Chapter Five
From The Blue and White, the unofficial blog of East Marine High School:
What Has Been Seen Can Not Be Unseen
by SkolClik
I didn’t know Danny Brooks but, with his tragic shooting, Danny now seems like the kid everyone knew. If it had been any other student, the reaction would be the same. If I had been the victim, no different.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that it sometimes takes a brush with a psycho (The Ravisher, anyone?) to give some perspective. Like every student at East Marine, I know the location of almost every camera in the parking lot. On most days, I don’t notice them, because I don’t care, I don’t do anything stupid on campus. Even Jabba the Dealer doesn’t do his business on campus. Cameras are easy to dodge. Most high schools across the country have the same system of placing their cameras, and it’s only a small measure.
Danny could have been shot from a long distance, but how long? When I got off the bus, I was checking my phone messages while freezing outside. I was putting my phone away when I looked up. I heard the popping noise, the first shot hitting the pavement just inches from my feet. The second shot hit Danny, who was a few feet away from me. I saw him drop, the blood hitting the girl with the white coat. She screamed and all Hell broke loose.
Before I was pulled into the building, I looked around the parking lot and the street. The wooded lot across from the school is usually quiet; students are not allowed to wander in that area. Later, I thought he Marine PD would go right over there. Maybe they did, but I wonder if they checked for tire tracks. The reason I bring that up is because I saw an old blue car parked on the side of the road as my bus came up to the school. A Chevy, I think. When the cops talked to the other kids, I’m sure one of them saw the car, too. But I haven’t heard anything about the car on the news.
Danny Brooks’ funeral will be at Fletcher Brothers Funeral Home, visitation is tomorrow from 3-5 p.m., the funeral Monday at 11a.m.
“Seemed like a sober post from SkolClik,” Bobby said. “He didn’t even add an insulting picture.”
“I think he’s scared,” Sonya said. “He saw something.”
Sonya and Bobby were home, on their phones.
Bobby had spent part of the morning visiting with Archie. When he returned to the apartment, he managed to finish his History paper on the Puritans. He tried to take a nap, but couldn’t go to sleep.
“I think that bullet scared the jerk out of SkolClik,” he said.
“Have you noticed he didn’t follow up with another post?”
“The day isn’t over yet.”
“It’s been hours. SkolClik posts several times throughout the day.”
“Maybe it’s out of respect for Danny Brooks.”
“Respect? What about The Ravisher’s victims? He made fun of all of them.”
“None of them died.”
Sonya sighed. “Now our school is just like all of those other schools. The story made the local news, even the national news for a few minutes. People say, ‘Oh, isn’t that a shame. Poor kid...”
“Now I know why so many kids are homeschooled. Some schools are run like minimum security prisons.”
“We both sound miserable.”
Bobby chuckled. “Are you going to the funeral?”
“I could, but I didn’t know Danny.”
“I don’t talk to other kids not in my class.”
“Did you e-mail Piper?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t heard from her. Probably too busy enjoying St. Croix.”
“I could use some sun.”
“Isn’t Waylon’s funeral at Fletcher Brothers, too?”
“Yeah. His funeral is Friday.”
“I didn’t know Fletcher’s did biker funerals,” Bobby said.
“From what Cal told me, Fletcher’s hasn’t done a biker funeral in years, not since old Mayor DeKooning started cracking down on The Diamonds in the ‘90s.”
“Well, Waylon’s parents are here in Marine, so it makes sense.”
“The clubhouse in Marine Heights is still locked up tight.”
“Has been since The Ravisher was caught. Kyle’s dad was a serial killer. They all knew, right? His brothers protected him.”
“But you can’t hide that kind of evil forever. It always wants out.”
“If The Diamonds can’t control a serial killer, how can they stop a sniper?”
“Even if the sniper is one of their own?” Sonya asked.
“I don’t think so. Shooting a kid seems beneath The Diamonds. Some of those guys have kids Danny’s age.”
“Or grandkids.”
“At our school, Cody Brush and Harley Greenwood. Their dads and granddads are all Diamonds.”
“Uncle Bill thinks The Diamonds will go after the shooter, too.”
“He’s right. The Diamonds never wait on cops.”
“What I don’t understand is that guys like Donut, the chapter president, knew what Kyle’s dad was doing to those girls. Knew for decades. But no one told the police, no Diamond came forward, even Cal’s sources. Now, one of the own gets murdered, and–“
“The victim was a brother, not some teenaged girl.”
“I’ll never understand how they think. What made those girls less valuable?” Sonya asked.
“That’s a question for Wayne Stone. Did you ever wonder if his death was really an accident? It seems the easiest way to get rid of a serial killer is to kill them. Problem solved.”
The sun shined in spite of the bitter cold.
Cal, on that Friday morning, entered Fletcher Brothers Funeral Home. He was surprised to see the mixed crowd; well-dressed civilian sympathizers with Diamonds wearing leather vests over long-sleeved shirts and blue jeans.
Waylon was laid in a simple closed casket, a framed photo on top of the coffin. Red and white roses in a spray covered the lid. Blue Diamond paraphernalia covered the walls. A Blue Diamond tapestry, black with grinning skull logo in all four corners. The center sported the words:
LOYALTY. FREEDOM. BROTHERHOOD.
BLUE DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER.
Folded chairs were in long rows in the showroom. Waylon’s old lady Sasha and his infant daughter Rose had come up from Florida, along with most of the Marine chapter of The Blue Diamonds. Male members kissed and hugged each other, all paying court to a grieving Donut, frail and sobbing, and Carrie, who tried to smile at her grandbaby. Sasha sat next to them, the baby in her arms.
Cal looked around at the aging crowd. Ramon ‘Nacho’ Clifton was sitting behind Donut with his old lady and grown sons. Cal had not been to a biker funeral in over a decade, this service subdued compared to the past.
Motorcycles filled the parking lot. Some biker funerals could boast hundreds of mourners, but Waylon’s service was more modest, due to the weather. Another storm was predicted and riding would be hard. The Harley-Davidson biker hearse was parked at the front of the building.
Cal recognized Nacho, but he also saw Roy Beauchamp, Montreal chapter president of The Saxons, wearing a top hat and a long, black leather cape, his bare arms covered in leather tattoo ‘sleeves.’ A more flamboyant figure, but The Saxons had always been on good terms with The Blue Diamonds, a business relationship involving bringing drugs and girls across the borders in The Diamonds’ heyday. The Canadian government had also cracked down on The Saxons, and their strength had been weakened, but they were far from extinct.
The funeral home staff, the Fletcher family, was warm and pleasant towards the non-conformist crowd. Biker funerals were good business, not as likely in the deep winter in a Michigan town. The other local funeral homes had enjoyed biker clients in the 1970s and ‘80s, but that business had gone away with The Blue Diamonds population thinning out in Marine.
The notes of an instrumental violin version of ‘My Way’ played low on the sound system. Cal tried not to seem like he was trying to listen to others’ conversations, but when did outlaw bikers keep their opinions to themselves?
??
?The pigs don’t know shit...”
“The Feds don’t need to be at our door...”
“JR’s grandson says he saw a car across the street, by the trees.”
“But who can prove that the asshole who shot the kid shot Waylon?”
“They could prove that with shell casings, right?”
“Who says the shooter has to use the same gun or ammo?”
“Hey, Cal.”
Cal looked up to see his source. “Hey! Nice turn-out.”
“Did you see the hearse?”
“Impressive.”
“I’m going out for a smoke.” He lowered his voice. “Wanna talk?”
“Sure. But I have to bundle up again.”
“The service doesn’t start for another twenty minutes. There was a disagreement about the music.”
“Couldn’t decide between ‘Born To Be Wild’ or “Freebird’?”
“You’re a funny guy, Cal.”
Cal’s source had an unlit Marlboro hanging from his lips. They both put on their coats and warm hats, Cal’s source wearing his leather vest over a flannel shirt, his cap also leather, boasting the Diamond logo.
Cal heard the approach of more bikes. He marveled over the bikers’ skill; how they didn’t manage to end up wiping out on the snow and ice.
Cal followed his source out of doors to the side of the building, near the street.
He lit his cigarette. “Cal, we’ve known each other for a long time...”
“Almost twenty years.”
“You went to jail once because you wouldn’t reveal your sources.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“You know a few things about our friend Roy Beauchamp...”
“Yes. Why?”
“Roy likes Donut, but not Nacho. He thinks Nacho’s a redneck, a real hick. Donut has more of a head for business–“
Cal would not remember this conversation until days after he heard the deafening ‘whooshing’ noise, then almost lifted and thrown across the busy street, cars skidding to a halt to avoid him. If he had been closer to the parking lot, he would have gone flying into the parked bikes, parts later found a half-mile away along with the biker hearse, the glass blown out of the windows.
The police would later find the remains of the C-4 explosive in the ladies’ room in what was left of the Fletcher Brothers Funeral Home. Half of the mourners were killed, including several members of the Fletcher family. Waylon’s casket was smashed against the wall on the other side of the showroom. Donut, already weakened from illness, would die days later from the shock and a concussion. Carrie would suffer from a broken collarbone and back. Sasha and the baby suffered minor injuries.
Cal would also try to recall what was said about someone’s grandson, the boy saw a car. He would also receive the bad news that his source was dead, the explosion also sending him into the street, into the path of a Brinks security truck.
The clean-up would take days, surrounding homes and businesses also damaged from flying motorcycle parts. The explosion had been felt at least a mile away. When the bodies were all recovered, Nacho and his old lady were found, along with Roy Beauchamp, his top hat and cape blown off.
Cal would find himself as the subject of articles about the explosion, one of the survivors, this story also making the national news. The remaining Blue Diamonds would get to work, making calls to Florida, with promises of vengeance. One brother would be called to Marine; one of the few left who could be depended on to be cold and relentless enough to do the job. He was strange even for a Diamond; skinny, thick ginger hair and freckles, pale eyes and fair skin covered in cartoon character tattoos, including Tweety Bird and Bugs Bunny. But this man was no joke; he had killed many people in many different ways, and never lost a moment of sleep over it.
The brothers called him the Reaper behind his back, but Toon to his face.
Part II–
The Kill Shot