Bell Hath No Fury

by Jeremy Waldron

  “Yet they were some of the first to die. Tim had to know that officers would come. Could he had actually been targeting them?”

  I started to push the keys into the ignition but held off on starting the car. “Possible, yes. Maybe the shots that killed the officers came in from a different angle?”

  Erin snapped her head around. We shared a look and she said, “That’s it. Oh, shit. Someone else was helping Tim. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  I exhaled a heavy breath. “Let’s not get too excited here. You heard Nolan. He was scared for his life. I’m not sure he has a good grasp of what actually happened.”

  Erin knitted her brows. “Have you heard back from King yet?”

  I shook my head. “We need to get ourselves inside that school. See for ourselves what the library looks like, put ourselves in Nolan’s shoes.”

  “We’ll never get past the police line.”

  “We have to try.” My phone chimed with an incoming text message. Turning it screen-side up, I saw that it was Dawson.

  Love the article. I had it run in today’s print. However, I missed the email about the vigil. Sorry. I posted it to our social media pages. Hope that is okay?

  “Damn. Dawson didn’t get the word out about the vigil.” I swiped my thumbs over my phone’s screen, responding to Dawson.

  No prob. Thanks. I’m working a story. There might be more to yesterday’s event. Stay tuned…

  “I saw it mentioned by the TV news crews. Word will get around.” Erin seemed convinced.

  I nodded, knowing she was right. Yet I still felt bad about not being able to help Pastor Michaels spread the word.

  I’m not surprised. Let me know if I can help.

  I put my phone down and Erin had picked hers up. “So, where should we go from here?”

  Erin flipped her phone around and showed me the address. Based off the location, I had a good assumption to where she might want to take me. “And whose address is that?”

  A glimmer caught her eye. “The residence of Mr. and Mrs. Rick Morris.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Not more than ten minutes passed before we were parked in front of the Morris’ house. And we weren’t the first ones to arrive.

  “How the hell are we going to break through that line?” I asked.

  Erin glanced to the front door, then rolled her neck to look me in the eye. “What line?”

  I stared at Nancy Jordan and her crew unpacking their gear by their TV news van. Relieved she was here, I no longer had to worry so much about Mason. But Nancy wasn’t the only other reporter hoping to interview Timothy’s parents. Every single Colorado news station was here, along with a half-dozen national organizations and their affiliate stations.

  Grinning at Erin’s comment, I said, “I have an idea. Follow me.”

  Together, we stepped out of the car and pulled our sunglasses over our eyes. I stuffed my hands deep inside my jacket pockets. Erin and I paled in comparison to what the other reporters carried with them. Armed with their large cameras and fluffy microphone pieces, we traveled down the sidewalk with only our wits. I was hoping that would be enough to get us inside.

  Nancy Jordan caught sight of me and scampered across the grass. “Where’s Mason?”

  Not bothering to look at her, I muttered, “You’re really starting to wear on me, Jordan.”

  “Sam, we’re both after the same thing. We’re not enemies here.”

  I stopped and turned to face her. Looking her directly in the eye, I said, “Then stop asking about my teenage son.”

  Nancy pulled back, her lips parting below stunned eyes. “Then tell his story for us. He’s a student at North High School. He was at school yesterday. We want to hear what happened from someone who knows.”

  Shaking my head, I felt Erin grip my arm. “C’mon, Sam. We have work to do.”

  Nancy kept her gaze locked with mine. Refusing to look away, I said, “It’s not my story, and Mason doesn’t need any additional weight on his shoulders. Keep away from him.”

  Erin tugged again on my arm and I finally broke eye contact with Nancy as I turned to the Morris household.

  “Wanting to interview Mason is no different than you wanting to sit Timothy’s parents down for your own interview.” Nancy lobbed her words over my shoulder like exploding mortars that barely made me flinch.

  When we got to the front door, Erin said, “You know she’s right.”

  “It’s different.” I jabbed the doorbell with my finger. The chime rang loud enough for me to hear it through the covered windows.

  Turning to face the army of news crews, I wondered how many had already tried their luck at getting the Morrises to speak. Probably all of them. If I couldn’t get Tim’s parents to talk, I would have to try my luck with King and make use of his influence to get us inside the school.

  Erin rang the doorbell again. Then she knocked. Refusing to walk away without getting what we’d come for, I couldn’t fault her for being the same obnoxious reporter I thought Nancy was.

  My breath hitched when I heard the deadbolt click over.

  Suddenly, my blood vessels opened up. When the door cracked, I lifted my sunglasses to the top of my head and couldn’t believe Mrs. Morris was actually standing just inside the threshold.

  “Please, just go away,” she said. “My decision hasn’t changed.”

  “Mrs. Morris, my name is Samantha Bell. Our boys knew each other.”

  Mrs. Morris squinted her eyes as if deciding whether I was worth the risk. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Our son isn’t the monster you people are making him out to be. He’s a good kid who made a mistake.”

  “I know.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I was told that your son was looking for my son yesterday.”

  Mrs. Morris’s cheeks hollowed. “Did he…”

  “No.” I exhaled. “He wasn’t injured.”

  With heavy lids, she muttered, “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Inching forward, I said, “I was hoping maybe you could shed light on why Tim might have wanted to find my son, Mason.”

  “Please, can we come inside, Mrs. Morris?” Erin asked nicely, introducing herself without mentioning her crime podcast. “We don’t need these reporters to make the wrong assumption.”

  Mrs. Morris flicked her gaze over my shoulder and I watched her spine slump when she saw the growing number of vans. Then she nodded.

  Wedging our way inside, I allowed myself a quick assessment of the house. It was a comfortable size with a large living room and an updated kitchen. It was clear the Morrises were financially comfortable—money didn’t seem to be a problem. And, as Erin and I followed Mrs. Morris onto the couch, I couldn’t help but notice the strong military history glorified on their walls.

  “Please, have a seat,” Mrs. Morris said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  There was a television on somewhere in the back. I declined the offer for a drink, unable to stop myself from staring at the old muzzle loader hanging above the fireplace mantle next to a wooden Christian cross.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I heard Erin say.

  Men in uniform were framed next to images of patriotism. Medals were encased in beautiful wooden boxes and laid atop American flags. Everywhere I looked highlighted the strong patriotism and support for our country’s military. Any other day, I wouldn’t have thought much into it but now I couldn’t stop thinking about what Nolan said Tim muttered about being a patriot of God.

  “Mrs. Morris, was your husband in the military?” I asked, hearing the house suddenly go quieter than only a moment before. The TV had turned off, alerting us to another’s presence somewhere in the house.

  “Ginny, who are these people?” a man’s voice barked. “I told you, no interviews.” Mr. Morris emerged from the back and planted his hands firmly into his hips.

  Both Erin and I remained silent.

&nbs
p; “Our son—” Ginny began saying before being interrupted.

  “Our son was a great boy.” Mr. Morris’s hot breath spewed out of his flaring nostrils. “I’m not going to let the media tarnish the memories we have of him.”

  “That’s not the reason we’re here,” I said.

  “I know who you are. Your face is all over the news.” Mr. Morris flicked his gaze over to his wife, then back to me. Ginny seemed tense. “It’s your fault, you know?”

  I raised a curious brow—refusing to take the bait.

  “If it weren’t for the media’s glorification of each mass shooting, turning these tragedies into spectacles, then maybe my son wouldn’t have declared war on that school.”

  My own stomach clenched as I shielded myself from his anger. “Did you know your son was going to do what he did?”

  “Jesus,” Mr. Morris threw up a hand, “you’re already twisting my words around.”

  “Mr. Morris, the reason—”

  “We didn’t know that our son was planning to do anything. You’re just like the police. Acting as if we had something to do with this.” Mr. Morris shook his head. “Our son is dead, too, you know?”

  Ginny stood and set a supportive hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Honey, Tim was looking for her son yesterday.”

  “What’s your son’s name?” Mr. Morris asked.

  I swallowed the sandpaper lining my throat. “Mason Bell.”

  Mr. Morris narrowed his eyes. “And what did Mason do to make my son want to kill him?”

  Erin jumped to her feet. “Stop it. There is enough pain inside this room to go around. We don’t need to add to the flames.”

  I stared at the floor, feeling the sting build behind my eyes. My heart raced and I began to hyperventilate. Without looking, I heard Mr. Morris turn to his wife.

  “Whatever they’re going to publish about Tim is on you.” Mr. Morris swiped his arm up and pointed his sharp finger at me while looking at his wife. “Don’t think for one minute that they are our friends.”

  I lifted my eyes and stared at Mr. Morris from behind a thick curtain of lashes, listening to my short, fast breaths.

  “I can promise you that they will cast us in the same dark spotlight they have already done to Tim.”

  “Please, Rick.” Ginny pressed both her hands into her husband’s big arms. “Maybe you should leave. There is hot water ready for tea.”

  Reluctantly, Rick followed his wife’s advice and finally left the room. As soon as Mr. Morris disappeared into the kitchen, I released my flexed muscles and gasped three full breathes of air.

  “You all right, Sam?” Erin’s voice was small, caring.

  I looked her in the eye and nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sorry about my husband’s behavior.” Ginny turned her attention back to us. “I can assure you he didn’t mean what he said.” She sat once again on the sofa chair. “He’s been edgy since the police came asking questions.”

  “When were they here?” Erin inquired.

  “Nearly as soon as Timothy was identified as the…shooter.” Ginny’s chin quivered a second before she dropped her head into her hand, crying. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s perfectly all right.” I leaned forward and took her hand inside of mine.

  She received it extremely well. “Thank you.”

  “Could I see Tim’s room?”

  Ginny sucked back a deep breath, turned her head, and wiped her cheeks. “Certainly.”

  We followed her down the hallway and into Tim’s room.

  “What was Tim like?” I asked as his mother opened the door. I wondered briefly if anything would ever change inside or if it would become a shrine to their son.

  “He was a smart boy. Though High School had been tough for him.”

  “How so?” The walls of Tim’s bedroom were plastered with baseball memorabilia—trophies from childhood, posters of the greats. I caught Erin’s eye and gave a subtle nod toward Babe Ruth on the wall. The words heroes get remembered, but legends never die rang in my mind. Tim had said nearly that exact thing to Nolan.

  “Tim seemed to have trouble finding his crowd. You know how it is at that age.” Her lips pursed. “He was depressed, didn’t seem to fit in with most other kids.” She smiled at a memory she wasn’t willing to share. “His love of baseball fizzled a few years ago when he didn’t make varsity as a freshman. He never found a passion to replace that with.”

  “Was he on any medications?”

  Ginny nodded. “It helped some, but there is a lot of pressure put on these kids to be popular, peer-pressured into thinking they have to be a certain way.” Ginny paused when her gaze landed on Tim’s bed and she started crying again.

  I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “I thought he was starting to find himself when Rick and I encouraged him to enroll in a couple of classes at Community College of Denver.”

  “Did he?”

  Ginny’s eyes brightened as she nodded. “I really believed he would make it to graduation and he’d make a turn for the better.”

  “High School has been tough for Mason, too.”

  Ginny rolled her gaze to me. “Can I see him? Do you have a photo of your son?”

  I reached for my back pocket and unlocked my smartphone. Pulling up a photo of Mason, I handed it over to Ginny. “Looks like a good kid,” she said, handing the phone back.

  “What class was Tim taking at the community college?”

  “Political Science.”

  Erin stepped forward with her eyebrows knitted. “Does being a patriot of God mean anything to you, Mrs. Morris?”

  “We are Christians, Ms. Tate. And my family is full of men who would consider themselves patriots.” Her smile spread to her ears when she turned back to Tim’s bed. “We love our country as much as we love God.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Alex King was swamped at work. There was more evidence to comb through than he and his partner, Detective John Alvarez, could handle themselves.

  After working through a couple of classrooms, they moved down the hall and entered the library. Without realizing it, King came to a dead stop and paused.

  Suddenly, his head spun with memories of yesterday. He could still smell the burning gunpowder, hear the conversation he was having with the librarian when he nodded at Mason as he left for the bathroom. The pops of guns firing and the cries that traveled the walls with terror. In that moment, it hit him like a freight train and it hurt bad.

  With parted lips, he stared at the blood stain on the floor in the exact location where he’d assisted Nolan.

  Rubbing his fingertips together near his thigh, King could still feel the blood coagulating as Nolan fought to hang on. King had seen a lot over the years, but something told him that this crime scene was going to stay with him forever.

  Alvarez turned to look at his partner. “Was this where you were when it happened?”

  “Yeah,” King exhaled.

  “You never did tell me how Sam’s son is doing.”

  Without looking, King muttered, “It’s going to be a long road to making sense of this, but he’s strong. He’ll find a way to turn this into a positive.”

  Stealing his attention away from the nightmares still playing out inside his head, King blinked and came to when a handful of FBI officers followed a couple of investigators into the library.

  “Hey, looks like Lieutenant arrived.” Alvarez stood straight.

  King scrubbed a hand over his face and shook off his emotions.

  “What have we got, besides the FBI?” Lieutenant Kent Baker asked without greeting his detectives.

  Seeing King struggle to form a response, Alvarez stepped in and gave Lieutenant a quick rundown of the work they had been shuffling through. King stood and listened, catching his breath. Lieutenant Baker didn’t seem to notice King acting strange.

  “What do we know about the shooter’s movements?” the Lieutenant asked.

  “Shooter entered the
building through the north entrance at approximately 9:09AM. First shots were fired outside and he worked his way down the halls, firing dozens of shots along the way until entering the library where we are standing now.”

  King stood, listening to Alvarez explain to Lieutenant the shooter’s course of action, but all he could feel was the pang of regret for not having his gun with him when he needed it most. It twisted like a knife and King wouldn’t ever forgive himself for knowing he could have stopped the murder spree from spreading.

  Lieutenant Baker rested his hands on his hips and looked around. “Looks like a bomb went off in here.”

  “Either the perp was trigger happy or, most likely, he didn’t know how to properly aim.” Alvarez furrowed his brow.

  The Lieutenant rolled his gaze to Alvarez. “Then tell me, how does that explain why two of my men were shot outside?”

  Alvarez shared a quick glance with King.

  “Well?” Lieutenant Baker grew impatient.

  “The ME is working to recover the bullets from each of the victims,” Alvarez informed his superior. “She’ll have them sent over to the lab to run a ballistics test—”

  “Okay.” Lieutenant rolled his shoulders back and eyed Alvarez. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “Until the tests come back, we won’t know for sure, but King and I have been over this a dozen different times and the scenario keeps coming out the same.”

  Lieutenant narrowed his eyes.

  Alvarez sighed. “It’s best if we tell you this where it will make sense.”

  The three men left the library and weaved their way through the halls until they were standing outside near the place where the two officers had been shot.

  “Okay, now that you brought me into the sun,” Lieutenant squinted, “what is it you have to show me?”

  With the fresh Rocky Mountain air working its way into his bloodstream, King was feeling much better. He stepped forward and said, “Lieutenant, we don’t believe that our officers were killed by the perpetrator.”

  Lieutenant raised his eyebrows.

  “I’ll bet my entire pension,” King continued, “that when those lab reports come back on the bullets that killed our men, it will show that there was a second shooter.”