*

Mark met me the night of the Memorial, and together we walked the four blocks between my place and Roosevelt. The weather that evening was typical, cold and crisp, a bit damp. A hefty breeze picked leaves from the trees and tossed them about at our feet.

It looked as if the greater portion of the South Suburbs were headed in that direction. The side streets were packed with cars and more were looking for parking spots. The sidewalks were crowded and we were forced to walk in the street. We moved to the side as cars tried to pass.

At every corner police directed traffic. It helped some. What was disconcerting was the variety of uniforms we saw. It seemed that every nearby suburb sent a detail to our aid. Each officer wore a black baseball cap that said ‘Police’ in large upper case letters. 

E.S.D.A., which is Emergency Services Disaster Agency, is a volunteer organization that helps with crowd control during civic events. Mark calls them ‘wannabe firefighters and cops’. They were out that night, directing cars away from Ottawa. Bill told me later that the police thought it was best that parking on Ottawa be restricted.

Most people brought flowers and candles with them. Vendors walked along the side streets leading up to the Ottawa en­trance. I bought a carnation for six bucks. I asked another vendor how much he wanted for a small taper. “Ten,” he said as I snapped his picture. I passed.

Mark teased me about buying even the one carnation. “Grow bigger crap in the backyard at Mom’s,” he said. “Wouldn’t have cost you anything.”

As we walked along Ottawa, reporters from every news association and every major net­work stopped people, asking them what they thought about their loss, or attending such a function. Of course Mark, being Mark, wanted me to ask him for my article. I did ask, just to stop his demands. “You know how dumb that question is? How do you think I feel?”

“Why should I expect you to say anything different?” I demanded.

We came across Bill Ramos as we approached the gate. He didn’t have time to talk. He held a clipboard and puffed on a cigar. He looked different, but that was only because he wore a baseball cap instead of his usual uniform cap. He waved at us, but continued on with what he was doing.

A thousand kids and adults, at least, jammed into the back baseball dia­mond, and spilled over on to the soccer fields. TV cameras were set up in the parking lot and squeezed along the fence on Ottawa. I took their pic­tures, too.

Thirteen chairs, one for each person to die because of that night had been setup on a portable stage. A flute sat on one chair, and sax on another. Mu­sic stands were set up be­fore those chairs. On other chairs, there were foot­ball helmets, pompoms, a cowboy hat and baton. An oil painting sat on a chair for a member of the Art Club. Fuzzy black, white and orange wool lettermen jackets hung on the back of some chairs. One chair was dedicated to Police Officer Mike LoBianco. On his chair were his high school graduation picture, his old school jacket, and a citation for bravery from the Police Department.

The thirteenth chair was dedicated to the spectator who was trampled during the stam­pede. A framed family photo and a woman’s jacket rested on the chair. That bothered me. If the thirteenth chair represented someone from the stands, number fourteen would as well. 

The band opened the ceremony with a halfhearted rendition of ‘Giddy-up, Horsemen.’ Then Kevin cleared his throat, and loaded a hand held mic into a stand before him. He looked down at his feet as he shoved his hands in his pockets. The wind kicked up and beat upon the mic. “This,” he said, draw­ing himself up, “Has always been a duty that I prefer to avoid at all costs. Earlier this year, we mourned the loss of Megan Boyle. I don’t think that any of us realized the impact her death would have on this community. I would do anything to take that back, and all that has happened in the past few months. To make her live again.

“There are chairs here representing Matt Orozco and Tony LoBianco. They were the captains of the football team. Kelly Raye was drum major for the single best marching band in the State of Illinois. Those three in par­ticu­lar. I remember when I came here as principal. They were sopho­mores. Tony and Matt had each grown at least a foot taller since then. On my first day here at T.R, Kelly escorted me through the hallways for the first time. She told me about how she had first come to T.R, and didn’t think she’d learn the building’s layout. She did and so did I. That day she told me how she planned to be­come a drum major for the Marching Horsemen.” He nod­ded and shrugged. “I was so proud of her.” His voice cracked. “Especially after the past summer when they competed one more time in Champaign. And this year, they brought home first place. That’s be­cause of her dedica­tion, and the dedication of others like her.

“Raul Ramierez was a sophomore. He wanted to paint a mural on that long wall in the industrial wing. Show T.R students at work later in their lives. I hope that in light of this, that mural isn’t forgotten..” Kevin spoke of each person, including Mike LoBianco. Kevin expressed disappointment that he had never met Mike, although he had heard a lot from Mike’s former teach­ers. Mike was a straight ‘A’ student, and a member of Student Council.

“The saddest part of all of this is that these eleven students had earned the right to be on the field that day, because they had spent each moment at T.R making a place for them­selves. And to be blown away,” he said with emo­tion, “Not by natural causes, but by classmates. Children that they’ve walked these halls with, shared a lunch table with or even sat through their math or science classes with. That’s the part that sickens me. We lost some of our best and brightest that day. And for what reason?”

Kevin talked about the person the thirteenth chair represented. “I didn’t know Mrs. Al­verez personally,” he said. “But I do know her children, Oscar and Adrianna. From what they tell me, their Mom barely spoke English. Had a hard time communicating with teachers. She came to the game be­cause Oscar plays sophomore football and Adrianna is part of the Hispanic Heritage Club. Mrs. Alverez instilled in her children what it means to suc­ceed, to be part of a community, and to care about the community.

“My prayers are with the families of all these individuals. With their friends and with the people who cared about them the most. They’ve left an impact here at T.R, and I’m sure that they’ve also left their marks on all other aspects of their lives...”

He introduced Father Paul, Father Tim, Reverend Young, Pastor Ellis and Dr. Reneker. Each shared their memories and offered prayers for the repose of the souls that were lost that day, and for healing. Teachers spoke and friends spoke. There were many tearful moments.

Mario LoBianco, a freshman, was small compared to either of his broth­ers. “I always looked up to Mike,” he said. “When we were little, and Tony and I would get into it, Mike would break it up. He’d protect me. Make Tony apologize, because he was so much bigger than I am. He was fair though. If Tony wanted something and wanted to take it from me, Mike wouldn’t let him. Same thing if I wanted something from Tony that wasn’t mine. Mike taught me to defend myself, and to be fair.

“Tony, though. Tony. He couldn’t do anything wrong. He played football, and basket­ball and ran track. Everyone liked Tony. He had girlfriends, and lots of buddies. Good grades. Him and Hannah were elected Homecoming King and Queen. They were going to be crowned at the dance on that Satur­day night.

“I looked up to both of my brothers. I wanted to be just like them.” A tear glided down Mario’s cheek. “Then that Saturday morning I woke up. I was an only child. I was lonely. I miss them so much.”

Looking at my brother standing there next to me, I had to think about just how I’d feel if someone took Mark away from me. I doubt I’d feel any happier than Mario was.

The next person announced was Linc Weber. A bullet had shattered his shoulder and he wore sling. He was asked to speak of his friendship with Tony LoBianco and Matt Orozco, but instead spoke of another subject. “If you read the paper,” he said. "You read about the Boyle family.” Boos came from the audience. “Stop,” Linc ordered. “What Bobby did was wrong. We were wrong, too. It never occurred to us how much pain we caused. If I could take it all back. If we could make it different...”

“Sit down!” someone yelled. “Boyle was murderer!”

Linc wrapped his hand about the mic, and yanked it from its stand. “You sit down, you jackass!” he cried as the stand bounced off the wooden stage. “You find out what it feels like to be shot! To look at a gun in someone’s hands, and it’s pointed at you. Then let’s see if you got the balls to go through what I went through that Friday night. Then you tell me what I can feel about anything!”

“Bunch of freaks!”

Joe took the mic from Linc. “Enough,” he ordered.

“Sit down, Spyres, you coward!”

“Security, please,” Joe called. “Have that person removed.”

Joe waited, mic in hand, while police officers sifted through the crowd. The mouthy one, a short, heavy set man, moved along, shouting at Joe and at Linc, calling either a coward, or an idiot. Some of his words were lost be­neath the thumping of the wind against the mic. He didn’t let it silence him. He continued to yell as the cops closed in on him. He moved towards the edge of the crowd, and the Ottawa entrance. He bumped into people as he went, and without an apology, continued on, shouting insults at the stage, and hurrying towards the exit. He bumped into one more person, and when he turned to see whom it was, he stopped dead in his tracks. He stared down at Lisa as two officers converged on him. They latched onto his arms and pulled him off. Even as he left, he continued to stare until she was no longer in his sight. Then with an explosion of profan­ity, he returned his attention to the stage. “Fucking freaks,” he yelled. “They’re all freaks and weirdoes! And you’re a coward, Spyres! A coward!”

“Let’s continue,” Joe instructed. “Linc is right. What happened to Megan was unfortu­nate. We learn a little patience, we’d all be easier to live with.” He picked the microphone stand from the ground and replaced the mic.

Marge Kelly, the choral director, took Joe’s place. One of the band mem­bers stepped forward and raised a horn to his lips. He played, and she sang, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound..” The crowd joined her. “..That saved a wretch like me...” We lit can­dles, shed tears, and sang several more hymns before the night ended.

We hurried back to my place. I had to download my photos. I had shots of each speaker, of the cops moving in on that dissenter, and a particularly good one of Linc Weber when he tried to make his point. I had an article to write, and it all had to be emailed by ten. Mark rummaged through the fridge for sweets while I typed.

Mark left by ten, and at I made it back to Joe’s place by ten fifteen. He was watching the news and reading the paper. This is one of those habits that drives me insane, espe­cially when he turns the page with one hand and flips channels by remote with the other. I’ve tried to take the remote away from him, or hide it. He panics. “Where is it? I can’t watch TV without it.” I’ve begged, and complained, and tried to bargain with him; but once he has the remote back, he for­gets I’m there. According to my mother and my sisters, this is a male thing.

He flipped between reports of the memorial on CNN, Fox and Channel Nine News, and we watched our neighbors and ourselves. Reporters asked participants what they thought, how they felt, if there was something that hadn’t been said.

MSNBC brought on a child psychologist from the University of Illi­nois to discuss what type of individual would take part in a school shooting. He said that it is almost al­ways a boy and that boy would be depressed. There would be a good chance that the boy had been bullied and couldn’t effectively respond. A quiet kid, one that no one would expect.

I had to ask Joe. “Have you dealt with any of these kids?”

“What kids?”

“Wayne Devers or Chuck Chandler? I mean I know what kind of kid Bobby Boyle was. What about the other four?”

Joe tried to pretend that he was reading the paper. He shook it out after a minute, folded it and tossed it aside. It took him a good few moments to fo­cus. “The only time I really get to know a kid is when he either works in the office, or when he’s in trouble.” He swallowed deeply and again took a moment. “These kids needed a lot of help. They were drowning at Roose­velt. None of them fit in. Anywhere. Wayne Devers was an animal. Yes, he was small. Yes, he was picked on. And yes, he was weird. He went out of his way to piss people off. Pull pranks, tell lies, what­ever. I’ve pulled him out of lockers and closets, or even garbage cans. He was obnoxious.”

“Intentionally?”

Joe shook his head. “Sometimes. He thought he had a great sense of hu­mor. Couldn’t understand why he shouldn’t say things to kids. He gave Kelly Raye an exercise program he pulled off the Internet. Told her she was fat. Far from it. She was always dieting. Told Matt Orozco that he had fan­tasies about Matt’s girlfriend. As angry as Bobby Boyle was, I’m surprised they got along.”

Joe shook his head again. “That recording you told me about. That had to be Matt Orozco beating up Chuck Chandler. Chuck. You’ve heard the expres­sion idiot savant?”

I nodded. “Are you telling me he was retarded?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not at all. He had the mathematical aptitude that could send him to NASA if he wanted it. He could barely read though. We mainstreamed him for calculus and trig, had him in special ed classes for everything else. Parents complained. They didn’t want their little gen­iuses trapped in the same classroom with him. Obviously he’d hold them back. Tiny kid. Defenseless. Most kids teased the hell out of him, and Matt Orozco pounded on him. Nick Romaro wasn’t hampered by learning dis­abilities. Still. He was small and defenseless. Another target. I spent time with both of them just because they were constantly bullied.

“And Don Bankencrest was a reactionary,” he continued. “The other kids would steal his books, his cell phone, his tablet, or something else, and stand back and laugh while Bankencrest went off. And his mother... Smelled like day old beer and grass smoke most of the time. Come to school for him and wander around in a haze. I swear she was smashed the day she transferred him in. Came from a Catholic school. Expelled because of his temper. The kid was near genius. Earned himself an academic scholarship. St. Al­fonse, I think.” Joe shrugged. “None of these kids, Chuck included, were dumb. Matter of fact all five of them were above average or better.”

Joe picked up his newspaper again. “One more thing,” I said before he spread it out again. “The psychologist was talking about teachers not stop­ping kids from picking on each other. Is he right?”

Joe turned aside for a moment, and fingered the paper before him. “Yeah,” he said, pushing forward. “The Board is gun shy.” The former dean's actions bordered on being abusive. One incident involved a girl with juvenile diabetes. For not turning in homework, he locked her in an office, saying that she couldn’t come out until she finished her assign­ments. Before finishing, she peed her­self, and nearly passed out because she had been forced to skip lunch. The man couldn’t see where he was out of line. After all, she chose not to do her work to begin with. Her mother sued, and he and the rest of the Administra­tion were fired.

Kevin came from outside the District, and Jack came from Austin, which is a District school. Joe came from Roosevelt. He was a good teacher. He was well liked by his stu­dents, considered to be fair, and ambitious. Besides teaching all levels of high school sci­ence, he taught drivers education, coached baseball, basketball and golf, and had served as assistant dean. He made it an easy choice. Asked once what he’d do if he weren’t an educator, he said he’d go to school and get his teaching credentials.

“They’re afraid of getting sued again,” Joe continued. “And you know the kids figured that out. Parents, too. And they use it to their advantage. Two weeks ago. I tried to sus­pend Matt Orozco. I mean when I walked into a classroom, and here he is, punching the hell out of Chandler. The kid is caught up in his desk and can’t move, and here’s Matt, five times Chan­dler’s weight, standing over the top of the kid, punching him. And here I am. Bigger even than Matt, and God help me and the School Board that I should touch him while he’s pounding the hell out of the other kid. We’d be back in court that fast. Worst possible environment for any of these kids.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I talked to Matt’s mother and she wants to know what Chandler did. Her kid had to be pro­voked. He wouldn’t do this on his own. If I’m going to suspend anyone, suspend Chandler for starting it, not Matt. Chandler is a troublemaker and Matt doesn’t do any­thing wrong. Besides it was our mistake for allowing that retard in that class to begin with. Should have put him with his own kind.”

“She actually called him retard?“

He nodded. “Why don’t teachers stop crap like that? Tell me how.”

“I mean there has to be something you can do. Detentions? Extra work maybe?”

“Uh huh. Why am I picking on Matt? He has football practice. If I make him miss it, and the coach benches him, then what? The scout from Notre Dame or Northwestern won’t see him play. I’ve ruined his chance at a scholarship. I give him extra work, and then I’m being unfair. If he doesn’t do it, his Mom said it was okay. Never mind a Satur­day detention; she wouldn’t make him serve it. And if I won’t listen to her, maybe I’ll listen to her attorney.”

“Chuck Chandler’s parents?” I asked. “Why didn’t they do anything?”

He hit the remote and changed to a PBS station. Three psychologists were arguing about warning signs. “Yes, expect this, but don’t expect that.” “No, you’re wrong. A child who will commit murder isn’t necessarily cruel. Ex­pect him to do that.” “Since when? Where did you read that?”

Joe finally responded. “I doubt they paid enough attention to the kid to realize the trou­ble he was in. I tried calling. Tried to talk to his mother. She was too busy, couldn’t make time from work even to return my call.”

I whistled softly under my breath. “If the dean had called my Mom when I was at Roo­sevelt, she’d have knocked the crap out of me when I got home.”

“You didn’t get in trouble much when you went to Roosevelt, did you?”

“No.”

“Hump.” He glanced up at the TV, nodding at the psychologists. “Parents knock the crap out of their kids today, and I’m legally required to call the Department of Children and Family Services about it.”

It took a moment to get my courage up. “Why didn’t you call on Bobby and Megan?”

“Megan?” He studied me. “I never saw her. I did call on Bobby. Three times last Spring alone. At least once in September. According to their caseworker, they weren’t in any real danger. A couple of bruises are a hell of a lot different from a serious threat.” He contin­ued to watch me. Frustra­tion, pain, something settled into his eyes. “D.C.F.S.,” he said, “Is so over­loaded now. I doubt they took a good look at the Boyle home.” 

“Oh.”

“Like I said, I see the kids that are in trouble. They’re the kids whose par­ents are likely to stand up for them no matter what. Rose stood up for Bobby. I think more because she was afraid of what Rob would do if he found out.” Joe scratched his ear. “It’s usually the kids, though, who aren’t disciplined, that feel the need to take out their aggressions on kids smaller than they are. Like crying out for discipline. If their parents won’t give it to them, they’ll give it to someone else.”

“You’re being silly now.”

“Maybe.” He picked up his paper and opened it. “The thing is when a kid thinks he can get away with murder, he usually tries it.”

“I thought Matt was a good kid.”

“Most of the time.”

Bill Ramos told me about the man removed from the memorial. He was wasted. “Never would have been that brave without his gin and tonic,“ Bill remark. His girlfriend bailed him out shortly after the memorial ended and the field had cleared.

Mark said that he stopped at Pinky’s Tap when he left me. Not an hour later the guy showed up and ordered another. “Had a few too many things to say about the Memorial, and about the people involved,” Mark commented. “Turned my stomach. This asshole was probably sitting right there on the same stool the night it happened.”

The residents of our little town collectively gasped the day the scandal rag ‘Proof’ hit the stands. I saw it first when my neighbor, a woman with silver hair and bifocals, caught up to me in the refrigerated aisle of the local gro­cery store. I had just opened an egg car­ton, when she slapped the paper down on the open carton, and broke several eggs. “I knew this would happen. I knew it,” she cried.

“What’s that?” I tried to extract the copy from my now scrambled eggs, but she had me pinned, nearly knocking me into the refrigerated case.

Other shoppers tried to get around me as she pressed in. “That recording you wrote about. These idiots have it now,” she growled. “You couldn’t hide it or something? Or you sell it to someone?”

“What recording? No.” I shook out the paper. Egg white dripped between my fingers. The man from the apartment upstairs from Joe, peaked over my shoulder. The pair sandwiched me between them, and it took everything I had not to lose my footing. I strained to read the headlines. It was soaked in egg and the headlines and photos from the backside came right through. Still, I struggled, but I caught it. ‘Final pictures of the Portland Five.’ I saw something that might have looked like one of the boys, maybe Nick, the small, dark kid, being eaten by Hitler’s mummified head. “No,” I said, pushing it at her. “I still have it.”

“You didn’t sell it?” the woman demanded. “Make a pretty good buck off of it?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then where did this come from?” the man demanded over my shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

Another familiar face, a younger woman, pushed in. She gawked at the headline.

“I had nothing to do with this,” I cried. “Honest to God. I still have the disk.”

“Was it bad?” the first woman asked. “Like this?”

“Bad enough.” The paper sold out before I made it to the checkout counter.

Joe picked up a copy at the gas station later that day. “It was the only one they had left,” he explained. “God only knows I don’t want to support these jackasses. I just don’t want to see any more people hurt.” He shook his head as he studied the picture on the front. It was Nick Romaro being physically thrust into a locker. Inside there were more photos of the attack that ended with Nick’s feet sticking out of a garbage can. There were a few of Wayne Devers. In one photo, he made faces at the security camera. In the next sev­eral boys were chasing him through the cafeteria. I was surprised though, that there weren’t pictures taken of the boys with their handguns at the for­est preserves.

“If I tell you I still have the disk, will you believe me?”

“You? Yeah. On the other hand, our security company lost the main­frame.”

“What mainframe?”

“Remember? Homecoming. The main monitor crapped out. Repairman said it was the mainframe. Tape stuck inside.” He spent the next hour on the phone with the security company. School was due to open soon and no way did he want to begin the rest of the school year without a working security system. At last, he reported, the company prom­ised to replace it.

When I checked my e-mail later that evening, I found a ton. ‘Where is the recording?’ ‘Why did you sell it?’ ‘I hope you made a lot of money, because all we have is grief.’

When I told Tom about it, he told me he would revisit that story. An hour later he called me back. “Do you still have your copy?” he asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason. Just thought I’d ask. Stop by with it tomorrow, and I’ll keep it here with the copy we made.”

A full day passed before he wrote something. He began an editorial with ‘In response to the e-mail and snail mail the paper received over this issue, we decided to show and dis­cuss exactly what was in our recording..... No, it is not the same one that ‘Proof’ has, although the contents are similar....” 

Link to Chapter VI