The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1)

by John Montesano

  I’ll never forget the hood of the sweatshirt. It hung so low off the top of his head that it covered just about all of his face. I could tell he saw the blue and red lights instantly flood the interior of the store. He looked right at me through the front window.

  Then he fired a shot. We took cover but saw the shot went into the ceiling directly above the shooter. Pieces of debris floated down around him. I knew then that the shooter was either inexperienced with a gun or hopped up on drugs or alcohol. Or both.

  The gun. My gun. I had no idea Jake knew how to operate a gun let alone knew where my safe was at home. This is it. Fuck it. You can figure out the rest.

  Shut up and continue for Jake. Keep going!

  I don’t think I’d ever written anything in such detail. I remember the battles I had with my conscience as I wrote out my version of the incident on paper that day. Reading this again brought me back to the near panic attacks and tension headaches I felt racing through my body as I wrote. They were starting again. The nausea filled my stomach and crept into my throat.

  I kept reading:

  Drew and I decided we had to make a move at some point. We had to apprehend the shooter before any further damage was done to the store or to the people inside. I saw him make a break for it through the store towards the back exit. I yelled for Drew to continue his pursuit through the front while I gave chase around back. I drew my gun and took off to the left side of the building. Just as I rounded the corner I heard a loud crash and saw the perp stumble when the back door kicked back off the side of the building with a ton of force and nearly took himself out. The gun was still in his hand as he stumbled and staggered to keep his balance.

  I yelled for him to stop and freeze and to drop the gun.

  Stop! Freeze! Stop! Freeze! I hear it every day when I’m awake and when I try to sleep.

  He slowed his run and quickly turned to face me. Gun still in hand. He slowly raised his arm that was holding the gun. I feared that he might shoot. I repeatedly yelled for him to drop the gun. I raised my gun to shoulder height and fired two shots.

  Worst mistake of my life!

  Little did I know he was holding the muzzle end of the gun indicating a sign of surrender but the darkness of the alley way and limited visibility forced me to make a poor decision. I remembering approaching the body. I don’t remember, however, walking. It was more like floating. I’d never shot anyone in my life before. Just as I used my foot to remove the gun from his hand, Drew came up behind me.

  He was just a kid. A kid apparently driven down the wrong path. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. I’ll never forget the pace my pulse was racing at this point. The adrenaline was at an all- time high when I saw the vic’s sleeves of his sweatshirt pulled up to his forearms. What were the odds that two boys had heart- shaped birthmarks on the inside of their right forearm. Jake did and always told me that when he turned eighteen he wanted to get a tattoo around it to hide it because he was embarrassed by its feminine shape.

  Then I saw the sneakers. The purple, the green, the red, and the yellow sneakers that I adamantly refused to buy for Jake because they were so ugly. Drew pulled out his flashlight and clicked the back end to light it up but I put my hand over the end to hide the narrow strip of light. I wanted to block the light and I told Drew to let me do it. He instantly clicked off the light.

  I still see the blood flowing from both chest wounds. I saw the sweatshirt, which I knew was my New York Mets sweatshirt. I picked up his head ever so gently, sliding my hand under his neck. The oversized sweatshirt hood dropped off his head when I lifted his neck. I’ll never forget Drew’s reaction when he saw me touch the victim. He yelled at me not to touch the body.

  Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it! What the hell are you doing?!! “It” like it was a dead deer or an old book.

  I told him it was all right since the person I just shot was my son Jake.

  SIXTY FOUR

  I didn’t realize it was pushing four in the morning by the time I was able to finish my fifth and final journal entry. My blood pressure seemed to have returned to normal. However, my nausea still lingered. I got up to put my Snapple bottle in the recycling bin and realized I needed to get some sort of sleep. Not wanting to return upstairs to disturb Lindsey, I made my way to the living room couch.

  I awoke three hours later by the sliver of morning sunlight slicing through the center of the shear curtains in the living room. Lindsey was in the shower; I could hear the water running. I lay still on the couch thinking about my need to reveal the truth to Lindsey about Jake. It was time. Or was it? When is there ever a good time to tell your wife that you are solely responsible for killing your only child?

  Sitting up off the couch, the staircase stared me directly in the face. I managed to make the climb. Walking the end of the narrow hallway meant that I would have to pass Jake’s room on the way to my bedroom and for close to five months I couldn’t even get myself to climb the stairs. Sleeping in the spare bedroom kept me as far away from the association with Jake I could get without having to sleep in the garage. I still make a conscious stutter- step whenever I reach the top of the stairs. I wanted to immediately strip the walls of Jake’s photos, leave the walls naked and erase every memory of Jake but Lindsey refused. I still have to look at my feet while I make my way up to the bedroom. Sometimes at night when I’m awake and can’t sleep I refuse to turn the hallway light on, not out of fear of disturbing and waking Lindsey, but out of fear of seeing Jake’s bedroom door.

  For a while, my conscience screamed at me every time I was an arm’s length away from Jake’s room or somehow came into contact with something associated with Jake. It was my own way of reminding myself of what I had done. I adamantly tried to keep the door to Jake’s room closed to block out the fact that he is gone forever. Lindsey preferred to keep it wide open in what I believed to be a subconscious thought that Jake might just get to sleep in his bed again.

  Beast! Child killer! Poor excuse for a human being!

  There’s my conscience at it again. I’ve only now begun to ignore my conscience but sometimes it’s just too powerful and overbearing to tune out because nothing will change the night I shot Jake.

  I sat on my bed and thought. I thought about how fortunate Lindsey and I were that we don’t have any other kids. Would I be able to be a good father to them after what I did to Jake? Would I live in such a state of fear of killing them too? So much so it’d get to the point that I’d distance myself from them so far that they’d barely recognize me as their father? Would Lindsey divorce me and refuse my other kids to see me or even talk to me?

  It’s all on me. It was all my fault. Here’s Lindsey having to deal with my misery and allowing life to continue as I let her live in a lie. She’s not to blame. She wasn’t the one who handed Jake the keys to my gun box. However, neither was I. She didn’t show him how to load the gun and take him to the shooting range for the first time on his eleventh birthday. That was me.

  Shit. Everything up to this point in our lives has been my fault. The fact that she got pregnant in the first place- my fault. How I convinced her to keep the baby- my fault. How she couldn’t go to college- my fault. Having to go to night school part- time to get her bachelor’s degree- my fault. Why not put the cherry on the sundae and let her in on a little secret? Jake’s death- my fault.

  While Lindsey was still in the shower, I gingerly ventured across the carpeted hallway and stood in the doorway of Jake’s room. I took it all in and immediately thought of my son. A well- worn baseball glove reminded me of the way we used to play catch in the yard on the weekends. The BMX magazines reminded me of how I taught him to ride a bike, which led to thoughts of him hating me because he was convinced I let him fall off his bike on purpose. My eyes found a few loose movie ticket stubs strewn about his desks and I was instantly reminded of the countless times Jake would ask me for spending money after Lindsey already refused. I saw his own New York Mets sweatshirt that apparently wasn’t
good enough. It was casually draped over his desk chair and brought me back to the numerous hours we spent on the couch watching the Mets blow late inning leads.

  Lindsey crept up behind me and whispered my name. It sounded like the faint whispers I hear in my dreams. She bear hugged me from behind, gripping my chest. I felt her chin resting as high on my shoulder as she could get it.

  “Sorry,” was all she said.

  I turned to face her. We were both still standing in Jake’s doorway. We embraced, knowing each other’s thoughts.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” I said.

  SIXTY FIVE

  Lindsey dressed in a pair of sweats and a t- shirt as I cautiously sat on the bed in our room. All I could do was watch her. My throat instantly caught fire and I could feel the bile bubbling in my gut like a simmering volcano. My hands started to quake and I was bouncing the nervous energy out of my body through my feet. Lindsey watched me in dire concern.

  “What is it?” she asked. She sat next to me on the bed and gripped my hands in hers.

  “I don’t know how to say this. It’s about Jake,” I said. Lindsey’s eyes quickly filled with liquid anytime I mentioned Jake. This time was no different.

  “Chase? What is it? You know you can obviously tell me anything,” Lindsey said. I could see the words getting caught in her throat, afraid of what the answer to her question might be.

  I looked down at our intertwined hands and felt them starting to adhere together with the combination of our own sweat and clamminess. Suddenly, I shot up off the bed with an idea, still holding one of Lindsey’s hands. She was too startled to speak.

  “Come with me. I think it’s better you read it for yourself,” I said before yanking Lindsey off the bed and pulling her quickly down the steps to the kitchen. There wasn’t a smidge of time for her to respond. I sat her at the kitchen table and shoved my journal in front of her.

  She looked up at me and said, “What is this? Why are you giving me your journal?”

  There was nothing else I could say but, “Read it.” Then I turned the pages to the fifth and final entry. Lindsey hesitated. I could see the fear growing inside of her, burning her organs as if she were being burned alive in a crematorium.

  “What the hell is going on, Chase? Why do you want me to read your journal? Truthfully, I thought you’d never even written a thing in here because you thought it was just a bunch of bullshit,” Lindsey said, still not looking down at the open pages.

  “Please, just read it.”

  Lindsey slowly dropped her head and all she had to do was read the first line:

  My name is Chase Barnes and I am the one who killed Jake.

  Her eyes spoke enough. They were creased with a cocktail of pain, shock, and most of all, anger. My eyes fell into a state of hurt, sorrow and anger- anger at myself.

  “You?! You killed Jake?” Lindsey screamed like I’d never heard her scream before. I couldn’t get myself to look at her. I wanted to run. Run into traffic. Run to nowhere.

  “Please, keep reading. It explains everything.”

  She did. She read in more detail than I’d ever seen before. My heart felt like it was going to drop right onto the floor. The pages suddenly became spotted with blurred ink as Lindsey’s tears dripped off her cheeks. The more she read the tighter she folded her arms into herself and the more I feared the wrath of vengeance that Lindsey was about to unleash. She finally pushed the book away from her and continued to stare at nothing. We both sat in silence. A look of shock on Lindsey’s face and a feeling of disappointment on mine.

  “Please say something,” I finally muttered. “I hope you understand from reading this.”

  “I don’t know what I’m madder at. The fact that you are responsible for killing Jake or the fact that you kept this from me this whole time and let me believe something completely different,” Lindsey said. She got up launched the journal into the wall and several beats later I heard the bathroom door slam shut.

  SIXTY SIX

  I expected her to throw more things and tell me how much she hated me, which I would have accepted much more than the agonizing silent treatment. My attempts to console Lindsey failed when she ignored my knocks and didn’t answer the door. There was nothing else I could do. I needed to take one of my tension headache pills and lie down for a while. I must’ve dozed off because I still hadn’t heard a peep from Lindsey in over an hour. For all I knew she was still in the bathroom. My thoughts attempted to drift back to what our life was like before Jake died. It was an impossible task. I couldn’t do it; it was all a blur now as if it were all a dream or never even existed.

  I got up and trekked up the stairs only to find Lindsey getting dressed for church as she did every other Sunday. I thought it was only fitting that she was on her way to prayer. I knew she was going to say a prayer for Jake as she always did; hopefully, she was going to say a prayer for me, too.

  “Hey,” I whispered.

  “Hi,” she replied, still not looking at me. I attempted to feel for even the slightest touch of her skin but she shrugged me off, stepping further away.

  “Please talk to me,” I said.

  “What the hell is there to say?”

  “But don’t you understand.” I said.

  “Understand what? I think I understand why you shot him. You were doing your job. You’re a cop and cops are trained to shoot at the first sight of a threat. You didn’t know it was Jake because of the hooded sweatshirt and how dark it was. I get all that. The part that I think I’m more upset about is the fact that you lied to me and kept this from me for so long,” she said, speaking in a much softer tone now.

  “I’m not sure. I think I was trying to protect you,” I said. We were both sitting on the bed nearly in the same position we were in before I dragged her downstairs to begin this firestorm.

  “Protect me? From what?” she asked.

  “The truth. I guess I was afraid that if you knew that it was the bullets from my gun that killed our only child that- that you would hate me and leave. Especially during a time when I needed you most.”

  I could see Lindsey was in thought. What she was thinking about I had no idea. She let out a deep, deep sigh and said, “Look, Chase, I miss Jake like no mother has ever missed their own child but I think I would miss you just as much if I lost you too. I’ll never get over the fact that Jake is gone but I think in some strange way I’m glad that you were there that night. I’m sort of glad that it was you and not some strung- out drug dealer or some rapist. Or even another cop.”

  “But I shot and killed him. How could I have not known it was him? I’m responsible for his death. He’s not here because of me,” I said.

  “I know all of that now and it’s going to take some time for me to get over the truth and the fact that you hid it from me but understand that it doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

  I wanted to believe her but my mind kept telling me she was lying. It must be the pessimism festering inside of me since the day Jake died. Lindsey inched closer to me, grabbed both of my hands in one of hers and rested her head on my shoulder. No words were spoken for a few minutes until she told me that she loved me.

  SIXTY SEVEN

  I left Lindsey to continue getting herself ready and wandered back into Jake’s room with surprising ease. Before I realized it, I was sitting on his bed for the first time since the funeral. Walking through the doorway and into Jake’s room wasn’t even an issue. Had a subliminal burden just been lifted? I sat on the bed, absorbing the sights and sounds into my mind and the smells into my nose. I closed my eyes and recalled hearing quite the variety of music blaring from the speakers of his stereo, even some of the similar artists I enjoy myself. Looking around, seeing everything left just as they were the last time Jake touched them, I stared at nothing in particular. I wanted to just stay in Jake’s room and be him even for just a little while.

  After the emotional morning and the cocktail of anger, sadness and grief I overlooked and
disregarded the sense of relief I was feeling. Relief that Lindsey finally knew the truth about Jake and I didn’t have to live a lie any longer. Relief that Lindsey didn’t want to kill me dead after reading about the truth in my journal. Relief that she still wanted to be with me and somewhat understood my rationale. For the first time in months I was able to take a deep breath without feeling like it should be my last.

  It took me a few hours to motivate and get my day started. Once I was able to get a grip on my mind and regain control I pulled up my iPad and stared at my list of unfinished business regarding Esteban. I reviewed what I had written down the other night and suddenly had an idea. It was about noon when I finally set out and spent a good chunk of the afternoon sitting outside Klein’s house again. I idled for a few minutes to see if he was home or not and when I saw he wasn’t, I cruised around the neighborhood a few times. Didn’t want to seem too inconspicuous to the neighbors. A little while later I saw Klein turn on to his street and cruise up the desolate road and pull into his driveway. I wondered where he was returning from.

  When Klein pulled up to his house and entered the driveway I continued past his house and watched him as he walked to the mailbox to retrieve the contents and casually strode up the driveway, sifting through the bills and miscellaneous junk that only comes through the mail nowadays. He had on a neutral colored pair of khakis and a burgundy short- sleeved polo. Klein had a three- day old stubble working on his cheeks. His clothes and appearance looked so disheveled as if he hadn’t been home in a couple of days. On most days Klein entered his house through the side door off the driveway but today he had a package waiting for him at the front door. He padded up the cobblestone steps and unlocked the front door. Everything was in place when he entered the living room. The coffee table still held the mug he drank out of before leaving the house this morning. The family photos remained as life- like as Klein had last seen them, perched atop the mantle above the fireplace.