“It’s too unpredictable and volatile a situation,” I say. “Anything can happen. Anything at all.”
“John,” she says, her tone harsh. “Are you . . . You’ve never been the it’s too dangerous for you, little lady type. I can’t believe you’re—”
“That’s not it at all,” I say. “Not at all. Because there could be explosives . . . because it could be . . . I was thinking of our children, thinking we didn’t both need to be there in case there was an explosion that could . . . I wanted one of us to be sure to . . . be here for Taylor and Johanna—and now Carla and John Paul.”
“Oh.”
“An explosives expert said that if Eric and Dylan’s bombs would have worked properly at least a thousand more kids would have died at Columbine. That’s nearly three times as many students as the entire student body of PHS. Because of our girls . . . I don’t think the two of us should ever be in the same dangerous situation at the same time if we can help it.”
“I understand,” she says.
“So why don’t you go to the school in the morning, and I’ll stay home with Taylor,” I say.
She laughs so loud I think she’s going to wake Taylor, Carla, and John Paul.
“We just need one of us to be here for them,” I say, smiling at her radiant, amused face. “Doesn’t matter which one.”
We enjoy the joke for a moment more then she turns serious. “Is it really that dangerous?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I just really don’t know. It will depend on how closely they follow Eric and Dylan’s blueprint, how capable they are, how much work they’ve invested in it, how sophisticated their equipment is.”
“Why don’t we both stay home in the morning,” she says.
“I seriously doubt they’ll be that prepared and that proficient,” I say. “It will be their first time, but . . . no matter what they attempt to do I believe we’ll be able to stop it—hopefully, before it even starts—so what they have planned or what they’re capable of is a moot point anyway.”
“I vote for that,” she says.
I nod and smile. “Me too.”
“Think I can entice you back into bed with me?” she says.
“I know you can. No question about it. But I was thinking about getting ready and going to the school.”
“At three o’clock in the morning?”
“I’d like to do another thorough search of the school before it opens,” I say.
“Those are some lucky kids to have you looking out for them,” she says. “Come to bed just long enough to make love to me then you can take a quick shower and be on your way to save the world.”
“You’re the best wife in the world,” I say.
“I want to hear you say that every day for the rest of our long lives,” she says. “So be sure to come home to me tomorrow evening and tell me.”
“I fully intend to.”
279
This morning I woke up excited to go to school. This afternoon I return home blood-splattered, ears still ringing with gunshot blasts, eyes unable to unsee exploded heads and faces, bullet-ripped and riddled bodies, and I never want to go back to school again.
Four thirty in the morning and Kim, LeAnn, Merrill, and I are walking the halls of our old alma mater.
“Searching for explosives at the ass end of morning is far more fun than I ever had when I went here,” Merrill says.
“Sure,” LeAnn says, “it’s all fun and games until one of us gets some limbs blown off.”
“We do need to be careful,” I say. “Certain doors could be boobytrapped. If you see anything out of the ordinary, don’t handle or even approach it. Just back away and we’ll call the bomb squad.”
The hallways are dim, the classrooms dark, and the entire building is eerily, almost unearthly quiet.
We pass beneath Pirate banners and badly decorated bulletin boards, time intermittently folding to make it feel as if it was just a couple of years instead of decades when these hallways and classroom were filled with our friends, the lockers with our books, the days with our dreams.
“Is Tippy Lewis still the librarian?” I ask.
Kim nods. “Hard to believe, but . . . she doesn’t act like she has any plans to retire anytime soon.”
Tippy Lewis had been the librarian when we were here, and though she had seemed old to us then, she couldn’t have been more than early thirties.
LeAnn says, “She’s got no reason to retire. Only thing she does at home is read alone. At least here she’s not alone—and she gets paid for it. I swear she spends her entire discretionary budget each year only on books she wants to read. Then sits in there and reads them all day. She pretty much lets Sierra and DeShawn run it. Kids don’t even ask her anything anymore—just go straight to Sierra and DeShawn. Ms. Lewis does even less work than Ms. Shonda.”
Shonda Saunders is the notoriously lazy janitor who makes the students relegated to in-school suspension do all her work.
I say, “Tippy Lewis helped me find a lot of great books back when we were here.”
“That’s ’cause she crushed on you a little,” LeAnn says.
I laugh out loud. “She absolutely did not. She just—”
LeAnn looks at Kim. “Tell him.”
“She definitely did,” Kim says.
I shake my head. “No way. I would have picked up on something like that.”
“You were completely oblivious,” Kim says.
“She was just helping a student falling in love with reading find good books to read,” I say.
“Sure,” LeAnn says, “and she wasn’t running to the back to change her moist granny panties every time you left the library either. You should stop in and see her later today. Have a little book lovers’ reunion.”
“Why didn’t you come to our last class reunion?” Kim asks Merrill.
He shrugs. “Never crossed my mind that I should.”
“Seriously, really?”
“Not really my scene.”
“We missed you. You should come to the next one.”
“If I’m still here, I will,” he says. “Just for you.”
“If you’re not here,” LeAnn says, “if you get shot and killed or blown up today, we’ll hang a nice plaque in your honor and I’ll say some words.”
Her comment—even said in jest—is in poor taste, but I know she is nervous and scared and means nothing by it, so I let it go.
“Kim’s right,” LeAnn says, “you should come—to be seen if nothing else. You look good. I mean real good.”
“And coming from a middle-aged white lesbian,” Kim says, “that’s really saying something.”
“Just so big and strong and . . . How is it you and John look so much younger than us? Men are so fuckin’ lucky when it comes to shit like that.”
“You know what they say . . .” Merrill says. “Black don’t crack. John’s is genetics and clean living and happiness or some shit like that, but mine is just one of the innate privileges of being a black man in America—no stress, easy living, hidden benefits, shit like that. But who you kiddin’? Both you girls still look just the same.”
“Y’all really do,” I say. “Y’all look great. Must be because y’all are still in high school. Speaking of . . . where do y’all think is the most likely place for the shooter to hide explosives or extra weapons?”
It’s an awkward attempt to change the subject and get our little group back on track, but no one points that out and it seems to work.
“We need to check all the mechanical and janitorial closets and the bathrooms,” Kim says.
“The stage area,” LeAnn says. “Especially behind it and underneath it.”
“Unassigned lockers,” Kim says.
“Need to pay particular attention to any loose or open grates and ceiling panels,” LeAnn says.
“I think we need to split up in order to cover everything before the school opens,” I say. “That okay with y’all?”
They all nod and say it is.
> “Just remember not to touch anything,” I say. “Just look. If you see anything suspicious at all, make a note of the location, snap a pic, and call the rest of us. Okay?”
“Okay, Dad,” LeAnn says. “We’ll be careful.”
We each go in different directions, methodically making our way through the entirety of the main building.
I search the library at the center of the huge circle, but it, like the rest of the school, is far too large for anything but a cursory examination.
It occurs to me that this entire endeavor may very well be a waste of our time, but I don’t know what else we can be doing.
After searching the library, I examine the lockers without locks in my area. I discover trash, rotting food, smelly gym clothes, blown out flip-flops, a baseball glove, tampons, discarded notebooks, abandoned art projects, cans of half-consumed soda, deodorant, antiperspirant, and an ungodly amount of AXE body sprays. I do not discover any explosives or weapons of any kind.
I next search the girls’ restroom before meeting up with the others in the commons.
Together we search the kitchen, commons, and stage area.
By six thirty as the other undercover law enforcement officers start to arrive, we haven’t found a single sign of a school shooting—no plans or notes, no weapons or explosives—and I can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad result.
280
I have no idea how we got to this place. I really don’t. I’ve taught school for thirty years and in all that time I can’t point to a single thing that could have predicted something like this. Not one. Are kids different these days? In some ways, sure, but in others they’re no different than we were back in what they see as the Dark Ages.
Everyone is in place.
Undercover officers pretending to be substitutes are everywhere—in or near every classroom, at every entrance, in the commons, in the library, in the front office, in the gym, in the art building, in or near the restrooms.
Two SWAT teams are stationed in a field about half a mile from campus.
There’s so much firepower in or near the school, in fact, that I felt the need to address everyone this morning before the students arrived, reminding them to use restraint and limited force and to make absolutely certain before they took any action at all. The last thing we needed was an overzealous, keyed-up cop shooting a kid pulling a handheld gaming device from his backpack.
Merrill and I are roaming the halls.
“How you feelin’ about everything?” he asks.
“I think we’re prepared,” I say. “Given ourselves the best chance to stop him, but . . . all I can think about is all that could go wrong.”
He nods. “Anything does happen . . . be a shit ton of friendly fire up in this bitch.”
“We may have too many officers here,” I say. “In most cases too much help is a good thing but in this situation . . .”
LeAnn and Kim are going from class to class to check in on our suspects, confirm they’re here and try to get a reading on their overall state.
We run into them in the far side of the hallway on the east end of the main building.
“Anyone missing?” I ask.
“Not sure yet,” Kim says. “Still working our way through them. A couple of them changed their schedules recently so what we have for them is wrong. We’re trying to track them down now. Tristan and Denise are here—in the art building working on their play. Seem normal. Chase is here. He’s in the gym but not dressed out like he’s supposed to be, but Ace said it’s not that out of the ordinary for him.”
“Zach is in the media center working on the morning broadcast,” LeAnn says. “Charming as ever. We’re going back to the office now to see if we can find out where Evan Fowler is supposed to be and confirm he’s there.”
“No sign of Mason Nickols and Dakota Emanuel yet,” Kim says, “but their first-period teacher says they often come in late.”
“We need to let the spotters know they’re not here, to be looking for them, and to let us know the moment they pull up,” I say. “What do they drive?”
“Dakota doesn’t have a car,” LeAnn says. “Always rides with Mason in his old black Jeep Cherokee.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll let the parking lot spotters know while y’all try to locate Evan.”
“Take a deep breath, John,” LeAnn says. “This is going to work. We’ve got plenty of help. This isn’t all on you. Don’t have a heart attack or anything.”
“I’ll take a nice long breath when this is over and everybody’s safe and unharmed,” I say. “All right. Let’s go.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to look out for you,” she says. “Have a stroke if you want to.”
We head in opposite directions down the circular hall.
As Merrill and I make our way toward the student parking lot, I’m scanning every area we pass—lockers, restroom entrances, the intermittently visible sections of library, the classrooms seen behind the long, narrow panel of glass in the closed doors.
Because today is 4/20, the high holy day of cannabis culture, we have disguised many of our activities and covert operations as if they’re related to it. K-9 units roam the parking lots and hallways with what the students believe are drug dogs, but are actually bomb detection dogs. Tyrese and a small team of undercover officers are conducting supposed random searches of backpacks and lockers, ostensibly looking for weed but actually looking for weapons.
We pass Tyrese and one such team at a bank of lockers near the hallway to the commons.
“Anything?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not so far. But we’re just getting started.”
“This is bullshit,” the angry young white student whose locker is being searched says. “You have no reason to search me or my locker. You’re violating my civil rights.”
Merrill and I continue down the hallway and out the front door.
As we walk down the long covered corridor leading to the student parking lot, he looks at his watch and asks, “What time do most school shootings happen?”
“That’s a great question,” I say. “I’m not sure. It’s stupid of me not to know for sure, but my sense is that more happen in the mornings than any other time. Columbine started a little before eleven thirty. What time is it?”
“Eight thirty-nine,” he says.
We have approximately twenty minutes until the play starts in the commons.
When we reach the spotter at the end of the covered walkway near the flagpole, I ask him how it’s going.
“It’s going. K-9 is almost finished with all the cars in both lots—staff and students,” he says.
He’s an older officer on loan from the Bay County Sheriff’s Department, gray-haired and a wrinkled, gridded face.
“Anything so far?”
He shakes his head, continuing to scan the school grounds instead of looking at me.
“Our prime suspects haven’t arrived yet,” I say. “Be on the lookout for an older model black Jeep Cherokee. Let us know when they arrive and tell everyone to use extreme caution.”
“Do I notify you when they’re here?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“They’re here,” he says.
I follow his gaze and see Mason’s faded black Cherokee slowly approaching the school from the quiet, empty street that leads to it.
“Thanks,” I say, but there’s not a lot of sincerity in it.
Merrill says, “Shall we?”
I nod and we begin to walk toward the lot that Mason is pulling into.
Lifting my radio, I depress the button and say, “Mason and Dakota have just arrived. Merrill and I are approaching them now.”
“How you wanna play it?” Merrill asks.
“Let’s hang back and see what they do,” I say. “Act like we’re looking at other vehicles, assisting the K-9 unit.”
Mason parks his Jeep in his assigned spot and he and Dakota get out.
They are wearing normal-for-them attire and are no
t armed.
Mason walks directly over to us. “Knew you smelled like bacon. Got a nose for that sort of thing.”
“Congratulations,” I say. “Your mom must be so proud.”
“What’s all this shit?” Dakota asks as he walks up.
“Just a little random drug search to celebrate 4/20,” I say.
Mason tosses his keys to me. “Feel free to go inside mine,” he says. “Just don’t plant anything or trash it in any way.”
“That’s very accommodating of you,” I say.
His dead eyes lock with mine and he gives me a wicked, knowing smile. “I have nothing to hide. Even if I was going to do anything with . . . drugs . . .”
His expression and emphasis on the word drugs make it clear he’s talking about something else.
“I’m not stupid enough to bring them to school on today of all days.”
“So you were expecting us?” I say.
“You boys have yourselves a good day,” he says, starting to walk away. “Just leave the keys in the front office with Miss Rose when you finish with her.”
Dakota, who follows Mason, shakes his head and says, “That’s some sad shit man. Dude who fought monsters in Atlanta is doin’ bullshit drug searches in a high school parking lot in Patheticville, Florida.”
281
I can’t prove it, but I’m convinced that kids are influenced by media coverage and especially social media attention that is given to school shooters. Well, I’m not going to prop up and promote the mentally ill and sociopathic any longer. I’ll never again use the name of a school shooter in any reporting I do. My focus will be exclusively on the victims and survivors.
Just before the student body begins to file into the commons for the play, Merrill, Tyrese, Kim, LeAnn, Ace Bowman, Chip Jeffers, and Hugh Glenn who just arrived are huddled together in the corner near the office to regroup.
Outside, the K-9 unit is thoroughly searching Mason’s Jeep at my request. Inside, everyone remains on high alert.
“I just knew it was going to be Mason and Dakota,” LeAnn says.
True Crime Fiction Page 111
