Chapter I

I

Someone once told me that in the summer prior to the attacks on the World Trade Center, there wasn’t one high rise fire in all of Manhattan. I believe it. It seems like this world gets all out of kilter and then something major happens to knock it back into shape. Like a giant rubber band maybe. It vibrates back and forth between courage and cowardice, and love and loathing until the vibrations stop and the world is back in sync again.

That’s how my summer went. Nothing newsworthy happened. At all. In spite of my editor’s pleas, the only thing I could find to write about was an interview I conducted with my vet. When nothing happened again, I expanded that story into two more. My contract says I write so many articles a year, so be it. Even if I have to pull it out of my ass.

Ask Joe what he thinks on this subject and I’ll guarantee his perspective is quite different. “Worst autumn I can remember,” he told me once. The bullies had come out to play, and there were a lot more than usual. “You could see it had to come to a head.”

My first contact with this story began before the Theodore Roosevelt High School Homecoming football game, when that one weird boy approached me. I sold split the pot tickets to patrons as they entered T.R.’s stadium. Homecoming marked the beginning of Portland’s annual month long Halloween celebration, and many people dressed in costume. I wore Joe‘s old high school football jersey, which hung to my knees. I sold raffle tickets to at least six Elvis rip-offs, and a handful of other celebrity look-a-likes. I saw people dressed up as firefighters and military types. I saw angels, French mails, exotic animals and super heroes. The most unusual costume I saw was what Dicky from the Fire Department wore. “Annie, check it out,” Joe’s secretary, Carol, called. She sold game tickets. Dressed like Vampira, and wearing long, purple and spidery finger nails, she pointed through a hole in the crowd.

Dick stepped from his car. It was hard to tell what he had on his head until he turned about. It was big, beige and plastic, and turned out to be a huge penis.

I clapped and whistled, one hand holding a stack of bills, and the roll of tickets worn on my wrist like a bracelet. “Yeah, Dickey!”

“All right,” Carol called.

He turned in our direction and bowed. A family dressed as White Sox players passed in front of him. When Mom caught sight of him, she hurried her brood along. 

Police Officer Ruth Ellen de Beor noticed. She’s tall, blonde, and brawny. She moved to stand in front of Dicky, looking down on him. With her hair pulled back, her chin pointed at Dick like another finger. I could just barely hear her above the crowd noises. “Loose it, Dicky. It’s inappropriate.” A moment passed with short, squat, Dick, looking up into her baby blues. Sheepishly, he removed his head­gear.

“All right,” Carol called.

“Go, Ruth Ellen!”

“I’ll take a ticket.” Below me, a boy dressed in a fedora and a trench coat held onto a plastic Tommy gun.

“Sorry. Underage,” I replied.

Ruth Ellen pushed in behind the boy. “What’s this?” she demanded latching onto the tip of his gun. “State law prohibits even toy guns on school prop­erty.”

The boy, his eyes moving in all directions at once, jumped aside and aimed. “Say your prayers, copper! I’m going to blow you away!” He fired, and his gun rattled. Never mind his eye color or his hair. This kid, this child with smooth cheeks and pimply forehead, trembled like a steam engine burning caffeine, sucking oxygen and energy right out of the air. I shuddered. He smiled crookedly at me over his pointed weapon. That made my chill bumps worse.

Another kid dressed in a fedora and trench coat stepped between the first boy and Ruth Ellen just as she reached out for the first’s ID. “Knock it off,” the second boy ordered, pushing the tip of the Tommy gun aside. That sec­ond boy looked familiar.

“You, too,” Ruth Ellen shot. “Lose the gun.”

“We’re gangsters,” the second insisted. “It’s part of the costume. You go­ing to bust us for carrying toys?”

“Loose them now, or I put you out.” She crossed her arms.

The second boy removed his hat and straight brown hair fell about his ears. I remembered him. I tried to wipe away the chill bumps under my sleeves as he stepped aside to toss his gun into a trash barrel. Meanwhile his buddy spun about, fir­ing his weapon at me, at Ruth Ellen and at people emerging from the park­ing lots. When his gun jammed, he made the sound with mouth. The second boy jerked the gun away. “Give me that!”

Carol sighed as the second boy pitched the other gun. I know my heart slowed considerably. A slight breeze brought those chill bumps to the surface again. I tried to smile as the sec­ond boy returned. “You’re Bobby,” I said. His eyes lost a touch of their clear blue anger. “Tell your Mom Annie said hi.”

“Huh?”

“Your Mom. Tell her Annie Moriarty said hi.” He continued to watch me as he latched onto the other’s arm. “You’re Rose Boyle’s son. Right?”

“Sure. Annie said hi.” The other kid aimed his finger at Ruth Ellen and fired. “Freakin’ baby-sitter,” Bobby growled as he pulled the other through the stadium entrance. “Dude, you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Watch your mouth,” Ruth Ellen barked as she raced off.

“My God, that kid is weird,” Carol grumbled next to me. “Drives everyone nuts.”

Joe finished up a few minutes into the first quarter of the sophomore game. I passed my roll of tickets and my wad of bills on to the girl’s softball coach. Then I followed him up spiral wrought iron stairs leading to the announcer’s booth.

He growled something about how the security cameras had crashed during last period, and how he had wasted all this time waiting for the repairman only to learn the mainframe had to be carted back to the shop for work. “Monday,” he mumbled. “I didn’t want to wait that long.” He picked up the mic right away and tore into a description of the action on the field. In between, his usual good humor dissolved into a series of grumbles about security cameras, mainframes and smart ass kids.

Our sophomores scored early, and held onto to beat Austin’s Big Green Machine 17 to 6. Our boys tossed footballs into the air and jumped on top of one another. Joe grabbed the mic and squeezed the on button. “Please stand for the school fight song!” The cheerleaders kicked up their heels and shook orange and black pompoms. They sang, “Giddy-up, Horsemen, giddy-up...” Great school, dumb song.

Joe reset the time on the scoreboard, allowing specta­tors a twenty minute break. “You up for a dog?” he asked me.

I’ve known Joe all of my life. He’s two years older than I am and his best friend is my brother, Mark. One of my best friends was Joe’s late wife, Sheri. He’s tall, six, five, in fact, and thin but with strong, wide shoulders. He’s in his mid thirties. His face is long and smooth, but his hair, mostly pepper, has a few salty strands. He has this slight widow’s peak in the front corner, and as long as I can remember, he’s tried to slick it out, lick it out or cut it out. He hates it. I think it’s cute.

As I said, I’m tall and blonde, and yes, I think I heard every dumb blonde joke ever written. My hair is collar length and curly. I get my coloring from my German mother and my green eyes, square face and curls from my red­headed Irish father.

Regina Ochoa stopped me as I tried to slip out of the stands. “Didn’t I tell you about that place?” she asked referring to a discount warehouse she had sent me to buy slipcovers. In the larger scheme of things, I guess it doesn’t have anything to do with this particular story, only that when I saw her that day, that’s what she had to say, and to me that is important.

“Thanks again,” I said. Regina had dark, direct eyes, and when she focused on someone, she could draw truth from his soul. I treasured that about her. Friends don’t lie to each other.

She waved to a man, and even took his hand to pull him closer. “Doug,” she said, “One of my oldest and closest friends in the entire world. Annie Moriarty. Annie,” she said, nodding at me. “Meet Doug Adamski. He’s a salesman for one of my suppliers.” At that time, Regina ran a gift shop in Portland’s an­tique district. She turned back to Doug. “I told you about Annie. She writes for the Suburban Daily News.”

“Doug,” I said, putting out my hand. “Are you T.R. alumni?” We tried to shake hands but were forced back against a concrete wall as others squeezed by us.

“Austin, actually.” He stood an inch short of me and had a full head of hair. He wasn’t bad looking, considering his allegiances. He drew back. “I know you. You write under the name Mary Anne, right?”

I nodded. “Annie’s my nickname.”

He nodded. “You covered the Thompson murders. Christ, I followed that from the time the bodies were found, through the trial. Fan­tastic job.”

“Thank you.”

Doug nodded. “Did you actually get ar­rested?”

I nodded but said goodbye. That one incident is still a sore spot between Joe and me. He posted bail, and it was my fault. I crossed one too many politicians trying to get my story.

Police Lieutenant Bill Ramos and Ruth Ellen waved as I passed. She’s so big and light; and Bill isn’t. He has blue eyes, black curly hair, a thick mustache and a truly genuine smile. He’s a friend, a poker buddy even. And I used to baby sit for Ruth Ellen and her little brother. Friends or not, seeing uniformed officers that night reintroduced that uneasy feeling that weird kid left me with earlier. This was a high school football game. I mean what could happen?

I ran into Mayor Carmen Herrera next. She and three aldermen were working the con­cession stand closest to the stadium entrance. According to the sign taped to the brick wall behind them, proceeds were to be split between the various sports teams. Smoke from a bar-be-que grill blossomed over their heads. The smell, meaty and smoky, made my stomach rumble. I struggled with the crowd heading in that direction. “What is that?” I asked Carmen when I arrived at the booth.

“Irish garlic sausage.”

“I never heard of it.”

“If I offer you one, will you write that I spit in it?”

“Should I turn my back?”

She made a disgusting noise through her nose. “Go ahead.”

Alderman John Orlando raced up next to her. “Here, courtesy of the Third Ward,” he said, handing me two wrapped sandwiches. “Six bucks.”

I set them on the counter to go for my purse. A sharp elbow smack in the middle of my back nearly sent me head first over the concession stand counter. “One of your support­ers?” I asked Carmen. She smiled. I turned to John, handing him a ten. “Two Cokes and a bag of chips please.”

“What’s this?” Joe asked as I set them on the table before him.

“According to Carmen, they’re Irish garlic sausage.”

“Carmen? You sure?”

“Did you think she’d risk poisoning me?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Did I hear she’s running again?”

I nodded. “Can you think of any other reason she’d be working a concession stand?”

The night sky was darkening, and the sodium vapor field lights were heating up. Joe opened his pop, and then stripped the foil and paper wrapper from his sandwich. He took a bite and nodded appreciably.

A whistle blew as he chewed. The percussion section of Roosevelt’s marching band picked up an intricate beat, indicating that the Homecoming parade was about to begin. Joe washed down the bread and meat with a gulp of Coke, and went for the mic. “Ladies and Gen­tlemen,” he began, “Students, parents, faculty, staff and alumni, please wel­come the single best marching band in the State of Illinois! Our very own, Marching Horsemen!” That received a hearty round of applause. They are good, too. They had just returned from Champlain where they had competed and won first place in an All State High School Marching Band Competition.

I took my Coke and my sandwich and sat on the window ledge, and ate as I watched.

The drum majors, one male and one female, struck a pose at the gate between the football field and the back soccer field, with their heads and cowboy hats up, right hand to chin with fringe falling from their gloves. Orange shirts, black pants and jackets, bolo ties and white boots screamed Teddy Roosevelt the Cavalry commander or Teddy Roo­sevelt the tenderfoot.

A boy dressed in a trench coat and fedora appeared from the soccer field and snapped their picture with a small digital camera. Neither flinched. On cue they nodded to count down the beat. One, two, three. They blew their whistles again and stepped out onto the track surrounding the football field. The crowd roared as twelve drill team members in sequined body suits, and white hats and boots, followed. The boy in the trench coat snapped another picture as the girls worked orange and black pennants up and down and around and around.

“I know him,” I said. “That’s Rose Boyle’s son, Bobby.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Yearbook staff. Heck of a photographer.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Me, too.” Joe took another sip of his pop. “What surprises me,” he said, setting the can down again. “Bobby is into TV production. If you re­member we got that grant to build a TV station. Cable access.”

Bobby stayed with the band, flying between columns, his coat flapping and his hat ready to fly away, as he snapped more pictures. A few others who dressed like Bobby, took pic­tures of teachers and coaches along the sidelines, and members of the audience in the stands.

“I’m surprised Bobby’s not filming this,” Joe continued. “From what I un­derstand, he has a better grasp of the equipment than the teacher does. It might be the only class he’s carrying a decent grade in.”

After the drill team, the band filed out onto the track that surrounded the football field. As they passed the home team stands, band members carrying smaller horns and wood­winds, held them up to the crowd. They came abreast of the American flag when they turned the corner at the other end of the field. Drill team members and band members with a free hand saluted. As they neared the oppositions’ side, the drum majors blew their whistles again. A flute, a trumpet and a slide trombone played a snippet of the Austin school fight song. I have no idea what a ‘Big Green Machine’ is, but I know their theme song beats the hell out of ‘Giddy-up, Horsemen.’ Austin’s spectators ap­plauded.

Teacher, Perry Armstrong slipped into the booth as the band rounded the back cor­ner. He sang the National Anthem at every sporting event, even as far back as when my elder sisters attended. He’s a dear old man who he squeals when he sings.

The band turned suddenly, marching beneath either side of the upright, and onto the field. The drum majors jumped into the task of lining band members up at the furthest reaches of the field. Drill team members set their pennants at their feet. When in place, Joe picked up the mic again. “Please rise for the National Anthem.” Perry took the mic. When he sang the audience shouted the words.

A kid in a trench coat and fedora popped into the booth, and snapped Perry’s picture with another digital camera. He kept right on singing as we wiped blind spots from our eyes.

Link to Chapter I *

*

“Are you ready?” Joe called into the mic once Perry left us. The noise continued as the gate leading to the soccer field opened again. This time a pick-up truck waited. The band picked up strains of ‘Giddy-up, Horsemen.’ “Please welcome our Fighting Horsemen Freshmen Football Team!” The truck pulled out onto the track. From the back, several young ladies dressed in white football uni­forms waved at the crowd. “And our own freshmen cheerleaders!” Fol­low­ing the truck, boys dressed in white pleated skirts, and shaking orange and black pompoms hurried onto the track. This was another tradition, although our freshman boys didn’t enjoy it at all. They stayed together and hurried. 

A second truck pulled up to the gate. “Here comes our victo­rious Sophomore Fighting Horsemen!” Joe called. Again the truck bed held girls in football uniforms, this time with dirty or­ange knickers. “And the sophomore cheerleaders.” The boys that followed wore orange pleated skirts. They pranced about, shook their pom-poms and cheered. One boy paused mid track, flapped his arms like chicken wings, wobbled his knees and crowed. Joe even cracked a smile.

“Okay,” Joe called again. “Please welcome our varsity cheerleaders!” This time the truck entering the field carried girls in black pleated skirts. Bobby Boyle, his ID flapping behind him, raced after the truck and caught up. He hopped onto the back bumper and balanced there as he pointed his camera at a blonde cheerleader. He snapped off several pic­tures of her. She tried to push him away. I could see her mouth move, but the crowd noises buried her words. At last she curled up her fist. Bobby jumped away as she dove after him. Her friends just caught her.

Joe growled as Bobby raced back to the parade’s starting point.

“That kid is trouble,” Joe commented. He picked up his mic again. “Please welcome the Art Club.” The parade continued with school sponsored clubs and sports teams, each had decorated a golf cart. A little girl with long, dark hair and clown white on her face drove the first cart onto the track. She wore a black clown collar and an orange, pointed hat. Bobby raced up to her. She waved at the camera as he snapped her picture.

“Isn't that Lisa McCafferty?” I asked. Lisa’s mother and Bobby’s mother were sisters. In fact Lisa’s mother, Brenna, was a friend.

Pictures of clowns were taped to side fenders and the back of the cart. Clowns on foot followed her through the gate. One of the boys pretended that the bunch of orange and black balloons he hung on to was about to carry him away. Others held signs advertising an upcoming art exhibit at Moraine Valley Community College.

Joe nodded at Lisa. “She’s a handful,” he commented. “Anyone crosses her is asking for trouble.”

“She’s sweet,” I commented.

“No, she’s not. Her mother is sweet. Bobby’s mother is sweet. His father is a drunk and her father...” He didn’t have to finish. I agreed. “The entire family is a mess. Not one male with an inch of backbone.” I crossed my arms. We didn’t agree about Brenna’s brother, Tim. Joe just watched me. I wouldn’t back down, but I didn’t want to fight neither.

Joe continued to watch me as he lifted the mic again. “Please welcome the French Club,” he said with less fervor. A group dressed in acrobat costumes entered the track. He finally returned his attention to the field.

Once on the visitor’s side, the drivers parked their golf carts and got out. Kids streamed between the lines of band members, and made their way towards the home side, and a place in the grass to sit. Pockets of orange and black clowns, acrobats, vampires, ghosts, mummies and flappers were forming.

The gangsters were ever present, getting in the way and snapping pictures. Flashes were as intense as a swarm of gnats on a hot day. Some of the kids smiled, and some shook fists. Joe chewed on the inside of his cheeks.

Finally the last group entered the back gate. “Please welcome the Pep Club,” he growled. They dressed up like cowboys and cowgirls, and half carried, half dragged a huge, paper covered hoop. Dead center someone had painted interlocking horseshoes, with the open side pointing down.

“That’s bad luck,” I said as the kids struggled on.

“What?”

“The horseshoes are upside down. Luck runs out that way.”

“You would notice that.”

They dragged it to the edge of the grass on the corner closest to the school, and held it up. It took six kids to steady it.

Earlier Joe had set his uneaten sandwich on top of his clipboard. He moved it, foil and all, to the window ledge, so he could check his notes. He took up the mic again. “Okay,” he looked at me in his way that said he just wanted to get on with the game. “Please wel­come this year’s varsity starting line-up for the Theodore Roosevelt High School Fighting Horsemen. Start­ing quarterback is Anthony LoBianco.” Tony rushed through the near gate and onto the field. He lowered his head, helmet first and charged the hoop. He jumped, diving through the paper. The kids holding it nearly dropped it. The crowd cheered louder.

“Please welcome running back, Matthew Orozco!” Matt charged forward. He wrenched out both arms, and clenched his fists, obviously hoping to break more paper. He jumped. Cheerleaders moved forward, welcoming the football players. The girls jumped about, clapped their hands and cheered as Linc Weber charged through the near gate.

Bobby snapped another picture. “This is what I mean,” Joe complained. “Spends more time irritating the hell out of people than he does concentrat­ing on school work or any­thing else. And look at his friends. Warren De­vers? Oh, my God. Somebody should lock that kid in a cage. He doesn’t belong on the field with real human beings.”

”Easy,” I soothed. “At least they’re trying to fit in.”

Joe grumbled under his breath and picked up the mic. “Please welcome re­ceiver, Lin­coln Weber.” I think I saw Bobby drop his camera. I know I saw him moving along using both hands to push past kids on the field. His friends hurried. It should have hit me then. All of them had free hands, and some were working to unbutton their coats. Pete Lobecky entered the gate on the near side. Joe picked up the mic. “Tight end Peter Lobecky.” As the cheerleaders and other members of the team swept up Linc, Derrick Campbell glided onto the field and prepared to dive through the hoop. Pete’s feet landed on this side of the hoop, and Joe keyed up the mic again. Bobby and his friends began to sift through the group nearest the hoop.

“Running back, Derrick Campbell!” Derrick leapt into the air and through the hoop.

Something banged, loudly assaulting our ears with the repercussions of an explosion. Someone screamed. Something banged again. Sound drained away. Joe turned in my di­rection. He looked confused. I know I was. But when the third bang reverberated throughout the stadium, we knew what it was.

He dropped the mic and grabbed my arm. We fell to the floor, each reaching out  to the other. He wanted to peek; and I could feel him strain against me. One shot after another rang out. The screaming started. On the field and in the stands, too. And then the running. If more shots were fired, I couldn’t hear them. The stampede, the sounds of feet pounding. The cement stands shook the booth as if it sat in earth quake territory.  

I closed my eyes and prayed. I had friends out there. My God, whoever wasn’t shot could be trampled.

Joe rose up, and I followed. We struggled to push each other down. Once we caught a peek, though, we were transfixed. Most of the field was empty. Decorated golf carts had been parked at an angle on the field across from us. The hoop lay on the track, and a clutch of black and orange balloons drifted upwards. In the northeast corner children lay on the ground. There were cheerleaders, football players, band members and kids wearing costumes. Few moved. More blood had spilled onto the ground than I had ever seen in my life.

“No! Stop!” A cry came from the direction of the near goal post. And movement. A tiny clown hopped onto the back of one of the gangsters. His open coat flapped with her movement. I watched in horror thinking of Brenna and little Lisa. That blonde cheer­leader that Bobby had tormented earlier was bent over a football player, touching his shoulder with one hand and her side with the other. His face was a mess, so was her mid section.

Bobby and another gangster faced off. The new boy pointed a weapon over Bobby’s shoulder at Lisa. Don’t ask me what it was, I don’t know. It was a gun. And he pointed it right at Lisa. Bobby screamed. “Not her, you bastard! I told you from the be­ginning. Not her!” Bobby raised his weapon. The gun discharged with a flash, and an ear splitting bang followed a micro second later. The unknown gangster fell.

Lisa wrestled Bobby to the ground and onto his back. I saw her sit on him. And I saw the Portland officer, too. As Bobby and Lisa struggled, the offi­cer slipped up the sidelines until he stood right over Bobby. He pointed his weapon at Bobby. The boy laughed and pointed his gun upwards. The Portland officer pulled his trigger first. Bobby’s chest exploded, blanketing Lisa with blood and guts from head to waist. The officer tried to take control, turning his weapon on the remaining gangsters. The next discharge took the officer’s head apart.

I ducked. And I vomited.

I heard laughter from the field, and I heard horns from the parking lot be­hind me, and sounds of tires spinning. Everything seemed to be happening so slowly. I remember hearing someone say something about getting Spyres and his old lady.That we must still be in the booth. Joe pinned me to the floor, and used his body to shield me. The next shot pinged off the window ledge. His sandwich splattered the back wall.

His arms tightened about me, and I reached for one of his hands. Something safe or familiar to hold onto. My prayers came faster. I wanted this to end, and I wanted Joe’s bulk off of me. I prayed mostly for his safety though, and that the damage wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

The screaming continued, moving from the field, to the stands and even­tually out into the parking lot. I heard cars crash. And I heard horns. The sodium vapor lights went out, and so did the lights in the booth. I heard cops give orders and I heard more gunfire both near and far. Sirens wailed.

An eternity passed before the quiet came again. Stillness. No more shots, no more si­rens. Then engines of several vehicles hummed below us, and red and blue spinning lights pierced through the darkness, illuminating the back wall of the booth. We began to ease up, me hoping that nothing else would come our way. We startled when a Portland police offi­cer, his weapon in one hand and his flashlight in the other, hopped about the corner. Us­ing his light, he searched the booth. When he spotted us, he sighed. Then he keyed up the radio buckled to his shoulder. “I found them. They’re fine.”

I don’t know about that. I still wake up from a sound sleep, tasting regurgitated garlic, my ears ringing from gunshots, and the smell of sulfur burning my nostrils.

Firefighters conducted triage on the front baseball diamond, separating the wounded by the intensity of their injuries, making sure those who needed help the most got to the hospital first. My brother, Mark, is a lieutenant, and he took charge. Portland worked with para­medics from surrounding towns, and like a well oiled machine, in spite of the fact that none of them had ever faced something this catastrophic before.

Mark told me later that he was concerned because he knew that Joe and I were there. When we didn’t appear, he asked police Lieutenant Bill Ramos if he had seen us.

The Portland Police took over the school building. They turned the gym into a morgue and used the cafete­ria to interview witnesses.

Joe and I were separated for a short time. He had the keys to the wrought iron gates at the stadium entrance. After the field had been evacuated, Joe was instructed to lock up for the night. The cops would search for evidence in the morning.

Little Lisa, thank God, was uninjured. I don’t know if I could face Brenna if she had been hurt. According to the police, Lisa saved the life of that varsity cheerleader. I heard a comment that a few more might have fallen if she hadn’t knocked Bobby down. I also heard some say that the entire family was nuts, and if Bobby told Lisa about his plans beforehand, she might have found her own weapon and joined in. I know better.

Lisa and I sat together in orange plastic chairs, and listened to the sirens wail in the background. Like a pulse, the in­tensity grew as emergency vehicles approached and faded away again as they left. When Joe joined us, he sat on my opposite side, and took my hand in his. My strength began to seep away. Lisa rested her head against my shoulder. She fell asleep for a moment, but then awoke with a jerk.

The police interviewed Lisa first, and then me. Two officers I didn’t know took my name and address, asked me what I saw, and if I recognized any of the shooters. Yes, I said, I saw Bobby Boyle shoot another of the shooters, but no, I didn’t know who it was. And I saw that officer get shot. Another officer escorted me back to my seat. I asked him if I could stay with Lisa until someone came for her.

“Sure. Her uncle is on the way.”

When the officer retreated to the kitchen area with Joe, Lisa turned, peek­ing up at me through dark bangs now stained with blood and smeared clown white make-up. “Annie?”

“Huh?”

“Do you think...? Is he...?” She turned away to study something etched in the black and white tile at her feet. She turned back. “Thanks for staying.”

“Who’s coming for you? Uncle Tim?”

She nodded. “I’m glad it’s him. Mom’s working right now. I told them, I wouldn’t go with my father or my stepmother. You know how he is.” She wiped her cheek, smearing more clown white onto her hand. Then she wiped it onto her black shirt. I took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

When Joe returned, he sat down next to me, and slipped very low. “Mr. Spyres?” Lisa called. He leaned forward, pushing around me so that he could see her. “About Bobby?”

“Lisa?” He brought his hands up to speaking level. He gave up. His hands dropped. “Not now.”

“There’s things you don’t know.” She tried to wipe away her tears. “He hasn’t been right since Megan died.”

Joe covered his face. I swear I saw him tremble. When he looked up again, he looked away from us for a very long time.

When Father Tim Flaherity arrived Lisa rose from her seat and wrapped her arms about his middle. They held onto each other for a long moment. She sobbed.

Joe jumped up, eager to be off, and I stood, ready to follow. Tim broke away from his niece. He kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said. He’s dark like his niece and speaks with a strong brogue. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You know I wouldn’t leave her alone.”

He nodded. Joe took my wrist and tugged. I followed him, grateful for his guidance.

It seemed as if hours had passed between the time we entered the cafeteria through a fire door, and the time we left. We took off in the direction of the student entrance at the back of the building. When we stepped into the hallway, we crunched glass beneath our feet. We paused. About us, display cases had been smashed. Broken trophies lay on the floor with crumpled pictures of past sport teams. Trash cans were emptied, up­ended and dented.

Someone had piled trash against one wall and set it on fire. Someone else used a foam extinguisher to put it out. Sooty swirls stained the wall and charred bits of paper floated on a breeze that infiltrated the hallway. The expelled extinguisher rested on the floor against a damaged Coke machine.

We passed Police Chief Arthur Weber near the back entrance. He held a cell phone to his ear. We stopped dead by the doors. The glass had been shattered. Joe turned on Art. Our police chief waved, indicating he wanted us to stay put while he finished up his call.

Art is huge, well over six feet and heavy. I want to say he’s an African American, but that isn’t enough. The man is truly one of the darkest indi­viduals I had ever met. A good moment passed before he hung up. “Joe,” he nodded. “Annie.”

“Art.”

“What I hate most about this job is that right now my son is in the hospital and I’m here.” He turned his phone off. “Linc is all right.” He sighed, and tucked his phone into his breast pocket. “Took one in the shoulder. Thank God. He was lucky.” He glanced around, now nodding at the pop machine around the corner closest to the gym. “Machine is busted open.” he said. “Looters. Got to most of the trophy cases on this floor. Com­puter lab, TV studio, a few other places. You’d think that with everything going on in the stadium, the last thing anyone would think of is looting.” He kicked at a cigarette butt. “So, McCafferty girl. You were sitting with her. She tell you anything?”

“Probably no more than she told you.”

“She hasn’t told us anything. She won’t talk to us.”

Joe turned in my direction first, as if making up his mind, and then hard at Chief We­ber. “She did say something.”

“What was that?”

“That her cousin hadn’t gotten over his sister’s death. If you remember.” He glanced at me again. “Was it August?” I nodded. “Megan Boyle. Hit by a truck. You guys thought it was a suicide.” That surprised me. I hadn’t heard anything about suicide.

Chief Weber nodded.

Link to Chapter II

Chapter II

II

Cops still swarmed over the grounds, making way for ambulances and medical per­son­nel, and packaging evidence for transport. They waved us through the side parking lot when Joe pointed out his car. One of the offi­cers stopped to discuss the mess. Some­one had tried to drive over the fence on 127th Street, and someone else tried to take out the fence pole on Ot­tawa. We made an excuse and continued on. Debris littered the parking lot and we stepped carefully. A side mirror had fallen here and a piece of molding there. A lot of shattered glass lay scattered about.

Joe’s new white Impala lurched to one side. The driver’s side door had caved in, and the back end on the passenger’s side sported a huge scratch. I started to say some­thing about the damage on my side, but then shook it off. He’d see it soon enough. 

He hopped in and started the car. The radio came to life as soon as he turned the key. “Shooting tonight at a football game in south suburban Portland. Unconfirmed reports of seven dead and dozens in­jured...” Joe turned the radio off, and played a CD instead.

We pulled up to the 127th Street exit, and he flipped on the left turn sig­nal. Traffic was heavy. A cop whistled and waved us forward. Joe pulled out and began his turn, but as he went into it, his headlights illumi­nated the commuter parking lot across from the school. Channels 2, 7 and 9 had sta­tioned news vans there. Their satellite dishes were up, and people with microphones and cables were broadcasting.

He stopped just over the double yellow lines in the street and opened the door. He stepped out to a chorus of honking horns. The officer ran up to us, ordering Joe back into the car. “What the hell is this?” Joe demanded, pointing at news vans.

“The media,” the officer explained. I could barely hear the man over the horns. I could see his torso. As he turned towards the Pullman Avenue bridge, which overlooks T.R’s stadium, I could see him raise his arm, no more. “They’re up there, too.” He came back at Joe, pointing at the Impala. “Come on, let’s go. You’re blocking traf­fic.”

Joe looked around one more time, and then he got in. He turned on me as he closed the door. “They’re all over. The student parking lot on the east,” he said using his thumb to point over his shoulder. He nodded at the parking lot across from T.R’s exit, to the closed gas station on the corner where another satellite van sat. The horns continued, but louder and longer. The officer, now standing in front of us, waved at us with both hands. Joe threw the car into drive as the cop reached for his radio.

On the southeast corner of 127th and Pullman, directly across from that gas station are T.R’s playing fields. An ambulance was parked across the corner. I saw flashes coming from behind the shrubs right there. When I squinted, I swear I could see dark images holding flashlights.

Joe pointed at the Pullman bridge. I saw more lights up there. People with still cameras and video cameras were watching the stadium. The reporter in me wanted to scream: they were going after the wrong story! I wanted to scream at Joe that we needed to get back to my place and get my camera.

But when I looked at Joe, other emotions welled up in me. We were waiting for the light to change, and he was saying something about the incredible audacity. I melted. What­ever was happening at that corner at that moment wasn’t half as important as the fact that we had just survived a tragedy. I swallowed back the stom­ach acids as they tried to escape again. I swiped at my upper lip. My hand smelled like sweat, vomit, garlic and sulfur. I was drained.

He drove off in the direction of his place. He didn’t ask, and I’m glad. I didn’t want to spend that night alone.

As soon as we entered his apartment, the phone rang and he answered it. “No,” he in­sisted. “No. And don’t show up here neither. I’ll have you ar­rested for trespassing.” Once he hung up, it rang again. This was going to happen all night and we both knew it. He unclipped the cord from the back of that phone and pulled the batteries from the cordless. Then we went to bed.

Pardon me as I try to reconstruct an instance as it had been described to me. I know these people so well. I mean I grew up with Tim Flaherity and his sister, Brenna McCafferty. She’s one of my best friends. I know her stances and affectations so well; and Tim, I can imagine him caring for his niece or another family member.

The police called Brenna at work and told her to pick up her daughter. She called Tim. She said she listened to the news on the way home, but details were still fuzzy. She hurried. The apartment she and Lisa shared was located adjacent to the CSX tracks, and she didn’t want to get caught by a train again.

When she opened the outer door to her building that night, she said the hallway smelled like burnt sugar and meat. The smell came from her apartment. Father Tim said Lisa was hungry at first. But when tomato soup boiled over in one pan, and hot dogs burnt in another, they decided they weren’t that hungry.

Brenna found her daughter and her brother sitting across from each other at her kitchen table. Tim had both of Lisa’s hands in one of his. “Take this to the Blessed Mother,” he said. “And ask her to take it off your hands, Lisa. She can do it. You know she can. She loves you as she loves her own son. The love only a mother can share with her child.”

Brenna, I can imagine her, hurrying towards Lisa. “What is it that has everyone up in arms? What hap­pened?” she demanded as she wrapped her arms about Lisa’s neck.

“Mom?” Lisa cried. “Bobby is dead. I know it.”

“Who did it? What happened?”

“Bobby. And Warren Devers, Nick Romero, Chuck Chandler. They’re dead, all of them.”

Brenna looked over her daughter’s head to Tim for an explanation. “They said,” Father Tim began, “That there would have to be ten victims. And five of them. Bobby and his friends besides.”

“I told him,” Lisa sobbed. “I told him Devers is scum. That they’d all get hurt be­cause of him.”

“Okay, Okay,” Brenna said, pulling away. “What you need is a good shower.” She drew up an arm, looking at the gunk that had rubbed off of Lisa’s shirt. “What is that?”

“Blood,” Lisa said. “Bobby’s.”

Brenna said she wanted to freak out. To lose control. To jump around and cry because her sleeve was covered with her nephew’s blood. She forced herself to calm down, and not panic. Lisa needed her. 

“Go with you. Do it now.” Lisa obeyed as her mother slowly crossed the kitchen. Brenna stepped to the sink and flipped on the tap. The brown goo that stained her shirt sleeve turned red and watery and rinsed down the drain. Her sleeve turned bright red. Brenna turned off the faucet and wrapped her arm in a cloth dish towel when she heard the shower come on in the other room. The dish towel turned red. She changed her shirt immediately.

When Brenna returned to the kitchen, a train whistled sounded, signaling its approach. It passed just outside her living room window, filling the entire window with nothing but train. And it was loud. So loud in fact, Tim and Brenna gave up on conversation. The floor vibrated, and so did her window and all of her furniture. Even the pictures hanging on the walls vibrated. Lisa had painted most of them and Brenna worried that the frames would be knocked apart with the constant vibrations. Most of her furniture met their end that way. She complained how she wouldn’t dare buy new furniture. She would live with garage sale specials until she could afford to move someplace quieter.

Rose Boyle let herself in. Brenna waved her to a seat across from Tim, and poured Rose a cup of coffee from the pot Tim had made earlier. Rose held onto it until the train had passed. A moment of quiet passed before Rose pushed the cup in Brenna’s direction. “You wouldn’t be having anything stronger, would you?“

“Rosy, you don’t need it,” Tim chided.

“You don’t need it. I can handle it.”

“Where were you?” Brenna demanded as she reclaimed the coffee cup. “I tried to call.”

“At work. At home. I went to the police. They said that I need to identify my son.” I could imagine how tears welled up in her eyes as she struggled to maintain herself. “I can’t do this again.”

“And where would Rob be this evening? Does he know?”

“I have no idea.”

Brenna took a bottle from beneath the sink and a glass from the cabinet over the stove. She poured her sister a splash of whiskey. “Tim?”

“Thank you, no.”

 When Lisa returned from the shower, she said wished everyone a good night. First, she kissed her mother, and then her Uncle. She said later that she didn’t know how to kiss her Aunt good night.

With Lisa out of the way, Rose dug in her purse. “I found this,” she said, setting a plastic bound book on the table.

Tim took it, and Brenna watched over his shoulder. “What would it be?” he asked.

“Megan’s diary. It’s terrible. I mean, I know what’s in there. I always did.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t protect them. Either one of them.”

Tim thumbed through it. Lisa had told him earlier about discussions she had with her cousins, and how desperately she wanted to help them.

“I’ll be back,” Tim said, hurrying away. He returned about a half an hour later. “I sug­gest that you turn this over to the police as soon as possible,” he said, handing the book back to Rose.

“What did you do?”

“Copies,” he said. “I made copies.” Later he said that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

The clouds closed in on the earth and sounds intensified. Trains raced through the night, whistles blew, and wheels clacked against tracks. Even closed windows and curtains didn’t quiet those noises.

Beside me, Joe groaned and moved about. I wasn’t sure if he slept or not. I watched the L.E.D. display of the clock on the nightstand next to me for the better part of an hour, and paid an emotional toll for every minute that passed. Joe, at last rolled into my back. He took my hand. “You awake?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you know about Megan?”

“That she was hit by a truck, yeah. That’s it though.”

“Brenna didn’t say anything about suicide?”

“No. It’s so desperate.”

“At least once a year,” he commented. “A kid from Roosevelt or Austin commits sui­cide. Think about it.” I did. I wanted to get angry. Insist that a girl as pretty and as smart as Megan was, wouldn’t just end it.

I suddenly felt so cold. I had just witnessed a group of teenage boys toss their lives and others away like dirty tissue. Earlier, as we left the booth, I shook with fear. That terrible, gruesome night suddenly came back at me. I shook hard, and I cried. I couldn’t help it. And I couldn’t stop neither. I expected Joe to admonish me, and order me to stop. Instead he rolled me towards him and wrapped me up in both arms.

Father Tim left his sister’s apartment for the final time that evening, and rushed off to Robbinson Memorial Hospital where he acts as chaplain. I know he sat with Tony LoBi­anco’s parents and with Matt Orozco’s mother for at least an hour. When another child died that night, he stayed with that child’s family. When he finished comforting the grief stricken, he stopped in to see parishioners who were injured during the stampede.

He returned to St. Michael the Archangel in the early morning hours. Fa­ther Tim said it was pouring and he was drenched. In spite of that, he needed to pray. He visited the Shrine of the Blessed Virgin located just to the left of the main altar.

God has blessed him, Tim said, in many ways. He loves his sisters, his niece, his posi­tion at St. Michael the Archangel, and the opportunities he has working in the commu­nity. He adores God, and he gives his thanks for all those special gifts.

One of those gifts is his special relationship with the Blessed Mother. He says that when he approaches her, he feels that she whisks him away, into a place of solitude, where he knows her love, and the love of her Son. When he prays to her, he says that he feels as if she embraces him, comforting him, and wrapping him up in her love. He says that he turns to her when he needs help, and he credits her intervention in overcoming his need for alco­hol.

That Saturday, I rose early. I had tossed and turned most of the night, and now I needed a release from the massive build up of energy. I needed to walk it off. I wanted out. I wanted to move my legs and draw air into my lungs. I couldn’t. When I peeked out the front window, I saw news vans and people with cameras pointed at me. I felt trapped.

I turned to food, and something sweet to take comfort in. I found a couple of brown ba­nanas and a bag of chopped nuts. A little flour, sugar, eggs, milk, and a few other ingre­di­ents, I had the makings for banana nut bread. If nothing else, I could wear some of that energy off by baking.

I thought about turning on the phone again, and making a call or two. In­stead I used my cell phone. With batter in hand and phone jammed between my ear and my shoulder, I peeked at the circus still forming outside.

Although it continued to pour, Channels 9 and 7 news vans waited across the street. Brightly colored golf umbrellas shielded a crowd of onlookers from rain drops falling through a canopy of golden greenish colored leaves. Some­one nudged someone else, and pointed in my direction. As others turned to­wards me, I closed the drapes.

I checked my messages. My editor had called several times, demand­ing that I call immediately. Each call he made was more frantic than the one before. Several family members called, and so did Brenna. I called her first.

“Lisa isn’t here,” Brenna told me. “Took off before I got up.”

“Where did she go?”

“Church. Her and Tim. They’re so close. Something happens and she’ll be turning to him before she’ll be coming even to me.”

“What about Rose? Have you talked to her?” I asked.

Brenna sighed. “She’s here. Turned up last night. Rob is drinking.”

I called work next. It was considerably early for editor Tom Koehler. Like me, he’s a night owl. Still, when something happens, he’d spend twenty-four hours a day at his post if he had to. “You were there last night,” Tom said. “You told me you were going. Why didn’t you file a report after it happened?”

“You have any idea where I was at deadline last night?”

“No, tell me.”

“Pinned to the floor of the announcer’s booth.”

“Write it down. E-mail me. Before ten tonight.” That was my daily dead­line. The final layout was finished up by 11:30, and the first presses began to roll at midnight.

I had heated the oven and was busy pouring batter into a buttered bread pan when something banged in the bedroom. Joe ricocheted about the cor­ner and into the kitchen. “Annie?” He was pale and his eyes were huge. When he saw me, he sighed. He retreated to the bathroom. Then I heard the toi­let flush and water running. He returned a few minutes later. This time, he entered the kitchen and wrapped his arms about me from the rear. He smelled like toothpaste. I con­tinued to work as he held me loosely about the shoulders. He kissed my head.

“Tom wants a report on last night,” I said. “He just thinks I can sit down and type like this was some dumb factory tour, or a town hall meeting.”

“Never mind Tom.”

“I wish I could quit.”

“Do it.”

“Will you pay my rent?”

He leaned closer, burying his nose in my hair. His hands moved to my hips. “When you’re done with that,” he said, “Come back to bed.” There was warmth in his voice. Tenderness. I needed that. I opened the oven, set the pan inside and set the timer. Then I followed him.

Art Weber left Roosevelt shortly after talking to us, to be with his wife and son. Bill Ramos, who usually works until the wee hours of the morning, stayed on. He had officers standing guard about the stadium throughout the night. When morning came, he called on anyone he could find. When the rain stopped, Bill oversaw the process of scouring the fields and the stands.

The entire school campus sits on low land, and every time it rains, the fields flood. Officers had to fish through several inches of standing water, using their hands to push aside the mud. They used knives and screwdrivers to pry bullet casings from the concrete in the stands and the mud in the field, or even from the back of the an­nouncer’s booth. They picked up wet cameras from the field, and other pieces of evidence. And when they finished that, they crossed the fence along the western perimeter of the school property, and scoured the area along Pullman Avenue. 

Once that was done, Bill said they sealed off the stadium and playing fields, and the strip of land along the fences on Pullman. He and a detail kept watch at the Ottawa gate and at the stadium entrances. State troopers arrived early, and set up watch at the 127th Street entrance.

Bill said that he had planned to return to the station, but a lot of people came by to pay their respects and to say a prayer or two. The Portland police allowed them into the back parking lot where the Stadium gates are located, and no closer.

Father Tim is the Associate Pastor of St. Michael the Archangel. Where it is Father Patocky, the Pastor, job to worry about the leaky roof and running the parish, Father Tim spends his time at Robbinson Memorial, and with the teens of the Parish. He sponsors the Parish’s Youth Club. The kids have dances, go to sporting events, and perform community service projects like shoveling for the elderly or collecting canned food for a local pantry. They also meet to discuss problems. Accord­ing to Joe, every teenager deals with at least one life changing crisis daily. Anyway, these kids have turned to Father Tim when they needed to talk about almost anything. I can’t explain it, but he connects with teenagers and children in a way in which other adults don’t understand.

A Youth Club meeting was scheduled for that Saturday morning, but Lisa had fallen asleep in Tim‘s room and he was afraid to leave her alone. He planned instead to send away the kids that showed for the meeting. He changed his mind when he saw that a greater number of kids awaited him at the back entrance to the church.

“Father Tim,” one boy called out to him. “This is my friend. He isn’t Catholic, but do you mind if he joins us today?”

“Father Tim? Meet my friend.”

“Father Tim? This is my friend from Roosevelt. Can we talk about last night?”

He pulled the keys from his pocket, and chose the one he needed. “Sure,” he told them. “Downstairs. Now be careful. There’s so many of you, we don’t need any of you to be tripping over your own feet on the stairs.”

Tom Koehler called my cell phone again later in the day. “Spyres’ phone is off the hook. How come?”

“Hasn’t stopped ringing since last night,” I replied.

“Yeah, well the Portland cops are looking for him. There’s a couple of hundred kids at Roosevelt. Impromptu memorial. The cops are afraid they’ll riot or something. Want someone from the administration there, and can’t get anyone else.” 

Link to Chapter II *