by Rick Mofina
Cathy agreed.
“We’re in this together,” she told Fortin.
Having her with him had helped, for there were times when her unfailing support had kept him from falling apart. Like one night when he couldn’t sleep. He’d sat alone in the dark, so overwhelmed that he was on the brink of going to the shed and hanging himself when suddenly Cathy was on the sofa with him. She never said a word. She slid her arms around him and held him.
She just held him.
Without her, he might not have made it through that night.
Three months after the tragedy the force concluded its investigation into the shootings. It found that all the evidence, analysis, context, and history leading up to the event pointed to a non-criminal, justified shooting: a tragic act of self-defense.
Fortin was cleared of any wrongdoing.
Absolved.
The morning of the report’s release, his home phone rang and he answered. Roxanne Lister, a reporter with the Canadian Press news service, had called him.
“Sir, what’s your response to the investigation clearing you in the Lone Tree shootings?”
Fortin swallowed hard, tightened his grip on the phone, wondering how she’d obtained his private number, but then he didn’t care. In his heart he’d wanted to tell her how he’d ached to go back in time, ached for a chance to change the past and save the lives of the children.
“I really don’t have anything to say,” was all he could manage.
“But you must be relieved. I mean, you shot –”
Fortin hung up and raked his hands over his face.
The news reports on the findings of the investigation were positive. No one, not even members of Trudy and Lyle’s families, was critical.
Everyone had accepted the conclusion.
Everyone except Fortin.
Yet he knew that if he was ever going to get beyond the tragedy, he had to do it as a cop. He needed to keep being a cop. It was how he defined himself.
A short time later, Dr. Mathson and Dr. Sileski submitted their confidential psychological status report to the force.
“Constable Will Fortin continues to pay an extraordinary personal price for the unfortunate circumstances that were not in his control. He shoulders excessive guilt, remorse, and unwarranted blame. Still, he remains a highly intelligent, cognizant, capable, and valuable officer. The most effective path toward a positive process for him would be the resumption of his former assignment. We therefore recommend that he be returned to active duty.”
Fortin had learned that only after some high-level, closed-door debate, did his supervisors accept the recommendation. But before he could return to work he needed to re-qualify on firearms use.
It would be the first time he’d touched a gun since that night.
Chapter 10
Calgary, Alberta
Fortin grew anxious upon receiving the order to report to the range in Calgary. When he got there and felt the Smith & Wesson semi-automatic in his hand, bile rose in the back of his throat. He licked his dry lips, swallowed, and kept going. He’d checked his stance, ensuring that his hold on the Hogue grip was correct. He’d lined up the target in the sights, kept his finger on the trigger, squeezing it until the air exploded.
He fired off all rounds from the gun, pressed the release button with his right thumb, ejected the magazine, and inserted another one, securing it smoothly with the heel of his left hand before firing more rounds.
“Good.” Sergeant George Turl, the firearms instructor, hit the button that retrieved the target. A B-27 silhouette. A man’s upper torso. Turl assessed the scoring ring. “Nice clustering.” Turl noted Fortin’s high score for the speed-loading segment.
“Let’s go to the last one we talked about.” Turl affixed the new, different-sized target, hit the button for the clothesline chain to set it in position at the required distance, then instructed him to proceed.
Fortin repeated the shooting action with more targets of various sizes at varying distances until he’d completed the segment.
“So we’re done? How’d I do?”
“You’ve qualified, but they want me to test you on the simulator.”
“The simulator? So soon?”
“Afraid so.”
“But this is unusual. No one told me I’d have to do the simulator. Now?”
“Yes, now, Will. That’s how they want it.”
Fortin was uneasy.
This would be far more intense than shooting at paper silhouettes that didn’t move. The use-of-force simulator was a computerized laser-shooting, high-tech tool used to sharpen the stressful mental process any cop can face in a heartbeat. It confronted them with realistic shoot-don’t-shoot scenarios, interactive movies with real people, allowing a split second to make a life or death decision. Turl had advised Fortin that in this session, he’d face the most demanding scenarios.
“The worst of the worst that we have.”
“I’ve already faced the worst,” Fortin told him.
Turl led him to the marked position a few feet before the large dropdown screen, handed him the pistol, then left him and took his place at the table behind him to operate the program on a laptop.
“Ready, Will?”
Gooseflesh rose on Fortin’s skin, his scalp prickled and his chest tightened. Life and death in a heartbeat. He couldn’t do this. Not again. But he had to. All in a heartbeat. He steadied himself, slowly raised his gun to the blank screen, and nodded.
“Ready.”
Chapter 11
Calgary, Alberta
Fortin took a deep breath and braced himself.
The screen came to life with a full-size clear scenario unfolding before him. Deafening music pounded in the hallway of the rundown apartment building. Garbage was strewn on the floor, obscene graffiti violated the dirty walls, screaming along the crack that led to the shouting coming from unit 17B, where Fortin was responding to a call. He was about fifteen yards away when the door burst open, ejecting a woman in her twenties, torn dress, bloodied face, sobbing, running to him.
Fortin’s pulse soared. He looked at her hands for a weapon. Nothing in her hands.
The programed robotic voice called from behind Fortin – “shoot-don’t shoot” – as the woman pleaded: “He’s going to kill me! Help! He’s going to kill me!”
A large male appeared at the darkened doorway. “Come back here!” Stained sleeveless T-shirt, rope-like veins in muscular tattooed arms, one rising, outstretched, and aiming at the woman.
What’s in his hand?
The programed voice urged: “Shoot-don’t-shoot.”
What’s in the man’s hand? Is he pointing his finger or a gun? Who’s standing behind him? Any other people in the hall? Fortin had no time and called: “Police officer! Put your weapon down!” The man’s face contorted into a malevolent mask as he yelled: “Woman, you’re going to die!” Fortin’s eardrums throbbed, the music, the shouting, increasing the stress, he sidestepped, crouched, feeling the smooth trigger, training his gun on the suspect.
Fortin saw clearly that the man was holding a gun.
“Police! Drop the weapon!”
The man refused.
The robotic voice: “Shoot-don’t-shoot.”
Steady your grip. Focus. Look at the suspect. Is the threat real? Your gun is death in your hand. You’re going to kill someone.
Don’t shoot or shoot? Is the threat real?
Decide now!
All in a heartbeat, you are going to kill someone.
Fortin squeezed one, two, three, four, five times. The suspect went down. In 3.2 seconds, Fortin had saved one life and taken another. He lowered his gun. Exhaled. His pulse rate peaked.
“Good. Will, you made the proper decision,” Turl said. “Take a few seconds for a break and we’ll go through some more.”
For the next few hours, Turl put him through scenario after scenario, pursuits, gun-jammings, hostages, malls, schools, and two new deadly domestic situations.
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He’d gotten through them all.
“You scored high. You passed everything,” Turl told him as he made notes. “You did well, Will.”
Maybe on paper, but not in his head.
When it was over, Fortin was depleted and his insides were churning. He was so unsteady that he couldn’t make the drive home to Lone Tree. He called Cathy with an excuse about getting together with friends and went to a hotel.
But he’d met no one.
He’d bought a bottle of whiskey and that night he sat alone in his room with the lights off, staring at Calgary’s skyline, drinking as tears webbed down his face.
How many people had he shot that day?
Even if it was simulated death, he was still killing people.
Fortin contemplated their faces and imagined their lives, for they were lives he took. He thought about them until he drifted into a tortured, fitful sleep. He didn’t know how long he’d been sleeping when he’d sensed a presence in his room. He woke to see two figures sitting at the foot of his bed with their backs to him, silhouetted against the TV, which was turned on.
How did that happen?
On the screen the Coyote was chasing the Road Runner – to the strains of the show’s song – before he’d plummeted off of a cliff. But he didn’t die – the Coyote never died. Then the two figures turned, and Fortin saw who they were: Billy and Daisy Dolan.
The tiny hairs on the back of Fortin’s neck stiffened and he stared at the children – saw the bleeding bullet holes he’d made in their small bodies.
“I’m so sorry! Please forgive me, I’m so sorry!”
He moved toward them to embrace them but they’d vanished and everything went dark until he woke again.
A nightmare.
It had all been a nightmare.
Breathing hard, he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Then he sat alone in the dark staring at the twinkling skyline and wondered if he was losing his grip.
He reached for the whiskey bottle.
Chapter 12
Southern Alberta
In the months that followed, after Fortin had returned to work, he’d decided to cut back on his counseling sessions. The truth was he’d had enough. No one knew better than he did what he was enduring. Whatever had happened to him, whatever he was carrying, he would take on himself.
No one can help me carry my sin. I’m alone.
His buddies, the few he still talked to, had encouraged him to continue with his application for corporal and write the exam. After some consideration, Fortin resumed the process because, deep down, he didn’t care as much as he once did. Rising in the ranks, dreaming of making detective, was not as important to him as it used to be.
In going through the procedure and writing the exam, he was calm, relaxed, not stressed because he didn’t care if he failed.
Eventually, he’d learned through his sources, that he’d done well on his exam and his interview but no one could give him official confirmation on whether he’d succeeded. It would take a little longer than usual before he’d learn the results.
Cathy was happy for him but there were still more steps in the process.
Meanwhile, time rolled by in Lone Tree where Fortin took his shifts one by one, just as they came. Some were good, some were not so good. On his worst days he felt like he was just there, going through the motions. He still drank, alone in the evenings.
On one of those nights, Cathy confronted him.
“This worries me, Will.”
“What?”
She pointed at the beer in his hand.
“Cathy,” he released a long breath, “everything’s okay. I need this. It helps me work through everything. Don’t worry, I got it under control. Everything will be fine.”
He told her how it helped take the edge off, especially after the hard days, like those when he had to drive by Big Diamond Farm where it had all happened.
Each time the images, the sounds, and the ghosts reached out to him.
He couldn’t stop it. In the seconds it took to drive by the farm the tragedy would replay over and over. It didn’t matter that there were new owners. Just being near the property made him anxious and caused his heart to race.
Peter and Yvette Jansen and their three young daughters lived there now. The young family was from the Netherlands. Peter and Yvette were aware of the tragedy and had purchased the farm at a good price.
Fortin and Cathy had bumped into them at the grocery store. Cathy knew the girls from school. They were a nice family. Still, it was awkward because the Dutch couple knew who Will was, and they knew his role in the history of their new home. The real estate agent, who was Lone Tree’s biggest gossip, had told the Jansens everything, and they were okay with it.
Still, Fortin saw traces of unease in Peter and Yvette’s eyes, but they remained very polite, never bringing up the past while shaking his hand and exchanging small pleasantries. Cathy, being more socially adept than Fortin, welcomed the Jansens to Lone Tree and extolled its virtues, the schools, the churches, the tranquility, the mountains, and the moral fiber of the community.
“You’ll find the people here are the salt of the earth, generous, understanding, and,” Cathy searched for the right words, “they hold an enormous capacity for forgiveness.”
The Jansens smiled graciously.
That was how Cathy had coped with it all, struggling and straining to get their lives back to something close to normal. She was always searching for the upside, always loving, always caring, eternally tending to his wound and repairing what she could, refusing to let go of hope.
And her biggest hope was to have a family.
She had never let go of that dream.
Cathy wanted children, believing with all her heart that a baby would help Will process the past and focus on the future. “We have to do this, Will. Otherwise, we’ll never get beyond the tragedy; a tragedy that was never your fault.”
Fortin knew that what she’d said was true, yet it would never change how he felt about it. But he’d agreed to start a family. Maybe she was right, he’d thought, for not long after, he came home from work to find a pair of baby shoes fastened to the front door. When he opened it, Cathy flew into his arms with the news.
She was pregnant.
They were overjoyed. Fortin found himself smiling again. For the first time, he’d slipped out of the yoke of his guilt to consider being a dad. Cathy glowed with the promise of a baby in their future. They’d need a bigger house. He’d made discreet enquiries on the status of his bid to make corporal and through his sources, he was told it looked good, but nothing could be confirmed yet. In his case, it was still going to take a while longer before his results were known.
Deep in his gut, Fortin feared that somewhere up the chain, someone had an issue with his application.
Something’s going on. It never takes this long.
Still, he couldn’t let it get in the way as he and Cathy prepared for the baby. He’d cut down on his drinking and was sleeping better. Whenever they had the chance, he and Cathy would drive to Calgary and check out neighborhoods, housing prices, and calculate affordability over lunch or dinner. Cathy was already talking to friends about the possibility of a teaching job in Calgary, or the surrounding area, like Okotoks, Airdrie, or Cochrane.
Everything was going well, until the weekend they were in Lake Bonavista, a sleepy community in Calgary’s southeast. Cathy was still in her first trimester and they’d been looking at houses in some of the city’s lake communities. They’d finished for the day in Bonavista and had gone to a restaurant there for dinner, a beautiful glass-walled place that overlooked the lake. They were halfway through their salads when Cathy excused herself to go to the restroom.
After fifteen solid minutes had passed with no sign of her, Fortin grew concerned. His anxiety had deepened when a server, worry written on her face, approached his table.
“Mr. Fortin?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, your wife’s in distress. We’ve called an ambulance.”
He’d hurried into the restroom to see Cathy sitting on a bench, gripping her lower stomach, horror in her eyes. Two women held towels to her pelvis; one had said she was a nurse as Cathy cried to him.
“I can’t stop bleeding, Will!”
From that moment, everything had blurred in a whirlwind of flashing lights and emergency radios as paramedics placed Cathy on a stretcher. Fortin had insisted on riding in the ambulance with her. He’d watched them check her signs, ask about medications, attach an IV line to her arm, and tend to her; then they’d allowed him to hold her hand as the siren wailed.
At the hospital, medical staff rushed Cathy into an emergency operating room and had ordered Fortin to the waiting room. He sat in a worn, cushioned chair, stared at reruns of Seinfeld playing on the suspended TV while his mind raced with a million fears.
Cathy had looked terrified.
Fortin didn’t know how much time had passed before a nurse found him and had escorted him to a small, empty office, where he waited again. After several long moments, a doctor with white hair appeared, sat with Fortin, removed his glasses, and gave him a compassionate summary, explaining something about uterine anomalies and a weakened cervix “that resulted in your wife’s miscarriage. I’m so sorry, Mr. Fortin.”
Fortin felt the earth shift under him as he struggled to understand what he’d just been told. In a moment of clarity, he’d heard the doctor say that he could see Cathy shortly, that she was sedated but awake.
“Doctor, I have to know. Was it a boy or a girl?”
“Both. They were twins.”
The light in Cathy’s hospital room had been dimmed, offering an air of calm and quiet. She was on her side with her back to the door. He went around the bed, took her hand, and she’d pulled him to her and released great gasping sobs.
“I’m so sorry, Will, I’m so sorry.”