Acoustic Shadows (3 page)

‘Sure, Papa. Anything.’

‘Get that fucking marshal on the phone,
numero uno
. And,
dos
, get your little posse together and get down to Florida. This thing stops now.’

Erica Weisz lay in a private room in Lakeland Regional Hospital dreaming of fire. She saw only bright orange light and felt searing heat all around her, at once welcoming her and, conversely, pushing her back with its intensity. Then it was gone, as if sucked into a vacuum, taking her life with it, but leaving her body and an all-encompassing emptiness as cold as any Arctic region on earth.

She woke up sweating, strands of hair stuck to her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. A feeling of post-operative nausea and dizziness enveloped her. She sat up with great difficulty and felt pain in her side and lower abdomen. The room spun to a stop, and she was able to see her surroundings in the late afternoon light that filtered through the window: an aseptic hospital room painted a vague green, an uncomfortable-looking vinyl chair for visitors, her chrome-railed bed with unwrinkled sheets as if laid over a corpse.

Her mouth was dry. A small folding table next to the bed held a yellow plastic pitcher of ice water, a clear cup, and a plastic straw. She peeled the paper off the straw, stuck it directly into the pitcher, and drank deeply. She looked at the IV in her arm and up to the bag that fed it. Lactated ringers in a one-litre bag, piggybacked with a half-litre of normal saline, a red tag on the bag that read Amoxicillin on its side. Both were dripping at KVO (‘keep vein open’) rate. She reached down with one hand and pinched the skin on the back of the other hand. It made a small fleshy tent that lingered for a few seconds before slowly laying back down. She was extremely dehydrated. She glanced up again and saw an empty plastic IV bag, its insides coated with blood. Must be pretty bad if they had to give her blood, too. She reached up and turned the drip rate up on the bag of ringers, and forced herself to drink more water.

She wondered if she’d said anything while under anaesthesia and wondered how long she’d been out.
What happened to the red-haired man after I shot him?
Was he dead?
She recalled the urgent jerk of her body as the buckshot caught her in the side and spun her around. She remembered the look of surprise as she fired and caught him in the neck.

Fear crept through her as she thought there might have been other gunmen and that some of the children – those precious children – might now be dead. She hoped she had stopped them all in time. Before they could get to the kids. She remembered being consumed with that goal:
stop these bastards before they hurt anyone else
. She remembered waking up briefly in the recovery room, a doctor speaking to her and she back to him, but she couldn’t remember what the conversation was about. Probably previous medical history, current meds, etc. Standard medical questions.
Had she revealed anything?

The plastic name band on her wrist read: Weisz, Erica.
I didn’t tell them everything
, she thought. It gave her relief, made her feel safe, at least for now. But that wouldn’t last long. She needed to make a plan; first, she needed to make a phone call.

The phone rang at Robert Moral’s home. Moral was in his office, on the computer, playing
Slots Jungle Casino
. Netbet.org had given it a ‘#6’ rating, so he dived right in. Let his wife answer the phone. He heard her banging around in the kitchen then shuffling over to pick it up.

‘If it’s those vultures from MasterCard,’ he hollered to her, ‘tell them I already sent a payment, and it is
illegal
– make sure you tell them it’s
against the law
– to call a debtor’s home and hassle them.’

‘But …’ she began.

Moral lost two hundred dollars on his opening bid at a double-down blackjack game. It infuriated him. If he hadn’t been distracted … ‘Just fucking tell them!’ he roared.

His wife padded to his office as quiet as a cat, her hand over the phone receiver.

‘It isn’t MasterCard,’ she said, trying to ease the bitterness she found in her own voice. ‘I think it’s that woman. I think she’s called before. I recognized the area code.’

She handed him the phone abruptly, glancing at the on-screen gambling site as if it were child pornography. She whirled and left the room; a woman with a heart of gold encased in a two-hundred-twenty-pound bag of cellulite that assured she would hold little regard for herself and forever put up with shit from her husband.

Moral licked his lips with a scotch-dried tongue. He tried to clear his throat, then helped himself to another gulp of booze: J & B’s. He winced. No more Johnny Walker Green Label. Hell, not even black or red label these days.
These
days. But he’d get back there. Right after the next big day at the track. Or the tables. The
real
tables. Not these virtual games that were probably rigged to begin with.

‘This is Deputy Moral,’ he said. Nothing. But, he could hear breathing. It was her. It had to be. And
she knew
. Guilt welled up in him like a longing for another hit at the table.

‘Mildred?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Are you okay?’ he tried. ‘Can you talk?’

Just the breathing.

‘Millie,’ he said, gathering his courage after another swig of cheap scotch, ‘I’m working on another plan. Don’t worry. Stay where you are, and go to safe haven ‘B’. We’re going to send in an extrication team. You’re safe. I’m coming down myself. Okay?’

There was a cough; someone clearing a throat. Then, a click on the other end of the line, a dial tone that seemed to grow louder with every beat of Moral’s heart. He felt an icy sweat form on the back of his neck and lower back. He realized, with growing trepidation, that the caller might not have been the woman.
Oh fuck!
he thought.

‘Honey?’ he pleaded. ‘Did you recognize the area code on that call?’

‘I think it was from Las Vegas, dear.’

But she wasn’t in Las Vegas anymore
. His voice quivering, he said, ‘You better pack me a bag. I’m going to have to leave. It’s … uh, work.’

‘We have breaking news,’ said Gail Summer, looking wearier than she had earlier in the day. ‘It has now been confirmed that one of the shooters, nineteen-year-old David Edward Coody, was critically wounded, but has survived. He is currently in a medically induced coma; a decision made by doctors that will allow him to recover if they can control the swelling in his brain. Evidently, a bullet, possibly fired by one of the teachers, hit him in the neck but travelled up and pierced part of his brain. If he does survive, this will be an unusual twist to this recent surge of school shootings where most of the gunmen end up dead, usually by their own hands.

‘Adding to this tragedy,’ she continued, ‘is the discovery of two more bodies, found at the home of Coody’s mother, Shelly Granger. It appears, at this time, before going to the school, Coody stopped at his mother’s home early this morning and shot her. Evidently, Coody did not live with his mother. He lived with his father, Ellis Coody, who divorced Shelley Granger seven years ago. A second body, thought to be Shelley Granger’s husband, Ernest Granger, was also found. Both of them had been shot multiple times.

‘We also now know, from several law enforcement agencies’ sources, that the second gunman was 41-year-old Franklin Michael Shadtz, a man David Coody recently befriended. Not much is known about Frank Shadtz who, apparently, up to six weeks ago, lived in the Chicago area. It is unknown how the two gunmen met, or exactly what their relationship was.

‘Agents from the ATF and FBI responded to David Coody’s house after some non-detonated explosives were found at the Granger home. They were met by an uncooperative Ellis Coody, the father of the shooter, who was arrested for interfering with a police investigation. Forensics teams have seized computers at the home, but reports have come back saying the hard drives may have been erased or destroyed.

‘And, in another breaking story from Florida,’ she went on to report, ‘a six-year-old boy shot and killed his four-year-old brother last night, after finding one of his father’s loaded guns in the bedroom. The father, a former firefighter, owned sixteen guns. Police say all were loaded, and none had trigger locks. The six-year-old is in the custody of Florida’s Department of Family and Children’s Services as of this morning. Police officials say the father has been arrested and may be charged with manslaughter …’

Bullock pulled Thiery off to the side while the governor briefed his press secretary.

‘Justin, I know you don’t care for the man, but you’re smart enough to know who butters your bread. I’m almost out the door, but if you handle this case as well as I know you can, they might look at you to replace me.’

Thiery frowned at him. ‘That’s supposed to be some kind of incentive?’

Bullock shrugged his shoulders, sweat beginning to bead on his shining black scalp as he cooked under the sun. There were bags under his bulging eyes, and his jowls hung like leather satchels on a big, beefy Harley-Davidson.

‘I can’t be a politician like you, Jim. I still like being a cop too much.’

‘Thanks, man. Why don’t you just kick me in the balls?’ Bullock said, allowing a slight smile. ‘Well, if you don’t want my job, try to keep cool so you don’t lose yours.’

‘I’m sorry, Jim. You were a good cop, too, but you know how it is; I can’t stand someone up my ass.’

‘You knew there were going to be increased responsibilities when you came to work with me. Don’t blow it now. You can last a few more years, can’t you?’

Thiery looked at the ground, his hands in his pockets. ‘Sometimes, I think I can’t last another five minutes when I get around this governor.’

‘Oh, c’mon. Hang in there. Show him what you can do. Hell, at the rate he’s going, he won’t be in office another term.’

‘We can only hope. Okay. Sure. You know I’ll do my best.’

‘You going to be able to work with Logan again?’ asked Bullock.

Thiery chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘
Working
with her was never the problem.’

‘I know,’ said Bullock, his tone consolatory. ‘You had a tough enough time raising the boys after Adrienne left. Then, the shit you got from your own department … ’

‘You mean when my co-workers started gossiping that maybe I’d done away with my wife? Shit. Why would that bother anyone?’

‘I know, I know. You got the crappy end of the stick, for sure. I was just saying, you didn’t need Logan doing you dirty, too.’

‘It takes two to tango. I should’a known better. She was married. Still is, I think. It was a mistake made by a stupid guy feeling sorry for himself. My bad.’

There was nothing else to say as Thiery allowed to guilt to envelope him. After a moment, Bullock broke the silence.

‘All right, then. When I get back, you come over to the house. I’ll get Helen to make some of her fried chicken and collard greens,’ he offered, then added, ‘or some other redneck favourite of yours; friggin’ hillbilly.’

Thiery laughed. Bullock making fun of his southern accent was a joke they’d shared for years. Grinning ridiculously, Bullock squeezed his shoulder.

‘That’s better. Now, I gotta get going, too. I’ll see you in a few days. Okay?’

‘You bet,’ said Thiery, just as the governor came back.

‘Ready to go?’ asked Croll.

‘Absolutely,’ replied Thiery, and he managed to give Bullock a wink, unseen by the governor. ‘See you, boss.’

Once on the plane, Thiery sat quietly as the governor pored over documents. After a half-hour, he looked up at Thiery, his face taking on a countenance of supreme knowledge. As if just remembering something, he reached into his tailored and severely pressed slacks and pulled out a silver dollar. He handed it to him.

‘My father gave that to me when I started my first business. Said he wanted to give me my first dollar
earned
.’ He paused like a preacher considering the next words of his sermon. ‘I’ve always believed in that: a man
earning
what he wants.’

Thiery nodded and looked out the small window of the private jet. He guessed where Croll was steering the conversation, but he wasn’t taking the bait.

‘I went on to
earn
over a half-billion of those,’ Croll bragged. ‘I’m not bragging. Just wanted to let you know where I came from. What’s important to me.’

‘I know where you’re coming from, Governor,’ said Thiery.

He leaned forward, a slight smile on his face. He held out his hand, palm up, the coin flashing in the light through the cabin window. Thiery waved his other hand over the coin, once, then again. The coin vanished after the second pass.

‘Well, I’ll be damned, Agent Thiery. I didn’t know you knew magic! You should do that for my grandson sometime.’

Thiery nodded and went back to looking outside. He could see Croll staring at him in the reflection of the plane’s window, wanting his dollar back. He saw him blinking nervously, his Adam’s apple moving up and down, like a snake swallowing something, trying to figure out a way to ask for his money back without seeming as if he needed it.

‘I, er … uh …’ Croll mumbled. ‘That coin has some sentimental value.’

‘It’s in your top pocket,’ said Thiery, calmly.

Croll reached in – too quickly – and found it there. He beamed, but Thiery noted the sweat on his forehead.

Thiery physically had to bite his tongue as the governor’s words echoed through his head:
Now you know where I’m coming from.

Robert Moral grabbed the first flight he could find out of Ronald Reagan National Airport going to Orlando, Florida. He had watched the news unfolding about the school shooting. He knew that Erica Weisz had been shot, but when he tried to call the hospital, they wouldn’t let him talk to her. Moral felt as if his guts had turned to water, and it was all he could do to keep them from running out his ass. He called the Sheriff’s office, found the shift supervisor, and identified himself as a US Marshal investigating a person of interest to their department. That’s all he had to say as a federal agent. After calling a number to verify who Moral was, the supervisor called him back and confirmed that Miss Weisz had been shot, but was stable. They had not been able to talk to her yet, but she was under guard at the hospital. If she woke from her surgery, they intended to ask her some questions about the event at the school. Moral gave the supervisor his phone number, and asked him to call him as soon as someone from the Sheriff’s department made contact with her. No, he couldn’t elaborate but, please, he pleaded, just do this.

Gail Summer’s eyes were glassy. She was as tired as an Iditarod sled dog, and she looked as if she might have been crying, but she wanted to use that look, so she had told the producers of THN she would stay on for another four-hour shift. They applauded her willingness, professionalism, and perseverance.

‘This just in: the victim toll from this morning’s school shooting in Frosthaven, Florida has officially reached twelve dead; a number that now includes the mother of David Edward Coody, Shelly Granger and her husband Ernest, as well as the second gunman, Franklin Michael Shadtz. The number of wounded stands at four, and includes one child who was treated and released with minor injuries.

‘The school’s front desk receptionist, Sally Ravich, is one of the wounded survivors. She has been credited for possibly saving dozens of lives by activating the school’s intercoms and alerting the school of the attack. The other two wounded are Coody, one of the gunmen, and, finally, Erica Weisz, a teacher who, by some accounts, was responsible for saving, not only the lives of the students assigned to her, but quite possibly many others. She was, reportedly, the teacher who armed herself and fought back against the heavily armed intruders. On scene and giving us live, exclusive coverage of this tragedy is Dave Gruber. Dave, do you have anything new for us about Erica Weisz?’

The camera shot switched to Gruber, the Lakeland Regional Hospital in the background. The reporter held his hand against his ear, the mic to his mouth, as he continued the story.

‘Yes, Gail, we’re here at the hospital where not only some of the survivors were taken but one of the gunmen as well. We’ve been trying to get an interview with Erica Weisz, the brave young teacher who, it’s been reported, was able to obtain a gun and shoot the gunmen, in a strange twist of fate we don’t usually see at these tragedies. It’s been reported that she has undergone surgery and is recovering, but that’s all we’ve been able to get from the hospital’s public information spokesperson. Now, the alleged gunman, we’ve learned, is still in a medically induced coma, but we’ve also learned that David Edward Coody was a troubled young man. As we’ve seen in other cases like this, Coody was a loner who seldom talked to classmates and, in fact, did attend classes at Travis Hanks Elementary School several years ago. More recently, he was a student at the University of Central Florida where he was majoring in agricultural science, until he dropped out about six weeks ago. There have been sporadic reports from fellow students that he’d been seeing a psychiatrist, but we don’t have a specific diagnosis as to what he was being treated for. We’ll keep you informed as we get new information. This is Dave Gruber, reporting for THN. Gail?’

‘Thank you, Dave. We’ll get back to you soon. Now, we have to take a break but please stay with us for live, up to the minute coverage of the Tragedy at Travis Hanks, and, later, please tune in to my own show,
The Summer Report
, where I’ll be discussing the Human Tornado Phenomenon with our guest, celebrity psychologist and best-selling author, Dr Jay Gill.’

Before cutting to commercial, they ran a video clip showing a seriously concerned-looking Dr Gill, who was commenting, in his pseudo-southern drawl, ‘I agree, Gail, these
Human Tornadoes
, as you call them, come in like a wrecking ball and destroy so many lives, and it’s usually because they come from destroyed lives themselves. They’re looking for what we are all looking for: love and acceptance … ’

Thiery accepted Croll’s offer to drop him by the FDLE offices in Orlando, where he had called ahead and arranged to pick up a loaner cruiser. The governor went on to meet the media at the school while Thiery filled out the necessary paperwork and picked up the navy blue fleet car; a gas-guzzling Crown Vic that smelled like cigarettes, and was home to an army of black ants that lived in the Burger King detritus littering the floor.

The drive from Orlando to Frosthaven was soporific. The air conditioning in the car held the shimmering outside heat at bay, but made Thiery’s eyelids heavy. He felt as if he was dreaming as he drove into the nightmare ahead. Crows stood along the arid road as if too tired to fly, their beaks parted, pointed tongues jutting out as if issuing a silent warning. The topography was mostly flat; wildlands turned into cattle pastures or citrus farms. A cow’s skull hung on the gate of a ranch he passed. One stretch of highway looked exactly like the last, but Thiery grew more anxious with each passing mile. There was a segment of I-4, then on to US 27, a two-lane road that provided a singular hopeful moment when it snaked through Lake Wales where the old Bok, or ‘Singing’ Tower stood, its bells tolling as Thiery drove by. The area’s small hills and moss-covered oaks reminded him of his home in northern Florida and made him long to be there.

He listened to the carillons playing, a melancholy sound that reminded him of the music from
Phantom of the Opera
. He slowed the car and opened the windows to hear the haunting sounds better, then found himself thinking of masked gunmen bearing assault weapons, strafing their way through a small schoolhouse filled with frightened children. He became filled with an empty sadness, then anger, considering the incongruity of the beautiful music and the atrocious event that had brought him here. He never had to worry about such tragedies when his boys were at school, and he wondered what was happening to society as a whole.
Was it lost? Could it get any worse?
In just over a year, the country had gone through the Aurora theatre shootings, the Sandy Hook shootings, and the Boston Marathon bombing, all perpetrated by young men, most, barely out of their teens.

He thought of his sons, Owen and Leif, and wondered how they were doing. He tried to call them, just to check on them, but neither answered. He made a mental note to try again when he got settled in to whatever cheap motel he could find.

Thiery stopped at a convenience store to get a soda. While browsing the shelves, he watched a couple pull up to the gas pumps. They both got out of the car. The man had no arms and his wife placed something in his top shirt pocket before grabbing the pump handle and inserting it into the car. Thiery noted she had huge biceps and wondered if it was because she had to do more with her arms because her husband could not. The man came into the store. He nodded to the clerk and leaned forward, obviously a regular customer there. The clerk withdrew a credit card from the armless man’s shirt pocket and looked out the window to see which pump he was at. Thiery marvelled at the symbiotic relationship the trio shared. His loneliness bore down on him again, and he tried to shrug it off as he got back into his car and onto the road.

Thirty minutes later, he arrived in Frosthaven. It was easy to find the only elementary school in town. The governor had beaten him to the scene by about fifteen minutes. Thiery was pleased with that. He didn’t want to arrive together and appear to be Croll’s gopher boy, though in truth, that was exactly what he was. Thiery was comfortable talking with the press, but didn’t want to try to talk over the governor as they searched for the right words to address a community undoubtedly in shock and looking for answers that would not be easily forthcoming.

He parked the car and saw the governor already talking to the media. Generator-fed lights beamed bright spots into his face before the sunset. Croll looked like a small nocturnal creature caught in the shadows. Thiery knew he should go over and stand next to him as he, in turn, would designate the FDLE as the organization that would be taking over the investigation. But the thought of asking the local police chief to step aside while he and Croll bathed in the limelight did not appeal to him. He decided, instead, to take a quick look at the school, first. The governor was in love with the cameras, and it would be a perfect opportunity for him to remind everyone what a wonderful, caring man he was. Thiery expected he would milk every second of it.

He noted dozens of memorials had already been placed on the sidewalk: pastel teddy bears, bouquets of flowers, signs made up with words like ‘God Bless you, Dr Montessi’ and ‘We will never forget you, Mrs LaForge’, written with magic markers in a rainbow of colour. ‘So long, Mr Swan’, ‘Thanks for taking care of us, Nurse Nora. Now, God will take care of you’. Candles lined the path and flickered in the slight breeze. Crude, white crosses made out of pressure-treated furring strips stuck in the grass. Several children, embraced by their parents, sang softly as they rocked back and forth, comforting each other.

Thiery pushed past the yellow plastic crime-scene tape that surrounded the school and identified himself to the phalanx of Calusa County Sheriff deputies who stood guard. One of them radioed his supervisor for the okay to allow the FDLE agent inside.

Thiery entered the main office first, as the shooters had. The reception desk had been shredded by bullets. Walls were pocked with holes. There were blood stains on the tile floors, marker tape where bodies had fallen, a red smear on the wall, ending in a handprint. Thiery noted something he couldn’t quite make out, lying on the desk in a dried pool of blood. He produced a small Mag light he kept with him and shone it on the puddle. Bone fragments and broken teeth. He wondered if the person they belonged to had lived, and if so, what did he or she look like, now?

He caught himself holding his breath, trying not to inhale the death-filled air, as if by doing so, he was in some metaphysical way taking something from the victims. He shook off the feeling and tried to breathe through his mouth, so he wouldn’t smell the burnt scent of carnage.

He proceeded slowly down the hall, passing another taped outline next to a janitor’s work cart and another blood stain, its edges smudged, probably from the victim rolling around in pain. He continued on.

Around the corner, he saw yet another taped outline and began to feel anger building up inside. He tried to push it away and remain objective, professional, but he’d always been a man ruled by his emotions and not his intellect. True, it was a detriment as a law officer, but people are who they are; with very few exceptions, that can’t be changed.

He focused on a ceiling light, blown off by a shotgun blast. Hanging precariously from a piece of electrical conduit pipe, it swung slowly back and forth, like a metronome, the acoustic ceiling tiles around it dotted like Swiss cheese.

Thiery began to look into the classrooms. Nothing of note in the first few. Then he came to one where the door was battered and its window shattered. Entering the room, he discovered another taped outline and scattered bullet casings with small, numbered notes next to them.
Had to be one of the gunmen
. He looked around the room, observing the devastation: the closet where the children must have taken refuge, a pile of overturned desks. Plywood had been affixed to the blown out windows, but a steady, cool wind crept into the room. Thiery shivered as he saw a small pink shoe with a single drop of blood on it. His eyes grew moist and his jaw muscles flexed involuntarily. He thought of his sons again, remembering them as school-age kids, confused and angry about a mother who had simply left them behind one day. Dropped them at school and disappeared. They directed their anger at him for being a cop who worked all the time, but couldn’t even find his own wife. In spite of that, they’d grown up okay, if a bit distant from him.

Thiery looked down, surprised to see his fists clenched.

He exited the classroom and resumed his tour of the hall, past more taped outlines, more emptied cartridges and shotgun shells, more numbered tags next to them. More blood. The smell of gunpowder had permeated the walls and ceiling, and the coppery scent of blood assaulted his nostrils.

Via email and texts on his tablet, Thiery had been getting updates throughout the day from the local police agencies involved and had finally received the names of all the victims. With the exception of the janitor, they were all women. He wondered about that.
Were there no men teachers? If so, why weren’t some of them shot? Wouldn’t they be more likely to confront a shooter?
Typically, one doesn’t find many male teachers at an elementary school, but it seemed to him there should be
some
.

He completed his initial reconnaissance of the school and followed his path back through the U-shaped building, jotting down notes on his iPad and checking for any new reports coming in. As he went back through the main office he came to the nurses’ station. The window of the door was blasted out; another taped outline on the floor, more blood stains. The mailroom had been sprayed with bullets, but the cubby-holes where teachers picked up their messages were relatively unscathed. He read the names on the boxes, mostly women’s names, but a few belonging to men, too. He checked the contents in the boxes that were clearly male: Ed Bremen, a teacher, stored documents from the Calusa County School Board referencing special needs children; Tim Cress, the coach, had stowed a whistle and a stack of after-school soccer flyers; Randy Perry had lunch schedules and dietician reports, indicating he supervised the cafeteria staff.