J sandwich, Sydney began to question why she had allowed herself to be taken in by the Muller boy’s case. She had three jobs to do up here before returning to San Diego: first, close down her father’s open cases in the most reasonable way available to her; second, attempt to sell the business as a going concern, especially if it was possible to persuade the purchaser to retain the Merlot name as part of any deal; and finally, put the bungalow and those possessions she did not want to keep, on the market. Although this was her home, it was not one in which she envisaged remaining indefinitely. Her life lay 450 miles south. It was where her job was. It was where…

  Sydney’s hand paused, the knife coated with strawberry jelly hovering over a slice of sourdough bread. Her head came up with a jolt as she realised something. Not since speaking to him the previous evening had she once spared a single thought for Jordan, whom she’d been seeing for going on four months. Last night they had laughed and joked together and the miles separating them were an irrelevance. Today he had been entirely absent from her thoughts.

  Should I be worried about that? Sydney asked herself as she finished preparing her snack, adding a fan of Paprika-flavoured Pringles to the plate. How close were she and Jordan if he went missing from her conscious thoughts for such a long period of time? Their relationship was relatively new and flourishing, and it wasn’t yet
serious, so maybe it was normal not to think about each other every waking moment.

  She cut the sandwich into two triangles, and helped herself to another chilled Bud. In the living room, Sydney dropped into the armchair opposite the one her father had always occupied. It was where she sat while visiting him, where she had continued to sit since coming back north. She took a long gulp of beer, and a large mouthful of the PB and J, chewing noisily and without grace or decorum. There was no one around to scold her for it. No one to insist she use a coaster to prevent bottle sweat from tainting the wood, or tut as she dropped crumbs on the floor.

  She missed her father’s nagging more than she had ever imagined possible, and the thought provoked a jab of pain in her chest.

  Sydney decided she ought not to be too worried about her and Jordan. She had a lot on her mind, a burden added to by the weight of an investigation she should never have taken on and for which she was wholly unprepared. For a second or two, Sydney contemplated calling Dexter Muller and telling him she was in no fit state to handle his needs.

  It was the truth, after all.

  Except that it wasn’t. Not really.

  It was nothing more than a convenient excuse.

  Sure, she was still in mourning for a father she had idolised. Yes, settling his estate and closing down his business cast an emotionally overwrought pall around her. But the thing her father had admired about his daughter most of all was her single-minded clarity. Sydney was capable of compartmentalising in a way that had often set her father’s head shaking in wonder. Baggage came with being a human being, the encumbrance growing heavier with each passing year. For a woman, in particular, it was a never-ending carousel circling from the first hint of responsibility to the last breath. It was there to be dealt with. Deal with it she would.

  Looking up, Sydney caught a glimpse of a large framed photograph of her and her father on the evening of her senior Prom night. She had turned eighteen only a couple of months earlier, and for them both the photo was a punctuation point on the worst period of their relationship together.

  A troubled and difficult girl for most of her teens, Sydney often reflected on those times during periods of self-flagellation. As an adult she would have done anything to turn back time and not put her father through those years of misery – not a day of which he had deserved.

  Casting her mind back, she realised that her admiration and respect for him sprang from how he had dealt with a daughter who behaved so appallingly for such a lengthy period of their lives together. With no adult female presence in her life, no mother, sister, aunt or grandmother with whom to discuss issues only other women can understand, the young Sydney had taken all of her advice and inspiration from kids her own age who were enduring their own angst at the same time. It was an unhealthy combination, and had not worked in her favour.

  Eyes watery, but still focussed on the photograph, Sydney raised her bottle for a second time that evening and said, ‘Here’s to you again, Daddy.’

  It was only in later years that she had come to understand why, during the worst of times, he would continue to hum that classic Journey song. He never did stop believing in her, even when she lost her way. Not even on the days when she would stand there screaming at him for no reason at all, her fists bunched up and face aflame. He stood firm, remained fair and even-handed throughout. He loved her unconditionally, though she was certain there were plenty of moments when he must have hated her, too. She made it back to him eventually, though. Back to where he waited with his arms, mind, and heart wide open.

  Tears emerged in a torrent, then. Sydney hung her head and allowed them to fall unchecked, streaming down her face and spilling to her chest in a small waterfall created by the slight groove in the tip of her chin. Her shoulders heaved and her head bobbed while she wept, her eyes beginning to sting like raw, open wounds. Uncontrollable sobbing felt indecorous and so unlike her. Yet did it matter if she fell apart here and now? Where better, in fact? And for what better reason?

  When she was spent, used balls of tissue discarded by her side, Sydney attempted to tackle the second triangle of her sandwich. One bite was all she managed before shoving the plate to one side. She was draining the last of her Bud when Jordan called, his name showing on the screen of her cellular phone. Sydney gathered herself, took a steadying breath, and smiled as she spoke into her Samsung.

  ‘Hey, hon. Missing me?’

  ‘Not much, Syd. In fact, if I’m being honest with you, it’s been kind of nice and peaceful here this past week or so without you.’

  Sydney grinned, reminding herself that she had not seen her boyfriend since the day after her father’s cremation service. ‘Just for that, Jordan Potter, you get no phone sex tonight.’

  ‘That’s okay, babe. It’s why God invented online porn.’

  ‘Cool. In that case, I’ll let you take care of yourself next week as well when you fly up to see me.’

  ‘Damn! This was a losing hand from the moment I opened my mouth.’

  He chuckled. Sydney did the same. They were good.

  ‘So how is my beautiful boy?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m terrific, thanks for asking.’

  ‘Not you, asshole. How’s my little Bruce?’

  ‘Oh, you meant our furry feline friend. He’s curled up on your office chair, which is where he tends to sulk when you’re not around.’

  ‘Aw, bless his heart. Give him a kiss for me, will you?’

  ‘Sure. You want me to use my tongue?’

  ‘If you feel the urge, hon. But Bruce is both a cat and a male, so you’re trampling over so many boundaries I’ve kinda lost count.’

  ‘I guess you’re right. I’ll leave it at a peck on the cheek for Brucey boy. So, how are things?’ he asked. Tentative still. They had discussed the merits of her taking on the weight of closing down her father’s business and selling the property so soon after losing him. As ever, Sydney had wanted to confront it head on. Jordan, on the other hand, fretted that it was all too much for her.

  ‘Okay so far.’ For a moment Sydney debated whether to tell him about the new case. She decided not to. It would wait. There was every chance of it all falling apart within the next twenty-four hours, anyway. ‘I always had a good idea how much Daddy was liked and respected in these parts, but I’m not sure I ever truly appreciated how close to these people he was. Old clients of his would drop by to share a cup of coffee and chew the fat.’

  ‘He was a charmer.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sydney said, reminded of the first time Jordan and her father met. She’d been introduced to the big, strong and athletic accountant by a friend who ran a bar a block away from SeaWorld. Softly spoken and shy to the point of being timid, Jordan impressed her right off the bat. A week later they went on their first date. When her father flew down to San Diego for the fourth of July celebrations, he used the exact same word about the new man in her life as Jordan had done about him. Charm was the main weapon both men had in their armoury.

  ‘Any word yet from the police?’ Jordan asked.

  Sydney snapped out of the memory, knowing immediately what he meant. Her father had been killed in a hit-and-run incident. Something big and heavy, according to the scene investigators. They had to cut him out of his SUV, but he died before they had the roof off. The trauma resulting from being caught up in a car wreck affected his heart, liver, lungs and kidneys. So much so, he ended up drowning in his own blood. The vehicle that smashed into his, shoving it down a steep embankment, was unlikely to have emerged unscathed from the collision, but it was not found and the driver remained free to do the same thing all over again. A drunk most probably, was the best guess offered by the police. A regular occurrence, sadly.

  ‘Nothing,’ Sydney told her boyfriend. Her eyes momentarily alighted back on the Prom photo, though this time she swiftly averted her gaze. ‘But the police haven’t given up hope of catching the cowardly asshole. And neither have I.’

  The Kevin Muller case was not the only one Sy
dney was interested in. She had come to Moon Falls with every intention of using her expertise, contacts, and experience to track her father’s killer and take him off the road for as long as the state would allow. Although accepting she had her hands full to overflowing, Sydney nonetheless steeled herself to facing down the heartless bastard who had taken her father’s life and driven away as if the man she adored was nothing more than a stray animal.

  Maybe then the debt she owed her father would be paid in full.

  Seven

  The following morning, Sydney awoke brimming with fine ideas and better intentions. She got ready quickly, and had to go into her father’s bedroom to study her appearance in the only full-length mirror in the entire house. He’d screwed it to the wall, otherwise she would have taken it into her own room rather than keep coming into this one.

  Her weight was fairly steady, although seven or eight pounds over ideal. She thought she carried it well, and dressed appropriately. Her breasts continued to defy gravity’s eternal pull, and her legs remained healthy and strong. The navy trousers she wore hid dimpled thighs and knees she had never cared for, but equally they covered up a pair of shapely calves, so it was a win-lose situation either way.

  Turning away from the mirror, Sydney caught herself appraising the room. Like the rest of the house, it perhaps lacked a woman’s eye and feel for décor. Simple furniture, neat and tidy. She had always appreciated that side of her father’s nature; his attention to detail ensuring her childhood never wanted for social gatherings or opportunities to make friends. Rigorous calendarising required his own presence as an unpaid taxi driver three or four times a week, but as far as she could recall he had never cancelled on a single one.