Crying Bullets

COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Conrad Johnson

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

Conrad Johnson: http://www.writersalive.com

What others have said about Conrad Johnson's writing:

Johnson is a master of pace, setting and plot.--Rebecca Forster, USA Today Best Selling author.

Johnson is the master of the blow-the-MF-away genre, the man who chronicled our lethal addiction to self-destructive violence and the total devaluation of the human organism in a tsunami of narcissism and childish worship of guns.--John D. Rachel

For Sweet Pea

The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it. --Albert Einstein

Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called sons of God.--Matthew 5:9

Chapter One

Death does not become a child. Small caskets are not cute nor quaint like handmade collectible dolls, adorned with frilly lace dresses, neatly arranged in a display cabinet behind a protective glass barrier, preserved memories of wide eyed innocence, meticulously painted by a craftsman's careful hand, artificially simulating life with a pâte mix of skin tone colors, cotton stitches and plastic fibered hair. No. A corpse that never had a chance to fully mature in life does not, in spite of its size, generate a feeling of nostalgia nor delicate quaintness, even though the coffin that contains it might be lined with the finest silk and surrounded by the most lavish floral arrangement that money can buy.

Between Arnold Penxa's two year infantry tour of duty in Vietnam and his thirty years of police work in Detroit, he had seen his share of dead children. Napalmed babies fused to their mother's bodies, loving arms futilely wrapped around swaddled infants, burnt and peeling strips of flesh embedded with charred remnants of clothing still smoldering, emitting a nauseous odor of rotting pork that contrasted with the jasmine flavored smell of rice paddies he and his squad had to march through in order to sweep and secure attacked villages.

One thing about the dead, said Sergeant Kozlowski his combat leader into the hot zone, noticing Penxa's initial reaction to an airborne assault, is that they are very dead.

Kozlowski, a big beefy guy from Chicago who had seen three tours of duty in Nam without so much as getting a scratch, bought it a week later when they were bivouacked ten kilometers outside of Da Nang, standing perimeter watch in the middle of the night, waiting to raid a ville the following morning.

Penxa knew he wasn't supposed to smoke on watch but he didn't care, so he pulled a pack of Marlboro's out of his tee shirt pocket, slipped one into his mouth and offered another to Kozlowski who took it without saying a word. In fact, the sergeant hardly ever spoke much at all and that was just fine with Arnie. But in a firefight he was the best gun to be next to, his scraggly red beard that never had a chance to fully grow, glued to the stock of his M16 like a baby sucking its mother's tit. Kill you, kill you, kill you, was his mantra when he was shooting at the enemy, and when he got really fired up he'd start cussing in Polish, leading Penxa to believe that he was probably a Hussar in a former life with large, curved wings attached to the back of his armor as he led the cavalry charge against the invading Asian hordes.

Arnie lit his smoke with one of those silver Zippo lighters that were popular in the day and he shut it, passing it to the sergeant as he took a drag from his own cigarette, cupping the glow from the burning end with his hands. Kozlowski took the lighter, walked a few steps away and waited a couple of minutes. It was almost as if the night had swallowed him up momentarily, a black hole that wasn't supposed to be there. Nothing was supposed to be there. Not him. Not Arnie. Not anybody else. Penxa was about to whisper his sergeant's name and as he opened his mouth, he saw the spark from the lighter shatter the void, a single fleck of bright orange, followed immediately by the crack of a gunshot and he heard Kozlowski's huge body fall to the ground with a thud that segued back into the silence of the still night. One flick of the thumb. One sniper. One shot. One more dead buddy. But the sight of a grown man, lifeless and ready to be body bagged, didn't bother him nearly as much as seeing a child mutilated and snuffed, an unwilling sacrifice to Moloch, a timeless reminder that evil had a face, eternal and constantly morphing throughout history.

The devil also lurked in the night shadows of Detroit's mean streets where Penxa returned to after his discharge from the army. Satan was always a few steps ahead of him, a cop after the fact, always rolling up to a crime scene in his patrol car, usually to cordon off the area and preserve evidence, waiting for the homicide squad to show up with cameras and plastic baggies, collecting forensic evidence and making gallows humor quips that the news reporters never heard. Except when children were the victims. Even the most battle hardened didn't dare disrespect the body of a kid, at least not in front of Penxa. If they had, he might have lost control and killed the joker himself, forfeiting his career and family.

When Arnie finally made detective, the cases that troubled him the most were the drive by gang shootings that targeted houses with families inside. Toddlers watching cartoons, sitting on the living room couch, struck by a bullet that shattered a window in the night or came right through the wall, freezing them forever in their playful state of mind, innocent souls sent to the afterlife without a clue, a bottle of baby formula or a plastic toy rattler lying beside them, a tactile remainder of innocence destroyed. Of course, there were variations of the theme and they seemed to get more brutal as time progressed. Babies raped to death or children beaten to a pulp by tweaked out parents who couldn't stand their tantrums. Arnie wished there was such a position as executioner of child molesters and killers and he would have applied for it. Immediately. He had no problem putting a bullet in the back of someone's head that had destroyed a kid's life, and every time he saw the face of another young victim's life cut short, he always first thought about his own daughter, Julie, who was the best thing that had ever happened to him. The next thing he thought about was that first napalmed baby he had seen a lifetime ago in a world far away. But it was the same devil at work and Arnie never stopped trying to grab its tail even after he retired from the force and became a security expert in educational safety Secure Schools, Inc., an uphill but, at least, proactive battle against the latest manifestation of evil towards children--school shootings.

Penxa sat at the desk in his home office late at night, studying a map of Metro Detroit under the circular glow of a table lamp, a felt-tip pen in his right hand, hovering over it like a mosquito ready to jab. This is not the way I planned my retirement, he thought. A picture of the secluded, log cabin he had recently built on a hilltop in northern Michigan sitting on his desk,

reminding him of where he really wanted to be, far away from the city streets he had patrolled for decades, tracking down thugs in the middle of the night, raiding gang hideouts and shooting it out with armed felons. Penxa only took the school security assignment that was offered to him by a former colleague on the force because he was told he had special skills in dealing with guerilla tactics, training that he had acquired as a combat veteran in the dense, dark jungles of Vietnam. But now there was a new enemy to deal with, motivated by an ideological force that defied reason. American kids killing each other, transforming school grounds into battlefields, terrorizing innocents and undermining the values that he had convinced himself he fought for long ago, including the right for future generations of beautiful young women to wear string bikinis on beaches without fear of reprisal.

Are you going to be up much longer, Pooh Bear honey? asked his wife, sticking her head inside the slightly opened door. Sally was fully robed and ready for bed. She was a good woman, the perfect cop's wife. They had been high school sweethearts and got married as soon as he returned from the war. As a special education teacher in the Detroit school district for thirty years, she provided him the patience, succor and reserved sense of care that he needed to come home to everyday, especially after adrenalin injected conflicts that would have ordinarily drove lesser men to the liquor cabinet. Her regular letters and photos kept his morale boosted when he was overseas and waist deep in snake filled swamps, even through the chemical autumns supplied by the courtesy of Uncle Sam via Agent Orange.

In a few minutes, hon, he said, looking up at her over the top of his reading glasses. I have to get this presentation ready for the school board tomorrow.

Sally nodded and smiled, that same impish and inviting grin that made him fall in love with her when she was still a teenager, the captain of the high school cheerleading squad. Although the years and the birth of their daughter had thickened her body somewhat, her face remained wrinkle free, making her look much younger than she really was. Good genes, she used to tell people when they asked what her secret was but Arnie liked to believe it was due to the fact that he pampered her constantly, a soothing habit of his that contrasted the harshness of handling guns, handcuffs and bloody criminals.

Okay, then. I'll warm up the bed for you, she said with a wink, brushing aside a stray lock of fire red hair that had fallen across her cheek.

You do that, said Arnie. I promise not to let it grow cold.

Sally shut the door quietly and left him to his plans again. He almost felt like packing it in for the night. What good was another presentation in front of a bunch of bookworm bureaucrats? Sure. He had statistics, examples of violent scenarios that had already taken place in several schools, both in and out of the Metro Detroit area, but it never seemed enough to convince the administrators that he faced what changes needed to be implemented in order to modify their so called, emergency plans that were hopelessly futile at best and dangerously inefficient at worst. It always came down to budget costs and public posturing. Nobody was willing to do more than spend a few thousand dollars on security cameras that only recorded shooters in the act. After the fact was as good as dead, as far as Penxa was concerned. He sometimes felt like just handing them a box of chalk during his presentations and suggest they use them to outline the bodies of victims.

Arnie pulled out his note pad from his shirt pocket and went over the details of his conversation with a student he had that morning, Kevin Bailey at Kettering High School: Asked about guns. Claims no knowledge about cars. AP rushing the interview.

He never expected the boy to tell him about his brother. A white cop asking a black kid from the inner city questions about his family. Slim to fat chance on that one. The card that he had given Bailey with his number on it was purely for show. It was probably tossed into the gutter on the way home from school. Finding Marcus would be like finding a spent bullet casing in a flooded rice paddy. The Detroit Police had too many unsolved homicide cases on their hands to be bothered with tracking down a gang banger on a private detective's hunch. Unless the kid got busted in a car jack or a raid, there would be no way to get him. Even then, he would probably slip through the cracks and be out on the streets again in a few hours.

Penxa licked the point of his felt-tip marker and drew a line on the map from Kettering to a location on Jefferson Avenue, the boulevard of broken dreams that ran from Detroit's city hall up alongside the river to the intersection at Conner Street, the end of the road for the Motor City's finest. Beyond that was Grosse Pointe Park, a plush suburb of million dollar homes, manicured lawns and gated communities that was blight free and blind to the grinding poverty just a stone's throw away. Arnie remembered the many times he drove down Jefferson, rolling out of a black and white noir cityscape, marred by crumbling brownstone apartment buildings with broken windows and then merging into a Technicolor world of sidewalk cafes and pastry shops, the streets filled with smartly dressed soccer moms who wouldn't dare walk any farther from storefront entrances directly to their vehicles. Just like Nam, he thought. The danger was always nearby but if you could avoid thinking about it then don't. The phone rang, shattering the silence of his office and he looked at the clock on the wall. Five minutes to midnight.

Hello, said Arnie, picking up the phone, hoping it was a wrong number so he could get to bed and keep his promise to Sally.

Mr. Penxa?

Speaking.

This is Kevin Bailey. We talked this morning at my school.

Sure! Kevin! Good to hear from you so soon, said Arnie, covering his surprise with enthusiasm. How did the Pistons do tonight? I was too busy to watch the game.

I didn't watch it either but I heard they lost.

You missed a game? What caused you to do that? asked Penxa, flipping a page in his note pad, ready to jot down whatever information he could.

Kevin didn't respond and Arnie could almost feel the kid's fear and hesitation over the line so he asked, Is everything all right?

I'm not sure, answered Kevin, his voice trailing.

Do you need some help with something?

Again, there was a long pause and Penxa waited.

I'm not a snitch, said Kevin finally.

I know that. You're a good kid just like Mr. Green, the assistant principal, said.

I think I might have heard something tonight that I wasn't supposed to.

Go on, said Penxa, pushing his pen down on the pad.

It might be nothin'. I'm not sure.

It's gotta be somethin' or you wouldn't have called me.

Yeah. I guess you're right.

Kevin?

Yes, sir.

This is just between you and me, okay?

Okay.

Tell me what you heard, then.

There's going to be a massacre.

2

Penxa sat in the small waiting room outside superintendent Riley's office, sipping a cup of black coffee that the sour faced, receptionist had given him as he poured over the notes contained in his manila folder, double checking the statistics he would use to pitch his proposal to the school district's Board of Education. The bespectacled secretary, a thin fifty something lady without a trace of lingering youth in her stern features, barely managed a smile at him when he came in and, after asking him to sit down, she went back to her desk and tried to hide herself in her work behind the flat screen computer that shielded her from the world. It made him feel like a textbook salesman, just another momentary nuisance in Riley's busy schedule.

After a few minutes, the door behind her opened and the Superintendent stepped out, looked at his secretary and then at Penxa and smiled broadly. A fake bureaucrat's smile, thought Arnie and he waved the patient cop into his office, extending his arm towards him.

Good morning, Mr. Penxa, he said, shaking his hand and pulling him inside his office at the same time. Arnie knew the type of guy he was. Politically correct with more degrees than a thermometer, hanging framed on the walls of his comfortable office enclave. He wore a crisp grey herringbone, Armani suit and asked the cop to please take a seat in a brown leather chair in front of his desk as he pulled up his sleeve, checked the time on his silver Seiko wristwatch and then sat down opposite him, a polished slab of table top oak separating them, a physical manifestation of the professional distance between them.

I've heard a lot about you, began Riley. They tell me you're dedicated and extremely experienced.

I'm semi retired, replied Penxa, so please go easy on me.

Riley laughed a little and tapped the fingers of his right hand across the surface of his desk like he was waiting for change in a supermarket checkout line.

What kind of presentation are you giving to the school board this morning? he asked.

Well, sir, first of all, I want to thank you for the memo you sent to all the principals in your district that asked them to cooperate with me in my investigation of their building security procedures. They were all very accommodating.

Yes. I'm proud of the administrative staff we have on board. They're all excellent team players.

I couldn't agree with you more, said Penxa, anxious for the customary chit chat to pass so he could get to his report.

And what is your professional assessment of our emergency contingency plans? What are you going to tell the board regarding your findings?

It might not be what you were hoping to hear, replied Penxa, pausing for a moment to gauge Riley's reaction.

Oh really? responded the Super, leaning back from the desk in his swivel chair and folding his arms across his chest. I thought we had a top notch plan implemented.

Let me be blunt, off the record, Mr. Riley, said Penxa, placing his notes on the desk between them. The plan you currently have looks good on paper, and I'm sure it satisfies the board but, in a real case scenario, it's not worth the time, effort and cost that I'm sure you spent putting it together.

You know we worked closely with the local police department on it, don't you? said Riley, a slight hint of aggravation creeping into his voice, but he masked it with that phony politician's smile of his that didn't fool Arnie a bit.

No disrespect intended, sir. Not towards your efforts or those of the law officers involved in crafting the plan. You hired me to do an independent evaluation and that's what I did based on a wide variable of actual and possible scenarios from across the nation and even the world.

The world? laughed Riley. Mr. Penxa. We're a medium sized, suburban school district, hardly affluent but not totally deficient in resources. Besides the normal occasional fist fights between students having a bad day, we've never had a major incident in all the years that I've been in charge here.

And that's a great proactive record to be proud of, said Penxa, trying to win the Super back over to his side again. But with all due respect, Mr. Riley, I sense you have the comfortably assuring attitude that so many administrators fall victim to.

And what's that?

The notion that it can't happen here.

What are you getting at Mr. Penxa? Can you be more specific please?

Arnie leaned forward and opened the folder containing his notes, diagrams of the school buildings in the district and comments that he recorded from principals during his interviews.

Let's take your high school, for example, started Penxa, finding the sketch of the building amongst his papers and turning it towards Riley who pulled closer to the desk to get a better look.

First of all, you have several unsecured entrances to the school, here, here and here, he said, using his thick index finger to point out the locations on the map. During my surveillance, I witnessed staff entering and exiting those doors at all periods during the school day.

It's convenient for them, countered Riley. There are several parking lots surrounding the building and quite a few teachers like to leave for lunch or sometimes they have conferences during the day here at the central office to attend. They've all been informed by memos and emails to make sure that the doors are securely locked behind them when they leave.

And do they all have their own keys to these doors?

I couldn't answer that. The principal is supposed to have that information and keep track of who has keys.

I asked Mr. Perttu about that, said Penxa. Do you know what he told me?

I'm afraid I don't, said Riley, pulling back a little bit, obviously uncomfortable in his lack of knowledge. Bureaucrats always hate to admit that there's a chink in their Armani.

He told me that they use an honor system, that a few senior teachers have master keys and, once in awhile, they loan them out to their colleagues.

Is that a problem? Are you suggesting that the teachers are irresponsible in handling their keys?

No, sir. I have great respect for teachers. I would rather be back fighting an unseen enemy in the jungles of Vietnam than dealing with what they have to on a daily basis.

Penxa's quip made Riley laugh and seemed to ease the tension that was building between them so he continued.

The problem is that it's an unknown variable in a possible situation that would only add to the confusion and chaos should, god forbid, a shooter tried to find a way into the building.

So what is your solution, then?

This won't make you popular with the staff, but I suggest that all spare door keys are retrieved and that only one entrance to the school is used for entering and exiting students and staff alike. That narrows the corridor of opportunity for a possible attacker.

And you think that by doing that, nobody with harmful intentions would be able to enter the building except through the main entrance?

I didn't say that. I only said it reduces the possibilities. Nothing would prevent a student from the inside from opening one of these alternative doors and allowing a hostile to get inside.

What could we do then? We can't seal off those doors permanently. The fire marshal wouldn't allow it.

Alarms, said Penxa, looking Riley square in the eye. Each one of them need to be rigged with an alarm, the kind that are wired to fire emergency exits in hotels and restaurants. If one of those doors is opened during school hours, a silent signal could be sent to the main office and the local police department, notifying them of illegal access.

You can't be serious, Mr. Penxa. Do you know how much it would cost for the district to install a system like that? And what about students who would push open the doors, tripping the alarms just for the fun of it?

Security cameras, Mr. Riley. You already have those installed in the hallways. You'd be able to see any student that would pull a prank like that and then discipline them accordingly.

And how much, exactly, would it cost to install a silent alarm system like the one you've described?

That depends, said Penxa, stuffing the diagram back into the folder, closing it and pulling it off the desk.

On what? asked Riley.

On what the going price is for the life of a child these days.

You know as well as I do that you can't put a dollar value on human life, said Riley. It was clear that the Super was, at least, an excellent judge of character and he couldn't showboat Penxa anymore.

The insurance companies do it everyday, said Penxa.

Riley dropped his head for a moment, revealing a jowly, Walter Matthau like countenance that briefly betrayed his official facade of administrative aloofness and Penxa almost felt sorry for the man for a second until he regained his composure again and sat up straight, squaring his shoulders and jutting his chin towards the cop as if to say, I always get my way in the end around here.

There's no reason for us to be antagonistic towards one another,