Raw Vengeance (The Rich Fordham Series)

by Josh Handrich

  Suddenly the cars in front of their TV van stopped. They had to think quickly to get in front for the best shot. Local news syndicates from across the city of Chicago were converging on the suburban school. The one person that could mess it up for Rich was Wayne Vale. The idea of Wayne getting to the scene first made Rich’s muscles tighten and his jaw clench. They had to outplay him at his own game. He took out his phone and dialed Sarah Kinney.

  “Sarah, it’s Rich and Gabe. We’re heading to Loring High School. What’s the latest?”

  “Cops are keeping mum; all I know is what is being reported over the radio,” she said, referring to the CB.

  “Where’s Wayne?”

  “Over in Rockford with Mayor Cogan. He won’t be back until this weekend.”

  “Awesome. I’ll get back to you in five minutes.” He hung up.

  Relieved, Rich put his feet up on the dash and nervously shook his right foot. His lavender tie was pulled down and the top button on his white dress shirt was undone. He looked over at Gabe, who drove, and asked with a devilish smile, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Gabe tilted his head and made eye contact while returning the smile. “Okay, Mr. Wildman, you’re just trying to get us both—ah, fuck it.” He cranked the wheel hard left and gunned the skinny pedal as they sped toward oncoming traffic. Lucky for them the police had already blocked off the southbound lanes, reducing traffic to a minimum. Adrenaline kicked in when they came across the first sets of police cars. Along with at least fifty other emergency responders, they parked near an abandoned police car with its lights flashing. The paramedics and fire trucks parked the closest; the police cruisers spread out and formed a barrier to keep nosey gawkers—and the media—out.

  A symbiotic relationship existed between the media and cops. They needed each other, but neither would publically admit it. It was like the relationship of the police with the average Joe who hated being pulled over for speeding, but loved the police when they were being mugged.

  For news events as sensitive as a school shooting, the cops wouldn’t give the media the normal courtesy. But Rich had a plan. He dialed up Officer Rhonda Diaz.

  “Whatcha want, honey? This ain’t a good time,” she answered.

  “Are you at Loring? If you are, we can meet you.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  Rhonda took a deep breath. “No, but Andy Porter probably is. Give him a shout,” she advised before the line went dead.

  Gotta love friends in low places. Andy had tipped off Rich to a scandal involving the former police chief who had figured out a way to funnel money from the police’s pension fund and put it into his own. Andy had been indebted to him ever since Rich broke the story and the chief was exposed and later fired. Rich dialed Andy’s number. When he picked up, Rich could hear the sirens blaring in the background.

  “Yeah?” he answered in irritation.

  “Andy, it’s Rich Fordham. It’s been a while. Sounds like you’ve got a lot going on right now.”

  “A couple of black kids are shot. Maybe more. Looks bad. Sorry… but tell me what you need… I’m in a hurry.” He sounded out of breath.

  “Gabe and I are near the east lot and are getting stonewalled. Can you get us in?”

  “Now’s a really bad time.”

  “Come on, Andy, you owe me one.”

  “I need to help secure the building,” Andy said. It sounded like he was jogging. “I’ll be there in ten, but I can’t let you inside the school. The vics are inside with the paramedics, and it’d look bad if you were in there.”

  “Not a problem. Thanks, Andy.” Rich paused, then said to Gabe, “We’re in.” He went over and raised the antenna’s fifty-foot mast while Gabe got his electronic gear in order. Per his pre-on-camera routine, he looked himself over in front of a large mirror mounted inside of the swinging side door. He made a slight adjustment to his hair and tie and finished by adding powder to his face to prevent shine.

  They worked their way through the throngs of people, a small feat in itself. Time ticked by, and they needed a shot. Less than a hundred feet away stood Andy, who could get them the opportunity they needed.

  As they got closer, Gabe trotted with the thirty-pound camera on his shoulder, avoiding the temptation to film. So far, the only action was the police presence itself.

  Andy “Tiny” Porter didn’t wear his normal cheerful expression. Rather, his brows furrowed into a deep frown and his jaw jutted forward, making him look forbidding. Andy, a proud former Marine, still bore the same flat buzz cut he wore in the service. Biceps the size of watermelons had thwarted more suspects than he could count. His only weakness was a sweet tooth that contributed to his large size.

  “Tiny, what do you have for us?” Rich asked as he tried to get a read on Andy’s mood.

  Andy stopped to catch his breath and placed his hands on his knees. He waved them over the police yellow tape before answering. His uniform shirt dripped sweat and hung from his man-boobs like a wet sock. Out of earshot of the crowd, he gave them the rundown as they jogged back toward the school.

  “We’ve got six vics, five are being treated for GSW’s, the other is freaked out, but okay. There’s one white, five black, looks to be a race dispute.”

  “No shit,” Rich said in disbelief. “Anything else you can tell us?”

  “Until the parents are notified, no. Most appear to be minors, so that’s all I can say.”

  “But how bad?” he persisted.

  “Umm, they’re pretty messed up. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re pronounced when they get to the hospital. They’re doing CPR and paddles on one of ‘em.”

  “Any idea who brought the gun or if there was a fight before the shooting broke out?

  “All I know is what I saw. I do know the kid who didn’t get hurt ain’t talking.”

  They reached a mark fifty feet outside of the north entrance where the school’s name was chiseled in large block letters into a granite slab mounted on a concrete base. “This is as far as we go. Gentlemen, I never saw you,” Andy said as he vanished into the school.

  His competitiveness and compulsiveness finally won out. Rich dialed Sarah Kinney’s number just to make sure. When she answered, he asked, “Sarah, I’m covering the shooting at Loring. Is Wayne covering it or not?”

  “He’s doing a bit about the mayor, so he’s out of town.”

  “Perfect,” he said, then hung up.

  Gabe helped Rich monkey with the hand-held microphone and its cord. Then he inserted the earpiece and waited for Sarah’s instructions and introduction. Their Breaking News Bulletin played in the background while Rich rehearsed in his head what he would say. A trio of ambulances with their rear doors open and lights flashing parked on the grass to his right, making it hard for Rich to concentrate. The lights reminded him of when he witnessed his girlfriend being transported to the hospital after their car was t-boned by a drunk driver who ran a stoplight. She later died of internal injuries. He shoved the painful memory out if his mind and tried to focus.

  Allan Ames, the senior anchor at WSNO, gave him the intro. Then Rich stared into the camera and began:

  “Yes, Allan, we’re here on scene at Loring High School in southeast Chicago where authorities tell us at least six victims are involved,” he said as he pointed at the school. “There may be as many as five shootings, but we have not had any confirmed deaths. We have been told the scene inside is bad and appears to be race—”

  A bulk of a man strutted toward him, and Rich recognized the man immediately. Police Captain Roy Tomke’s trademark stoic expression was anything but welcoming. His brow curved into a deep V shape and the veins on his temples pulsated with each breath. Rich tried to think ten steps ahead about what he was going to say. His first thought was that they were going to be kicked off the property; his gut predicted correctly.

  In an attempt to lighten the verbal beating he might receive, he decided a preemptive strike would soften the blow. “Captain Tomke
, could we have a moment of your time to explain the tragic events that occurred behind us? Parents are worried about the safety of their children and would appreciate some information,” Rich asked, not thinking he would cooperate.

  Roy ran a hand over the top of his head and grimaced before answering. “Mr. Fordham, you’ve got three seconds to vacate the premises, or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing justice and interfering with a police investigation.”

  The captain gave Rich the look of death, then joined an entourage of police and paramedics as they sped out the set of double doors pushing a stretcher with a black male teenager hooked up to an IV. A paramedic squatted over him, straddling his body as she did chest compressions, while another EMT held an oxygen mask over his face and squeezed an inflatable bag, forcing precious air into his lungs. The boy’s skin looked pasty and dry, and he made no movement.

  Seeing someone receive life-saving techniques would give anyone reason to pause and reflect. Rich went silent for the moment and let the camera and viewers take in the scene. Many reporters would barrage the EMTs and police with a line of questions and shove the camera and microphone in their faces. He knew instinctively that he must not interfere with their work. The emergency workers loaded the first boy into the back of the ambulance and drove off. The rule for paramedics and those in the field was to prioritize the victims. Treat the most injured first, followed by the less injured and so on.

  Rich looked into the camera with a despondent expression. “As you can see, paramedics have taken the first victim to the hospital, and as you just saw, the tragic scene continues to unfold. Emergency workers are trying diligently to give this boy another chance. We’re expecting another four to five kids to be wheeled out the door any moment now. We don’t know how critical the other injuries are, but we’ll do what we can to bring you the most up-to-date information. If, God forbid, any of the teens perish, we will bring the news to you after the authorities have notified the parents and released the information.”

  Medics pushed out four more stretchers; only one victim’s situation looked life threatening. A teenager of average height walked out with an overcoat draped over the length of his body and his hands cuffed behind his back. Two officers escorted the lone uninjured person to an awaiting ambulance.

  Rich gave the “cut” signal and ended the segment. He motioned for Gabe to follow him away from the school.

  The captain walked off, pulled out a walkie-talkie, and asked, “Status updates?”

  The voices on the other end said, one after the other, “Unit one secure; unit two secure; unit three secure…” until all twenty units concurred.

  “Roger that. Prepare evacuation on my mark … and in three, two, one, evacuate, evacuate.”

  Rich and Gabe prepared themselves for the mass of students about to converge on the perimeter of the school. All at once, six officers, with one on each end, led the students out single-file. Students had their hands on the top of their heads for their own safety. For the most part, they took the trauma in stride, but a few had crimson faces and teary eyes. In less than ten minutes, the entire class of over two thousand students assembled into groups of fifty where teachers took roll call. Their backpacks stayed behind so police dogs could sniff out any extra weapons.

  “How about we get the reaction of students?” Gabe suggested. Rich continued to give his side of the events as they walked and rolled video. He wanted to find an over-the-top, emotional girl for his segment. He spied a petite girl wearing pink flip-flops and gym shorts bawling her eyes out.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the girl. “You in the pink—what’s your name?” Rich lowered the microphone so she could speak. “Why are you crying? Did you see anything?”

  “Mmm-mmm,” she mumbled with her arms crossed over her chest. Her feelings got the best of her, and she cried into the chest of a friend standing nearby.

  Rich found another student more composed than the first and asked him, “Did you hear or see anything?”

  The boy’s voice quivered with nervousness as he spoke. “There were gunshots, at least ten to twenty. I lost count after five, but I know it was a lot. It happened before the lunch bell rang. I thought it was firecrackers at first because it happened so quick, and then it went silent.”

  “Where were you when it happened?”

  “I was in English class so I didn’t see nothing.”

  “Thanks so much.” He turned to face the camera directly, “I’m Rich Fordham. We’ll keep updating you live on the scene. We have to go to a commercial break, but keep tuned in for more information as we continue our live coverage on the shootings at Loring High School. Stay with us.”

  CHAPTER 14

  As hard as she tried, Dr. Ally Lacey found it impossible to stay in control of the chaos ensuing inside the emergency room. The amount of family members and students congregating in the hallways and the waiting area began to overwhelm her and her staff. She rolled up her sleeves and tied her long auburn hair into a knot. “Hey, people, if we have to work on him another hour, we’ll do it,” she commanded her team of doctors and nurses. The petite, twenty-five-year veteran supervised each shooting victim, helped wheel them into the hospital, and made sure they received the proper treatment. As the senior ER physician, she knew right away that the cases would have political and racial implications. Out of the six cases, two were life threatening, and the others were superficial and would recover in a few weeks.

  Mitchell Clinic, a Level I trauma center located on the outskirts of downtown Chicago, was under a Code Orange, meaning that it was potentially dealing with an external disaster with mass casualties. It was the only one equipped to deal with multiple gunshot victims. The fifteen-story facility drew patients and world-class surgeons from around the country. The all-white facade was in stark contrast to its all-natural-looking interior painted in muted tones.

  The other doctors kept up chest compressions and had already administered the A.E.D. five times in the last twenty minutes in an attempt to get Labron’s heart pumping again. With his clothing removed, he looked like any other teenager, with the exception of his diamond earring and tattoos. His body lay lifelessly on the operating table, making it hard to determine if he was the provocateur or the victim. The doctors didn’t care; they were only interested in saving the young man’s life.

  Flat-line. The EKG hadn’t changed, and it wasn’t going to change. Two bullets had penetrated his torso and one had severed his spine. “Time of death: 2:32 p.m.,” Ally said in a monotone. Damn it all to hell.

  Watching from less than ten feet away, Labron’s mother looked on in horror as her baby quit his fight for life. The announcement by doctors of Labron’s death acted as a catalyst for disaster. As if on cue, the mother of the boy erupted with an emotional outcry and demanded the doctors not to give up.

  “That’s my baby! Don’t you give up on him, you hear me!” she howled.

  “We’ve done everything we can,” said Ally.

  “No, you don’t. Don’t you stop!” she seethed as she grabbed Ally’s arm.

  “Let go of me,” Ally commanded as she shook her off. “Take a moment to be with him, but there’s nothing else I can do. I’m sorry.”

  Although she saw death every day, watching a teenager die was always difficult, even for a veteran. She hurried her way to the adjoining room where a team had finished a case who was dead on arrival with a bullet hole in his chest cavity and a nicked aortic artery. He had bled out in the school’s hallway and never had a chance. Ally went over to a metal tray with all of his personal belongings and retrieved the wallet. Under a plastic cover she read:

  Deon Taylor, Chicago, Illinois

  D.O.B. April 23, 1983

  The kid was only eighteen. “Two deceased. Let’s keep it that way,” she said under her breath.

  Jamal and Jadyn fared better. They were sent into the OR for surgery and were listed in critical, but stable condition. Dan had a GSW to his upper right shoulder and was being operated on.
Tyler came out unscathed physically, but emotionally damaged. After a psychiatric evaluation, he had to give a verbal and written statement to the police. As far as the police were concerned, it was a classic case of self-defense. However, any time a shooting was involved, it was up to the county prosecutor to decide whether to press charges or to release the suspect.

  Guilt, anger, pride, and other emotions often played into the minds of doctors when working on sensitive cases such as those. True to her calling, Ally was just as methodical and stoic as the others and had the ability to shove any negative feelings down into the recesses of her consciousness when operating on a patient.

  *****

  For visitors to access the upper floors and the ER, they needed to pass through a metal detector and show proper identification. The adjoining waiting room turned ugly as family members and friends grew impatient. Word spread to the football team, and twenty guys stood in support of Dan, looking for a fight. The family and friends of the four boys made their presence known. Like putting two drag queens in a shoe store with only one pair of ten-inch heels left—sooner or later there was going to be bloodshed.

  Tension began to rise after a rumor circulated about Dan being ganged up on by four black thugs. Parents speculated that the popular white jock didn’t like black people and killed out of hate and racism. No one in the general public knew about the relationship between Dan and Tyler. The only people with a whiff of their bond were dead or hospitalized.

  One of the jocks, a red-haired, six-foot-one defensive end, knocked into a black woman as he walked past her to get a soda out of the vending machine.

  She turned and said, “Watch where you going, cracka,” loud enough so the others in her group could hear.

  “Well, if your fat ass wasn’t in the way I wouldn’t have knocked into—”