Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  I watched her tears, and thought about the loved ones I’d lost, and thought about what I’d do if something happened to Samantha.

  It was beyond my comprehension.

  “A neighbor pulled me out of there. Pulled me away from my family.” Sowa took her hand back. “The police came. There was a brief standoff, and Richard Thomas Malkoveck was killed.” She sniffled. “In some ways, the biggest tragedy came later. The killer’s social media was filled with anti-Muslim rants. Hate speech. Threats. The day before, he actually wrote, ‘I ought to buy a rifle and shoot as many of those camel jockeys as I can.”’

  “No one reported that?”

  “Oh, yes, it was reported. He was banned from the social media platform for thirty days. The police even went to his house, but they didn’t arrest him. He told people he was going to do it, and they didn’t arrest him.”

  Shit. That it should have been prevented made it even worse.

  “Some people have something wrong with them, Sowa. Some vital part, missing.”

  “I know that. But these people with missing parts can buy weapons that can kill a dozen in seconds. And I know what you’ll say. You’ll say that if the guns weren’t around, people like that would find other ways to kill people like me. Fires. Or bombs. But you can’t buy a bomb at the supermarket, Jill.”

  I could have told her that making a bomb wasn’t that hard to do, and that some went that route. I could have told her that racism and hate and cruelty have been embedded in our genes for thousands of years before the invention of firearms. I could have told her that the police failed in preventing the crime that killed her family, but the first responders no doubt saved lives, and they did so with firearms.

  But this discussion was getting to me. Hard.

  If I could snap my fingers and have all guns disappear, of course I’d do it. Just like I’d want to get rid of cancer, and hurricanes, and famine.

  But if I could snap my fingers and get rid of bigotry, would I?

  That one was tough. The Right to Bear Arms wasn’t the only protected right in the United States. We have Freedom of Speech, which includes hate speech. We have Freedom of Religion, which encompasses many religions that despise one another. We have Freedom of the Press, but in this day and age of social media and clickbait and fake news being spread by twisted individuals as well as irresponsible professional journalists, bias proliferates our culture. And like it or not, that must include all of the ugly biases; racism, sexism, and pick-a-group-aphobia.

  Without that freedom to be horrible, things could become even more horrible. Forcing people to agree with you just doesn’t work.

  Sowa snapped me out of my reverie by asking, “Have you ever lost a loved one to a gun?”

  “Yes.” More than once.

  “And you’ve been shot.”

  “Yes.” More than once.

  “Can you tell me about how you were shot?”

  “Some very bad people had some friends of mine,” I said, automatically picturing Herb and Tequila. “Drug dealers. They had guns. A lot of people died. I got shot.”

  “Did you save your friends?”

  I nodded.

  “Was it worth it?”

  I nodded again.

  “Do you relive what happened?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is it your worst memory?”

  “I’ve got a whole pile of bad memories, Sowa. I don’t know if it’s the worst. But it’s the most recent.”

  “All of these bad memories, did they involve guns?”

  “Some of them.” I reconsidered. “Most of them.”

  “And you still allow guns in your life? You still can’t get away from them?”

  “The guns aren’t the problem. It’s the people. There have always been those who want to hurt us. There always will be.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t the chicken and the egg, Jill?”

  I considered it. I carried a gun to protect myself and others from violence. But could all of the violence that I’ve encountered, that my loved ones have endured, be the result of my will to carry a firearm?

  “That isn’t it, Sowa. I was a cop. I made a vow to protect and serve. A gun is a tool I use to do my job.”

  “That’s not your job anymore, Jill.”

  I had an answer. I could have asked Sowa if she would always be a mother, even though she lost her child. That would have been a horrible comparison, but a valid one.

  I would always protect people. Badge or no badge.

  It’s what I do.

  After silence, and some continued poking at the chili mac, Sowa spoke again.

  “They called Malkoveck an active shooter. A rampage killer. A mass murderer. Have you ever been in a situation like that?”

  I closed my eyes. “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  I’d never talked with anyone about that incident. Not even Phin. “I’d rather not.”

  “Please, Jill. I want to hear it.” She gripped my hand. “I need to hear it.”

  “Sowa…”

  “This is so important to me, Jill. I’ve had so much counselling. I understand survivor’s guilt. I understand the rage I feel. But I’m still a big, empty shell. A shell that nothing can fill. And I see that same thing in you. I see the pain. We can talk and talk about gun laws and gun safety and the Second Amendment, but that’s all just talk. You have a similar experience to mine. I want to hear about it. And I want to hear how you feel about it.”

  This woman shared her worst tragedy with me. The least I could do was give her what she asked for.

  “Fine,” I said, swallowing hard. “It happened on duty…”

  “An armed man will kill an unarmed man with monotonous regularity.”

  CLINT SMITH

  “If you’re a terrorist, you shouldn’t be able to buy a gun.”

  BILL NELSON

  JACK

  TWELVE YEARS AGO

  And can you mega-size that meal deal?”

  I reach over from the passenger seat and give my partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, a poke in the ribs, except I don’t actually feel his ribs because they’re encased in a substantial layer of fat—the result of many years of mega-sizing his fast food meals.

  “What?” he asks. “You want me to mega-size your fat-free yogurt?”

  “No. You told me to point it out whenever I saw you overeating.”

  “How am I overeating?”

  “You just mega-sized a triple bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate shake.”

  Herb shrugs, multiple chins wiggling. “So? It’s just one meal.”

  “The mega-size french fries come in a carton bigger than your head. The shake is the size of a rain barrel.”

  “Be realistic here, Jack. It’s only 49 cents. You can’t buy anything for 49 cents these days.”

  “How about another heart attack? How much is that—”

  My words are cut off by two quick pops from the drive-thru speaker. Though October, Chicago has been blessed with unseasonably warm weather, and my passenger window is wide open, the sound reaching me through there as well. It’s coming from the restaurant.

  Only one thing makes a sound like that.

  Herb hits the radio. “This is Car 118, officer needs assistance. Shots fired at the Burger Barn on Kedzie and Fullerton.”

  I beat Herb out of the car, pulling my star from the pocket of my jacket and my .38 from my shoulder holster. I’m wearing flats and a beige skirt. A cool wind kicks up and brings goosebumps to my legs. The shoes are Kate Spade. The jacket and skirt are Donna Karan. The holster is Smith and Wesson.

  As I near the building, I can make out screams, followed by another gunshot. A spatter of blood and tissue blossoms on the inside of the drive-thru window, blocking my view of the interior.

  I hold up my pinky—my signal to Herb that there are casualties—and hurry past the window in a crouch, stopping before the glass doors. I tug the lanyard out of the badge case and loop it over my head. On on
e knee, I crane my neck around the brick jamb and peek into the restaurant.

  I spot a single perp, Caucasian male, forties. I can’t make out his hair color because he’s wearing a black football helmet complete with face gear. Jeans, black combat boots, and a gray trench coat complete the ensemble. And under the trench coat…

  An ammo belt.

  Two strips of leather crisscross his chest, bandolero style. Instead of bullets in the webbing, I count eight magazines. Four more magazines are stuck into his waistband. I assume they’re for the semi-automatic pistol in his hand, currently pointed at a family cowering under a plastiform table.

  A mother and two kids.

  Before my mind can register what is happening, he fires six times. The bullets tear through the table and into the mother’s back. Blood sprays onto the children she’s been shielding, and then erupts from the children in fireworks patterns.

  I tear my eyes away from the horror and scan for more hostiles, but see only potential victims—at least twenty. Behind me, I hear footfalls and Herb’s labored breathing.

  “At least four down. One perp, heavily armed.”

  “You want to be old yeller?”

  I shake my head and swallow. “I want the shot.”

  “On three.”

  Herb flashes one, two, three fingers and I shove through the door first, rolling to the side, coming up in a shooting position just as Herb yells, “POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON!”

  The gunman swings toward Herb, I let out a slow breath and squeeze—angle up to discourage ricochets, aiming at the body mass, no ricochet because the shot is true, squeeze, the perp recoiling and stepping back once, twice, dropping the green duffle bag that’s slung over his shoulder, squeeze, screams from everywhere at once, Herb’s gun going off behind me, squeeze, watching the impact but not seeing blood—

  Vest.

  I scream, “Vest!” over the ringing in my ears and roll to the side as the gunman takes aim, firing where I was, orange tile chips peppering the side of my face like BBs.

  I come up in a kneeling position behind a rectangular trash can enclosure, look at Herb and see that he’s out of the line of fire, gone to ground.

  I stick my head around the garbage island, watch as the perp vaults the counter, shooting a teenage cashier who’s hugging the shake machine and sobbing. The back of the teen’s head opens up and empties onto the greasy floor.

  “Everybody out!” I yell.

  There’s a stampede to the door, and I glance back and see Herb tackled by a wall of people, then I take a deep breath and bolt for the counter.

  The gunman appears, holding a screaming employee dressed in a Burger Barn uniform, using the kid as a human shield. Her face is streaked with tears, and there’s a dark patch in the front of her jeans where she’s wet herself. The barrel of his weapon is jammed against her forehead.

  The perp says, “Drop the gun, Jack.”

  His voice is a low baritone, and it’s eerily calm. His blue eyes lock on mine, and they hold my gaze. He doesn’t seem psychotic at all, which terrifies me.

  How does he know my name?

  I stand up, adopt a Weaver stance, aiming for the face shot.

  The gunman doesn’t wait for me. He fires.

  There’s a sudden explosion of blood and tissue and the girl’s eyes roll up and the perp ducks behind some fryers before her body hits the floor.

  Too fast. This is all happening too fast.

  I chance a look at the door, don’t see Herb among the panicking people. I can’t wait—there are probably more employees in the back. I dig into my blazer pocket and find a speed loader, hitting my ejector rod and jamming bullets into my revolver. When I leap over the counter, my gun is cocked.

  No one by the grill. I glance left, see a body slumped next to the drive-thru window. Glance right, see a dead man on his back, most of his face gone. Stare forward, see a long stainless steel prep table. There’s a young guy hiding under it. I tug him out and push him toward the counter, mouthing at him to “Run.”

  Movement ahead. The freezer door opens, and my finger almost pulls the trigger. It’s another employee. Behind him, the perp.

  The perp is grinning.

  “Let’s try this again,” he says. “Drop the gun or I shoot.”

  I can’t drop my gun. I’m not allowed to. It’s one of the first things they teach you at the police academy.

  “Let’s talk this through,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

  “No talk.”

  He fires, and I watch another kid die in front of me.

  I aim high, putting two rounds into the gunman’s helmet, where they make dents and little else. He’s already running away, pushing through the emergency exit, the alarm sounding off.

  I tear after him, slipping on blood, falling to my hands and knees but holding onto my weapon. I crawl forward, my feet scrambling for purchase on the slickness, and then I’m opening the door, scanning the parking lot left and right.

  He’s standing ten feet away, aiming his weapon at me.

  I throw myself backward and feel the wind of his shots as they pass my face.

  “Jack!” Herb, from the front of the restaurant, voice faint because the gunfire is making my ears ring.

  “He went out the back!”

  My hands, slippery with blood and sweat, are shaking like dying birds. I force myself to do a slow count to five, force my bunched muscles to relax, then nudge open the back door.

  The perp is waiting for me.

  He fires again, the bullet tugging at my shoulder pad, stinging like I’ve been whacked with a stick. I scoot backward on my ass, turn over, and crawl for the counter, more shots zinging over me until the back door closes under its own weight and I climb over the girl he just killed, the scent of blood and death running up my nostrils and down the back of my throat.

  I lean against the counter, pull back my jacket, feeling the burn, glancing at my wound and judging it superficial.

  A soft voice, muffled, to my right.

  “Hey!”

  I see the green duffle bag that the perp dropped.

  “Hello? Are you there, Jacqueline?”

  The voice is coming from the bag. I go to it, tug back the zipper.

  Gun. Another semiauto, a 9mm Dilton 76ETX. Loose bullets, more than a hundred. And a walkie-talkie.

  “Jack,” the walkie barks.

  How the hell does he know my name?

  “Can you hear me, Jacqueline?”

  I pick up the radio and hit the talk button.

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m doing this for you, Jacqueline. For you and all the others. Do you remember Washington?”

  Thoughts rush at me.

  At least eleven dead so far.

  He knows me.

  The perp has over a hundred bullets left in his magazine bandolero.

  I don’t know this guy.

  I’ve never been to Washington, the state or the capital.

  He knows me.

  Someone I arrested before?

  Who is he?

  I press talk. “If it’s me you want, come and get me.”

  “I can’t right now,” the walkie says. “I’m late for class.”

  I race for the front doors. When I step onto the sidewalk, I see the perp darting through traffic and running full sprint down the sidewalk.

  Heading for Thomas Jefferson Middle School.

  I don’t hear any sirens. Too soon. Look left and right, and don’t see Herb.

  I rush back into the restaurant, drop the radio into the perp’s bag, grab the handle and run after him.

  Three steps into the street I’m clipped by a bike messenger.

  He spins me around, and I land on my knees, watching as he skids down the tarmac on his helmet, a spray of loose bullets from the gunman’s bag jingling after him like dropped change. A car honks. There’s a screech of tires. I manage to make it to my feet, still holding the bag, still holding my gun, too distracted to sense if I’m h
urt or not.

  The school.

  I cross the rest of the street, realize I’ve somehow lost a shoe, my bare right foot slapping against the cold concrete, pedestrians jumping out of my path.

  An alarm up ahead, so piercing I feel it in my teeth. The metal detector at the school entrance. It’s followed by two more gunshots.

  “Jack!”

  Herb, from across the street.

  “Cars in the parking lot!” I yell, hoping he’ll understand. Guy in a football helmet and ammo belts didn’t walk in off the street. Must have driven.

  The school rushes up at me. I push through the kids rushing out of the doors and get inside, the metal detector screaming, a hall monitor slumped dead in her chair, blood pooling black on the rubber mat.

  I drop the bag, pocket the Dilton and a handful of brass, hit talk on the radio.

  “Where are you?”

  Static. Then, coming through the speaker, children’s screams.

  Followed by gunshots.

  I run, trying to follow the echo, trying to pinpoint the cries for help, passing door after door, rushing up a staircase, hearing more gunshots, seeing the muzzle flashes coming from a classroom, going in low and fast.

  “Drop the gun,” he says.

  His Dilton is aimed at the head of a seven-year-old girl.

  A sob gets caught in my throat, but I refuse to cry because tears will cloud my vision.

  I can’t watch anyone else die.

  I drop my gun.

  The perp begins to twitch, his face wet behind the football helmet.

  “Do you have children, Jack?”

  I’m not able to talk, so I just shake my head.

  “Neither do I,” he says. “Isn’t… isn’t it a shame?”

  He pats the girl on the head, crouches down to whisper.

  “You did good, sweetheart. I don’t need you anymore.”

  I scream my soul raw when he pulls the trigger.

  The little girl drops away, her pink dress now a shocking red, and I launch myself at him just as he turns his weapon on the children cowering in the corner of the room and opens fire.