“Oh.”
“We’ve offered for them to stay with us, but . . . she won’t take us up on it. I think she feels . . . I don’t know . . . guilty or something for changing her mind. We’ve tried and tried to reassure her, but . . .”
They nod and give me sympathetic looks.
We are all quiet for an awkward beat.
“Well,” I say finally, “shall we go in and hear what Chip has to say about starting the crime prevention revolution?”
They laugh and the awkwardness is instantly gone.
I ease open the door and hold the old cowbell that dangles above it while Kim and LeAnn come in, and, after a brief pause for us to look at little John Paul, we make our way over to where Chip is waiting.
2
I’ve always tried to make an extra special effort for those students who are most vulnerable or stressed. I’ve done that my entire career. And I’m not the only teacher to do it. Several of us do our best to stop bullying and to make sure every student feels safe and cared for and even loved. That’s as much a part of teaching as reading, writing, and arithmetic. I’ve taken so many students aside and reassured them, bragged on them, let them know that it will get better. And I don’t just mean school, but life. I tell them their lives will get better. I promise them that. It catches most of them completely by surprise. And I’ve seen many of them actually blink back tears.
“What took so long out there?” Jeffers says. “I just got a call. I’ve got to go in a minute.”
“Sorry,” Kim says, “we were just catching up. Haven’t seen John in a while.”
We slide into the booth—LeAnn on my side, Kim on Jeffers’.
“Well, let’s go over everything real quick so I can go,” he says. “Show him the letter.”
LeAnn reaches into her enormous purse, leaning into me as she does, and withdraws a manila file folder. Opening it, she hands me a sheet of copy paper. On it are copied fragments of handwritten notes that appear to have been ripped from a lined journal.
I read them as quickly as I can, which isn’t very quickly since cyphering the handwriting is challenging.
Swear to God I will kill every fucking one of them. Every asshole that ever tortured a poor soul just trying to make it through the goddamn day. We’ve had enough and we’re not going to take it another motherfucking second.
Mom, I’m so sorry about all this. I wish I could have told you what I was dealing with. I tried a few times. But you couldn’t understand and even if you could there was nothing you could do about it. None of this is your fault. I know you will get blamed and that’s the only regret I have, but this is not your fault. Show the bastards this and tell them I said there was nothing you could do and that you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s them and the horrible human beings they’re raising. It’s them and their kids. Not you. NOT YOU!
K and H had it right. Time to continue the revolution. Blow the fucking lid off the whole thing, then go down in a blaze of glory. Unless. What if there was a way to keep doing it? Strike fear, keep it burning, be there to watch it? I’m a goddamn genius. Revolution 2.0.
I look up from the paper. “K and H?” I ask.
Kim shrugs.
“Harris and Klebold,” Jeffers says, the pitch of his voice rising. “Columbine.”
I look from Kim to LeAnna. “Could be, I guess,” she says. “But we can’t be sure.”
“Yes we can,” Jeffers says. “In the context of the notes it can’t be anything else.”
“Where’d you get these?” I ask.
“Janitor saw them in the boys’ bathroom trash,” LeAnn says. “Brought them to me. Chip was filling in for Kim that day. I shared them with him. Here we are.”
“The original notes are on journal paper,” Kim says. “Like they had been ripped out of someone’s diary. It was a few different pages—some wadded up, others just laying in there.”
“Any ideas on who may have written it?” I ask, looking from Kim to LeAnn and back.
LeAnn says, “Got some good candidates.”
Kim nods. “I can think of a few that fit the Harris-Klebold profile.”
“We need to identify them and stop this from happening,” Jeffers says.
His radio sounds again, louder this time, and I glance over toward Carla and John.
“I gotta go,” he says.
Kim stands and lets him out of the booth, then sits back down.
“You guys talk some more and see what you come up with,” he says. “Report back to me and let’s get together again tomorrow. Or I’ll swing by later to see if you’re still here.”
“We won’t be,” LeAnn says. “Mama needs her beauty sleep.”
“Your level of commitment to saving lives is inspiring,” he says, and turns and leaves.
“That bald fat fuck just zinged me as his exit line,” she says. “We can’t stand for that. Shoot him, Kim. I know it will wake the baby, but it’ll be worth it.”
Though I reminded him before he left, Jeffers doesn’t hold the cowbell as he exits the diner and its brassy clanging wakes Carla and the baby.
“What do you think we should do, John?” Kim asks. “I know Chip is a classic over-reactor, but . . . do you think this could be something?”
“Could it be what he thinks it is?” LeAnn asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. The fact that he threw the pages away might be a good sign. But I think we have to look into it—even if there’s the slightest chance it could be true.”
They both nod.
“I agree,” Kim says.
“All we have to lose is a little time,” LeAnn says. “Maybe a little beauty sleep. And the downside is too deep for doing nothing.”
“The question is—what?” Kim says.
“It’s not a lot to go on,” LeAnn says, “and we don’t want to run this risk of targeting the wrong kid and ruining his life.”
I nod. “We certainly don’t. Why don’t we do this? First, have you notified the principal?”
They nod.
“I’m assuming he notified teachers and staff to be on alert,” I say.
“He did,” Kim says. “He handled it very well.”
“He does such a good job,” LeAnn says, “and everyone responded well. You can tell a difference in how things are being done.”
“Okay,” I say. “Good. So . . . we’ve got at least two things to go on—the content of the notes and the handwriting itself. Very quietly . . . without telling anyone . . . why don’t you two make a list of the most likely students, but do it independently so we can compare your lists—see if anyone is on both. And keep your eyes open for suspicious behavior or absences of anyone you suspect. Once we have the list, we can ask their English teacher for a sample of their writing to compare to the notes.”
“I’ve already made my list,” Kim says.
“Me too,” LeAnn says, nodding. “And we’ve already compared them.”
“Excellent,” I say. “You’re way ahead of me.”
“You have no idea,” LeAnn says, leaning into me and pulling another folder out of her purse. “Here’s our lists and a little info on each kid.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Don’t be too impressed,” Kim says. “We didn’t even think about getting samples of their handwriting.”
“You would have,” I say.
“Yes we would,” LeAnn says.
“This is great work,” I say, opening the folder and glancing at its contents.
“You didn’t think we were just another pair of pretty faces, did you?” LeAnn asks with a wide smile.
I nod at the folder. “I’ll look over this tonight.”
“First thing tomorrow we’ll get samples of their handwriting,” Kim says.
“See if you can do it without singling out the individual kids,” I say.
“How?”
“Get an assignment from the entire class, not just a few students.”
“As guidance counselor,” LeAnn says, “I’m in and out
of classes having the kids fill out forms all the time. It wouldn’t raise any suspicions if went in and had them fill out a survey about vocational interests.”
“Even better,” I say. “That’s perfect. Great thinking.”
She points to her large, heavily and brightly made-up face. “Told you. I’m far more than just this.”
“You certainly are.”
“So,” Kim says. “You study our lists and the information about the students from an outside perspective. LeAnn will collect the samples. What do I do?”
LeAnn smiles. “Somebody has to report back to Super Cop Chip. That can be your job.”
3
To all you pathetic people of Pottersville, I hope each and everyone of you read this! I hope they print it on the front page of the paper and post it everywhere on the internet. I know you don’t give a good goddamn about me being dead, but you want to know why I took so many of your kids with me? I’ll tell you why. You each and everyone of you, have made my fuckin’ life a living hell. How could you raise your kids to be such horrible people? How can you all hate anyone who isn’t just like you?
I look down at the good-natured little baby boy with the enormous brown eyes who just a few short months ago was going to be my son, and feel, as I always do, a complex mix of sadness and joy, regret, longing, and love.
Sliding my hands behind him and easing him out of his car seat, I say, “Let’s let your mama sleep a little more. Whatta you say?”
I lift him to me, kissing his forehead and gently placing his head on my shoulder, rocking him in my arms and patting his back.
I couldn’t love him anymore if he were my own son.
“You’re so good with him,” Carla says. “I feel so guilty for not . . . for keeping him.”
I look away so she can’t see me, pretending to be adjusting John Paul in my arms, and blink my stinging eyes.
“There’s no world,” I say when I can, “in which you should feel guilty for keeping your own child. Please let that go. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. You did nothing wrong. You did everything right.”
I mean what I’m saying. She did nothing wrong. And of course, she should keep her baby. But that doesn’t change the fact that the entire experience has been complicated and painful for me and for Anna. For months before he was born, we thought he was going to be ours. We rushed Carla to the hospital, worried the baby was coming too early, concerned for his and her safety, believing he was ours. We stayed with him in the hospital for weeks, taking care of him in his vulnerable, premature condition and helping his mom physically and emotionally, believing he was ours.
For months we believed we had another child. It didn’t matter to us whether he was a boy or a girl, we were just happy to welcome another child into our home. It didn’t matter that he was a boy, but it was significant. Years and years ago I had a dream of being at the beach with my little boy. A dream I truly believed had finally come true.
Anna and I had something we were no longer able to have on our own—a baby—a child together. And then Carla changed her mind. It would have been difficult under any circumstances, but for us to have him, care for him, receive him into our family only to have him snatched away, taken from us, had been only slightly less emotionally devastating than if he had been kidnapped or succumbed to SIDS.
“I’m sorry for getting your hopes up and . . .”
“You didn’t,” I lie. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Our family is complete. It’s not like Anna or I feel like we have to have a son or that we’re incomplete without a boy somehow. It’s not the case. Not at all. We love our girls and they are more than enough. We feel like the luckiest parents in the world. We were going to take him because you asked us to, because you needed us to, and we would have loved him like our own—we still do—but we weren’t actively looking for another child. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She gives me a sleepy smile. “You’re almost convincing.”
“Even if you thought you got our hopes up and that we were disappointed when we didn’t get him, you have nothing to feel guilty for. He’s your baby. You made the right decision.”
“I feel guilty . . . I feel guilty because y’all could give him a better life than I can,” she says.
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. No one can give him a better life than you can. And we’re going to help you—as much as you’ll let us—give him the best life you possibly can.”
So far she has been unwilling to let us do much of anything for him or for her, and I think I know why.
“You really think he’s better off with me?”
“His own mother?” I say. “Of course. Absolutely.”
“And you’re not mad at me?”
“Of course not,” I say. “We love you. We want you in our lives. Want you to let us do more for you and your baby.”
She nods and gives me something between a smile and a frown.
“Are you not letting us help because of the guilt you mentioned?” I ask. “Or because you think we might try to take him from you?”
Tears appear in her eyes. “I’d never think you guys would try to take my baby from me,” she says, “but . . . y’all are so good with him, with your girls, and I fuckin’ suck as a mother, and . . . it just points out how good y’all are and how bad I am and how selfish I’m being not to let y’all raise him.”
“Oh, Carla,” I say. “You’re a great mother and you’re not being selfish. He’s your child. You can’t be selfish with your child. Something would be wrong if you didn’t want him.”
“I knew you wouldn’t try to take him, but I did think that others would see how much better y’all are than me and report it to Children and Family Services and they’d take him away from me and give him to you.”
“Would never happen,” I say. “Not in a million years. You have nothing to worry about. And nobody thinks you’re a bad mom or that we would be better. No one. And there wouldn’t be anything to compare. It wouldn’t be like we’d have him and then you’d have him and someone could compare the two. We’re just wanting to help you with him. We’d be doing it together.”
She starts crying. “I . . . that sounds so good. I . . . could really use some help. I feel like I’m going crazy. I’m so tired all the time and I’m having some crazy ass thoughts.”
“Like DCF taking your baby and giving him to us?” I say.
She laughs. “Yeah, like that.”
“Come home with me tonight,” I say. “Stay with us until we can get you your own place. Let us help you get some sleep, some rest. Let us help you with your baby. You’re his parent. And I promise you Anna and I will never try to be. But you could let us be your parents and his grandparents. How about that? That could work, couldn’t it?”
4
I will kill every fucking one of you motherfuckers. That’s a promise. I’m the real pirate of Pottersville. It’s going to be Columbine all over again. Only better. Harris and Klebold had it right. Blow the whole fucking school up then blow yourself the fuck away. God, how I wish I would have had the chance to meet them. Maybe I will someday. Maybe there’s a special place in hell for people like us. But then again, maybe I’m not ready to go out just yet. Maybe I’ll go underground afterwards, travel the earth like fucking Kung-fu and help other outcast kids kill their fucking foes. Keep this revolution going or start a new one. Keep fighting until they bring you down in a volley of bullets. Mark my words, Columbine was just the beginning and soon they’ll say Pottersville the way they do Columbine or Parkland or Sandy Hook.
Driving back to Wewa, Carla sound asleep in the seat beside me, John Paul just as soundly asleep in his carseat in the back, I call Sam Michaels.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Sorry to call so late. Did I wake you?”
“No. It’s good to hear from you. Why are you whispering?”
I tell her.
Sam Michaels is an agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement who I have worked with over th
e years and who had actually lived with Anna and me for a time while she was recovering from a gunshot wound. She and her husband, Daniel Davis, had moved back to Tallahassee recently, and we missed them terribly. Because of her brain injury, Sam is no longer physically able to be a field agent, so instead she’s becoming one of the keenest investigative minds I know. I often call her for advice
“What can you tell me about school shootings?” I ask.
“Some,” she says. “Kids who do it have so little to love that everything seems meaningless to them, and yet they’re out for revenge—it’s the one thing that seems reasonable and valuable to them. Makes them both suicidal and homicidal. I can tell you that school rampage shootings are acts of random terrorism without an ideology. Those who perpetrate them often cobble together some sort of ideological justification, but it’s usually just some bullshit mashup of Ayn Rand, Nietzsche, shock rock, and pop culture glamorizing of violence. Why?”
“Trying to prevent one from happening.”
“Really?” she says. “That’s interesting. In every case I know of there were plenty of warning signs—clues if someone were looking for them. Most adult mass murderers operate in isolation, but adolescent ones inevitably share their plan with one or more friends. How incredible would it be to stop one before it happened? But what makes you think there’s potentially going to be one somewhere?”
I tell her.
As I do, I realize that I owe Chip Jeffers more respect and credit than I give him, and that if it weren’t for him, none of the rest of us would be doing this.
“Fascinating,” she says. “How long you got?”
“Just the drive from Pottersville to Wewa, I’m afraid.”
“Then I’ll talk fast and give you a little to start with and you can call me when you have more time.”
“Perfect.”
“School shootings are a pretty recent and nearly exclusively American phenomenon,” she says. “What we think of as school shootings, what we mean when we reference them, began in 1996 with a fourteen-year-old kid somewhere in Washington—Moses Lake, I think—named Barry Loukaitis walked into Frontier Middle School dressed in a black duster carrying two handguns, seventy-eight rounds of ammunition, and a hunting rifle. He killed two students and wounded a third before shooting his algebra teacher. But the one everyone references, the one that inspires nearly all of them now, is Columbine. Harris and Klebold created a script that now nearly everyone follows.”
Bloodshed (John Jordan Mysteries Book 19) Page 2
