“That must have been terrifying.”
I thought about all the bodies and the blood in that hallway and didn’t need the reporter’s prompting to take that feeling of terror right to my gut.
“Uh huh. And then we ran out into the rec-area …”
I knew what happened once everyone made it safely into the rec-area, and I didn’t want to think about it any more, so I stopped listening.
The interview must have been over, or they’d gone to another commercial break, because Hilda was talking to me.
“What, babe?”
She finished lighting another cigarette and turned to face me.
“How did this happen, Rafferty?” She blew an angry stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Why would someone want to do this? I don’t understand. Those poor kids. They must have been terrified.”
“I suspect so. It’s no fun being shot at. Especially without a way to fight back. Only happened to me a couple of times—”
“That’s you, Rafferty! You’re used to it. Those kids weren’t. They were more worried about whether there’d be an Economics pop quiz or if Johnny was going to break up with them after school.”
“I know, babe. I know.”
Didn’t know what she wanted from me.
Hilda dragged hard on her cigarette and butted it out.
I shrugged.
Another swallow, throat burning. Good.
A bright red banner scrolled across the TV screen.
“BREAKING NEWS”
The local VVSTH gave us a second and a half of steely eyes and perfect hair before intoning, “We’re cutting away from our coverage of the Columbus High School Massacre for a few moments to cross to Brian Adams live at Parkland Memorial Hospital with the latest on Bradley Wright. What can you tell us, Brian?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I muttered. Stood to pack a pipe and pace.
“What is it, Rafferty?”
I shook my head.
Brian gave us his best somber look down the lens and brought us all up to the minute.
“Thanks Steve and Tracey. The doctors have just told us that Bradley Wright is now out of surgery but remains in a critical condition in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit. You’ll remember from our report at the top of the hour that he’s the student from Columbus High School who was lucky enough to survive today’s horrendous carnage only, in a cruel twist of fate, to be struck by a bus later in the day.”
“The poor boy,” Hilda said.
“What’s his prognosis?” asked the VVSTH.
“Yeah, it’s a real sad story,” I said.
“The doctors have told us he’s stable, but critical. For the moment, he remains in a coma. This is a heartbreaking story, as you can imagine, Steve. To have survived the shooting …”
“For fuck’s sake!”
“What’s your problem?”
“My problem? Nothing. Nothing at all. Peachy fucking keen, thank you!” I fired up my pipe and tried to ignore Hilda’s stares.
“… keep you updated throughout the night as we hold vigil here alongside this brave—”
I puffed and paced and tried to hold it together.
Hilda’s eyes followed me around the room.
The TV continued.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Brian, but the President is about to speak. So, we’re crossing now to the White House. Do we have the feed? Yes? Okay, here we are. Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
The screen flickered, Hilda decided she would rather watch the TV than me, and President Bush started his address to the nation.
I paced and smoked and watched.
The first national tragedy that Bush had to face since moving from Reagan’s VP to the head of the table and he did a passable job. Usual leader-of-the-country stuff: he avoided detail, talked up the need to remain calm until all the facts were to hand, and told us that he shared our sympathy for the victims and their families. He didn’t take any questions.
The VVSTH came on to recap the speech. Unlike Bush, they waded into the details and wallowed in them like a baby hippopotamus.
Did my best to ignore them. Already knew more than I wanted to.
Hilda was a more willing participant and imbibed her wine and every fact about the shooting that the VVSTH were prepared to share. All neatly packaged in colorful charts and maps and tables and numbers. All of which contained one glaring error that kept burrowing under my skin.
I must have been muttering under my breath, because Hilda also gave me more than one sidelong glance over the next ten minutes.
The graphics and voice overs gave way to another recap, which didn’t say anything more than we’d heard for the last three hours.
Hilda sat very upright, very still, and worked extra hard to control her breathing. Took tiny sips of her wine, her lips tight and horizontal.
Finally turned to me.
“So, what’s—”
Ed Durkee appeared front and center on the TV. Looked like a replay from earlier in the day, a gang of reporters collaring him outside Police Headquarters.
“Hang on. I want to see this.”
“What’s so important—”
“Shhh.”
Hilda flopped against the back of the sofa and I sat down, leaned forward.
“…tenant Durkee, what can you tell us about the investigation.”
“At the moment, the DPD has dozens of officers collecting hundreds, possibly thousands, of pieces of evidence from Columbus High and other locations. Over the next days and weeks, we will be in a position to share our findings with you, but it’s too early right now to speculate.”
Ed did a good job on camera. He even restrained himself from using the language that normally peppered our conversations. The camera did add twenty pounds, but I reminded myself not to mention it next time we met.
“Lieutenant. Lieutenant! Is there any risk of another attack? Are other schools, other kids, in any danger?”
“I can tell you that all the perpetrators of today’s heinous attack were stopped at the scene. There is no reason to believe that—”
“What do you say about reports that the DPD was aware of today’s attack as long ago as last month? Is there any truth to that?”
“Jane, there is absolutely no truth whatsoever to that. I don’t know where you heard—”
“A very reliable source, Lieutenant.”
“Uh huh. Well, Jane, it’s highly irresponsible to throw around accusations such a—“
“It would seem irresponsible of the DPD to keep details from the public when those details are directly linked to the deaths of innocent children, Lieutenant. The public needs to know that terror stalks their children. They have a right to know how scared they should b—”
“I’m going to stop you right there, Jane. I don’t care what you think is irresponsible or not. The DPD will be working around the clock to uncover all the evidence related to this tragedy and will continue in our duty to protect and serve the citizens of Dallas. That’s all. Thank you.”
Ed turned, shouldered his way through the reporters who had taken up station behind him, and entered the DPD building, leaving cries of “Lieutenant. Lieutenant.” floundering in his wake.
The VVSTH came back to wrap things up.
“That was the response from Lieutenant Edmund Durkee earlier today when asked about reports that the DPD was aware of today’s attack before it happened. We here at KTVT will keep you informed with every detail of this story as it continues to unfold.”
And speaking of informed, a scrolling graphic started showing yearbook photographs of the deceased schoolchildren while the VVSTHs announced the name and age of each and we in TV-land looked at the faces of kids who would never celebrate another birthday.
“Poor Ed,” said Hilda.
“Uh huh.”
The Glenfiddich got me to the end of the honor roll, but when the VVSTHs came back and started up the next round of “Is your child next?”, I’d had as
much as I could stand. Got up and turned off the set.
We sat in silence and sipped.
Refilled, and sipped.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“What’d you mean?”
“What’s got you so upset?”
“What have you been watching for the last hour? Did you not listen to a word they said?”
“Of course I di—”
“Twenty killed, Hilda. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Of course it mea—”
“Eighteen kids! There are eighteen innocent kids in the morgue tonight. That’s eighteen kids who won’t ever go home again. Who’ll never pull on a football jersey again. Who’ll never get another kiss, let alone their first. Who will never get the chance to fix things that they messed up. Who … who just won’t …”
I ran down, swallowed the last of my scotch, knocked it back so fast that a couple drops ran down my chin.
Hilda’s eyes were dark, but her fingers were soft as she reached out and gently, tentatively, wiped the drops away with her thumb.
“I’m sorry, Rafferty.”
“What for?”
“For snapping. I don’t know any of those kids, but I can’t stop thinking about how frightened they must have been while it all happened.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m sorry for you, too.” I raised an eyebrow. She squeezed my hand. “You can relate to what they went through. More than most people.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry that you had to watch it and couldn’t do anything to stop it.”
I wriggled on the sofa.
I hated that feeling.
And right then, I hated myself, too.
“I know that hurts. And that there’s nothing you can do about it.”
I wanted to hurt someone very badly right then.
“So why don’t we do this instead? You have another drink, then we’ll go to bed, and I’ll rub your back.”
I did, we did, she did, and it helped somewhat. By the time we fell asleep, nestled together safe and warm, my anger had cooled and I was no longer thinking of wanting to punch someone.
But, as I drifted off, I was thinking something else entirely.
Why was Ed lying?
Chapter 6
“Can we at least turn the siren off, guys? My head is killing me.”
“No chance. The lieutenant wanted you downtown asap. That means ‘As Soon As Possible’. Not whenever the guy riding in the back seat feels like it. So maybe you just shut the hell up in case I decide to put the cuffs on you instead, all right?”
The two young cops in the front seat of the police cruiser were too enthusiastic for my taste. Of course, it was only seven a.m. and I hadn’t had coffee yet, so that might have accounted for our differing views of the morning.
Starsky and Hutch had hammered on my door about twenty minutes earlier and didn’t take it well when I told them to fuck off. We’d danced as a trio along the edges of resisting an officer for a few minutes before they agreed to let me get Ed on the phone to confirm what was going on.
“Get your ass in here,” he told me. “Not soon. Not sometime today. NOW!”
I was in no shape to drive so I gratefully accepted their kind offer of accompanying them in the blue and white.
Until Hutch hit the lights and sirens.
But it was clear that he wasn’t gonna change his mind on that aspect of our caravan of fun, so I sat in the back and did my best to keep my stomach contents where they belonged.
Starsky sped up at that point and put a little more emphasis into each turn.
Prick.
We finally rolled in to the parking lot at DPD headquarters where they then marched me down hallways and up stairs, and soon we were standing outside the glass-paneled door of my favorite lieutenant.
Starsky knocked.
“Yeah,” Ed growled from inside.
“Finally,” he said as Hutch opened the door and shouldered me through. “Thanks, Hawkins.” Ed jerked his chin, the cop grinned at me and closed the door. I picked a stack of files off the only chair I could see, placed them on top of a bigger pile of papers on Ed’s desk and sat. Didn’t bother trying to hoist up a smile for him. If he was gonna haul me downtown this early, he could be his own damn moral support.
“What am I gonna do with you, Rafferty?” He rubbed his face. His jowls wobbled. He stabbed a button on his phone. “He’s here.”
Bent himself to signing files and ignoring me and I kicked myself for not grabbing my pipe and tobacco pouch as I was hustled out of the house. Maybe I could use my one phone call to Hilda and she could smuggle them to me in the false bottom of a cake.
Ed’s door swung open and Ricco peacocked his way in, leaned against the wall, and made sure the crease on his trousers fell just so.
“Didn’t ever think I’d see Rafferty this hour of the morning,” Ricco said. “Looks like he got pulled out of a dumpster.”
“Dave and Taylor picked him up from his house, so it’s an easy mistake to make.”
“What?” I said. “Those kids in the dress-up outfits are actually cops? I thought they were kidnapping me for your stag weekend, Ricco. Seriously Ed, you should look into that. I don’t think they’re old enough to have driver’s permits, let alone carry weapons.”
Not some of my best work, I’ll admit, but it was early and I still was without coffee. Ed wasn’t interested in playing the other side to my scintillating repartee. Instead, he got the ball rolling.
“Something you’d like to tell us, Rafferty?”
I said the ball was rolling. I didn’t say I knew which direction.
“Well … yeah,” I said, leaning in conspiratorially. “It’ll be good to tell someone and get it off my chest. It’s been a big burden to carry.” Ed and Ricco both shifted their weight forward. “But first, can I get a cup of coffee? Then I’ll tell you anything you want to know about how Frank Morris and I made it off Alcatraz back in ’62.”
Ed blew out a breath and glared at me. Ricco busied himself with a toothpick, looked down, and tried to hide his grin.
“Ricco, stop looking at your reflection in your shoes and get us coffee.” Ricco’s grin soured and I gave Ed’s peripheral vision more credit. “And if you hear screaming when you come back … don’t open the door.”
It was statements like that, combined with Ed’s borderline inability to smile, that caused me some discontent from time to time. I tried to ignore that feeling, looked around the room and raised my eyebrows. Nodded. “It looks like there’s enough phone books here, Ricco, and I’m sure Ed has the rubber hoses stashed in a desk drawer somewhere, so don’t hurry back. We’ll get started without you.”
Ricco raised a mock guffaw and eased his way into the hallway. Ed gave me the silent treatment and I tried to look bored.
Soon enough, we were all gripping mugs and the day—despite the paltry excuse for coffee served by the DPD—looked up for the first time.
Ed seemed determined to ruin it.
“When were you planning to come in and tell us about it?”
I held up a finger and took another sip of coffee.
Ahh.
“I’d love to help, I really would guys, but I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talkin—”
“Cut the crap, Rafferty! Bradley Wright. Huh?”
“You found him?”
“Uh huh. And I also found a statement from a certain P.I., listed as a witness at the scene, which says that he … let me find the line, yeah here it is, ‘was passing the scene of the accident during his morning constitutional, before heading to his shift at a West Dallas soup kitchen. Mr Rafferty stated that it was important to give back to the comm—‘, I can’t read any more of this or I’m gonna puke. What the hell were you doing there when Bradley Wright tried to catch the bus?”
I couldn’t help it. Ed’s delivery was so serious and earnest, as a backdrop for the imagery he’d unwittingly painted,
it was comedic genius. I burst out laughing.
He watched me, his lip curling.
“‘Cept I ain’t laughing, Rafferty. Notice that?”
“Actually, I did. What gives, Ed?”
“What gives is that when Sergeant Ricco’s team finished checking the Columbus enrollment records against the students we identified at the scene yesterday, there was a name missing. One Bradley Wright.”
“Huh.”
“So, imagine my surprise,” Ed said, “when I see his name crop up on an accident report from earlier in the day. Got me thinking. Why would this kid not be where he should have been? Would have been worth interviewing him to find out what he could tell us about the shooting, if only he wasn’t in a coma.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s gonna make it tough to get a statement.”
Ed ignored that and rolled on. “If you can grasp all of that so far, imagine my fucking incredulity when I see your name on the report, too. I’ve been a cop for thirty-two years, Rafferty, and I’ve long since given up on the idea of coincidence. Since I can’t get anything out of Bradley Wright, I pulled on the next thread—you. Now, cut the crap and tell me what you know about the accident.”
I sipped bad coffee and thought about what I should share with Ed and how much I wanted to keep to myself.
I’d been happy enough to lie to the patrol cop in O’Rileys the day before, but Ed was different. We’d been through a lot together. And while it was true I’d been judicious with my use of the truth around Ed in the past, those decisions were usually based around when I thought that letting Ed know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, would have slowed me down.
And speaking of lying, what was going on with Ed? He’d been holding something back during yesterday’s interview, guaranteed, but I wasn’t sure yet what that was. Looked him in the eye and tried to read what was floating around back there. He just glared at me.
Good thing I wasn’t planning on adding clairvoyance to my list of marketable skills.
“Well?” he said.
I wondered why I was even bothering to think about the angles on this thing; this wasn’t my case. Hell, this wasn’t a case at all.
Wright & Wrong Page 4
