I nod.
“I don’t want to be lied to, John,” she says. “I can deal with a lot of things but not that. I love you. I want you, want what we have, but I won’t be lied to or cheated on.”
I nod again.
Neither of us says anything else and we ride along in silence on the long, flat, rural highway between Pottersville and Wewa, the planted pines on either side of us vibrantly green in the morning sun.
Our silence isn’t exactly awkward, but it is fraught, resonant with both the echoes of what we’ve said and the vacuity of what we haven’t.
“Like last night,” I say, “you were incredible in there today. A powerful force, a calming presence. Thank you for what you’ve done for me. Sorry you were blindsided by my drinking.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything and when I glance over at her I can see tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Anna,” I say.
She shakes her head. “You don’t need to keep saying that.”
“But—”
“Tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t you tell me one more time, but only after you’ve stopped drinking.”
“Okay,” I say, and we retreat back into our silences—this time they seem more like two separate ones, as if we’re each inhabiting our own.
We ride like this for several miles and countless rows of slash pines.
Eventually my phone vibrates and I pull it out to glance at it. It’s LeAnn.
“You mind if I take this?” I ask. “It’s—”
“No,” she says. “Take it.”
“Hey,” I say.
“How are you holding up, pal?” she asks.
“Not so great,” I say. “Could really use some good news.”
I had asked her to see what she could find out about Derek’s condition.
“Afraid I don’t have any of that,” she says. “Sorry. Wish I did.”
“What’s his condition?” I ask, hoping he still has one.
“He’s still listed as critical,” she says, “but he’s alive. That’s something.”
“Yes it is.”
“Did you aim for the barrel of the gun?” she asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“They’re saying the bullet hit the barrel and sort of skittered down it and went into his head and lodged into his brain.”
Fuck.
“They’ve put him in a medically-induced coma and are trying to get the swelling in his brain to go down so they can go in and operate, try to remove the bullet.”
I try to say something but nothing comes out.
“He lost a lot of blood from the bullet hole in his left leg. It went clean through but severed a major artery and . . . well, losing blood the way he did impacts everything else.”
She pauses but I still can’t get anything out.
“John?” she says. “You there? Did you lose signal?”
I disconnect the call as if I did.
49
What’s that quote people say, something like the only thing that has to happen for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing? Something like that. I feel like that’s what we’re doing. We’re doing nothing while the old, fat, greedy bastards are gaming the system. They’re wrecking our country, looting it right in front of us, and we don’t do anything ’cause we don’t think we can or we have TV we want to watch.
For the next few days I don’t leave the house.
I try to—I try to put in extra time at my part-time chaplaincy job at the prison, but the warden tells me there’s too much publicity swirling around me right now for me to be anything other than a distraction.
So I stay home instead and watch coverage of the shooting.
In horror and disgust I observe how the unimaginable tragedy becomes a media event, an unfolding suspenseful story, something packaged to entertain. I watch as the gun lobby trots out its provocateurs and the politicians it has purchased to peddle fear and regurgitate untrue extremes that prevent reasonable dialog and constructive solutions.
Conspiracy theorists claiming that the shooting didn’t happen or was a staged hoax so that the government could justify coming for our guns are given airtime, continuing the destructive trend of mainstreaming what should be marginalized and giving deference and false equivocations to absurdism, mental illness masquerading as a worldview worthy of consideration, as the most fraudulent and fringe statements go unchecked and unchallenged.
I study school shootings and rampage killers, attempting, unsuccessfully, to understand the inexplicable.
I pray for Derek to survive and fully recover. I spend time with my family and the friends who drop by for a visit. I drink—but only at night when everyone else is asleep. And I try to figure out, for my own sake since I can’t have anything to do with the investigation, who killed four and wounded twenty-four and caused me to shoot a kid in the halls of my alma mater.
I continue to be raked across the public coals of broadcast airwaves by reporters who seem to have a fluid relationship with facts.
Sometimes they mention that Derek may have had a gun and might have fired at me first, but mostly that is sacrificed at the altar of conspiracies about what I was doing there in the first place.
By the third day, they’re reporting that not only did I have a drinking problem but that I was believed to have been drunk when I shot Derek.
This prompted Kimmy to make a statement on my behalf, which she delivered out in front of the hospital as she was being discharged.
“Let me be as clear about this as I can be,” she says, seated in the wheelchair they rolled her out in and reading from a sheet of notebook paper she holds with her unbandaged hand. “I wouldn’t be alive right now if it weren’t for Gulf County Sheriff’s Investigator John Jordan. He saved my life. I was in the school hallway by myself with two killers and John did what any law enforcement professional would do. He came to my aid. The things being reported about him are patently false and rise to the level of libel. He was not drinking. He was not off-duty. He was there to meet with me about how to better protect our school children—something not enough people in leadership positions in our country seem to care about. I believe what his classmates and teacher have said about Derek Burrell, that he went out to his truck and got his shotgun and came back into the school in an attempt to help. But somehow in the confusion and smoke and noise and trauma, he got confused because he was firing at me and he fired at John. All John did was return fire and only after being fired at first. This was truly a tragic accident, but that’s all it was, an accident. I’ve known John Jordan nearly my entire life. We were among a handful of kids who started kindergarten and continued all the way through high school and graduated together. He’s a good man and an exceptional law enforcement officer. Take it from someone who was actually there—he’s a hero, not the villain you have portrayed him to be.”
“I’m so glad she did that,” Anna says.
“It’s gonna cost her,” I say.
“With Hugh?”
“Him, FDLE, the FBI—everyone involved in the investigation. I’m not even sure if she’s given her statement yet or not, but either way, they don’t want her talking to the press.”
“She’s a good friend,” she says.
“She is.”
“But it was also the right thing to do,” she adds. “How could you not speak out when you know someone is being unfairly reported about?”
“Lots of people find a way every single day,” I say.
“Well, I’m so glad she did it and she did a great job with it.”
“I guarantee she got LeAnn to help her write it.”
As she starts to say something my phone vibrates. It’s LeAnn.
I smile and show her.
“Hey,” I say.
“She did good, didn’t she?”
“She did great. Thanks for helping her put it together.”
“Ah, you noticed. It’s the least we could do, try to get those rat bastards off you.
They gonna vilify a genuine hero like that. Not as long as this big mouth blonde’s around.”
“Thank you.”
“Plus it did her good to do it,” she says. “Gets her mind off Ace. He was no prize, but he was hers.”
“Has she been interviewed yet?” I ask.
“They tried to do it in her hospital room, but her mom kept interjecting herself into the conversation. Think she’s headed to do it now.”
“Any word on Derek?”
“Sorry, but no change. ’Course, I guess that’s better than a change for the worse, right?”
50
My gun is a tool, an in-case-of-emergency, last resort, there-if-I-need it defense. It’s not my identity, my culture, my religion.
“How you?” Merrill asks.
“Been better.”
He and Tyrese have found me down by the lake in my backyard in early evening, the soft hazy glow of sunset lightly touching everything with a muted magnificence that seems almost transcendent.
I came out here to pray and meditate after realizing the media trucks were gone.
“Some brutal shit they been sayin’ about you on the six and ten,” he says.
“Seems better after what Kim Miller said to them,” Tyrese adds.
I nod.
“My cuz here has some concerns he wants to go over with you,” Merrill says.
“Okay.”
“First,” Tyrese says, “I want to thank you for all you did for our school. I haven’t had a chance to do that yet, and I wanted to tell you in person. Everything you did is greatly appreciated. There’s no doubt it saved lives and I’m sorry it’s takin’ the toll on you that it is.”
I don’t say anything, just give him an expression of appreciation and a small nod.
“Secondly, I wanted to say that I have grave concerns about the Potter County investigator they assigned to the case. I went to school with him and he’s . . . Let’s just say he’s not the smartest person I ever met. Kim confirmed he’s pretty inept. I’m afraid he’s not gonna catch the killers and—”
“It’s not just down to him,” I say. “FDLE has investigators working it. And the FBI does or will too.”
“But he’s the lead,” he says. “He keeps emphasizing that. He’s in charge. He’s the kind of ignorant that has no idea just how ignorant he is and his insecurities make him defensive, arrogant, and unteachable. No way he’ll take the help he’s being offered. We’ve decided not to reopen the school during this school year. We only have five weeks left and there was so much damage done to the buildings . . . but I don’t want to start the school year next year without having caught the shooters.”
“I understand,” I say. “I’d suggest you talk to the sheriff about your concerns and—”
“He’s the one who assigned the moron to head up the investigation. He’s not going to do anything.”
“I think you can have more influence on him than you imagine,” I say. “Hugh’s a political animal and he wants to look good and get reelected so be sure to point out to him the political upside to getting it right. Tell him to let FDLE handle the investigation. That they’ll let him make the arrest and give his department all the credit and if anything goes wrong he can blame them.”
“He’s hopin’ you’d help with it,” Merrill says.
“I’m under investigation for the shooting,” I say. “If I go anywhere near it I’ll be fired. But even if I wasn’t, there’s nothing I could do anyway since it’s not my county.”
“I’ve asked Merrill to look into it as much as he can as a PI,” Tyrese says. “And I wondered if you’d help him.”
“I would if I could. You both know that. But I can’t even look like I’m talking to a witness.”
“Here’s what I was thinkin’,” Merrill says. “We just have conversations—you know, like we do—and in these conversations I might share with you what I’m working on, what I’m uncovering and what I’m thinkin’ I should do next. And bein’ the good friend you are, you listen to me and you maybe even offer me suggestions ’cause you don’t want to see your friend waste his time or do somethin’ stupid.”
“Conversations,” I say.
“Just like we’re having right now,” he says. “And in these conversations I may have occasion to share with you information another cousin of mine who works for the sheriff’s department might be sharin’ with me.”
“Such as ballistics are back.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. And just like you thought. Most of the shots and all the fatalities came from the assault rifle. The nine was used very little. Fired into a classroom or two and in the library. Hit Kim twice and . . . are you ready for this? Hit Derek in his foot. Bullet was still in his boot.”
I think about it. “So that’s why he was firing at us,” I say. “He had been fired on first—actually hit. The handgun shooter fires at him from the same direction Kim was in, so when he fires back he’s firing at her. The gunman disappears and leaves them shooting at each other.”
“Then you show up and join in,” Merrill says. “All y’all victims of the shooter with the nine. Didn’t shoot much, but he made ’em count.”
“Interesting conversation,” I say.
“Figured you might like them, maybe even want to have more.”
“I just might,” I say.
“What other kinds of things would you like to talk about?”
“I’d be interested in discussing things like the victims, the forensics, the movements of the suspects, what kinds of things the kids are saying since the shooting, who was wearing black paramilitary style boots, what was found on the boots that were found on the stage and in the video production room, more about the explosives and if any of the kids have a history of making them. Things like that.”
“It’s interesting,” Merrill says, “I’s actually wondering and wantin’ to talk about some of those very things.”
51
It’s simple. If you see something, say something. If you see a dude devolving into a bad place, do something—intervene, report it to someone who can help. Do something. Everybody’s waiting for someone else to do something but we can’t do that anymore.
It’s late and I’ve been drinking for a while when I hear a knock at the front door.
Stumbling out of the comfortable chair in my library where I have been alternating between studying the information Merrill has gathered on the case and dozing, I unsteadily rush over to answer it before it wakes Taylor, John Paul, or their mothers.
Glancing through the darkened, beveled glass, I can see that the local, vaguely familiar man on my front stoop is not a reporter.
I unlock and open the door and start to whisper for him to—
He’s shoving his way in, the door smacking the wall and the library door behind it loudly.
Grabbing me, he slings me back against the wall behind me. As I bounce off it, he grabs me again and throws me back into the corner of the foyer, his left forearm against my throat, pinning me there, his right hand pressing the barrel of an old Taurus .357 into my left temple.
“You sorry piece of shit,” he’s saying. “You—”
I’m trying to reason with him but the words aren’t coming out right.
“Are you drunk?” he says. “You pathetic piece of shit, you’re drunk as fuck.”
I can hear John Paul crying upstairs. A moment later, the light in the guest bedroom comes on, and Carla appears on the upstairs landing.
“John?”
“Go back in your room,” I say. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. He’s—”
“’Less you want to see this motherfucker’s pickled brains all over this wall,” the man says, “get back in there and close the goddamn door.”
“Go,” I say. “It’s okay. Just go inside and lock your door.”
Reluctantly, hesitantly, she does just that.
“How could you . . .” the man is saying. “Were you drunk when you shot him?”<
br />
“What? Who? No.”
“The fuck you mean who?” he says. “How many unarmed kids you shot, you son of a bitch? My sister’s kid, that’s who. Derek. How could you shoot a good kid like that? Never in any trouble. Took care of his mama. Worked hard to help her. Made good grades in school.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I . . . didn’t mean . . . It was an accident . . . a—”
“Well, I’m about to have the same kind of accident with your fuckin’ head.”
And then Anna is there behind him, the small, slim .9mm from the drawer beside her bed, pressed into the back of his head.
“Lower the gun,” she says. “Now.”
She’s standing too close to him and I want to tell her but to do so would tip him off to something that might not have crossed his mind.
Suddenly, faster than he seems capable, he brings his left arm down off my neck and throws a vicious elbow into the side of Anna’s head, knocking her into the door to my library and to the ground, the little nine skittering across the laminate flooring and into the corner opposite us.
I bring up my hands, grabbing his right wrist with my left and pushing his gun hand away from my head and grabbing him by the throat with my right.
Shoving him back, he falls out the front door, tripping on the step and falling partially on the little brick stoop and partially on the damp grass of the front yard beyond.
I fall with him, on top of him.
But the moment we hit the ground, he is rolling, maneuvering out from underneath me, twisting his way on top of me.
And then he’s pounding on me—mostly with the bottoms of his fists.
As I try to fend off his attack I can’t tell if the gun is still in his hand but don’t think it can be given the way that hand has formed a fist and his striking my face.
Anna is behind him again. This time too far away for him to reach.
“I will shoot you,” she says. “Get off him. Now.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, raising his hands and climbing off me.
The moment he’s on his feet, he takes off running—out of our yard, into our neighbors’, across the road, and disappearing into the night.
Bloodshed (John Jordan Mysteries Book 19) Page 19