The plastic name band on her wrist read: Weisz, Erica. I didn’t tell them everything, she thought. It gave her relief, made her feel safe, at least for now. But that wouldn’t last long. She needed to make a plan; first, she needed to make a phone call.
The phone rang at Robert Moral’s home. Moral was in his office, on the computer, playing Slots Jungle Casino. Netbet.org had given it a ‘#6’ rating, so he dived right in. Let his wife answer the phone. He heard her banging around in the kitchen then shuffling over to pick it up.
‘If it’s those vultures from MasterCard,’ he hollered to her, ‘tell them I already sent a payment, and it is illegal – make sure you tell them it’s against the law – to call a debtor’s home and hassle them.’
‘But …’ she began.
Moral lost two hundred dollars on his opening bid at a double-down blackjack game. It infuriated him. If he hadn’t been distracted … ‘Just fucking tell them!’ he roared.
His wife padded to his office as quiet as a cat, her hand over the phone receiver.
‘It isn’t MasterCard,’ she said, trying to ease the bitterness she found in her own voice. ‘I think it’s that woman. I think she’s called before. I recognized the area code.’
She handed him the phone abruptly, glancing at the on-screen gambling site as if it were child pornography. She whirled and left the room; a woman with a heart of gold encased in a two-hundred-twenty-pound bag of cellulite that assured she would hold little regard for herself and forever put up with shit from her husband.
Moral licked his lips with a scotch-dried tongue. He tried to clear his throat, then helped himself to another gulp of booze: J & B’s. He winced. No more Johnny Walker Green Label. Hell, not even black or red label these days. These days. But he’d get back there. Right after the next big day at the track. Or the tables. The real tables. Not these virtual games that were probably rigged to begin with.
‘This is Deputy Moral,’ he said. Nothing. But, he could hear breathing. It was her. It had to be. And she knew. Guilt welled up in him like a longing for another hit at the table.
‘Mildred?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Are you okay?’ he tried. ‘Can you talk?’
Just the breathing.
‘Millie,’ he said, gathering his courage after another swig of cheap scotch, ‘I’m working on another plan. Don’t worry. Stay where you are, and go to safe haven ‘B’. We’re going to send in an extrication team. You’re safe. I’m coming down myself. Okay?’
There was a cough; someone clearing a throat. Then, a click on the other end of the line, a dial tone that seemed to grow louder with every beat of Moral’s heart. He felt an icy sweat form on the back of his neck and lower back. He realized, with growing trepidation, that the caller might not have been the woman. Oh fuck! he thought.
‘Honey?’ he pleaded. ‘Did you recognize the area code on that call?’
‘I think it was from Las Vegas, dear.’
But she wasn’t in Las Vegas anymore. His voice quivering, he said, ‘You better pack me a bag. I’m going to have to leave. It’s … uh, work.’
‘We have breaking news,’ said Gail Summer, looking wearier than she had earlier in the day. ‘It has now been confirmed that one of the shooters, nineteen-year-old David Edward Coody, was critically wounded, but has survived. He is currently in a medically induced coma; a decision made by doctors that will allow him to recover if they can control the swelling in his brain. Evidently, a bullet, possibly fired by one of the teachers, hit him in the neck but travelled up and pierced part of his brain. If he does survive, this will be an unusual twist to this recent surge of school shootings where most of the gunmen end up dead, usually by their own hands.
‘Adding to this tragedy,’ she continued, ‘is the discovery of two more bodies, found at the home of Coody’s mother, Shelly Granger. It appears, at this time, before going to the school, Coody stopped at his mother’s home early this morning and shot her. Evidently, Coody did not live with his mother. He lived with his father, Ellis Coody, who divorced Shelley Granger seven years ago. A second body, thought to be Shelley Granger’s husband, Ernest Granger, was also found. Both of them had been shot multiple times.
‘We also now know, from several law enforcement agencies’ sources, that the second gunman was 41-year-old Franklin Michael Shadtz, a man David Coody recently befriended. Not much is known about Frank Shadtz who, apparently, up to six weeks ago, lived in the Chicago area. It is unknown how the two gunmen met, or exactly what their relationship was.
‘Agents from the ATF and FBI responded to David Coody’s house after some non-detonated explosives were found at the Granger home. They were met by an uncooperative Ellis Coody, the father of the shooter, who was arrested for interfering with a police investigation. Forensics teams have seized computers at the home, but reports have come back saying the hard drives may have been erased or destroyed.
‘And, in another breaking story from Florida,’ she went on to report, ‘a six-year-old boy shot and killed his four-year-old brother last night, after finding one of his father’s loaded guns in the bedroom. The father, a former firefighter, owned sixteen guns. Police say all were loaded, and none had trigger locks. The six-year-old is in the custody of Florida’s Department of Family and Children’s Services as of this morning. Police officials say the father has been arrested and may be charged with manslaughter …’
Bullock pulled Thiery off to the side while the governor briefed his press secretary.
‘Justin, I know you don’t care for the man, but you’re smart enough to know who butters your bread. I’m almost out the door, but if you handle this case as well as I know you can, they might look at you to replace me.’
Thiery frowned at him. ‘That’s supposed to be some kind of incentive?’
Bullock shrugged his shoulders, sweat beginning to bead on his shining black scalp as he cooked under the sun. There were bags under his bulging eyes, and his jowls hung like leather satchels on a big, beefy Harley-Davidson.
‘I can’t be a politician like you, Jim. I still like being a cop too much.’
‘Thanks, man. Why don’t you just kick me in the balls?’ Bullock said, allowing a slight smile. ‘Well, if you don’t want my job, try to keep cool so you don’t lose yours.’
‘I’m sorry, Jim. You were a good cop, too, but you know how it is; I can’t stand someone up my ass.’
‘You knew there were going to be increased responsibilities when you came to work with me. Don’t blow it now. You can last a few more years, can’t you?’
Thiery looked at the ground, his hands in his pockets. ‘Sometimes, I think I can’t last another five minutes when I get around this governor.’
‘Oh, c’mon. Hang in there. Show him what you can do. Hell, at the rate he’s going, he won’t be in office another term.’
‘We can only hope. Okay. Sure. You know I’ll do my best.’
‘You going to be able to work with Logan again?’ asked Bullock.
Thiery chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘Working with her was never the problem.’
‘I know,’ said Bullock, his tone consolatory. ‘You had a tough enough time raising the boys after Adrienne left. Then, the shit you got from your own department … ’
‘You