Bloodshed (John Jordan Mysteries Book 19)

by Michael Lister

  He agrees with what Tyrese and I suggest, ordering SWAT to sweep the building while the deputies escort the classes from the school.

  “Everyone talk to each other,” he says. “Over-communicate. Let everyone know exactly where you are and what you’re doing so we don’t shoot each other. And find the little fucker who did this to our school.”

  They rush off to start their respective jobs.

  Tyrese says, “I’ll go announce what we’re doing on the intercom so the teachers and students will be ready. And let them know to stay together and close to their escorts since we haven’t apprehended the shooter yet.”

  When he rushed off to do that, Glenn turns to me and says, “Why the hell didn’t the bastard do this Friday when we were ready for him?”

  Believing his answer is in his question, I don’t respond.

  “How many fatalities?” Glenn asks.

  “No idea yet,” I say.

  “Well, let’s go find out.”

  “You might want to have SWAT start their sweep in the library,” I say. “It’s open. Be easy for him to access and offer lots of places to hide.”

  He radios his SWAT team and tells them.

  “Remind them there are mostly other students in there so to use extreme caution.”

  He does.

  When he’s done, we head to the northeast section of the circle to assess injuries and fatalities.

  “Can you imagine if we shot a kid?” he says. “I mean besides the shooter. We’d be . . . brought before a firing squad and shot ourselves.”

  I don’t mention me shooting Derek and the evidence that indicates he wasn’t one of the shooters but just a brave boy trying to help. As soon as I do or he finds out, I’m out. Kicked off the case, placed on administrate leave while undergoing a use of deadly force review. Until then I want to do all I can to help find the shooter, secure the scene, and get help to the wounded.

  “Say a prayer that that doesn’t happen,” he says. “That’s not something we could recover from.”

  35

  I heard someone say that we’ve gotten to the point that every year more Americans are killed by firearms than in the entire Korean War. Every two years more Americans are killed than in all of the eight years of the Vietnam War. That can’t be right, can it? Hell, even if it’s close it’s fuckin’ staggering.

  Hugh Glenn, two deputies who have just rejoined us, and I approach the open classroom with the body on the floor I saw when running by earlier.

  We all have our weapons drawn—even Glenn, something I’ve never seen before.

  When we reach the doorway, we stand on either side, entering two by two, and sweep the room before we do anything else.

  Once we’re satisfied the room is clear, we confirm my suspicions about who is lying dead on the floor and identify ourselves to the students hiding in his barricaded office.

  My heart hurts for Kim, but as with my shooting of Derek, I have no time to grieve or process any of it right now.

  “Coach Bowman was so brave,” one of the girls says, as she exits the office and glances down at him.

  “He saved our lives,” another student says.

  The students are frightened and in shock and have a few minor injuries—mostly self-inflicted as they scrambled to get away from the gunman—but they’re okay and there are no other fatalities in here besides Bowman.

  “Did any of you see where the shooter went or anything that might help us catch him?”

  “You haven’t caught him yet?”

  “He was wearing all black with a mask.”

  None of them saw where he went or anything that might help us catch him.

  As one of the deputies escorts the class around the hallway, down to the commons, and out of the school, I take Bowman’s keys and lock the door. I’d like to do more for him—for Kim, but I can’t even cover him until we get forensics in to process the scene.

  “We need to go to the library next,” I say to Glenn, “and then the back exit that leads out to the art room, but I need to make a call first.”

  As I call LeAnn, Glenn and the deputy step down to the next classroom door and look in.

  “John,” LeAnn says.

  “Are you still with Kim?” I ask.

  “Yeah. They’re loading her in the ambulance now. Not sure what I should do. I want to go with her, but feel like I’m needed here.”

  “You have to stay,” Kim says in the background. “I’m okay. Really.”

  “You probably should go with her after you hear what I have to say.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Ace was shot and killed,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I just wanted her to hear it from you instead of a stranger or on TV.”

  “Oh, God, no, John,” she says. “Are you sure?”

  In the background I can hear Kim saying, “What is it? What happened? Is John all right?”

  “I’m very sorry. I know he was your friend too. I’ve got to go. I’ll call and check on you both when I can.”

  “Just be careful, John.”

  When I end the call, I see that Glenn is having the deputy escort the next class out instead of going with us to the library.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  Glenn nods and we walk in the opposite direction as the deputy and students, toward the nearest library entrance.

  By the time we enter the library through the still-locked door frame, glass crunching under our shoes as we do, SWAT is completing its sweep.

  “All clear,” one of the officers says.

  “Y’all can come out now,” another adds.

  Slowly, the students begin to crawl out from beneath desk and tables, the librarian slowly rising from behind the counter.

  “Anyone hurt?” Glenn asks.

  One of the SWAT guys emerges from the TV production room with Zach Griffith.

  “I didn’t know you were back there, Zach,” the librarian says in surprise. “You were in there the entire time?”

  He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

  A student on the far side of the library near a shelf of bullet-riddled books says, “Slow Stevie got shot. He needs help.”

  Another student says, “Somebody help Slow Stevie.”

  The SWAT leader radios for a deputy and EMTs.

  “Anyone else injured?” Glenn asks.

  “Mason is,” one of the girls says.

  Everyone glances at her and then at Mason Nickols not far from her.

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  “You’re bleeding,” she says.

  “It’s just a scratch.”

  The librarian says, “When did you come in here?”

  “You’re shot,” the girl says.

  “Just as all of it started,” he says. “Y’all were already hiding. I came in to check out a book and just dove under a desk. Didn’t know what else to do.”

  I look at Mason closely. He’s wearing all black—pants, shirt, boots. But no duster and no mask.

  Two EMTs and a deputy arrive.

  As the EMTs examine Stevie and Mason, I motion for the deputy and tell him that Mason is a suspect and to keep a close eye on him.

  I then step over to take a closer look at Mason’s wound.

  The EMT has cut the sleeve of his shirt and exposed a gunshot wound in the inside of his left arm.

  “You’re very lucky,” she says. “Just a few inches over and it would’ve hit your heart.”

  “Don’t have one,” he says. “’Sides, a few inches the other way and it wouldn’t’ve hit me at all.”

  “When did you get hit?” I ask. “Where were you?”

  He shrugs. “Not sure. Either running in here or when I was cowering under the desk with the rest of the cowards.”

  “Where is Dakota?” I ask. “Thought y’all were inseparable?”

  “You thought wrong. And I don’t know. Not even sure if he came to school today.”

  My phone vibrates. I pull it out and see that it’s Anna.

  I step awa
y, answer it, ask her to hold for a second, and tell the deputy to stay with Mason and let the doctors know we need detailed notes on his injuries and the slug for ballistics.

  “Hey,” I say into the phone.

  “You okay? Kids are posting video clips of the shooting all over social media.”

  “I’m fine, but we’re still in the middle of it. Can I call you back as soon as we finish evacuating the school and—”

  “Of course. Sorry. Just be careful. Come home to us safely tonight.”

  “Promise,” I say. “I love you.”

  “Love you more,” she says.

  Before I can get out my usual response of “Not possible” she is gone.

  I remind the SWAT team that in addition to searching for a shooter we’re looking for weapons, discarded clothing, and a mask also, then Glenn and I meet another deputy and two new EMTs in the hallway and head around to the back exit and the massacre I saw there when running toward Derek Burrell.

  36

  Everyone is looking for someone or something to blame. As long as it’s not them or something they’re in favor of. They like guns, they blame video games or movies or music. They blame bullies and the parents and legal and illegal drugs. They blame the media. They blame their political opponent. But have you ever heard anyone stand up and say we’re all to blame? We’ve all built this country where this happens. All of us. We all contribute to it. And it only happens here.

  The blood-splattered carnage of the back hallway exit is even worse than I had been able to take in as I ran by earlier.

  Shocking. Horrific. Unsettling. As visually appalling as any scene dreamed up by the most demented of torture porn directors.

  Blood-soaked bullet holes pock the walls. Red Rorschach against white cinderblock.

  Acoustic ceiling tiles hanging from warped frames.

  Bodies on the floor in an expanding pool of blood, its outer edges tacky and dark. Pile of kids partially obscuring the bloody Pottersville Pirate.

  After we identify ourselves, we can perceive movement in the pile of what we thought were all dead bodies.

  The first person to stand is Dakota Emanuel. Wet blood drips from his right cheek and raised hands. Like Mason and not unlike the shooter, he’s in all black.

  “We pretended to be dead,” he says.

  “Are you hit?” one of the EMTs asks.

  He shakes his head.

  Others begin to stand, slowly, hesitantly, like Dakota their hands raised.

  I start to ask why their hands are raised and realize I’m pointing my gun in their direction.

  I quickly lower it, but not too far in case the shooter is hidden among the bloody bodies.

  Eventually, all the bodies but three are upright. Of them, four are wounded, their open gunshot holes contributing to the bloodbath they’ve all just been lying in.

  Many within the pitiful group stand before us shaking, crying, whimpering, moaning. All of them, with the possible exception of Dakota, in shock.

  Among the three bodies remaining, unmoving, unresponsive on the floor, are two male students—twin foster kids named Hayden and Hunter Dupree—and Janna Todd, the art teacher and sometime barmaid with the big breasts. All three of them are deceased.

  “We tried to get out,” one of the girls not crying says. “But the door was locked.”

  “When we turned around the gunman was there. Just started shooting at us.”

  “Is the door normally locked?” I ask.

  “It’s not locked, it’s zip tied,” one of the guys in the back says. “Fucker didn’t want any of us escaping.”

  “Or anyone coming in to help us.”

  “I can’t believe Miss Janna is dead,” a female student says. “And poor Hayden and Hunter, as if their lives weren’t bad enough. I mean, fuck.”

  “Where did you come from, Dakota?” the same guy from the back asks.

  “You weren’t with them?” I ask.

  He gives me a sinister smile without warmth or humor, merely annoyance and mild amusement at being caught.

  Shaking his head, he says, “I’m . . . I wasn’t in their class. I came up after it had all happened. I had planned to sneak out of the building, but when I saw the doors were locked, I laid down with them and pretended to be dead.”

  “What class were you in?” I ask. “How’d you get out?”

  “Algebra. Ms. Candace. I was running late. Was headed to class when all this shit started.”

  “So you really weren’t in class,” I say.

  “Not technically, no. I was headed to it. Almost in it. Almost but not quite.”

  “Did you see the shooter?” I ask. “Any of you?”

  “Just before he shot us,” one of the girls says. “He was like something out of a movie.”

  “I never saw him,” Dakota says. “But I heard the hell out of him. Sounded like he has a real big gun. Very impressive the way he was spraying his loads all over the place.”

  “We only saw him a second before he started shooting,” one of the large, athletic-looking boys says. “But when I saw him my first thought was it was either Mason or Dakota.”

  Dakota laughs. “Guess we shoulda shot you first.”

  “That’s not funny,” one of the girls says. “Not in the least bit funny.”

  “Chill, man, fuck,” Dakota says. “I’s just playin. I got shot at like the rest of you. Shit, Mason did too. Hell, he got shot.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  He hesitates. “I . . . I heard him scream as he ran into the library. I just assumed.”

  The outspoken girl who told Dakota he wasn’t funny glances down at Janna Todd and the two students. “Can we get away from the . . . dead bodies on the floor? Can we please get out of here?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Of course. Deputy Lancaster is going to escort you out of the building. Stay with him and close together.”

  “But you haven’t caught the shooter yet,” Dakota says, his voice full of insincere feeling. “What if he gets us?”

  “You’ll be safe,” I say.

  “You can’t know that,” he says. “I’m scared.”

  “If you’d rather stay here . . .” I say.

  “Fuck that.”

  “You can stay with me,” I say. “I have more questions for you anyway.”

  “I’ll take my chances with the shooter,” he says.

  “Then I’ll catch you later,” I say.

  “Okay,” Lancaster says. “Let’s go.”

  As he begins to lead them away, another deputy runs up from the other direction.

  “Sheriff,” he says. “Got something you need to see.”

  37

  Killing was both easier and more difficult than I thought it would be. And in different ways than I expected.

  The deputy leads us over to a set of lockers along the northeast wall.

  All around us, the shredded school is busy with activity.

  In the wispy, dwindling smoke, deputies are escorting classes out of the building, EMTs are working on and transporting the wounded, and the SWAT team is conducting a thorough, methodical sweep.

  There hasn’t been any more gunfire since Derek went down, and only one explosion since then—none in the last several minutes.

  The deputy’s name is Markson. He’s young and tall and has skin the color of hot chocolate.

  “I was on my way to get the next class,” he is saying, “when I passed this slightly open locker. I could see something hanging out. I’m not sure what I thought it was and I know I probably should’ve just left it for forensics or the bomb squad, but . . . I paused for a minute and looked at all the lockers. Only two in this section don’t have locks on them and those are the only two slightly open with something hanging out of them.”

  I study the bank of lockers as he tells his story.

  “I know I shouldn’t’ve opened them with all the . . . explosives going off and without gloves on, but . . . I couldn’t help myself. I had to know and . .
. look what I found.”

  He swings open the first locker door and steps aside for us to see.

  A white mask lies atop a pile of black clothes, including gloves and a duster, behind them an AR-15 style assault rifle leans against the back corner. In contrast to the attire worn by other school shooters, the black gloves here are not fingerless.

  “You were right,” Glenn says. “He’s just walking around looking like any other student right now.”

  “Not just one of them,” Markson says, opening the other locker.

  The same white mask on the same pile of black clothes, but instead of an assault rifle this locker holds a handgun—a 9mm Luger.

  “There were two,” Glenn says. “And we’ll never find them now. They’re probably already out of the building, mixed in with all the other kids. This is just . . . what a nightmare.”

  I withdraw a pair of latex gloves from my pocket and snap them on. Very carefully I begin to search through the items.

  “No boots,” I say. “In either locker. We need to get out front and see which students are wearing black paramilitary style boots.”

  38

  I heard a Russian video game maker created a first-person shooter game that takes place in a high school and that they market it and sell it in the US, where we have school shootings, not in Russia where they don’t. That’s fucked up. A video game where you can actually be a school shooter shooting at other students. Don’t tell me our enemies don’t love it that we’re killing each other—doing their job for them.

  Students stumble out of the front doors and down the covered walkway like a huge herd of cows coming through a cattle chute into a livestock sale.

  Dazed, their stunned, thousand-yard stares not unlike those of war veterans or terrorist attack survivors.

  Parents waiting behind barriers, worried expressions on their searching faces.

  Cop cars everywhere.

  Students and teachers and parents and law enforcement and EMTs all frantically moving about like angry ants scattered around a toppled ant bed.

  Media trucks and vans in the side field, more arriving every moment, reporters in front of cameras pointing at a soon-to-be-infamous high school where nothing will ever be the same.