The drive from Orlando to Frosthaven was soporific. The air conditioning in the car held the shimmering outside heat at bay, but made Thiery’s eyelids heavy. He felt as if he was dreaming as he drove into the nightmare ahead. Crows stood along the arid road as if too tired to fly, their beaks parted, pointed tongues jutting out as if issuing a silent warning. The topography was mostly flat; wildlands turned into cattle pastures or citrus farms. A cow’s skull hung on the gate of a ranch he passed. One stretch of highway looked exactly like the last, but Thiery grew more anxious with each passing mile. There was a segment of I-4, then on to US 27, a two-lane road that provided a singular hopeful moment when it snaked through Lake Wales where the old Bok, or ‘Singing’ Tower stood, its bells tolling as Thiery drove by. The area’s small hills and moss-covered oaks reminded him of his home in northern Florida and made him long to be there.
He listened to the carillons playing, a melancholy sound that reminded him of the music from Phantom of the Opera. He slowed the car and opened the windows to hear the haunting sounds better, then found himself thinking of masked gunmen bearing assault weapons, strafing their way through a small schoolhouse filled with frightened children. He became filled with an empty sadness, then anger, considering the incongruity of the beautiful music and the atrocious event that had brought him here. He never had to worry about such tragedies when his boys were at school, and he wondered what was happening to society as a whole. Was it lost? Could it get any worse? In just over a year, the country had gone through the Aurora theatre shootings, the Sandy Hook shootings, and the Boston Marathon bombing, all perpetrated by young men, most, barely out of their teens.
He thought of his sons, Owen and Leif, and wondered how they were doing. He tried to call them, just to check on them, but neither answered. He made a mental note to try again when he got settled in to whatever cheap motel he could find.
Thiery stopped at a convenience store to get a soda. While browsing the shelves, he watched a couple pull up to the gas pumps. They both got out of the car. The man had no arms and his wife placed something in his top shirt pocket before grabbing the pump handle and inserting it into the car. Thiery noted she had huge biceps and wondered if it was because she had to do more with her arms because her husband could not. The man came into the store. He nodded to the clerk and leaned forward, obviously a regular customer there. The clerk withdrew a credit card from the armless man’s shirt pocket and looked out the window to see which pump he was at. Thiery marvelled at the symbiotic relationship the trio shared. His loneliness bore down on him again, and he tried to shrug it off as he got back into his car and onto the road.
Thirty minutes later, he arrived in Frosthaven. It was easy to find the only elementary school in town. The governor had beaten him to the scene by about fifteen minutes. Thiery was pleased with that. He didn’t want to arrive together and appear to be Croll’s gopher boy, though in truth, that was exactly what he was. Thiery was comfortable talking with the press, but didn’t want to try to talk over the governor as they searched for the right words to address a community undoubtedly in shock and looking for answers that would not be easily forthcoming.
He parked the car and saw the governor already talking to the media. Generator-fed lights beamed bright spots into his face before the sunset. Croll looked like a small nocturnal creature caught in the shadows. Thiery knew he should go over and stand next to him as he, in turn, would designate the FDLE as the organization that would be taking over the investigation. But the thought of asking the local police chief to step aside while he and Croll bathed in the limelight did not appeal to him. He decided, instead, to take a quick look at the school, first. The governor was in love with the cameras, and it would be a perfect opportunity for him to remind everyone what a wonderful, caring man he was. Thiery expected he would milk every second of it.
He noted dozens of memorials had already been placed on the sidewalk: pastel teddy bears, bouquets of flowers, signs made up with words like ‘God Bless you, Dr Montessi’ and ‘We will never forget you, Mrs LaForge’, written with magic markers in a rainbow of colour. ‘So long, Mr Swan’, ‘Thanks for taking care of us, Nurse Nora. Now, God will take care of you’. Candles lined the path and flickered in the slight breeze. Crude, white crosses made out of pressure-treated furring strips stuck in the grass. Several children, embraced by their parents, sang softly as they rocked back and forth, comforting each other.
Thiery pushed past the yellow plastic crime-scene tape that surrounded the school and identified himself to the phalanx of Calusa County Sheriff deputies who stood guard. One of them radioed his supervisor for the okay to allow the FDLE agent inside.
Thiery entered the main office first, as the shooters had. The reception desk had been shredded by bullets. Walls were pocked with holes. There were blood stains on the tile floors, marker tape where bodies had fallen, a red smear on the wall, ending in a handprint. Thiery noted something he couldn’t quite make out, lying on the desk in a dried pool of blood. He produced a small Mag light he kept with him and shone it on the puddle. Bone fragments and broken teeth. He wondered if the person they belonged to had lived, and if so, what did he or she look like, now?
He caught himself holding his breath, trying not to inhale the death-filled air, as if by doing so, he was in some metaphysical way taking something from the victims. He shook off the feeling and tried to breathe through his mouth, so he wouldn’t smell the burnt scent of carnage.
He proceeded slowly down the hall, passing another taped outline next to a janitor’s work cart and another blood stain, its edges smudged, probably from the victim rolling around in pain. He continued on.
Around the corner, he saw yet another taped outline and began to feel anger building up inside. He tried to push it away and remain objective, professional, but he’d always been a man ruled by his emotions and not his intellect. True, it was a detriment as a law officer, but people are who they are; with very few exceptions, that can’t be changed.
He focused on a ceiling light, blown off by a shotgun blast. Hanging precariously from a piece of electrical conduit pipe, it swung slowly back and forth, like a metronome, the acoustic ceiling tiles around it dotted like Swiss cheese.
Thiery began to look into the classrooms. Nothing of note in the first few. Then he came to one where the door was battered and its window shattered. Entering the room, he discovered another taped outline and scattered bullet casings with small, numbered notes next to them. Had to be one of the gunmen. He looked around the room, observing the devastation: the closet where the children must have taken refuge, a pile of overturned desks. Plywood had been affixed to the blown out windows, but a steady, cool wind crept into the room. Thiery shivered as he saw a small pink shoe with a single drop of blood on it. His eyes grew moist and his jaw muscles flexed involuntarily. He thought of his sons again, remembering them as school-age kids, confused and angry about a mother who had simply left them behind one day. Dropped them at school and disappeared. They directed their anger at him for being a cop who worked all the time, but couldn’t even find his own wife. In spite of that, they’d grown up okay, if a bit distant from him.
Thiery looked down, surprised to see his fists clenched.
He exited the classroom and resumed his tour of the hall, past more taped outlines, more emptied cartridges and shotgun shells, more numbered tags next to them. More blood. The smell of gunpowder had permeated the walls and ceiling, and the coppery scent of blood assaulted his nostrils.
Via email and texts on his tablet, Thiery had been getting updates throughout the day from the local police agencies involved and had finally received the names of all the victims. With the exception of the janitor, they were all women. He wondered about that. Were there no men teachers? If so, why weren’t some of them shot? Wouldn’t they be more likely to confront a shooter? Typically, one doesn’t find many male teachers at an elementary school, but it seemed to him there should be some.
He completed his initial reconnaissance of the school and followed his path back through the U-shaped building, jotting down notes on his iPad and checking for any new reports coming in. As he went back through the main office he came to the nurses’ station. The window of