The Shooting at Our Merciful Lord

I moved to the guard, crouched, felt his neck, but he was gone. Ah, Tommy. I exhaled audibly. I took the semi-automatic pistol from his hand and found two loaded magazines in a holder on his belt. I released the magazine in his 9 millimeter pistol. The magazine fell from the butt and I saw that it held 11 rounds so I replaced it with a full magazine, 15 rounds loaded, and put the 11 and other full magazine in my pocket. I checked the breech and there was a round ready to go. I heard shooting down the main hall, near the elevators. Pop pop. Pop pop. Pop...

I heard a thump and a groan, like someone let the air out of his lungs loudly, and I was at the hall intersection to the main elevators. There were two bodies behind the information center counter here, which I now ducked in front of; Mrs. Scizm and a guy I didn't know from the business office. Jody Scizm was still alive; she seemed to be quietly sobbing. "Jody, it's John. I'm going down the hall. How many did you see? How many, Jody?"

"One I saw, but I heard someone else shooting. Am I going to die?" she said. I was crouched on the other side of the counter and really couldn't see her since I'd put it between me and the main hall. "God, I hope not," I said. "Hang in there, Jody. Hold pressure on it. I'm going down the hall, so hopefully you won't see any more of them. I think I'm behind them. Good luck."

I saw body after body as I made my way down the hallway, my back to the left side wall as much as possible. I passed the elevators. I saw empty thirty-round magazines, taped to one another upside down and discarded on the floor. (Oh, my God, I thought, 60 rounds from one gun already?) I stepped over a guy I'd never seen, walked by an orderly with a head wound, his eyes open and unseeing. I walked past the cardiology waiting room where there were people on the floor. "If anyone can move, the hall is clear behind me, just head straight out the main entrance." I saw a man and a woman get up, move carefully and then break for the doors forty feet behind me. Four people didn't move, they just lay there. That made ten, I thought. Blood was everywhere.

I passed the waiting room. I heard more shooting ahead near the cardiology operating rooms on the right and the glass backdoor to the cafeteria on the left; this shooting also sounded like a gun battle. I scooted down the empty hall, scared. I thought, you have two children and a wife, and this is NOT in your job description.

The door to the cafeteria was ajar. I saw them there, their backs to me.

They were two dark-haired men in camouflage, and they shot many morning breakfasters in the cafeteria. Apparently, the people there had not noticed or recognized the shootings in the entry and hall and the killers had burst into the cafeteria behind their coffee line. There must have been ten or twelve people on the floor, all apparently dead. Others were cowering, alive but playing opossum, or just afraid they were next. The shooting had now stopped because the situation had changed.

The killers were five feet from me. They were looking across the cafeteria at two security guards who had their pistols aimed back at them. The guards were behind the pillars near the dead in the coffee line. They didn't want to fire because hostages were involved.

The killers were only five feet apart. I noticed one AR 15-type rifle on the floor by the killer on my left; he had his left arm around a woman's neck and a pistol pointed at her head with his right. The other guy had his rifle pointing toward the guards with one hand, and he also had some poor 15-year-old boy around the neck—they were a good step forward of the first pair, from my angle.

They were using hostages as shields. I looked through the open doorway. I knew the guards could see me behind the killers, and I recognized the one guard. I pointed at the guy with the pistol and signalled "ONE" to the guards; I pointed at the guy with the rifle and signalled "TWO." I then pointed at myself and mimicked shooting first the guy on the left and then the guy on the right. I transferred the pistol to my left hand. I rehearsed the moves in my head for a second, thought of something Captain Mullarkey had taught us at The Basic School: THIS should be a moment of "max agg." Maximum aggression. Then I took a deep breath.

It was quick. I took two forceful steps straight into the cafeteria and left, behind the one guy, knocked the pistol up from the woman's head with my right hand and with my left hand, fired my pistol from about two inches away into the left side of the guy's head, trying to angle the gun enough to the right so the bullet would miss the woman (and her son, farther away) should it go straight through, which it did. The pistol recoil was more than I expected; I'd never fired with my left hand alone and it was at an odd angle. I felt a stinging pain in my right hand, which was flung right, but I concentrated on moving to the other guy.

Time slowed down.

The remaining terrorist turned his head toward me, obviously startled. I roared a guttural sound, "UUUHHH!," pivoted on my right foot, took a big step with my left foot straight toward the guy as I extended my left arm and put the pistol into his face. He made a grimace and I put a round from five inches away through his left cheekbone, just below his left eye and out the back of his head. He didn't have time to move his rifle enough to aim at anyone. He joined his fellow terrorist on the tile floor. I held my pistol on him, angry and willing to fire again if he moved.

I have never regretted those shots.

After a long moment of silence, there were screams and moans and cries. The woman on the left wailed and turned to the boy who cried out, his ears probably ringing from the report of the pistol so close, but neither of them were shot and the killers were down. I kept my pistol pointing at those two on the floor, angry and projecting all the rage I could generate, but they were definitely dead. Kicking their rifles and pistol away anyway, I leaned over them and said, "You fucked with the wrong Marine." My right hand was mangled; the bullet that killed the first guy came out his right cheek and hit my hand as I pushed his weapon up from the woman's head.

At that point, the guards were there and they said something about me being okay and there seemed to be a fog. I asked, "Were there only two?"

Bill Meier, the one guard, said, "Yeah, pretty sure. Others are checking. You okay, Mr. Buck?"

I took a deep breath and lost my aggression. It drained from me and a wave of weakness passed through. "Hurt my hand."

The lady and boy were in each other's arms; I guessed they were mother and son. "You two okay, ma'am?" I asked. They were crying and clinging to each other on the near benches. "Thank God, thank God," she said, tears streaming, nodding at me, holding her son's head to her chest..

"I need to sit, Bill," I said. My left hand was shaking with the weapon now. I handed him the pistol. "I took it off Tommy out front; he was..."

"I know, John, I know."

"Jody was hurt, someone should see to her," I said. My hand was up, blood running to my elbow and dripping. "I'm making a mess." The world seemed slow.

I sat beside the crying lady and her son on one of the table bench seats, resting my right elbow and holding my hand up, but it still puddled blood on the table. My left hand gripped my wrist, trying to stop the blood and pain.

Suddenly, there were policemen everywhere. I looked at my watch on my left wrist. 8:43. It had taken only fifteen minutes. It was almost time for that liver dissection.

*

There were many dead and as many wounded. Hospital personnel were everywhere wrapping wounds, calling for gurneys, attempting resuscitation. Father Michales was there, just a priest this morning, performing last rites, getting attention for those who needed it, praying. He looked over at me holding my hand up, nodded, and went about his business.

The police came for the mother and son beside me. I was in my adrenaline-comedown fog, shaking, and I felt a hand on my left shoulder. I looked up at the woman, her son still in her grasp, and she was crying. She squeezed my shoulder. She tried to say, "Thank you" but no sound came out. I smiled and nodded back.

A policeman appeared with rolls of gauze and started to wrap my hand as he asked what I saw and did. I told him I killed the guys and he stopped, looked me in the eyes and said, "Good. You might not want to talk about it, but to us cops." He disappeared to talk to others, then. Rolls of gauze were everywhere. I rewrapped my own bandage when that one soaked through. My wound was not terribly important this day.

They eventually put me in a room and left me, since a guy who shoots himself in the hand should be protected from humiliation. An orderly bandaged my right hand again some time later to control the dripping, but otherwise, I was a low priority considering the carnage around the building. I decided to let Karen Ann know I was okay.

I had trouble getting the phone out of my right side pocket, but I managed after a few attempts. I guess the cell lines in the area were overloaded, because there was no way to get a message through. I kept trying every few minutes. About 10:30 I finally reached the school. The school secretary then sent the call through even though Karen Ann was in class; the Merciful Lord Hospital shooting was all over the news media and word had reached everyone in little Sky Grey, Ohio.

"Karen, Karen Ann... Hey, yeah, I'm fine, well, gonna be fine. You heard of the killing? Awful. Yeah I saw some. Karen Ann, be calm now, I got shot in the hand, Babe... Yeah, not too bad... No, I did. I did... Me. I shot myself by accident... Anyway. They'll operate on it in the next few days probably, but not like the others... Awful Babe... No, I don't know if any doctors were shot... Calm down, I'm okay. I'll find out more about who was hurt soon, I'm sure... Yeah, thank God. I'll probably stay here overnight. Come see me after school... Good. Disorganized here right now. Cops everywhere. Love... Love you, too."

She'd seemed frantic, even panicked about finding out everyone who was hurt, to see if she knew any. I assumed there'd be a lot of sadness in Sky Grey this day.

I called my mom, who sounded fretful and teary. I asked her to put Dad on; I explained everything to him. I didn't tell him I shot the guys. I decided it would be best if I told the police and no one else. My mom asked for constant updates on my hand, but I just laughed and said if there was any news I'd call.

I lay back and thought about things. It was weird that in the midst of this carnage, with strange policemen and government officials everywhere, I was alone for long periods. I had time to think. I think climactic events motivate introspection.

I thought about Karen Ann. In our conversation, something had seemed awkward—as if she had something she wanted to say, fraught with urgency, but that she couldn't bring herself to voice. It was gravid, which I had not expected. I had expected extreme concern, focussed on my wound, and matter-of-fact attitude about arranging for a substitute teacher and things like that. She had quickly dismissed my wounding and moved onto other things. (Which, considering the nature of my wound compared to others', was reasonable to me.) I had expected to relieve her anxiety, yet it continued unabated.

We had changed in the last years, since we married and I returned from the Marines. Since we moved to the little house, since she became pregnant with Dylan, her ardor was diminished. More than that, we had not talked, not cuddled, not made time for each other very much. I remembered the ONE time we cuddled in the middle of the night; it was the rarest moment. We still had sex, but it was more routine, despite any act I prepared or performed. She no longer liked romantic talk or moments, dates, insinuations of sex to come, or anything like that. I wondered if it was me. We were just settling into normal married life.

I missed the enthusiasm of our early sex life. I missed young sex. I missed that sense of warmth that we had before the children. I shook my head. Missed it.

Chapter 3: Aftermath

Karen Ann found someone to cover her last classes and made it to the hospital by 1:30.

I was in a hospital gown by this time, but I had no restriction or drip or anything yet. Painkillers were being administered by injection or orally, when needed. The hospital was very busy with the ongoing tragedy of the dead and wounded; doctors were operating in all the surgeries. I later discovered that we sent many to Dayton and Cincinnati hospitals, if they could travel and needed an operation.

Karen Ann came speedily across the room and hugged me as I sat on the bed, my bandaged hand in the air. (I thought it looked like a giant cotton swab with the thick gauze enclosing it.) It was all too much emotionally for her. Tears came. "Who was killed? Do you know? They aren't releasing names yet..." she said. She looked around my hand to see me.

I said, "I only know one or two for sure by name. No one we ever socialized with. I saw the bodies of some I didn't know, some visitors or patients. There were a bunch. Blood everywhere."

She wiped at her eyes. "I saw blood on the floor. Bullet holes, and police tape. Father Michales put me on the elevator—they weren't going to let me in," she said. Shaking her head, resting her hand on my shoulder, looking off a bit, she went on, "On the radio they just said they have no motive and they can't name the guys yet. They said neither man had any identification and no one seemed to know who they were. Everyone assumes they were religious extremists. It's so strange, I mean, why here? We don't have a building over 4 stories except for the hospital," she said. "We're nobody."

She asked, "So can you tell me what happened? To you?"

"Yeah. Mostly I came across dead or dying people. I..." I decided that I would give her the same version of events that I'd give everyone except for the police. I'd tell her the details when she was settled and calm. She was obviously upset, eyes puffy and the panic in her voice on the phone had been surprising—I'd never thought of her as the panicky type. Some things I would pretermit.

"I heard shooting down the hall and I got some new doctors to leave through the window of the classroom. Then I sort of followed the killers down the halls to the cafeteria, where I finally saw them. I had a pistol I took from a guard who was down and the first time I fired it, I shot my own hand. There were security guys there and the bad guys were killed." (Did I protect myself by pointing to the buffoonish aspect of the incident? Was I avoiding her?) "Hurt like hell, Babe. There was a mother and her 15-year-old kid the killers were using as hostages. They survived but got quite a scare. Then the police showed up."

Karen Ann was incredulous and syrupy, a bit mocking, disdainful. I'd never heard that from her.

"I think you were brave, even if you can't shoot. All that Marine stuff was just too long ago, I guess," she said. It was as if she were pushing all thought aside where I was concerned. She pushed aside all faith in me. She didn't wonder that I'd shot my right hand, despite my being right-handed. I loved Karen Ann since the time I saw her at that wedding. She'd been calm for both miscarriages and faced the operations with strength. I'd been there every sufferance. She was different in this; I didn't understand her attitude or the upset in her eyes.

I realized suddenly and clearly that my wife had no respect for me. Perhaps because of leaving the Marines, the disappointment of our small house, my willingness to accept a minor position for work, and the other disappointments of our lives together, she had lost any conception that I was competent and did some good. She thought her husband inept and less than common, and she skillfully categorized information to support that as a prejudice.

Your low-key humble-trappings demeanor was paying unwanted dividends, John, I thought wryly. In an age of self-promotion, you project modesty. Even your wife thinks you're inept, Knucklehead. You're a dolt.

There was a knock on the frame of the open door. "Uh, John Buck?" There was a woman at the door, holding up a badge. "I'm with the police. I need to interview you about what happened." She walked in.

"Of course, Officer. My wife, Karen Ann." I said.

Karen Ann said, "I'll get out of here. I'll be back after I take care of the kids." She left immediately. It was a quick exit, as if she had no interest in these proceedings and a large one elsewhere. The kids, I was sure.

The detective said, "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

I shook my head. I knew how it looked and I wondered.

I recounted my story in as much detail as I could. She asked questions. I had not seen the killers before. No, I had not seen a third shooter. Yes, I knew how to use a pistol; I'd worked at the pistol range occasionally during my last year in the Marines. No, I'd never fired left-handed. "The range was short." She looked at me and nodded.

"Mr. Buck... I just want to say, have you no idea what you did?"

I didn't smile. I remembered the gore as I aimed a pistol at two guys on the floor. "I killed two bad guys."

She shook her head. She said they had not released the identities of the two, and that my actions were being discussed in the news, although my name had not become known yet. I thought back. The only people who had seen me clearly were the two security guys and the two hostages after I acted; the woman and her son. Everyone else was down, hiding behind tables and chairs, trying to get out of the line of fire. Perhaps someone had hazarded a look, but I'd quickly turned to sit on the bench and protect my hand after I kicked the weapons away. Perhaps only a few knew. The detective said I should avoid telling people; if these were terrorists, the less information in their hands, the better.

Karen Ann came back in tears two hours later. I assumed it was the wanton butchery upsetting her, the scope of the disaster being overwhelming for anyone. She just shook her head and said it was horrible, occasionally crying. Casualty lists were emerging as next of kin were notified and area hospitals identified patients. She sat by my side until I was sent to x-ray, and she was there as the hand doctor explained the operation I would need in the morning. Karen Ann stayed until nine that evening, and then went home to get things ready for tomorrow. She intended to be back for the operation on my hand and had taken the day off; indeed, the school district was considering closing schools because so many families were affected, one way or another, and the end of the school year was only a few days away.

The attack was all over the news. A comprehensive list of casualties came out about midnight. Dead were nine hospital employees: Thomason the guard whose pistol I had used, his good care of his weapon had ended the murders; one administrator who I knew well, Curtis Wills, the hospital's chief accountant; several with whom I had a passing acquaintance; two doctors, one who had been honored for a heart valve operation he'd pioneered. Jody still lived, but there were more deaths. Twelve visitors were killed out front in the waiting area, and in the cafeteria. Other casualties were legion: 37 people were treated in various hospitals in critical to good conditions. I was listed as fair.

Mrs. Spagnol and her son Tony were alive after their hostage experience, but only because the security guards confronted the gunmen. No one knew a motive, or at least no one thought it was anything other than religious extremism visiting small town America. Perhaps that was the point.