I pass the huge built-in trophy case and walk over an enormous seal on the floor that reads PHS Home of the Fighting Pirates encircling a logo of the school’s mascot—a cartoonish pirate with a black eye patch, tricorne hat, and swashbuckling sword—to the brightly backlit glass doors of Kim and LeAnn’s offices.
I find them waiting for me in LeAnn’s office with two students—a pale, pie-faced, blond-haired, heavyset white girl named Sierra Baker and a tall, skinny, light-skinned black boy named DeShawn Holt.
I’m surprised to find students here and shocked when I’m told they’ve been recruited to help.
“Sierra and DeShawn have helped us a lot in the past with valuable information,” LeAnn says of the two kids who are obviously some sort of schoolhouse snitches. “They know the other kids far better than we could ever hope to.”
I shoot a glance at Kim and I can tell she understands and shares my concern.
“Could you two wait out in the commons for a minute?” Kim says. “Let us talk to Mr. Jordan for a moment before we begin.”
The two overly helpful teens are more than happy to comply, and quickly vacate LeAnn’s office.
“What’s up?” LeAnn asks.
“I’m not comfortable discussing possible student suspects with other students,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. “Okay. I just . . . They’ve been very helpful in the past and I thought we needed all the help we could get on this thing.”
Kim says, “What if it got out or they said something to one of the suspects or a parent?”
“They’ve never said anything to anyone but me,” LeAnn says, “but I see what you’re saying. I’ll just tell them to keep an ear out for anything suspicious and bring it to me if they hear anything.”
“I think that would be better,” Kim says.
LeAnn jumps up, comes around her desk, shoves her door open hard by the flat metal crossbar, and steps out into the commons, and I am unable to tell if she is angry or if it’s just her normal way of doing things.
“I’m glad you said something,” Kim says. “I was trying to think of how to. Couldn’t believe it when I walked in and they were sitting here.”
“Sorry about that,” LeAnn says when she returns. “I was just trying to give us our best chance at stopping this thing—and I’ve worked with them a lot over the years to get information. Didn’t think about . . . the other.”
Kim says, “It’s no problem. And you’re right. We need all hands on deck. I think the difference is between them bringing something to us versus us talking to them about other students.”
“No, you’re right,” LeAnn says. “My bad.”
“It’s all good,” Kim says.
LeAnn moves back behind her desk and Kim and I take a seat in the two chairs across from her, previously occupied by Sierra and DeShawn.
“Where do y’all want to start?” LeAnn asks.
“Why don’t we start with what we’re looking for more broadly,” Kim says. “Then talk about the people on our lists.”
“Sounds good to me,” she says. “From what I’ve read and learned from the training I’ve done, we’re not looking for a girl—think there’s only been one of them—and we’re not looking for a black guy. That’s part of the reason I felt safe involving Sierra and DeShawn.”
Though there may have been other girl rampage school shooters, the only one I had ever heard about is Brenda Spencer—the troubled teenager, who in 1979, killed two adults and wounded eight children in a school shooting in San Diego, California. And though there may have been African-American school shooters before I am not familiar with any.
“So,” Kim says, “we’re looking for a white male—rampage shooters and serial killers have something in common.”
“Based on the statistics I’ve read,” LeAnn says, “most of them struggle with suicidal tendencies and depression. They feel persecuted or victimized, but more in a general way than specifically being bullied. They don’t act on impulse or snap in some way, but painstakingly plan their attack. And most if not all talk about their plans with someone they know before they carry them out. And if not that, then at least their violent fantasies in some way.”
“I read that something like ninety-three percent did something that deeply concerned someone close to them before the shooting,” Kim says.
“Exactly,” LeAnn says. “That’s from the secret service report from a few years after Columbine. That’s why I’m convinced there are signs. We just have to see them. It’s why I thought students could help.”
“They absolutely can,” I say. “Just in general, not a specific way. We need them noticing any alarming behavior from anyone, not focusing on just a few.”
“I get that now,” she says.
“Where is Chip?” I ask. “I figured he’d be here by now.”
They both smile.
“We may have told him the meeting started a little later,” LeAnn says.
“Give us a chance to go over everything together first,” Kim says.
“It’s an old trick we used to pull in high school too,” LeAnn says.
I think about how in many ways they’re still in high school, how it’s like they never left.
“Speaking of,” LeAnn continues. “We better keep moving or we won’t finish before he gets here.”
Kim nods and says, “It’s counterintuitive or at least contrary to conventional wisdom, but most school shooters are from two-parent homes, are in the mainstream crowd in school, make pretty good grades, don’t usually get in trouble, aren’t extreme loners, and aren’t addicted to violent video games and movies—though a lot of them are into first-person shooter games and the Oliver Stone film Natural Born Killers.”
“A big factor seems to be difficulty coping with loss or failure,” Le Ann says. “Especially if it’s significant and they are young. Things like failed romances, family illnesses and deaths.”
“So we need to be thinking about these factors when we look at the kids on our lists,” Kim says.
“Let’s talk about them,” I say.
Kim says, “You know how we each have four guys on our lists and only two of them show up on both lists. We were talking and neither of us thinks the two that show up on both lists are significantly more likely to be the shooter than the other four that weren’t on both our lists.”
“Interesting,” I say, glancing down at the lists.
Kim’s list includes Mason Nickols, Dakota Emanuel, Evan Fowler, and Zach Griffith.
LeAnn’s list includes Mason Nickols, Dakota Emanuel, Tristan Ward, and Chase Dailey.
“Either of you had any other thoughts or questions since making your lists and talking about them?” I ask. “Anyone else to add? Anyone you’ve reconsidered and want to take off?”
They look at each other and then me, shaking their heads.
“Okay,” I say. “Now I want you to make a new list independent of each other—no conferring. Exclude white guys and include girls. See who comes to mind.”
Kim’s eyes widen as she nods appreciatively. “Because less likely isn’t the same as impossible.”
“Do we have handwriting samples for all of them?” I ask.
LeAnn nods and hands me a file folder from her desk.
“I’ll look at these while y’all see if anyone makes the new list,” I say. “Cool?”
It must be because both of them are so busy thinking and writing that neither responds.
A few minutes later I look up from the folder to find them looking at me. “I’m assuming Potter High doesn’t have a penmanship class,” I say.
“Did it back when we were here?” LeAnn asks.
“I’m not sure I could exclude anyone from the list based on these handwriting samples,” I say.
“That’s what I said,” Kim says.
“I thought Zach’s was different enough,” LeAnn says, “but . . .”
“What’re the ages of the boys on the list?” I ask.
“Mason, Dakota, and
Tristan are juniors,” LeAnn says. “Chase, Evan, and Zach are sophomores.”
“Anyone make the new list?” I ask.
Kim looks at LeAnn, nodding for her to go first.
“Denise Royal,” LeAnn says.
“I put her too,” Kim says.
“She’s our only truly goth girl,” LeAnn says. “Always writing dark poetry and drawing dark pictures. I’m not sure I could see her doing it as much as helping someone do it.”
“Does she hang out with any of the guys on the list?” I ask.
“Tristan Ward a little,” LeAnn says. “She doesn’t hang out with anyone much—and he’s got a girlfriend, but they do hang out some.”
“Anyone else?” I ask.
“Not really,” LeAnn says. “Besides a little with Tristan she’s a loner.”
“No,” I say, “anyone else make your lists?”
They both shake their heads.
“She’s the only possible girl,” Kim says, “and I just can’t see any of our black kids doing it.”
“I agree,” LeAnn adds.
“Okay, let’s talk about our suspects,” I say. “What came out of your meetings with them today?”
“I was thinking . . .” LeAnn says. “Right now there’s drama and band practice happening out in the arts building and a home baseball game at the baseball stadium. Between all three, most if not all of these kids are on campus. We could take you around to them so you can either put a face with the name or actually talk to them if you want to.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
“Great,” she says, “but we should warn you about the approach we take. Our focus is on at-risk kids and our best hope is to maintain a rapport with them. These are often the most fringe kids and we let them be themselves. They can not only be odd but disrespectful and foulmouthed. We don’t strain out the gnats.”
8
You want to hear something interesting? Dylan Klebold grew up in a home with no guns. Not even toy ones. Dylan’s dad was adamant. Said they didn’t need guns in their house because they weren’t going to play with them. I’ve got no father, but my mom said the same thing about our house. Boy, will she be shocked if she looks at the arsenal under my bed.
The main building of Potter High is a circle—a huge round hallway with classrooms on the right and a large library on the left.
What was known as the band and agriculture building in our day and is now the arts building is a smaller detached circular building in the back. Beyond it is yet an even smaller circular building that used to house the auto-mechanics program but now sits empty.
We walk up the dim hallway of the main building and around toward the arts building in the back.
I can remember walking these very same halls a lifetime or two ago—Merrill beside me, my mind often somewhere else, except when I hoped to catch a glimpse of or have an actual encounter with Anna.
I’m a step behind them and get to observe the enormous size difference. Kimmy looks like a kid next to LeAnn—even in her green deputy’s uniform. She walks with energy, kind of bouncing down the hallway, her ponytail swinging back and forth as she does. Next to her, LeAnn, who looks like her clothes come from a mens’ big and tall shop, lumbers along, one of her strides equaling three of Kimmy’s.
“Is it strange for you to be back?” Kim asks me.
I nod and smile. “Some, yeah.”
The school smells and feels the same, though much has changed. Unlike when we were students here, the hallway is carpeted and the lockers line the walls between the doors instead of being located all together in an alcove.
There are far more pirate mascots around than when we were here—painted on the glass of windows and doors, on the cinderblock walls, splashed across lockers and on welcome mats and rugs. The building seems cleaner and better maintained, but it’s the same.
The single biggest difference—both in the hallways and the entire school—is the seemingly excessive amount of security cameras. If there ever is a school shooting we should have plenty of angles on it.
“Do y’all ever miss being in school?” LeAnn says. “I miss it. We had a good class and a lot of fun back then, didn’t we? And no adult shit to deal with—like paying bills or watching the world fall apart around us.”
Kim shrugs. “Sometimes, I guess. I guess I miss certain things about it, but I wouldn’t want to go back.”
“What about you, John?” LeAnn asks.
I shake my head. “Don’t miss a thing about high school,” I say.
“Except getting to hang with us,” Kim says.
“I’m doing that now.”
“You were always so . . .” LeAnn begins.
“I was always so what?” I ask.
“I don’t know exactly,” she says. “You didn’t really act like the rest of us. I can’t think of the right word, but you were—”
“Self-contained,” Kim says. “More mature.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” LeAnn says. “You were so focused—but not on anything school- or normal teenager-shit related. Sort of set you apart.”
I think about that. “That’s interesting and I think you’re right, though at the time I just felt like I didn’t fit in.”
“I can tell you what he was into,” Kim says. “He was focused on God, the Atlanta Child Murders, and Anna Rodden.”
I laugh. She’s right, but I would’ve never guessed she or anyone else would know any of that.
“None of us stood a chance because of Anna,” Kim adds. “And you wound up with her.”
“Sometimes the guy gets the girl,” LeAnn says. “You got Ace Bowman.”
Ace Bowman, who is now the head football and baseball coach and athletic director of Potter High, was two grades ahead of us and a star athlete when we were in school here.
“That’s true,” she says.
“I didn’t know you two were—” I begin.
“It’s a world class workplace romance,” LeAnn says. “Both of them had a yin for each other back in school. Neither of them knew it. Years later, after relationships and kids and whatnot, they’re back in high school and available. Hell, the kids set them up. It was so—I’ll tell you what it was like. It was like one of those damn Lifetime Christmas movies—’cept without the snow or Christmas or cheesy lines and ridiculous plot lines. But it had every bit of the romance.”
“Our first dance was at the prom,” Kim says. “We chaperoned last year.”
“It was,” LeAnn says. “I’ll tell you what it was. It was romantic as a son of a bitch. That’s what it was. The kind of shit that gives the rest of us single girls hope.”
“Which is what you should have,” Kim says. “You’re going to find someone soon. I just know it.”
“Sure,” LeAnn says, “some massive cornfed female who likes big-mouthed amazon women with frizzy blond hair and saggin’ tits is gonna come walking through the front door to apply for the vacant driver’s ed job and’ll take one look at me and . . . ’Course when she tries to sweep me off my feet she’ll break her back, but I won’t leave her bedside until she can pee on her own again.”
“I’m serious,” Kim says. “She may not waltz through the door of PHS, but she’s out there.” She turns to me. “I keep trying to get her to try online sites or apps.”
“What do you think, John?” LeAnn asks. “Should I get myself a Farmer’s Only account?”
“Well, Cornfed Only, maybe, but yeah. You live in a very small town. Why not use the tools that give you access to the larger, outside world?
“That’s a good point,” she says. “And it’s certainly not like I’m against using tools. I wear the hell out of some vibrators.”
9
School shooters are able to easily acquire high-powered guns. Hell, in many cases their parents helped them get them, either directly or through negligence. Always seems to be a lot of negligence. Rampage killers prefer guns with rapid fire capability, weapons of personal mass destruction that spray bursts of bullets in a m
atter of seconds. More bullets in less time equals more victims. And that’s what it’s all about. It’s a numbers game.
The art building is a microcosm of the main building—a smaller circle with classrooms on the right and a theater in the center.
And bad student art on the walls.
When we were students here this was the band, ag, and shop building. Now there is no ag or shop program, so instead of soil and fertilizer and freshly sawed lumber or wood burning, it smells of spray paint, epoxy, latex, cooking clay, and creative teen spirit.
We find Tristan and Denise in the theater working on an original play written by Tristan and directed by Denise.
The theater is small and dim except for the stage. Tristan and Denise are sitting on the fifth row up from the front, watching as student actors in drag and blackface move overly dramatically across the stage—each overacting even for a high school musical.
Based on the words and lyrics, the costumes and casting, what we’re witnessing is a heavy-handed exploration of teenage angst as it relates to identity, race, and sexual orientation. The production lacks both subtlety and subtext. Everything is self-consciously obvious and on the nose. They have an important message and want to make sure no one, not even the densest, unwokest adult misses it.
The setting is a school cafeteria, where students move around like cattle, herded into small cliques by loud and obnoxious jocks and cheerleaders and milquetoast goody-goodies.
Suddenly a half-male/half-female, half-white/half-black school shooter slowly walks in and begins shooting, each student singing about his or her crime before falling to the floor dead.
Kim glances at me, eyes wide.
LeAnn whispers, “Are we witnessing a confession?”
The crimes the students confess to are typical teenage trespasses.
Bloodshed (John Jordan Mysteries Book 19) Page 4