by Kim Hooper
“So,” Kinsky says.
He leans forward, rests his elbows on his desk.
“As I’ve mentioned to you already, we found a journal on your son’s computer. It wasn’t something he made public, wasn’t a blog or anything like that. It seemed to be just for himself,” he says.
Gary and I nod simultaneously.
Kinsky pushes a stack of paper about three inches high to our side of his desk.
“That’s it,” he says. “His journal. Every page of it.”
Jed was never much of a writer, always struggled in English class. The fact that he has written hundreds of pages both impresses and frightens me. How did I not know he had so much to say? How did I not see how much he was hiding?
“Wow,” Gary says.
Because I’m just sitting there, frozen, Gary reaches for the stack. He turns the first page, starts scanning. It annoys me. I reach over, press my palm flat against the stack.
“I want to read it first,” I say, aware I sound like a tantruming toddler. It doesn’t make sense, I know that. At this point, many people in the police department have read this. I am not the first. But I don’t want Gary to know my son before I can.
Gary does not fight me. He pushes the stack gently, closer to me. I clasp my hands, rest them atop the stack.
“What we’ve determined in reading the journal is that he was fixated on ending his own life. It was something he had been thinking about for a couple years.”
I take this in.
A couple years.
“But there are no mentions of a plan to hurt others,” he says. “Which is highly unusual in cases like this.”
“What does that mean?” Gary asks.
“Well, we think he would have written about it if he’d been planning it. This journal was hidden on his computer. It was clearly private, as you will see when you read it yourself.”
I swallow hard, not sure I want to know what the pages contain.
“He was a very angry young man. Very resentful. He felt victimized by the world. These are common things with shooters,” he says.
With shooters.
My son is a type now. He is in a category.
“But most shooters have a specific plan, right?” Gary says.
I’m glad he’s here. I don’t think I’d be able to manage questions on my own.
Kinsky nods once. “They do,” he says. “We have reason to believe this was more of an impulsive act. He was acting alone. There wasn’t a larger plan. Something that night set him off.”
It’s just like Lindsey said.
“We pulled surveillance downtown and saw a traffic incident that we believe may have been the thing that triggered him.”
“A traffic incident,” I say.
Kinsky turns his computer screen to face us. He clicks play on a video. It’s black and white, grainy. The vantage point is a traffic light, looking down on the street below.
“This car, here, runs the red light,” Kinsky says, pointing at a nice-looking sedan, a BMW or Mercedes, maybe. “And that happens right as Jed’s car is coming down the street.”
Jed’s Mustang comes into view and tingles go down my arms and legs, as if every nerve in my body has been pinched.
The BMW or Mercedes comes so close to hitting Jed. I wish he’d hit him. I wish Jed had been injured. What if this fateful night had ended with him in an ambulance, not dead, not a murderer?
I cringe as I watch. Jed gets out of his car. There is no audio, but I can tell he is screaming. The other car drives off, and Jed gets back in his Mustang and speeds in the same direction, presumably to follow him.
“So you’re saying road rage prompted him to kill five people?” Gary says, his tone skeptical.
Kinsky turns the computer back to face him.
“In talking to people who were in the bar that night, it seems it was a very crazed scene. He was approached by people who saw he had the gun, people trying to stop him, and he shot. More than one person said that a few of his shots appeared to be accidental, like he was flustered.”
Accidental.
Flustered.
You would think this would make me feel better in some way, but it doesn’t. It makes me angry, at Jed, at his stupidity, at his recklessness.
“We think the man in the BMW was his target,” Kinsky says.
“Who was it? Which of the victims was it?” I ask.
“Well, actually, he didn’t die.”
Gary and I both lean forward at the same angle.
“What?” I say.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Gary says.
It’s not that I want that man to be dead. It’s just that it appears that was Jed’s misguided goal.
“He’s one of the injured at Saint Al’s. We don’t plan to release his name or medical information at this time,” he says.
“What will you be saying?” Gary asks. “In the press conference, I mean.”
“Everything I told you here today, though we don’t plan to show the footage of the road incident. We will not be releasing his journal, but we will be referring to it,” he says.
“Why? Why share any of it?” Gary asks. He seems mad now. I’m mad too, but I know better than to take it out on Detective Kinsky.
“Mister …”
“McKee,” Gary says.
“Mr. McKee, we think it’s important for the public to know this information. They should be aware of mental health issues, of how something like road rage can escalate. They should know that not every shooter has a specific plan. And that the availability of firearms in our society can allow for these types of impulsive incidents to happen.”
I’m surprised by this brief insight into Detective Kinsky’s political leanings. Gary sits back in his chair, defeated, deflated. There is no arguing with Detective Kinsky. He is right. The public should know these things.
Detective Kinsky stands from his chair, and we do the same.
“When is the press conference?” Gary asks.
“Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock,” Kinsky says.
He leads us through the department, past rows of beige filing cabinets. There’s a cliché pink box of doughnuts on one of the conference tables.
Gary thanks him. I can’t manage any words. I just offer as much of a smile as I can muster. Then Gary leads me out of the police station, his hand on my lower back.
Outside, the sun is blinding. Gary stands in front of me, blocking my face from the abusive beams.
“I guess it clarifies some things, at least,” he says.
I shrug. It does, I suppose. But clarity does not mean peace.
JED
APRIL 18, 2017
I can’t believe I’m back home, living in my fucking mother’s house. Fucking Jay. Mom said I couldn’t stay at home unless I got a stupid job. So I’m working the front desk at a fucking gym. My god, the people I see—the stay-at-home moms who shove their kids into the Playcare room so they can sweat off their gross breakfasts, the guys who think they’re one workout away from professional football. Pathetic. But not as pathetic as me. I can’t believe I’m fucking back home.
APRIL 20, 2017 (entry crossed out, but writing still visible)
Dear Jay,
It’s 4:20 on 4/20. I bet you’re getting fucking high on all the product I grew for you. Remember when you said, “We’re partners, man”? We shook hands. Lol. What a joke. Can’t believe how much time and money and brainpower I gave you and you just peaced out with that stupid bitch. I got Yoko Ono’ed. Whatever, man. I don’t need you. I’ll get back on my feet and come back and show you up. Fuck you.
JUNE 15, 2017
Got fired from the gym. LOL. That didn’t take long. Apparently, some bitch complained that I was rude to her. Lady, I’m rude to everyone. Whatever. They wanted me out of there, I could tell. It’s not like I fit in. I haven’t lifted a weight … ever? I’m going to Home Fucking Depot this afternoon for an interview. If I get this job, I’m gonna have to wear that stupid orange ap
ron and everything. I’ll be a real tool … selling tools. LOL. It’s not like I can find a better job. What am I going to put on my résumé? That I got fired from Boise Bodyworks? That I’m a failed marijuana entrepreneur? That I got fucked over by the guy who was supposed to be my partner? Shit, I have to start all over now. In an orange apron. Like I’m baking fucking cookies.
JULY 1, 2017
I just realized I haven’t had sex in two years. TWO YEARS. And even then, it was that chick who just wanted to get high. There are no single girls in Boise. Correction: there are no DECENT single girls in Boise. I kinda want to call Lindsey. Pretty sure she’s dating someone. According to fucking Facebook. But dating ain’t married.
AUGUST 4, 2017
Fact: Idaho is consistently among the states with the highest suicide rates. Just read that online. Can see why. It’s either 1000 degrees in summer (global warming doesn’t help) or -1000 degrees in winter. I hate it here.
APRIL 5, 2018
Lindsey got fucking married. She didn’t tell me. Saw it on Facebook. Guy looks like a douche. His name is DOUG, which shares lots of letters with “douche.” Probably has a corporate desk job, a 401(k), all that shit. That’s what girls want. No respect for the path less traveled. I could have been that douche. Being a douche is the easy way. I chose the other way. And it would have worked if Jay hadn’t fucking screwed me over. Whatever.
JULY 23, 2018
I hate Home Depot. Same as all the corporations—politics, stupid rules, ass-kissing galore. This guy Adam got a promotion that should’ve been mine. Total bullshit. There’s no justice in the world, not even at fucking Home Depot. I asked Tim why they gave it to Adam and he said Adam is great with customer service. Which I guess means I’m fucking not. Nobody ever appreciates what I bring to the table. Customer service is BS. Who is the person organizing the stock, making sure everything is fucking running smoothly? Me. Whatever. I’m not gonna be here long anyway.
SEPTEMBER 2, 2018
What the fuck is up with all the fancy cars in Boise now? Forbes magazine says Boise is the fastest growing metro area in the US. This is fucking not good. All these rich assholes from Seattle and San Francisco are coming here and ruining the vibe. There didn’t used to be traffic here. Is now. Houses are getting too fucking expensive. Mom’s lucky she bought her house before all this crap. I can’t wait to leave this place. Talking about Boise and the world in general. It’s all going to shit. I don’t know how anyone could find the point of it all. Global warming, stupid politicians … hell in a fucking handbasket.
OCTOBER 15, 2018
Decided I should probably just shoot myself. Used to tell Lindsey in high school that’s the way I’d go. Hike into the foothills, far back in there, shoot myself. Point would be nobody would find me. I’d just decompose, be nobody’s problem. But with all the fucking people coming to Boise, there are about a billion bikers in the foothills now, so some fucking biker will probably find me. Whatever. Good riddance.
FEBRUARY 5, 2019
I bought it. So now I have it. I’m keeping it in my closet right now, in a shoebox for fancy shoes that I threw away because I don’t fucking need fancy shoes. It’s not like I’m going to be someone’s date to a fucking wedding. Maybe Mom will want me to wear them for my funeral. She’s gonna be pissed when she goes to look for them and finds the empty box. Oh well. Keep wondering if I should leave her a note. Seems too cliché. What words could possibly be comforting? It’ll suck for her, but this isn’t about her. This is about the stupid world and me fucking leaving it.
MARCH 4, 2019
Snow on the ground. FUCK MY LIFE.
APRIL 1, 2019
I’m going to do it soon. Bye, life. You’ve been a bitch.
ANGIE
WHEN I GO TO the hospital at lunchtime on Monday, I’m more anxious than I usually am. There have been no calls from Dr. Harris, so I’m assuming there haven’t been any developments since yesterday. Still, I know how fast these things can change.
I make the now-familiar turns through the maze of hallways and come to Cale’s room. When I step inside though, he’s not there. The place where his bed used to be is empty. I check the room number, wondering if I’ve officially gone crazy. But no, it’s the right room. He’s just not here.
Is he … gone?
He can’t be gone. Someone would have called me, wouldn’t they? What if it just happened? What if my cell phone is about to ring?
I stand there, waiting for the ring, staring at the space where he used to be, unsure what to do.
“Ms. Matthews?”
I turn around to see Nurse Nicole in the doorway. I can’t tell from her face if she has good news or bad news.
“Where is he?” I ask. I can hear my heart thumping, can picture the adrenaline circulating through my body, my brain preparing for whatever Nurse Nicole is going to tell me.
“Oh, he’s in a new room,” she says.
Her smile tells me the adrenaline was not necessary.
“Oh,” I say, putting a hand to my chest, willing my heart to slow before I go into full cardiac arrest.
“I can show you,” she says.
I follow behind her down the hallway, my legs shaky, my heart still pounding. I really thought he was dead. In a matter of just seconds, my mind began preparing for my life as a griever, a widow, a single mother. I saw the text messages to Sahana and Aria in my mind: He’s gone.
We make a few turns and then stop in front of a partially closed door.
“Here he is,” she says, holding her arm out to one side, as if she’s one of the models displaying a car on The Price Is Right.
I push open the door lightly. Before I see him, I see the light coming in from the window. The blinds are up. This room is already more hopeful than the old one.
His head is no longer wrapped in gauze. I can see his partially shaved head, his eyebrows. A lot of the tubes that were covering his face are gone. He looks more like a person than a patient.
I go to him, reach for his hand, squeeze it. As I do, I swear I see his eyelids twitch.
“Did you see that?” I say to Nicole, who is standing behind me.
She laughs. “Did he move?” she asks, as if it wouldn’t be completely astounding if he had.
“His eyes moved. I saw it,” I say.
I squeeze his hand a second time, hoping that will make his eyes twitch again. They don’t though.
“He’s been having lots of what we call reflexive movements,” she says. “Eye twitching, limb movements, that kind of thing.”
Right then he coughs. I jump, startled, and look at Nurse Nicole, waiting for her to react in a surprised or stunned way. She is unfazed though.
“Coughing is common too,” she says.
Common? It seems miraculous.
“This all seems good,” I say. When she doesn’t nod emphatically, I ask, “Is it good?”
“He is doing well. We had to adjust his ventilator because he’s breathing so strong,” she says. “The two drains in his head are out. We’ve removed his lines, stopped monitoring his ICP. These are all good things.”
I nod, waiting for a “but.”
“We’re just waiting for some swelling in his throat to decrease, and then we’ll remove the breathing tube.”
This shocks me. “Are you sure he’ll be able to breathe?”
“We think so,” she says.
Just then, Dr. Harris walks in.
“Look at that—our patient’s two favorite ladies,” he says.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him make something resembling a joke. I take this as a good sign.
Nurse Nicole excuses herself, and I resume staring at Cale, watching for more movements. I don’t care if they’re reflexive or voluntary; they are movements. They tell me he is here.
“We did an MRI this morning, and things are going in a positive direction,” Dr. Harris says.
He’s in a good mood, better than I’ve seen. I don’t pretend to think it’s related t
o Cale’s status; I assume he got laid last night, probably by a nurse twenty years younger than him.
“He is having some neurostorming,” he says. “But that’s to be expected.”
When he doesn’t seem like he’s going to bother explaining what neurostorming is, I say, “What does that mean?”
My eyes are still on Cale. His lips move just slightly.
“Neurostorming happens when the nervous systems have difficulty regulating after a brain injury,” he says. “Increased heart rate, increased blood pressure, tremors—those are some of the things we’ve seen in this case.”
This case. I don’t think he knows Cale’s name. He probably never cares to know names.
“It’s like overstimulation as the brain tries to reboot,” he says. “We’ve been giving him medication to manage the symptoms.”
“Okay,” I say.
“I tell a lot of loved ones that the neurostorms are an indication that he’s fighting.”
That’s what he tells them; I wonder if that’s really the case. The neurostorms might mean nothing, just like the reflexive movements. Loved ones want everything to mean something. Neurosurgeons must bear witness to the extremes of desperation.
I want to ask Dr. Harris if I should be spending more time at Cale’s bedside, given recent developments, but I know he won’t give me a definitive answer. I doubt he’s the type who believes in patients benefiting from the healing vibes of their loved ones. I decide I’ll leave work early so I can stop by again before picking up Evie. There is something to watch for now. There are movements now. There is hope now.
Dr. Harris does his usual thing of looking at his pager and then leaving the room. I go to Cale, hold his hand again.