*

Chief Weber and I stepped into the lower floor hallway so that I could see his dogs in action. He had two shepherds, and two handlers walking side by side through the hall. They had finished the eastern end of the lower floor and crossed before me. One dog stopped dead. He sniffed and then yipped at me. “Don’t move,” Art cautioned. The dog focused on me, sniffed again and whimpered. Then suddenly, this huge beast stood on his back legs, set his paws on my shoulders, and with one swipe licked my face from chin to brow.

His handler laughed and yanked on the leash. “Down, Hammer. Down, boy.” Hammer’s nails clicked against the floor tile when he returned to all fours. “You must be a cat lover.”

“I have two,” I chuckled, wiping the slobber from my cheek. I should have been horri­fied, or insulted. I couldn’t. Hammer’s behavior was honest.

“He loves cats,” the officer explained. “I take him home at night, and he sleeps with mine.”

I watched the dogs work. They sniffed and sniffed, from one locker to the next, from garbage can to bathroom. They checked rooms, and closets, and hampers, desk and bins. In one room, Hammer and his buddy backed away from a desk. They plastered their ears back and bared their teeth; circled and barked.

Art ordered me out of the room, and returned with me to the faculty lounge. We stayed there until a voice crackled over Art’s shoulder radio. “Chief, they’re clear. It’s a cherry bomb left in a desk.” I know I felt a thou­sand pounds lighter at that mo­ment.

Once they had finished all three floors, and that took a long time, I walked outside with Art. He insisted that I stay in the parking lot while they scoured the fields. They began at 127th, and worked south, first taking in the varsity diamond, the bushes about the edge of the property, the creek and the big sign along Pullman, and then the stadium.

Wrought iron gates close off the entrances to the stands and are kept locked when not in use. Before each gate a floating monument had begun to grow. When Joe broke up the memorial on Saturday morning, flowers had been piled at the middle entrance. Now flowers were woven into the grill­work of all three gates. More flowers, teddy bears and candles spilled for­ward onto the walkway. The dogs paused to sniff, pushing aside soggy mo­mentos with their noses, stepping on stuffed animals and candles. What a compelling photograph that would have made. I damned myself again for not dropping my camera into my purse before leaving his place.

Joe unlocked one gate, allowing the dogs and handlers into the stands. Hammer glanced at me before entering. “What’s the other dog’s name?” I asked Art.

“Kite,” he said. “It’s kind of a joke. He has blue eyes. Makes him look like he’s as high as a kite.”

“Kite and Hammer,” I repeated to myself.

“They’re damned good dogs.”

I had a story in my head, and had forgotten Joe. I walked home from Roo­sevelt, using the time to work it out. I walk a lot. As I said, I like to cook and I like to eat. If I didn’t walk, I’d weigh a ton. Besides, I like the air.

When I got home, I wrote about Hammer and Kite, the part they played in the investi­gation, about the explosion the day before, and about Ed Sonchek’s injury. Tom called me as soon as he received the e-mail. “Good story. Terry covered a lot of it yesterday.”

“Terry screwed up again,” I said. “I spent this morning at Roosevelt. The damage is minimal.”

“Uh huh.”

“You need to keep O’Malley on a short leash. Chief Weber says he’s looking for an ex­cuse to throw Terry in jail. That story about how one of the gunmen escaped has everyone terrified.”

I heard him draw in, as if taking a moment to develop his thoughts. “Okay, okay. You take on Terry’s meeting schedule, too. Portland, anyway.”

“No problem.”

Monday morning Tom Koehler’s assistant, Renita, called me at home. “You have mail,” she said. “It’s an old fashioned disk, and frankly, I haven’t got time to review it. If you don’t mind I want it off my desk. Asap.”

By the time I arrived, Tom had it loaded into his computer. He nodded at a side chair where he had stacks of paper. He clicked on the play icon. “Renita is an idiot,” he growled. “Watch this.” I pushed in behind his desk, nearly knocking over a huge stack of mail. I removed the stack from his credenza and set it on the floor so I could at least set my butt on his credenza and slouch down a bit. He attempted to stretch out in his desk chair, but was halted by yet another stack.

The picture opened with Bobby Boyle sitting on top of a teacher’s desk in a classroom.  “Annie,” he said to a camera. “I know that’s your name be­cause my cousin told me.” He turned aside, growling at someone at the other side of the camera. “I know more about you than you think I do. I know you write for this newspaper. And if you don’t, tough. When they see the name on the outer envelope some other jackass will play this.” He stopped again, this time interacting with his feet, or shoes, or something else on the floor. Just like his Mom, his Aunt, his Uncles and his cousin, he had the dark hair and ice blue eyes. His were an­gry. His lower lip quivered when he spoke, as if he were constantly biting back tears. He looked at the camera lens again, and straighten his back. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean you’re a jackass. I mean that you and Spyres are always together. I mean if these jack­asses,” he glanced about him, “Don’t screw this up, this disk will get to the right person. You and the newspaper. And Spyres. Spyres at least is half way decent. He tries anyway. Not that it matters, anyway. A lot of people try.” He glanced about again and reached behind him for an eight by twelve photograph of a pretty girl with dark hair and blue eyes. “This is for you, Megan,” he said, holding it up. “You know, we talked about this all last year, and we even went looking for guns. It wasn’t until Megan…,” he sniffed behind the photograph. It heaved upwards and then down as he drew a steadying breath. “…that we got serious.” Another heave and another breath passed from beneath the photo. “Fucking animals. All of them. They have any idea how badly they hurt her? For what? So asshole like Tony LoBi­anco could get his rocks off? He have any idea what it’s like to find your sister dead in the street because of assholes like him?” He set the photo on the desk behind him, and then sniffed and swiped at his nose. “You need to meet some people here.”

The shot of him was interrupted by a black and white image, one that looked as if it could have been taken by one stationary camera positioned at ceiling level looking down. A small kid was trapped in one of those desks with a tray to write on and room for books beneath the seat. Another kid at least twice his size stood over him, pounding on him. I couldn’t see the smaller kid, only that he held his arms up to protect himself as he at­tempted to slip out from under the other. I caught my breath. Not so much at the fight, but there was an adult there that I didn’t recognize. He stood at the edge of the frame and watched. The next thing I knew, Joe ran into the frame. Without touching either kid, he forced the larger kid back. The smaller one finally slipped out from beneath. He stood, shaking as he did, and turning towards the camera. He had light colored hair, big eyes and a bloody nose. One eye looked bruised.

Another shot, this time in color, opened with the same kid. He stood in a wooded area, maybe the forest preserves at the southeast corner of town. The trees about him were shrouded in summer green, and long lacy looking prairie grass and big fat cattails grew in a meadow behind him. He was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap turned backwards. He held an automatic handgun, and he fired it at a cottonwood tree. He laughed as a shell hit the thick bark and chipped some away.

“That was Chuck Chandler.” When Bobby came back into the shot, Chuck sat in a desk beside him. One side of his face was green and purple.

The scene changed, this time to the hallway between two stair­wells, again the camera angle looked down from the ceiling. A bunch of kids, some par­tially in the frame, some completely within, and some outside, were passing about what looked like a phone or small tablet. Another, a larger, pudgy boy stumbled about, just reaching for the devise as one kid tossed it into the air to another standing on the stairs and out of the shot. The pudgy kid turned, jumping at the side of the stairs, again reaching up just as the devise flew over his head. Another kid caught it. Only a tuft of his hair was caught by the camera. Pudgy fell backwards as he tried to turn in the air. The kid who last caught the devise pointed. He held on to it, taunting Pudgy until Pudgy pulled himself off the floor. Once on his way towards the boy, the devise flew to the side. Another boy snapped it up and sent it flying up the other stairwell. A fourth boy took it, smacked it with his hand, then slammed it onto the floor. Even if I couldn’t hear the sound, I could hear it in my mind as Pudgy watched the kid stomp on it again and again. Every muscle in Pudgy’s body tensed. His mouth opened, his fists clenched, and like a spring, his body tightened. Joe appeared again, this time on the stairs as the assailants took flight over banisters and down opposite halls.

The next shot opened in the woods, and this time, Pudgy fired a gun. Again, it had to be summer or maybe September, because Pudgy wore jean shorts and a tank top. Something looked to be tattooed about his neck and on his shoulder, although I couldn’t make out either.

Bobby appeared. Pudgy sat next to the one Bobby introduced as Chuck. “This is Don Bankencrest.”  Like I said, Don was a big kid. His neck was thick like the rest of his body. He wore a gray and red softball jersey. The tattoo now looked like the neck of his shirt had been trimmed with lace. He looked like he should have played football. 

The next clip showed a small, dark kid being dragged through a hallway and stripped of his pants. He was left naked outside the gym. Joe covered the boy with a towel. The scene changed and this boy appeared in the forest preserves firing a handgun.

“This is Nick Romaro.” Bobby nodded to the newest kid to join him. Nick was the smallest yet. The camera moved, taking in Nick from head to foot, resting on his brown sandals and black socks. “And that moron,” Bobby growled as the camera moved down the line to Bobby’s white Nikes, “Deserves everything he gets.” I heard a snap from beyond the frame and the camera shook. “For Christ’s sake, you fuckhead! Grow up!”

The next scene took place outside of school. Six boys picked up that strange kid that tried to buy a raffle ticket from me, and pitched him up high into the air. The kid played it for all it was worth. He brought his hands to­gether as if diving into a swimming pool and kicked his feet like a frog. He turned his head to grin at the camera. Then he splashed down into an open dumpster. Papers flew up and out. One of his assailants shut the lid and all six walked off.

The film taken of him in the forest preserves showed him buck naked, and shooting at the sun. He crowed like a rooster and danced about in a circle. I couldn’t help but chuckle. It was truly one of the stupidest moments ever caught on tape.

“Fucking Devers, man. Fucking nitwit,” Bobby shot when the camera re­turned to him. “The problem here is that someone let him out of the fucking garbage can. Quit playing games!” The camera turned sideways, focusing on Bobby’s one eyebrow. “Fucking told you blowhards he had no business running the camera. Should have fucking left him in the garbage. Fucking grow up!” I saw a hand come up, and what looked like it could have been an arm, and I heard a thump. Next thing I knew, the camera rattled about, clanked some and landed with the lens focused on the ceiling.

The frame remained a good few moments. Then suddenly there was wild laughter, a crackle and someone yelled, “Wipe out!” Guitars and drums pounded out a frantic beat. One more time we watched Chuck get punched, the frame stopped just be­fore contact was made by the other kid, and began again, and again, with the pulse of the guitar. The scene with Don diving between kids trying to grab his tablet, and him falling, again and again, followed that. Nick was exposed to the entire school. Devers flew into the dumpster over and over again. Interspersed with all of that were shots of all four boys firing weapons at pop cans, or dancing about naked and crowing like Devers did. If that wasn’t enough, the same scenes continued to be played out until finally the lid of the dumpster slammed shut. The final scene was of Megan Boyle’s photo. The song ended and the film went black.

Tom turned to look at me. A long moment passed be­fore he said anything. “Any idea who the first kid was?”

“Bobby Boyle. I went to his funeral on Sunday.”

“You did?”

“The diary belonged to his sister.” I nodded at the TV. “That was her in the picture he held.”

Tom rocked in his chair and tucked his hands behind his head. “We need some back­ground on these kids.”

“We should show this to the cops.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Just thought maybe they’d be interested.”

“Okay,” Tom nodded. “Show it to anyone you want. Blow this scoop, and you can find yourself another job. This is gold.” He nodded again. “That teacher? That your Joe?”

I nodded.

“Talk to him.”

I nodded again. “Anything else?”

“No, but if you’re going to show it to the cops, you better tell them we copied this al­ready, and I have someone making stills.”

Like Tom, Art played it on his desktop. We viewed it to­gether. “Call it a professional courtesy,” I said with embarrass­ment. “Tom says whether I show it to you or not, this will be all over the papers in the morning.”

Art nodded. “Chuck Chandler. His name hasn’t been released yet. Legally you eliminate his name, and block out his face from the photos.” Art shook his head and pulled forward to reach for something. “I appreciate the cour­tesy,” he said.

Before writing an article, I told Joe about the film and even offered to show it to him. He turned to his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Thanks,” he said. “I forgot to call this guy about the security system main­frame.”

I went home and wrote about the film and how it came into my possession. I didn’t dare comment on right or wrong.

When I’m working on something, the story follows me around like a lost puppy. Every time I pause, it bumps into me like a cold canine nose onto my mid calf. I sleep and I dream, I eat and I think. I catch the news or pick up the morning paper, and I’m thinking of a new angle. I’m plugging my camera into my desktop so I can recharge the batteries, and images I’d like to catch on film are floating before my mind’s eye.

“First things first,” I tell myself each time, and I try to focus on the first step I need to take, or even my first encounter with that story.

My first memories here are of that goofy kid and the raffle ticket. I called Ruth Ellen de Beor. “Right now,” she said, “I’m kicking myself in the ass. Yeah, I made them pitch the toy guns. Why didn’t I separate them and have them searched?”

“Did you have a reason to?”

“A real reason? No. An excuse, yes. They violated State law when they carried toy guns onto school property.”

“A felony?”

“No, a misdemeanor. I was worried about crowd control. And to be hon­est, I didn’t want to miss the game. Besides, how much damage can toy guns do? And when Boyle tossed them, I thought it was over.” She sighed. “Devers is it? That kid had me freaked. Weirdo.”

Link to Chapter V