*

I called psychologist, Dr. Elizabeth Llewelyn. “Wouldn’t their ideas be so good to put into effect?” she asked referring to the State legislators. “I have a lot to offer them, but I would do it with reservations.” She smiled at me. Dr. Llewelyn has aged flawlessly. According to the certificate on the wall across from her desk, she finished her Ph.D. in the early sev­enties, which should make her close, if not pass retirement age. Her skin is tight, her hair is blonde and per­fectly coifed. Sitting across from her I couldn’t help but think of my dim­ples that had turned to creases over time, and my cottage cheese rear end.

“Do you have anything to offer us as to the type of kids these were? Or what to ex­pect from other kids in the same situations?” I asked, self con­sciously wondering if my ass would sag when I stood.

“I’ll refer, mind you, to your work,” she began. “These kids are exactly what America expects from their mass shooters. They were disenfranchised. They were bullied at school, and humiliated. Very much disliked. I understand that one was severely abused. They were, all of them, clinically depressed. They needed to strike out at some­one, find a place to set their feet, and this is how they chose to do it. My guess here is that they were told to ‘tough’ out the bullies. Or they were ignored when they complained. From what I read in your articles, there are other factors at work here as well. They lost touch with the basic family unit, and they lost touch with their peers. They had little or no discipline or boundaries. Not one of these boys had a faith based upbringing, or even a clear cut plan for the future. They were left to dangle.” She tapped the desk in front of her with the tip of her polished nail. “There is something different here though.”

“How so?”

She took her time with this. I could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes as she formed the words in her head. Finally she leaned back in her desk chair. “These kids are in a way like gang kids in as much as they turned to each other for comfort. That special place to land. Unlike gang kids, they didn’t find anyone among themselves strong enough or responsible enough to help them through life. There wasn’t someone there to encourage them in the right directions. Instead they found others suffering in the same ways, others who would pull each down further than they already were in life. They found themselves caught in a perfect storm. If you read about Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris at Columbine, the biggest difference between that shooting and others is the fact that most shooters are male, depressed and acting alone. In the Columbine situation and here, you have children, acting in concert with each other, to pull something any of them might not consider if they were alone, or at least in contact with someone else.” Okay, I nodded. That fact hasn’t escaped my attention earlier. 

A moment passed as I examined my notes. “What do you mean by a faith based upbringing? Is it that important?” I asked.

“I mean,” she said, “A religious upbringing. This is important in as much as religion offers structure and teaches the difference between right and wrong. It also presents a child with a goal. To go to heaven. To live a moral life. Too many times a disenfran­chised child hasn’t been cued into any type of future. School, jobs, friendships or relation­ships. That doesn’t mean that a child must be raised within a church in order to have those things. Many parents who simply participate in the lives of their children have very suc­cessfully imparted those sentiments without the benefit, or if you prefer, in­terference, of a church or religion. But, a parent who takes his children to church, or sends them to Sunday school, has availed himself of an important tool. It is structure, the goals and be­havior that these children did not have, and those things are important. They represent a solid ground in which to place one’s feet, or even the next rung on the ladder of life.”

“Why is it,” I asked her, “that one child can survive in that type of envi­ronment and another can’t?”

“I wish I had an answer to that. I wish I knew why there are children whose parents do everything right, and the child still takes drugs, over in­dulges in alcohol, winds upp in prison, or even commits suicide. If I did have that answer, I think I could offer something more solid to our legislators. I can’t. Not without a few buts here and there.”

“Is there something a parent can look for? A warning sign or something?”

“You mentioned the argument you watched on ‘Chicago Tonight’? I saw the same broadcast. Warning signs. The classic textbook signs are simple. Is he talking tough? Is he cruel towards animals? Does he have an unusual in­terest in firearms? As the experts so unwittingly pointed out, these are also clas­sic signs of being a teenager.

“On the other hand, is your child in some type of emotional turmoil or is he considering suicide? There are classic warning signs that seem to work pretty well. Are his grades suddenly slipping?” She used her fingers to tick off her warnings. “Is he hanging out with new friends? Has he given up on all friends? What about his ac­tivities? Has he pushed aside those things that he’s always found joy in for something else or nothing else? Is he spending a lot of time alone? Is he an­gry? Is he giving away his possessions? What about his clothing and his hair? Has he changed them dramatically lately? Is there a change in his hy­giene hab­its? Skipping showers or not changing his clothes? There are a lot of signs.

“The current wisdom is to institute a ‘zero tolerance’ system. When a child acts up, to separate him into an alternative environment. I’m not against this. Sometimes kids who don’t fit in anywhere else, find a place where they can grow. The problem is, being human, we don’t want to see our children separated. We rationalize that our children can never behave so badly that they can be a danger to themselves and to others. We tell ourselves that they’re going through a phase. That they need to be left alone to grow up.

“And when they do screw up or misbehave. Whether it’s actually a mental illness or a chemical imbalance, we as parents, if we can even admit it, take that to heart, blame our­selves for their shortcomings. And very few of us want to take that step to separate them or punish them. We want to wait until the child corrects his own problems. And when we do fail, when we do screw up, put that boyfriend before our children, the job, that drug, or that bottle, we don’t want to see it as bad. We want to tell ourselves that children are resil­ient. They’ll bounce back. Again, though, you’re right. It isn’t every child that is affected that severely.”

“What about teachers? What should they look for?”

“Look for the odd child. The quiet child, or wall flower. The bullied child. Look for the child torn apart by his divorced parents, or a child whose parent or parents don’t participate in his schooling, or whose parents defend his misbehaviors. Look for the boy who doesn’t have a positive male role model in his life. Or for that matter, the boy who has lost touch with the adults about him. Almost always, it’s a male child who acts out. They are almost always clinically depressed. And what­ever you do, don’t make the mistake that because this child is quiet, he’s automatically in trouble, or that he’s a potential shooter. If anything, we im­perfect hu­mans overreact. These are warning signs, yes, but they can be easily misinterpreted by the overzealous.”

She paused for a moment, reaching out to adjust a file on her desk. “This is why I don’t want to participate with our State officials on setting up their program.” She spread her hand over the file, feeling it out as if she had never touched it before. “Something that truly bothers me is when a child is caught up by a miscon­ception or an innocent behavior and is suddenly a victim of a ‘zero toler­ance’ situation. How many times have you heard about children who are ex­pelled because they bring plastic flatware to school to eat their lunch with? Or even that a ‘normal’ child has drawn a picture that some overzealous adult has taken to mean the worst? It’s a sad situation.” She nodded at the file. “Again, because one child is quiet by nature doesn’t mean he’s in trouble.”

I nodded. Yes, I had heard of those situations, and all too frequently. I cleared my throat and returned to the story at hand. “One last question. Part of this involved a diary. The young lady who died prior to the shootings kept a diary. Her brother added to it, and then made sure that his mother could find it after the shootings happened. Why? You’d think they’d try to hide this.”

“These were the two who were so badly abused? Am I right?”

I nodded.

“Whether physical abuse or emotional neglect. Isn’t it obvious? Every one of these children were crying out for help. For someone to care. They were caught in impos­sible situations and they wanted out.”

Nancy Harnett called a press conference. One more person passed away from injuries sustained during the stampede. I thought at that point I was becoming the hard ass re­porter I romanticized about when I first went to work. After all, my stories had been picked up by CNN and MSNBC. I was good. Damned good. Only when Nancy read out the name, I had to sit.

“Regina Ochoa, of Portland, died early this morning. Primary cause of death was brain damage caused by a severe blow to the head.”

Regina Ochoa was my friend and one of my closest at that. I had seen her at the stadium between games that night.

I didn’t even know she was injured!

“Are you all right?” A man took my arm, and a woman guided us through the crowd to a chair. I sat and I buried my face in my hands. My head fogged up and my throat hurt, and suddenly my environment grew very stuffy. I needed an out. As one woman ap­proached me with a glass of water, several others pressed into the tunnel that became my vision. I sprang to my feet. I pushed past them. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to clear my ears and my head. I did then exactly the same thing I had done when I lost others that mattered to me. I walked.

I headed west from the hospital, across Miami, and through the Silk Stocking District. I sought out Veteran’s Memorial Park, just east of the CSX tracks. I don’t know how long I stayed there. It’s built on the side of a hill, and I walked it, from top to bottom several times. I took the asphalt path that fronted Harris Street, down the hill, along the fence separating the tracks from the park, and up the hill again.

And I remembered. Before going to Roosevelt, there were three of us; me, Joe’s sister Darlene, and Brenna. Then we started our freshman year and we suddenly became five. I honestly don’t remember meeting either Sheri or Regina, only once we did meet, we were tight. We were five and we were always together. We went to dances and parties together, and we shopped together. Although when Darlene and Sheri joined cheerlead­ing, Regina and I joined the school paper. Brenna chased the boys. When Sheri and Joe were married, Regina stood as maid of honor. The rest of us were brides­maids, and that was only because Regina won when we drew straws.

At that moment in time, I knew what it was that so many people had tried to tell me. These were not teenage boys that needed someone to protect them. They were not victims. They were murderers. And they murdered my friend. I couldn’t look at them and this story as an outsider anymore. I was right there in the middle of this now. I was a vic­tim. Just like that first night when Joe and I cowered on the floor in fear, I hated Bobby Boyle and the others.

Joe fell in next to me as I strode along Harris one more time. I glanced at him from be­low. I guess I was ashamed of my reaction and half expecting him to blow. “Your mom called me at school,” he said. “She was worried.”

“Did she tell you about Regina?”

“I’m sorry.”

I took his arm and we continued to walk. “Is it that late?” I asked.

“Four thirty.”

“Wow.”

“We could buy groceries. You could cook,” he said hopefully.

“I’m not hungry.”

We turned at 127th Street and began to make our way downhill. He didn’t say any­thing, but I could read the reproach in his eyes. I had disappeared from the cemetery after Adam’s funeral. I hadn’t realized how many people I’d worried until my Dad tracked me down later at the Park. And Dad found me again when Sheri died. When he died, I found my way back there, walking it again, grinding down the black topped walkway to gravel until Mark came for me. 

Joe did the same thing the night Regina died as my Dad had years earlier. He let me walk. Into our second circuit it hit me that he had already worked a full day. “I’m done,” I told him as we topped the hill again.

“My place or yours?”

“Yours. I don’t want to be alone.”

This entire process, healing maybe; or acceptance, I don’t know what to call it. Grief. It had been a roller coaster ride. Up, thinking I could offer something that would help my community begin to heal. And again, bottoming out as one more person and one more family was changed forever. As much as I wanted to avoid this particular funeral, I couldn’t. Joe went with me, staying by my side throughout it. Then I turned to my computer and poured my heart into a story about our high school days.

Joe had written off the missing mainframe, deciding that the repairman had sold the tape still caught in the VCR deck to ‘Proof’. He was really sur­prised when the very same man showed up on the following Monday with the mainframe. The repairman set it on the counter in the attendance office, and removed a number of screws. “I know what you’re thinking,” the man explained, “But the fact is, no one wanted to be bothered with this. It’s clogged with gum.” He forced the tray open enough for Joe to see the back of the tape. It was marked with the same coding that they used on all tapes, the name of the school, the date and the initials of the security officer that loaded it in the mainframe to begin with.

“Okay, okay,” Joe said, holding up his hands, “I was wrong.”

The repairman, Joe said, plied him with the same expression his mother used on him when he accused his sister of something that she didn’t do. The man softened and nod­ded. “Okay, given the situation, I’d probably make the same leap. I suggest though, you assign someone to watch the monitor, or at least stay in the room with the security system during school hours. I’d lay odds that one of your slime ball murderers sabotaged this when the security personnel were out to lunch.”

I listened quietly as Joe described the exchange. Then I spoke. “Did I mention that Terry got an offer from ‘Proof’?”

He hurrumped and flipped channels.

“Okay, so where could they put together such a production, not just once, but twice?”

“Obviously,” Joe explained, “At T.R’s television studio. Bobby Boyle knew

what he was doing.”

“No one around to check on them?”

Joe flipped the channel again and glanced at the headlines of the newspa­per. “The next question is how long will it be before someone puts the television production teacher on notice,” he commented quietly.

The first Portland City Council Meeting since the shooting took place at the beginning of the next week. Council Chambers, which also serves as a courtroom, is located in the old City Hall Building, up a flight of stairs, and tucked into a corner. The room was packed with reporters and video equip­ment that night. The only inch of breathing room happened to be on the other side of a railing where twelve uneasy aldermen sat. Carmen took her place behind a high desk, and banged her gavel. She banged again before the commotion faded. She stood to lead the Pledge of Alle­giance just as a train careened the closest crossing. The floor vibrated, floor to ceiling windows rattled in their frames, and the sharp edges of the thick oak moldings blurred with the vibrations. I glanced about to see if I recognized any of the TV types. I couldn’t place them, but I did notice the surprised ex­pressions worn by those not used to the shake, rattle and roll of living between three sets of tracks. I also noticed a spray of black and orange on nearly every lapel. I expected Carmen and the aldermen to wear them, but so were members of the media.

The meeting began once the train passed. Reporters whispered among themselves and played with electronic equipment. Right then I resented the hell out of them. Members of my own profession, like vacuums sucking every little tidbit or morsel up; anything that would keep our pain right, smack at the top of every news broadcast. 

Carmen banged one more time. It did little good. “I’d like to get started.” She leaned closer into the mic, and I strained to hear.

That meeting was a mixed bag of issues. Our Hal­low­een/Pumpkin Fest, which was to begin that weekend, should be canceled. A pa­rade, pumpkin carving contests, a haunted house, hay rides, a fall craft fair, music, food and a Halloween ball were planned. “Yes,” Mayor Carmen insisted, “We should cancel it. Pity. We’ve already spent so much.”

“Then I move,” said Alderman Hazel Lipschitz, “That we proceed, but with the addi­tional outlay of cash. We should construct a monument of some kind dedicated to the shooting victims.”

A murmur spread throughout the room as cameras closed in on Hazel. Carmen let it ride long enough to access the mood in the room, before banging her gavel again. “It’d never be done in time,” she commented.

“Then why don’t we build a temporary one,” Hazel continued, “Flowers, photographs or something like that. Make it the centerpiece of Robbinson Park. That’s what I move for. Continue with the Fest, but to spend money for a temporary monument now, and a per­manent one later.”

“Second,” John Orlando called before someone else could claim credit for backing Ha­zel first.

“Discussion?” Carmen asked. A lot of people nodded, but no one spoke. “Will the clerk call the roll then?”

The measure passed unopposed. Okay, maybe this is the wrong time to say it, but I think Carmen had this planned. She’s as slippery as the pavement on an icy bridge.

The very last item of business was to hear what the audience had to say. Carmen banged the gavel and asked, “Is there anyone who has anything to say about tonight’s business?” She glanced around quickly, not really even looking, readying herself to bang her gavel again when a man I didn’t recognize stood.

Carmen glanced at the clerk quickly and set the gavel aside as the man made his way to the rostrum. “Good evening,” he said. “My name is Noah Calhoun and I represent the interests of the members of the Second Amendment Rights Association.” An audible gasp went through the room. Before any of us had a chance to respond, he leaned in. “Let me just say that if at least five of the individuals in the audience at the last football game had been armed, the resolution of that shooting would have been much different….”

The man continued on, but as he did, Art Weber turned from deep dark brown to bright red. “Not here! Not now!” he cried as he struggled to his feet.

“Chief,” Carmen cautioned.

The man turned to look Chief Weber in the eyes. “They way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.”

“Yes, and there was a cop shot outside that Sikh Temple in Milwaukee, and guards shot at Columbine. Come here, start your bullshit, and you’ll rot away in my jail. Just start something. Go ahead….”

“Chief,” Attorney William Best called along with Carmen. Both rose from their chairs, holding their hands out to Art.

“I’ll let you rot in my jail!”

“Chief, please.”

“Art, stop!”

Calhoun turned away from Art, looking more in Carmen’s direction. I snapped his picture just then, and I swear he smiled. “I’m not here to start trouble. I’m here to apply for a permit to hold a rally.”

‘There’s enough people hurting here already.” Art began as he began to make his way around the railing. “I don’t need you bringing this crap up again.” Art continued to struggle forward, but then Bill got in his way. Before long, tiny Bill fought to hold back big, brawny Art. As Bill pushed against Art with his entire body, he struggled to use the radio at his shoulder. Carmen banged her gavil.

“Are you against the Second Amendment?” I snapped picture after picture and the TV cameras moved with the action.

“Of course not. I’m against your cruel stupidity!” In no time, the trio were surrounded by cops.

And finally we had peace. Both men stood their ground as the room silenced. Attorney Best whispered in Carmen’s ear. She listened, but held the gavel in such a way that you knew she’d pound out silence once more. “Chief,” she finally cried. “Back room, now.”

“Im not…..”

“Yes, you are. Executive session. Now.” She hurried off, as did the rest of the Council. Chief Weber finally backed off and followed. Where I couldn’t hear what Bill had to say to his officers, it was easy enough to catch the gist of it. He ordered them to stay close.

Raised voices came from behind closed doors, although nothing discernable. Calhoun adjusted the lapels on his jacket several times and now and then commented about they violated the law, if not Robert’s Rules of Order by not allowing him to speak. Robert’s Rules of Order, my ass, I thought as we waited. It grew hotter in that room by the minute. Calhoun was doing his best to look like he was spewing fire. Truthfully, he actually looked gleeful. The TV people were furiously active. Several, with mics in hand, addressed their cameras, whereas several others roamed through the crowd looking for opinions. All came to an end as another train shook the room. Through all this noise, Bill responded to a radio call.

Before the train passed us by, the Council returned. The others sat while Carmen stood at her place. Once the racket ended, she banged that ever present gavel. “We have a consensus here,” she began. “Mr. Calhoun, you will have your little get together, but you will have it when I say and where I say.”

“October 29^th,” he began.

One more time the gavel hit the desk. “No.”

“I’ll sue.”

“Knock your socks off. Our first responders will have their hands full with the Halloween Fest. Pick a day, any day, after the Halloween Fest is over. Now if unless there’s anyone else who wants to speak, this party is over.” She banged again. Without looking for a response, she left through the same door she and the Council used earlier.

I started to collect my gear as Bill appeared at my side. “Let me help.”

“I’m fine.”

“No. Let’s get out of here. Art wants to talk to you.” He grabbed my recorder and my elbow, and guided me around and through the gate in the railing as he pushed by reporters looking for his comments.

Once we entered that room behind the Council Chambers, Carmen latched onto me. “You know how much trouble you’re causing, as usual?” she demanded. Carmen is short, and chunky, and her eyes blaze with an internal fire reminiscent of a blast furnace. “This thing with the Boyle family. Why can’t you put that aside?”

“What’s wrong Carmen? Your name hasn’t made the headlines enough lately?”

“Yeah, well from what I understand, that priest is trouble, too.”

“What trouble?”

“I’ve heard rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“Never mind. You’ll find out soon enough.” She turned tail on me and joined Art in battle. “And why is it I can count on you to over react at the wrong time?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh.”

Art came from an earlier administration, and Carmen wanted him out. She controls most of the aldermen, most of the time. Although most owe Art favors. Carmen charged off, finally leaving Art and I alone.

“Okay,” Chief said, “I’ll give Carmen credit this time. I don’t want these asshats here. They’re agitators. That’s it. Agitators. If these people have a rally, or even a riot, so much the better for it. What I don’t need is to see one of our people, so distraught that they take one of these idiots out with his own hunting rifle or hand gun. And I don’t need any riots.”

“Is there a way to keep them out of town?”

“Believe it or not, Carmen has several friends,” he used his fingers to make quotation marks around the word friends, “In Cook County. She thinks she can get a rally set up in the Forest Preserves. At least then I’d have the help of Cook County Sheriff’s Police.”

“So, I’m assuming until she has that in writing, I can’t print that,” I said. “So what is it you need me for?”

“At least quote me accurately. I’m not against Second Amendment rights. I’m not. I’m against these assholes. Let me spell that for you. A.S.S.H.O.L.E.S. rubbing our noses in that crap. Haven’t we suffered enough? My son is injured, but safe. If Linc had died during the shooting, I’d probably had pulled my sidearm and used it on that bastard.” Art shook it off. “And write this. There is no reason for the type of weapon they used to be used on city streets. They are meant for combat. Not for hunting. Not for collecting. And not for protection.”

Tom called after receiving my e-mail. “I’m trying not to laugh,” he said. “Who is that? The little one? Ramos? I bet he hurts this morning.”

That was Tuesday night. The paper came out on Wednesday, and everyone I talked to had something to say about the brawl the night before. Some felt like Art did while others couldn’t wait to join the rally along side of the Second Amendment people. “I got a gun,” one man sneered. “Bring it with me everywhere.” He glanced around, as if looking for a cop before slightly opening his jacket. He closed it just as quickly. Truthfully, I didn’t see anything more than a SARA belt buckle. 

Link to Chapter VII