Chapter VI

VI

School began after the community had a chance to say goodbye, the school had been cleaned and the damage repaired. Several long discussions with Joe, Kevin Mahoney, Jack Harnett and others resulted in a one day re­structuring of class time. First period be­gan with the students meeting in the gym. This was Joe’s idea, and something he pressed hard for. He got it only when he agreed that the Portland Police should also be repre­sented. Later he said he was glad.

The kids filed in slowly, cautiously glancing about. They were instructed to sit on the floor about the space center most where inter­locking horseshoes had been painted. The kids divided themselves into two groups. Joe said he didn’t understand why at first, but then someone pointed at Lisa, remarking that she was Bobby Boyle’s cousin. That’s when it oc­curred to Joe that these kids might have read Terry O’Malley’s article about the escaped gun­man. Lisa had saved lives before, and the kids who sat in her shadow must have decided that she might protect them if someone else whipped out a gun and began shooting. Another group of students kept their distance.

Then something exploded. Six hundred kids, staff and administrators dropped to their bellies as a metal trash can bounced off a brick wall.

Joe caught his breath when he heard the laughter from the far corner of the gym. One of the freshman boys had tossed an M-80 into a trash can. Ed Sonchek and Ruth Ellen de Beor got to him before someone else could. “It was a joke, dude. A joke,” the boy in­sisted. “Hey, where’s your sense of humor?”

Quietly, the kids picked themselves up and dusted themselves off as the boy was re­moved. “If everyone will have a seat.” Kevin spoke, using a mi­crophone hooked up to a portable sound system. “We’ll get going.” He told me later that he found it eerie that this many kids could respond so quickly and so quietly. In no time he stood on the interlock­ing horseshoes and began the meeting.

The acoustics are bad. The floors are highly polished wood, and the walls are made of bricks. Spoken words are lost under the sound of every bang or shoe scuff echoing and reechoing throughout the gym. This was the only venue large enough for six hundred people. Echoes or not, this event would only happen once.

“Okay,” Kevin began, “We’d like to take the time to welcome everyone back, and to say thank God there’s so many of you here. We have a couple of things to discuss before we begin the school day. First off, the school board plans to have metal detectors installed at the front and rear doors. Per­sonally, I’m against it. Mr. Spyres, Mr. Harnett and most of the faculty agree with me. I’d like to believe that the Homecoming incident is a once in a life time ordeal, and that we will never have to face something that hor­rendous again.

“Teachers are passing out paper and pencils. I’m going to ask you to vote on the sub­ject. ‘Yes’ for installing metal detectors, or ‘No’ for not installing them. I won’t guarantee that the School Board will listen to you, but I am hoping that if you feel better not having them, that they will take that into consideration when they make the ultimate decision. Before you vote, I’m asking for individual input. One at a time. Raise your hands if you have something to say, and I will come to you with the mic. Okay, who’s going to be first?”

The first person to raise a hand was a girl. Quietly, she came to her feet. “Mr. Mahoney, I’d feel better. I mean, I was three feet away from Tony LoBianco when it happened. I mean, I’m scared. I dream about it.”

Kevin nodded. “Okay, I can understand that. Another comment? Any­one?”

One of the football players raised a hand. When Kevin approached him, the boy re­mained in place, staring at a ceiling fixture. “You know what? I’m against metal detec­tors. Only because I’m carrying my car keys and my cell phone. On the other hand, I get my hands on that jackass out there with the fire cracker, and I’ll punch his freaking lights out.”

“Now that’s the problem right here.” A black girl hopped to her feet and pointed at the football player. “You want to talk about jackasses. It’s idiots like you that caused all of this. Freaking bullies. Freaking humiliating.”

“Sit down, bitch.”

“Hey,” Kevin called. “We’ll keep this civil.” He brought the mic to the girl. “You have something to say, we want to hear it. Keep it clean.” He handed her the mic.

“All I got to say is this. If anyone of those kids were shown a little more kindness, they’d be alive right now, and so would the others.”

“And you don’t know what you’re talking about.” The football player stood up. “Wayne Devers was a slime ball, and Bobby Boyle, God only knows what his problem was. The other ones? Ha! Romaro and Chandler were punks, and so was that new kid.”

“That’s it right there,” the girl cried. “Your never freaking gave any of them a chance. Freaking punch them out for the hell of it. And you know what? Tony LoBianco and Matt Orozco was worst than anyone else. Don’t surprise me none that they’re dead.”

A ruckus began, kids yelling and waving their fists. Kevin took back the mic. “All right, calm down,” he called. “Now.” Joe said that the police be­gan to push through the crowd. The kids noticed and quieted. “Now,” Kevin began again. “Anyone else have anything to say?” 

A girl stood, straightened her skirt, and lifted her chin. Kevin handed her the mic. She turned in Joe’s direction. “Two weeks ago, I was in my trig class. And here’s Matt Orozco punching out Chuck Chandler. And nothing. I want to know why he wasn’t sus­pended. I mean, he thinks he can punch out anyone he wants to and he gets away with it.”

“Sit down,” the football player yelled again. “You stupid cunt.”

Kevin took the mic back, and turned towards the aggressor. “One more outbreak, and I will have you removed as well.”

“Go ahead. Take me out, and my old lady’s calling a lawyer. See if she doesn’t.”

“Let’s see if she does,” Kevin responded. “Officer, please.” He lowered the mic and waited.

Ed walked up an aisle that the kids made for him. He stopped over the football player, and tapped his shoulder. The boy knocked away Ed’s gloved hand. Ed tapped again. The next time the boy raised his hands to knock Ed’s away, Ed knocked the kid on his face. In a blink he had both of the kid’s hands behind his back and cuffed. With Ruth Ellen’s help, they moved the kid up the same aisle and out of the gym. The others about him cheered.

Kevin brought the mic back to where Joe stood. “My answer to your ques­tion,” Joe be­gan, “Is frustration. I agree with you wholeheartedly. Why Matt wasn’t suspended, or any number of other students when they have misbe­haved in that manner is simply because the School Board has given into the pressure of parents who threaten to call attorneys. Personally, rather than installing metal detectors, I’d prefer to see a get tough policy con­cerning suspensions. I'd prefer peer mediation, and I'd prefer not to be forced to give into the threats of lawsuits or intimidation of any kind.”

Joe said that most kids applauded, and some stood and stamped their feet. Some, the chronic disciplinary problems, faded to the back of the room.

Later, Joe said, the girl who first reacted to the football player’s comment stopped Joe between periods. “Mr. Spyres,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong. Taking up a gun and blowing someone away ain’t no solution to nothing. I’m just tired of being pushed around.”

“Believe me,” Joe told her, “I understand.”

Grief counselors met with homeroom classes. They suggested that the kids think of a way to memorialize their friends. Student Council met after school to discuss this. They came up with two ideas they wanted to put into affect as quickly as possible.

First, they wanted to sell orange and black ribbons, and use the money to set up a scholarship fund. Using some of the money from the split-the-pot raffle I had sold tickets for the day of the shooting, they bought curling ribbon and safety pins. Volunteers met after school for the next three days to tie bows with several interlocking loops and curly ends. The bows sold for three dollars each. Merchants in Portland began making and selling them, too. Soon it was hard to find someone on the street without an orange and black ribbon on his jacket or in her hair.

I photographed a young man who had pinned them on his baseball cap, all over his jacket and up and down both legs of his jeans. He pointed them out. “There’s one here for each person. But there’s three and four for my friends. Here’s one for Kelly, and a few for Raul, and over here is another one for Kelly. And over here is a second one for Derrick.” I wrote about how the ribbons came about and where residents could buy them.

The other idea was to permanently place the same pictures that sat on chairs during the memorial in the main floor display case, just inside the front door. Students and teachers began to donate things that they thought should be included with the pictures. There were sheet music, pompoms, a football helmet, a baton, a paintbrush and a tube of paint, and a number of photos taken at the memorial. Someone tossed in a pack of Big Red, which was Matt Orozco’s favorite brand of chewing gum.

I spoke to a grief counselor named Mr. Smith. A number of people came to see him, including Joe and Kevin. “I could never violate the trust placed in me by telling you what each person had to say. If you’re interested, I can speak in generic terms.” I was curious. He said that teachers have a tendency to blame them­selves for not recognizing warning signs, and most everyone exhibited signs of survivor’s guilt. Our kids, he said, were remorseful. Many of them spoke about having patience or restraining their aversions to other kids. Many more spoke about the frustrations of being bullied. One or two, he said, didn’t understand why they were being humiliated now. Survival of the fit­test. This had been their school, and they behaved accordingly. They didn’t like the idea that other kids, faculty and administrators were calling for tougher standards.

Tom Koehler called me on the first day of school. It was an election year, and time for me to get back to reality. He wanted me to travel to Grainger for a press conference. The incumbent state senator and representative had joined forces to design a program that would educate educators about how to spot potential shooters.

“Can’t Terry do it?” I asked.

“Nope. Terry received another offer. Let me think. Oh, I remember. He’s working for ‘Proof’. At least this week anyway. Besides, this ties in real nicely with everything else happening in Portland,” he said. “Right up your alley.”

“Thanks a lot.”

I hoped my car battery would act up again, and it did. Too conveniently, Bill Ramos passed me on his way into work. Once he noticed my hood up, he pulled over. He smiled through clenched teeth and the inevitable cigar smoke that followed him everywhere now, and pushed his hair from his eyes.

“I thought you’d be mad at me,” I said as he connected a clip to a battery mount.

“Thought about it real hard.” He squinted at me through the smog he created with his cigar. He looked rested as compared to the last time I we talked. Still, he looked hurt. “The way I figure, you’re just doing your job. You murder someone or hold up a convenience store, you’ll see how fast I can do mine.”

I shook my head. “Not planning on it.”

He smiled. He clipped the next battery mount and turned to clip the mounts in his car. “Tell me something, Annie. You ever meet Mike LoBi­anco?”

“No. Why do ask?”

“No reason. Just thinking about him lately.” He hopped into his car and I hopped into mine. It took a moment for my engine to turn over. Once it did, I joined him again, and helped to remove the clips from either car. “Mike,” he said. “Good kid. Smart, too. Could have gone a good way in the Depart­ment if he could put his emotions behind him. I think when he saw his brother fall, he lost it. Should have known better than try to sneak up on Boyle.” He frowned, and puffed, and visibly shook it off his anger as he handed me the ca­bles. He forced himself to smile again. “Tell me some­thing else. You and Joe get married, you going to ask him for a new car or not?”

“A new battery maybe. Even if he wanted to buy me a new car, I wouldn’t let him.”

Illinois State Senator John O’Brien and Representative Caroline Swaaringa rented out the Comfort Inn’s conference room. I came hungry, and the array of fin­ger foods and soft drinks proved more interesting than the discussion. By the time the pair made the podium, I had managed a brownie and a deviled egg. Senator O’Brien paused for a quick picture, and then referred to a pa­per written by Dr. Elizabeth Llewelyn about children facing in­surmountable odds because of changes in society and the traditional family unit. “If ree­lected,” O’Brien began, “Representative Swaaringa and I will work to bring together the most distinguished group of experts we can find. Hopefully if Dr. Llewelyn will agree to participate. With their help, we will develop guide­lines for educators to help them iden­tify potential shooters. This way, hope­fully, we will eliminate the future possibility of a tragedy the scope of the Roosevelt Homecoming shootings. And if we are reelected, you have my guarantee that we will continue to work together, concentrating on reestab­lishing the traditional family unit.”

I could picture tomorrow’s headlines. ‘State to legislate marriage, divorce, remarriage, single mothers, children born out of wedlock and potential school shootings.’ Right. I heard enough. I gathered up my camera, cassette player, notebook, pen and half eaten brownie, and left behind the egg. Damn them for turning our pain into a political football.

My cell phone rang as I drove, and I pulled over to answer it. “Where are you?” Joe asked.

“Midlothian. Almost home.”

“Why? Where were you?”

“Press conference in Grainger. O’Brien and Swaaringa are promising to develop pro­grams that would help educators spot potential shooters, if they’re reelected.”

“Won’t that make everything easier?”

“Yep. How was school?”

“Good. Very good. You up to dinner out? Us, the Mahoneys and the Har­netts.”

“I am if you keep smiling. Just let me feed my cats.”

“Fluffy and Duffy. If I shave my rear end and pass gas, will you hurry home for me, too?”

“Try it and we’ll see.”

“Right. Meet me here, and we’ll walk.”

We met the Mahoneys and the Harnetts at the Portland Cafe. I barely know Jack Har­nett. Two days after the shooting, when Kevin came for Joe, I had to ask who he was. I know Nancy Harnett as the spokesperson at Robbinson Memorial. When the first shoot­ing victims arrived, Nancy fed tidbits about their care and their condition to the media. When Kelly Raye died, Nancy broke the news. When the subject of their meeting with the kids came up, she turned on me. “I don’t get why it is that you have to defend these fiends.”

“I’m not defending them.”

“They were bullied? Bull. They were thugs and murderers. I don’t know where you get this crap from.”

“From me,” Joe broke in.

“And you’ll defend them then?”

“Nope.”

“But you’re going to tell me that these kids were bullied and you guys did nothing to help them?”

“Yep.” Joe opened his menu briefly, but then set it aside. “I feel like we accomplished something today. I wish we could have done it a month ago.”

“Amen.” Kevin raised his water glass. “To tough suspension policies.”

Jack and Joe followed, clinking glasses with Kevin. “I only hope the school board backs us up this time,” Jack commented.

Nancy Harnett’s opinion wasn’t as outlandish as I thought at the time. My mother asked me the next day why I sided with these brutes.

Chief Art Weber had planned a media blitz, and used me to do it. The po­lice continued to work on locating the source of the weapons used by what became known as the ‘Portland Five.’ Ed Sonchek called me on my cell phone, and then came for me. Art passed on well-chosen information. One night he wanted to discuss further reports from the Medical Examiners.

On the night that we shared our dinner with the Harnetts and the Mahon­eys, Ed picked me up at the restaurant and drove me to the police depart­ment firing range where I saw a demonstration. Art wanted to discuss 'rifling,' or how the bullet casings are scarred from the act of firing a weapon. He explained that each weapon leaves a signature mark, what he described as a 'fingerprint.' He said that three weapons, same make and caliber, would leave three separate 'fingerprints'. He showed me shells, and compared the scaring caused by the same weapon and different weapons. He said that the FBI was comparing shell casings picked up at the stadium to shell casings recovered during the commission of other crimes.

“We’re looking for high tech weapons,” he con­tinued. “Not exactly what you’d find on the streets.” He went on to show me several automatic hand guns. “These are usually used in combat. What these kids used could have and should have caused more destruction than they did.” These weapons, he said fired at a high rate of speed. They are compact, meaning they could easily by hidden under the trench coats they wore, and they are very accurate. The grips are loaded with magazines. Like something we’d see in movies or TV of late. When someone runs out of bullets, they’d reload quickly by throwing the last magazine aside and shoving a new one up the grip. “This is what people are objecting to,” Chief Weber went on to explain. “A normal size magazine holds nine shots. Mass shooters have been buying magazines holding up to thirty shells. It allows them the time it takes to change magazines to keep on shooting. More victims, less time to become a target themselves.

“In my opinion,” Art went on, “I don’t think they actually considered leaving the stadium that night, even if it meant hopping the fence along the creek. And considering the damage they could have caused, I think they cherry picked their targets. Maybe the football team and some of the cheerleaders. They obviously tried to avoid Lisa.”

On Friday night, Joe made plans for a nice dinner out, just us. Art called me in to tell me about how they located the store where the ‘Portland Five’ purchased their trench coats and fedoras. Ed picked me up not long later.

“Is there a point to this?” I asked Bill.

“I think Art wants to keep this story alive until we really find something.”

“After that fiasco with the tapes, I don’t think he has to worry much.” We were beginning to receive a lot of hate mail protesting our lack of support for Second Amendment rights.

When I finished up at the police station, I returned to Joe’s apartment, and shared a cold stack of White Castle hamburgers with him. His mood changed from expectant to moody. I was disappointed.

The remarks about defending these brutes had me wondering about what it was that drove these boys to do what they did. A lot of kids are bullied, and most don’t pick up weapons. I wanted to know why these kids were differ­ent. I wanted to know what their home lives were like. I checked police rec­ords, and I talked to people who claimed to know the families.

Claudia Devers had several convictions for drug possession and solicita­tion. She gave birth to Warren in jail, while awaiting trial. Grandma took care of him until Mom finished a two year sentence. Claudia kind of cleaned her act up after that.

Warren, though, had his own record. From what Bill told me, most of it sounded more serious than it was. One charge was destruction of personal property. Bill said that Warren had tossed a brick of firecrackers into a plastic garbage can. He also tried to defend himself against another student. The other boy used his fists as a weapon. Warren pulled a knife. Warren was still outmatched.

Nick Romaro’s parents owned an antique store in Uptown Portland. They divorced a couple of years before, and from what I understand, had one hell of a battle over the divi­sion of property. They fought over the house, cars, furniture, pets, tennis rackets, and Nick became a pawn either parent used to strike out at the other. In spite of that, they kept their business relationship going and their store as well.

Joe told me that Nick spent most of his time sulking.

Chuck Chandler’s father refused to claim his son’s body from the Medical Exam­iner. This whole mess was his ex’s fault because she was terrible mother. Let her deal with it. She could bury the kid, too.

A week had passed before she and Chuck’s stepfather had returned from vacation. Mom said she had seen reports on TV about the shooting but didn’t asso­ciate Chuck with it. She didn’t know who Chuck hung around with. When police were fi­nally able to search her home, they found he had a computer, TV, stereo and game sys­tems just like what he had at his Dad’s house. Chuck even had duplicate CD’s, movies and games.

I could imagine Bill and the wall of smoke that built up as he considered either of the Chuck’s parents. Of all these people, Bill said, he found them the most sorry.

Don Bankencrest was the eldest of four children, none of whom shared the same father. Marie Bankencrest was known for her strange work hours, and that she cur­rently supported a lover. According to the neighbors, the kids wandered about unsuper­vised, and music blasted all day and all night. The boyfriend, Manny, or Emanuel Ortiz, was never seen without a cigarette or joint behind his ear and a beer can in one hand. The neighbors guessed him to be in his early to mid twenties.

Again, I could picture Bill and his wife, and how badly they wanted chil­dren. 

Link to Chapter VI *