Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  “We don’t leave the fallen behind,” Mr. Shoop said, folding his arms across his chest.

  “An active shooting situation isn’t war, Mr. Shoop. A shooter is looking for targets on their feet, not on the ground. Trying to drag someone out of there will slow you down, and could get both of you killed. And if you move someone critically injured, you can make their injuries even worse.”

  “That sounds cowardly.”

  I shrugged. “Take it up with Homeland Security. I’m reading from their pamphlet. Run away, let the professionals deal with the injured.”

  “What if you can’t get away?” Mrs. Ramos smacked. She’d finished her po’boy and was sucking some sauce off her finger.

  “If you can’t run, you hide. If the shooter is in another room, close and lock the door.”

  Mr. Fincherello laughed. “Most of the locks in this place are rinky-dink. I was a locksmith for forty-four years. You can get through most of them by loiding with a credit card. Or with a swift kick. They certainly won’t hold up to a bullet.”

  “An active shooter wants to kill as many people as possible, and the average shooting incident rarely lasts longer than a few minutes. A closed and locked door could deter him enough for him to move on. You could also barricade the door with heavy furniture.”

  Mr. Shoop still seemed irritated. “No offense here, Jill, but you’re in a wheelchair. How are you going to push something heavy in front of the door? Or how is Mrs. Garza?”

  “Hey! I’m doing Zoomba!”

  “No offence intended, sugar lips.”

  “Doorstops work best,” said Mr. Fincherello. “Wedge it under the door. Doesn’t even have to be a doorstop. I once spent ten minutes trying to get into this lady’s apartment, because her daughter locked her out. Couldn’t figure out what was keeping it closed. All the daughter did was wedge a tube of hand lotion under the door. Kicked it in there real good. Folded magazines also work. A clothespin. Or a fork.”

  “Good suggestions, Mr. Fincherello. Then you should hide. If you can, hide behind something heavy, that fully covers you. And remember to stay quiet. Turn off your phone. Turn off any TVs or music.”

  “And if running and hiding don’t work, can we beat the little punk down?”

  “Yes, Mr. Shoop. As a last resort, if you can’t get away or hide, you have to attack the shooter with everything you’ve got. Use whatever you can. Mrs. Garza, what would you use in this room?”

  “I’d whack him with the pot of hot coffee.”

  “Good.”

  “Coffee machine, too,” Mr. Shoop said. “Weighs even more.”

  “Also good. These chairs could be thrown. You could turn over the tables and hide behind them.”

  Though they wouldn’t offer much cover. And I’d hate to be at the mercy of a gunman with my only defense being a pot of coffee.

  But that’s why I carry a gun.

  “So let’s go over it again,” I told the class. “If you see someone suspicious, pay greater attention to them. If you see them with a gun, or making threats, get a safe distance away and tell someone in authority. If it’s in a restaurant or shop, tell the manager. Or call the police. But don’t call the police until you’re someplace safe.”

  I checked my bullet points and continued.

  “If you see someone pull a weapon, or start shooting, first you run. If you can’t run, hide. If you can’t hide, fight back using everything you can, with all your power and aggression. Help others if you can, but don’t try to help anyone who is down and can’t get back up. Leave them for the responders. And again, don’t call 911 until you are sure you’re safe. In fact, turn your phone off.”

  “Why is that?” asked Mrs. Garza.

  “Two reasons. First, you don’t want to draw the attention of the shooter by talking, or your phone ringing. Second, when the first responders come—and they can arrive on the scene within a few minutes—you don’t want to have anything in your hands.”

  “Because they might think it’s a gun, and shoot you.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Shoop. When you are getting away, make sure your hands are raised and empty, your fingers spread. Try to stay calm and quiet. And don’t stop to talk to the police. The first ones on the scene have one priority; neutralize the shooter. More responders will come and help the wounded and take statements.”

  Was I missing anything? I checked my notes.

  “Jill, I have a question.” Mr. Shoop again. “What about the stand-your-ground law?”

  He was referring to applying lethal force against threats or perceived threats, with no duty to retreat. AKA the shoot first law. If you’re someplace you have the lawful right to be, and you perceive a threat, you could legally preempt that threat with a firearm.

  Statistics on stand-your-ground are as hard to come by as all gun stats. But the highest profile cases involved shooting someone innocent, usually a person of color.

  “What is life worth, Mr. Shoop?”

  He squinted. “What do you mean?”

  “An unarmed kid breaks into your house to steal a TV. Someone drunk is banging on your door at 3 A.M. because he got the wrong address. Some pinhead cuts you off in traffic, you honk at him, and he pulls over and gets out of his car and starts banging on your hood. All three perpetrators are in the wrong, and it is reasonable to assume that anyone in these situations would be threatened by them. But does that justify shooting, possibly killing, any of these people?”

  “I mean in cases of real self-defense. Where you’ll die if you don’t protect yourself.”

  “Those cases are much rarer than you’d think. Everyone knows what self-defense means. But very few people know the term duty to retreat. It means that if you are in danger, and can get away, you should make every attempt to get away. You don’t have the right to harm anyone else.”

  Mr. Shoop folded his arms across his chest. “I learned otherwise in the military.”

  “But this isn’t the military, Mr. Shoop. And we’re not engaged in combat. We’re civilians, in peacetime. A guy mugging you wants your money. Is the fifty bucks in your wallet equal to taking his life? I know you’re being wronged. But the hassle of getting new credit cards never justifies killing someone’s child. And everyone is someone’s child.”

  “What kind of world would we have if everyone ran away?” Mr. Shoop asked.

  “A world without any war,” said Mrs. Garza, looking up from her cell phone.

  Mr. Shoop shook his head. “So who defends the innocent?”

  “Charles, we’ve talked about Cambodia. You were there in ’70. Do you know how many wars the United States has been involved with since then?”

  “A few. Iran. Iraq. Somalia.”

  “Twenty-seven,” Mrs. Garza said. “I have it right here on my phone, on Wikipedia. I’ve told you many times that I appreciate your service, Charles, and I’m not going to criticize our country, or our government, or get into how many of these wars can be justified. But twenty-seven wars in the last forty-nine years is too many. Almost three million United States citizens have died in wars. Three million, Charles. Maybe running away isn’t such a bad idea.”

  “I’m not talking about war, Manuela. I’m talking about protecting yourself, right here.”

  I closed my eyes, considered the events of yesterday, and decided to lay it out there.

  “Let me go even further. You’re in a bar, someone starts pushing you around. Your smartest option, even though it bruises your ego, is to leave. Escalation is always bad. But you might be tempted to engage. Fight back. Then maybe a few punches are thrown, and you’re on the floor. Is reaching for your firearm really worth it? You’ve got a black eye, a bloody nose, feel angry and scared and victimized. That doesn’t mean you have the right to kill the guy.”

  “Why not? Guy like that is a scumbag, deserves whatever he gets.”

  “We all feel that way. We make assumptions that a person is bad because they’ve done something bad.” I checked my notes. “The psychological term i
s correspondent inference. Someone cuts you off in traffic, you automatically think they’re a bad driver and a jerk. But you don’t really know. It could be a guy rushing to the hospital because he’s having chest pains. Or maybe he just won the Nobel Peace Prize, but his wife dumped him, and he’s so emotionally upset he isn’t paying attention to the road. Bad behavior doesn’t make someone a bad person. Making a mistake doesn’t mean someone deserves to be shot.”

  Mr. Shoop remained defiant. “So I can’t defend myself, but cops get a free pass? How many times do unarmed black kids get killed because some cop perceived a threat?”

  “Too many,” I said. “One time is too many. We have a gun problem in this country. We also have a lethal force problem. In high-level firearms training, the most important aspect is learning when not to shoot. Going to your local gun range and plinking targets doesn’t teach you how to use a firearm. Part of what I want to teach all of you, as these classes continue, is how essential it is to know when you shouldn’t shoot a firearm.”

  I couldn’t tell if Mr. Shoop was satisfied with my answer.

  I wasn’t sure I was, either.

  Back in Chicago, we had to write a report every time a weapon was discharged. We had rules to follow, and required legal justification to use a firearm. But I knew cops who never really learned how and when lethal force needed to be employed, and others whose judgement was impaired by stress, burnout, PTSD, mental health issues, substance abuse, fear, and bigotry.

  Add that to the many, many problems in America.

  I looked to my mother for some assistance or moral support, but she seemed oddly disengaged.

  “This has been a lively discussion, but getting back to active shooting situations, I want you to remember the big three. Run. Hide. Fight.” I looked at Mr. Shoop. “In that order.”

  He didn’t seem convinced.

  I wasn’t convinced either.

  Those were the rules, according to Homeland Security. But I’d had firsthand experience.

  In an active shooter situation, there was really only one thing you could do.

  Hope you got lucky.

  I had no doubt that the Run/Hide/Fight rules could save lives. But like everything in life, there were no guarantees.

  But people needed assurances. They wanted to believe they had some control.

  I read somewhere that those buttons on crosswalks, that were supposed to make the light change, didn’t actually change the light. The lights were on timers, and the button fooled the pedestrian into waiting for the walk signal, which would have come up anyway. I’ve also heard that the button in elevators to close doors didn’t close them. But it made people feel like they made the doors close faster, rather than standing there and being at the mercy of an automatic system.

  When staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, Run/Hide/Fight wouldn’t do much. Neither would begging, or bargaining, or reasoning.

  All you really had was hope. And all you could hope for was luck.

  But that would have made for a nihilistic gun safety class, so I stuck to the program.

  “This will be the last class until next Monday, so we can all prepare for Hurricane Harry. Thanks for coming today.”

  There wasn’t any applause. There never was.

  I considered my mother’s reason for me teaching this class. That I needed it, to feel useful.

  But instead of bolstering my self-esteem, I felt deflated. And more than a bit hypocritical.

  At the bar last night, I wanted Phin to beat the crap out of that asshole.

  Hell, I wanted to do it myself.

  All these years, I’ve always thought of myself as the good guy. The protector. The shining beacon of morality that fairly and impartially enforced the law and defended the weak and strived for justice.

  But maybe I was just another bully with a badge.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be teaching firearms safety. Maybe I should reevaluate my life and teach Zen Buddhism.

  Everyone filed out, and I rolled over to Mom.

  “Your appointment with Dr. Agmont is in twenty minutes.”

  “You made the appointment for me?”

  “Blame me for loving too much.”

  “Did you and Mr. Feinstein have breakfast in bed?” I was wondering if mimosas or bloody marys were involved, because she still sounded tipsy.

  “Normally you tiptoe around my sex life, and now you want details. What’s on your mind, Jacqueline?”

  I changed the topic. “Sometimes I’m not sure of the difference between good and bad.”

  She patted my hand. “You’re one of the good ones, dear.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because someone bad would never question themselves like that.”

  I wasn’t sure Mom was right.

  I believed it was a lot more complicated than that. Bad people, really bad ones like murderers and pedophiles and rapists, can do good things. Create art, give to charity, help others, act decent 99% of the time, and only act like monsters 1%. And good people, upstanding members of society who care about their fellow human beings and try to contribute, can make mistakes and be capable of very bad things.

  A poor man, out of desperation, could rob a liquor store, which is an immoral and illegal act, but he has mental clarity and a clear motive; he’s robbing to feed his family. A spree killer who hears voices that tell him to kill others is a monster, but that monster might be a victim of his own genetics, or abuse, diagnosable as mental illness. Should we, as a just society, blame someone for their actions if their brain chemistry is demonstrably erratic?

  I don’t know the answer. I’ve met a lot of terrible people. Mental problems don’t excuse their crimes.

  But maybe we should be focusing on pre-emptive treatment rather than post-crime punishment.

  The line between good and evil is a lot thinner than most people think.

  Sometimes all it takes is a push.

  “Supporting mental wellness is crucial to any goal of decreasing gun violence in America.”

  CHARLES B. RANGEL

  “Know guns, know peace, know safety. No guns, no peace, no safety.”

  UNKNOWN

  GAFF

  There are two ways to go with extended magazines,” the dealer guy said. “Check out this one. Holds thirty-six rounds. But because it’s straight, it sticks out of the bottom about ten inches. If you’re at the range, no problem; you’re standing still and firing at a stationary target, and it’s cool to not have to reload. But if you’re in a self-defense situation, the extension could get caught on clothing, or bump against shit. Not ideal.”

  The dealer wielded a semiauto with one of those long mags, and it looked ridiculous. Impossible to conceal, and I wouldn’t be able to swing it around without whacking it on something.

  Cancelled.

  “Going in the other direction, there’s the dual drum.” He picked up a mag that had curlicues on both ends, like Leia’s cinnamon roll hairdo in Episode One. “Holds a hundred rounds, and because it curls up on either side of the magazine port, kinda like ram horns, it’s much easier to aim and maneuver. But when this is fully loaded, it’s heavy.”

  Heavy would be a problem. I wanted to start lifting weights, but I never got around to it, and arm strength wasn’t my thing. With a giggled-out Merican, keeping it on target would be hard. I didn’t want added weight.

  Can’t even.

  “Now the smart alternative, and what all the competition shooters prefer, is the GOB Donut Drum.” When he said it he spelled out the letters G and O and B. “Holds fifty rounds, has a lever to hold back the internal spring for easy loading, and only sticks out five inches from the bottom of the magazine well.”

  GOB? That was what the other guy said about the paperweight.

  “What is GOB?” I asked.

  The guy smiled, revealing brown teeth. “GOB. It’s a company, specializing in accessories. Good Ole Boy Incorporated. Manufactured right here in the US of A. By Mericans, for Mericans.”r />
  I wasn’t sure if he was talking about Mericans the people, or Mericans the gun brand. But the Donut Drum was badass.

  “What about jamming?” I asked.

  “Guns are mechanical. Sometimes they jam. Clear it like you would any other jam.”

  “How do I do that?”

  He didn’t sneer @ my ignorance. Props. “Release the magazine, pull back the slide until the bullet or casing falls out, replace the magazine, load the next round.”

  Made sense. “How much?”

  XCQ and Tobacco Teeth exchanged a look.

  “It’s seventy-five for one, hundred twenty-five for two.”

  “How about six?”

  Tobacco teeth smiled so wide I could see the chaw stuck in his gums. “Six? Sounds like you’re getting ready for the zombie apocalypse. For six, I’ll do you my preferred special customer rate of three twenty-five.”

  The guy looked happy as a pig in shit when I gave him cash.

  He spat in a cup and said, “Shoot well. That many GOB Donuts, you’ll be able to defend yourself against dozens of zombies. Maybe hundreds.”

  Hundreds would be hella. But they weren’t going to be zombies.

  I turned to XCQ. “How about laser dot?”

  He winked. “Follow me. I know a guy.”

  “The fact that you own a gun and shoot to defend your life is a very American way of thinking.”

  ISABEL ALLENDE

  “No guns but only brotherhood can resolve the problems.”

  ATAL BIHARI VAJPAYEE

  JACK

  After the meeting ended and goodbyes exchanged, guns were the furthest thing from my mind.

  “I don’t want to see the shrink, Mom.”

  “You promised you would.”

  “I lied to you so you’d leave me alone.”

  “When was the last time you saw a psychiatrist, Jacqueline?”

  When I worked homicide, I had to do mandatory psychiatric sessions every time I shot someone.

  So I’d seen a few psychiatrists.