One Moment in Time

Content Warning: Contains references to mass shootings, gun violence, and student death.

One Moment in Time

D. A. Ratliff

The glass double doors creaked as I pushed them open and stepped into the lobby. It was eerily quiet, and early morning sunlight glinted off the large clock hanging on the wall above the entrance to the auditorium. I glanced at the administrative office door on my left, glad to see the door shut and the lights off. The counselor and nurse's office doors on the other side were the same.

A wide corridor ran horizontally across the back of the lobby, leading to double doors marking the entrances to the classroom wings. My destination lay in the west wing, and I turned into the hallway toward the interior wood and glass doors.

Robert Jefferson High School had seen better days. My parents, sister, and I graduated from this school, and now my nephew attended. There were signs of wear and tear, but nothing a fresh coat of paint couldn’t fix. Memories flooded back to me as I pushed open the swinging doors to the west wing. Laughter and conversation filled these halls, teachers yelling at us to stop running, teenage girls trying out their newfound power to take a guy down with a surprise hit where it hurt. Not that it happened to me, but my best bud Will couldn’t walk for a week after a gal popped him.

It's funny what goes through your mind when your adrenaline is pumping and your heart is beating so fast that your thoughts sound muffled. I noticed how shiny the floors were. Mr. Berger, the custodian when I was a student here, was so proud of how shiny he kept the tile floors. He buffered until a mirror-like sheen glistened on the plain white floor.

I passed the bulletin board, where I met my wife as we checked out room assignments for our free-hour study hall. We had the same classroom, sat together, and never parted. Not even the military for me or college for Sarah kept us apart. When discharged, I returned here, attended college, and married her. There was nowhere on Earth I would rather be than in my hometown. At least, not until today.

The chatter in my head faded as I reached the hallway intersection where the English classes and computer labs were located. When I first entered the building, the smell of disinfectant, old gym shoes, and that unique aroma from the mix of perfumes and colognes worn by students and staff wafted through the air. Now, a different smell reached me, an acrid metallic smell. One I associated with my job—a scent I loathed, the smell of blood.

As I turned the corner, the first thing I saw was a blue backpack on the floor. Chills raced through me when I realized how much blood covered it. As I focused on the entire hall, my training kicked in. I felt a calmness descend over me as I took inventory of the bodies. There were eight in the short corridor—six students and two adults. From the severe wounds and amount of blood, I knew the perp had a high-powered automatic rifle. A moan and a weak voice called out to me. It was Mr. O’Malley, the principal. He was leaning against the wall, bleeding from a wound in his side, but he had both hands occupied pressing his suit coat over a chest wound of a young female student and not his own. I looked for something to press against his wound, spotting a discarded sweater. I grabbed it.

I placed the sweater against his side and grabbed his hand. “Keep pressure on this. You can’t help if you bleed out.” I checked the student’s pulse. “She’s alive. Do you know where the shooter is? Is he alone?”

He nodded and eked out, “109. He’s alone.”

“Okay, help is right behind me. They’ll get you both out.”

The chatter in my earbuds told me that other officers had arrived and were in the building, beginning the evacuation of students and staff. I turned toward the room when another gunshot rang out. I keyed my radio.

“Officer Reynolds. Shots fired inside Room 109. Eight down in the corridor. At least two breathing.”

The dispatcher's calm voice notified the arriving units. “All Units, 10-32 and Code 222, person with a gun, active shooter inside Room 109. Proceed with caution. Wounded in hallway. Emergency services standby.”

Captain Hawkin’s voice came through my earbuds. “Reynolds, hold for backup. Officers heading your way.”

Room 109 was two doors down from where I stood. I knew my fellow officers were seconds away and that I should wait, but then another muffled scream, followed by the crack of a gunshot. I wasn’t going to wait and let another child die.

I squawked my radio. “He’s shooting. Gotta go in.”

Two bodies blocked my way, but I stepped over them, slipping in the blood and catching myself on the wall to keep from falling. Pressing my body against the wall, I tried the doorknob—unlocked. At that moment, I felt as if I had left my body, and all that remained was the former military policeman and the city police officer I had trained to become.

Another gunshot and I pushed open the door, staying clear. A volley of bullets rushed through the opening and shattered the cement block wall across the hall. I peeked into the room and saw a man in his forties near the front. He was holding a girl hostage, his arm around her neck, rifle pressed against her throat.

“You come in here, and I‘ll kill her. I’ll kill them all.”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway as officers turned the corner, rushing toward us. If I could hear them, so could he. I had one chance to save that girl because he would start shooting as soon as he realized he was outnumbered. I had to act. I hooked my rifle onto my vest, pulled out my pistol, and stepped into the doorway.

Everything around me faded from my vision, leaving only the two of us in the room. I aimed the pistol at his head. With the girl held in front of him, my only target. Thank goodness the department purchased laser sights for our guns. As the red dot appeared on his forehead, I squeezed the trigger.

At that moment in time, everything slowed. In my mind’s eye, I saw the brass bullet crawling through the air, closer and closer to his forehead until the moment of contact. His eyes widened as the bullet struck, and his head flung back, blood and brain matter exploding over the whiteboard.

A male student grabbed the female he had been holding, pulling her out of the way as I rushed to the front to secure the weapon. I went to pick the gun up, but an arriving officer stopped me.

“We got this, Brian.” He motioned to one of the others. “Get him to the command post so he can go through weapons-fired protocol.”

The officer took me to a classroom, which was being set up as a command post, where I surrendered my pistol and rifle. I had to go to the hospital for toxicology tests but refused to leave until all the wounded were dealt with. My supervisor conducted a field sobriety test so that I could wait.

I felt a vibration in my pocket and realized it was my phone and my wife, Sarah, calling. “Hey, honey.”

Her voice quivered with emotion. “Brian, thank God, are you okay? I saw Doug, and he said you were the first officer in. It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

“I’m fine, honey. I can’t talk about it, but…” The horror of what I witnessed overwhelmed me.

Sarah understood. “It’s okay, baby. Listen, Meg’s with me. Have you seen Colin?”

Oh man, Colin, my nephew. “No, I haven’t. They’re searching the school room by room and evacuating the kids from each classroom as they clear it. Where was he first period?” I heard her ask my sister.

“East wing, Brian, she just looked at his schedule. East wing, Room 116.”

“I’ll find him.” I cleared it with the captain and took off for the east wing. His room was next to be cleared, so I waited for the officers to go in and explain what was happening and instruct them on how to exit the building. As the kids filed out, I spotted my nephew and called out to him. He ran to me, his fear evident but a smile of relief as he saw me. I gave the officers his and his parents' names and took him with me.

The school grounds were in chaos. Police cars, ambulances, press trucks, and frightened parents seem to take up every inch of grass and asphalt. I had to call Sarah to figure out where they were waiting. My sister’s joyous face as she hugged Colin and Sarah's embrace allowed me to breathe again, but there was an ache in my heart for families who could never hug their loved ones again.

I returned to the command center and waited until an EMT escorted me to an empty ambulance. It wasn’t until the ambulance pulled away that I crashed from the adrenaline high I had been running on, and the enormity of what I had experienced hit me. I wept.

~~~

James Marcum, the man responsible for this tragic act, had a mental illness, was in the midst of a divorce, and had stopped taking his medication. He murdered his wife before coming to school on the pretense of delivering a guitar to his daughter. The admin assistant looked up her name and what room she was in. He fled the office as soon as he knew the room number. The admin notified the principal of his actions, and Mr. O’Malley rushed toward the classroom, confronting Marcum as he pulled an automatic rifle from the guitar case. He shot the principal, a teacher, and students returning to English class from the library in the hall. He then entered the classroom, where he shot the teacher and his daughter immediately.

Mr. O’Malley had been able to notify the office on the walkie-talkie he carried, and the announcement ‘Active Alert’ sent the teachers into protection mode, immediately locking their doors. Panicked, Marcum told a male student to close and lock the door. The young man closed it but wisely left the door unlocked, which allowed me to end the incident quickly.

I arrived at the school two minutes after the 9-1-1 call and through the door in three. Marcum was psychotic. I don’t know if he realized he might not leave the school alive or hoped he wouldn’t. He toyed with the students, taunting and threatening them and randomly shooting one while the others, terrified, watched. I may have ended the killing, but the trauma for the students and the community continues. And for me.

My patrol area is in the district where the high school is located. I stop in a lot to check on them, and they seem happy to see me. I think the uniform and badge remind them more of the support they have rather than that day's horror.

Over the summer, the community joined together and repainted the school's interior. Mr. O’Malley locked the door to Classroom 109 after forensics, and a cleanup team finished with it. It will not be used again.

We may be able to wash the blood away and talk to counselors for help, but we can’t wash away the loss of two teachers dedicated to educating our youth and twelve innocent teenagers at the brink of promise for the adults they could have been.

Meanwhile, my fellow officers and I will stand watch every moment in time.

~~~

From the Author

There is an image from the horrible day at Sandy Hook Elementary that is etched in my memory. Before confirmation of what had tragically transpired came, a group of police officers stood together on the sidewalk outside the school. Chills ran through me as I looked at the anguish on their faces. There was no doubt that a horrific tragedy had taken place.

When this image was chosen for a monthly writing prompt, my first thought was a funny story, but as I looked longer at the image, the faces of those officers rushed back, and I felt compelled to write this story.

I wish to honor the police, the fire and rescue personnel, the counselors, and all who stepped up to care for the survivors and the grieving families. This is not a perfect world, and mistakes have been made, but the biggest mistake is that our children remain at risk.

Please take a moment to remember the victims, their families, and all who came together one moment in time.