[1]
A warm night in September.
Long after their children made it into their beds, after loudly protesting the end of summer vacation and the start of a dreadful new school year, the two parents, showing a bit of grey around the hairline, begin their evening routine.
One packs the school lunches, the other washes and dries the few remaining dishes. They flip a coin. Whoever gets tails tidies up the living room. The other begins scooping ground coffee into the coffee maker and flips on the auto-brew function for 7:00 a.m. With only five minutes to spend with each other, they take a seat on the sofa and whisper about their grueling workdays, the upcoming bills, and planning a much-needed weekend without the kids.
In a short while, the lights go off. And darkness will descend. The house is now slumbering. The grimy yellow streetlamps struggle to illuminate the sidewalks — those that are still in working order, that is. The moon and stars shine down, bright, and bold. It is an unusual occurrence when living in a city. Of course, this is the Midwest, and such things are appreciated by the coastal transplants, accustomed to unnatural light throughout the night.
Drag races screech in the distance. The feral cats rumble in the alleyway — raccoons and possums casually pass by. Drunk couples fight on their back porches, professing their undying love once the beer runs out and they begin to sober up.
It is the white noise of St. Louis.
[2]
A flash of light casts shadows in the streets and alleyways. The smell of acrid smoke spoils the fresh air. A low-pitch thud echoes and vanishes. The single gunshot rings out. It is the sound of death and shattered glass.
There is a puncture wound in the window. The visible cracks spread out across the glass windowpane. It resembles lightning cutting across a darkened sky or the delicate and complex weave of veins and arteries beneath soft human flesh.
We can trace the trajectory of the bullet. It moves through the living room, past the bedroom hallway, cuts into the kitchen, and stops after drilling into six inches of brick and mortar. It feels no pain and cares little about human life. It never questions its singular purpose, not even as the screams begin.
“Honey! Are you ok?!”
“I’m fine…that sounded too close. I’m going to check on the kids.”
A moment of tense silence takes hold.
“Oh my God! Sweetheart, stay with me. Mommy’s here.”
She yells at her husband: “Call 9–1–1.”
But it is too late. The help will arrive in the fleeting moments of a final warm embrace. A mother’s tears will fall and splash the ashen cheeks of their murdered child. That child staring up at her, lifeless in her mother’s lap. Their innocent warm blue eyes now cold, and empty glistening shells. A father drops to his knees in the doorframe and reaches out — his fingertips are wide, and stretched as far as possible, unable to grasp his daughter, or comprehend that this was the end.
9–1–1 Operator: 9–1–1, what is your emergency?
Parent: *gasps* I need help right now. Someone shot my daughter in the chest.
9–1–1 Operator: Ma’am, you said your child has a gunshot wound in the chest? Who shot her? Is she breathing? Are you both safe?
Parent: I do not know. It was a drive-by. We were all sleeping, and I did not realize she had gotten up and gone to the kitchen. She is not breathing!
9–1–1 Operator: Ma’am emergency services are on the way. I need you to stay on the phone with me until they arrive. I will walk you through what you can do right now, Ma’am are you there?
Parent: Yes, I am here. What should I do?
*Click-Click*
[3]
The flashing red and blue lights dash beneath streetlights and traffic signals, ignoring all other motorists out at this hour. The police whale tail SUVs and red ambulance’s sirens can be heard miles away and in the darkest stretches of this sleeping city. They arrive at a red brick, two-story shotgun house. The father, standing — swaying back and forth — in the front doorway, his knuckles turning white as he grips the matching-color doorframe.
Inside the home, the gasping breaths and sobs of a mother kneeling beside her dead child. The child’s dark red blood stains her trembling hands and light blue nightgown. It pools beneath them and spreads across the kitchen floor.
Her oldest, a boy, 12-years-old, stands beside her, his gentle hand resting on her shoulder. He is quiet, and his face downturned in confusion. He was born unaware of death. And yet, at this moment, he faces it — that looming twilight specter — and maintains a brave resolve, that determination found only in the faces of those innocent and ignorant of life’s cruel nature and sinister intentions.
“It will be ok, she’ll be ok, she will wake up, right?”
It is asked but never answered.
Outside the home, several police vehicles have blocked off the streets. A single EMS vehicle pulls up next to the house, and two medics — one from the front seat, the other from the double doors in the back — jump out, along with a gurney and two medical supply bags. The rookie patrol officers begin to cordon of the area, and in seconds rolls of bright yellow plastic will wrap around the house, telling everyone “Do Not Cross” in bold, black lettering.
Neighbors and curious bodies begin to gather on the sidewalks across the house. The parents in the crowd hold each other close, and then go check on their sleeping children. All their faces show raw emotion: fear, anger, sadness, dread.
They watch as a stout, balding, mustachioed, middle-aged man in a wrinkled grey suit and black tie walks up the stairs, introduces himself to the catatonic father, and pulls out a pen and notepad. The midnight shift detective is now on the scene, and this will be just one of the dozens of calls he will be responding to tonight.
His questions are routine: “Tell me what happened?” “Do you have any reason to think someone did this on purpose?” “Have you or your wife received any threats lately?”
They all revolve around the “Why.” The crucial piece of evidence or information that will explain it all away.
But it is never so simple because people are not simple. They are prone to commit acts of good and evil. Often, no reason moves the focus to the who and the how.
The critical issue needing an answer is, “How do we change the system to stop this violence?” And yet, it always takes a back seat at the moment when life expires.
There are several potential answers to this. The typical ones are utopian but make catchy sound bites for ambitious local elected officials looking to make a name for themselves on the national stage. Of course, none are rooted in reality; good intentions do not always lead to solid action plans or success.
And no amount of “promises” or “calls for reform” will bring back the lives taken so soon.
Outside, the sidewalk empties one by one over time. The little girl lays atop the transport gurney covered by a thin white sheet. It’s rolled out the door and carried down the stairs before being hoisted up into the ambulance. Her mother, following only a short pace behind, is given a hand up into the back of the rig. As the doors close and the ambulance begins to roll away, all you see is her hollowed-out face staring back at you through the small, square plexiglass window.
This year, across the St. Louis Metropolitan area, at least 69 children have been injured in shootings throughout the region, and nineteen of them have died. In the past ten years, there were 1,455 homicides, and so far in 2021, there have been 92 homicides, compared to the 99 this time last year, but time and tension are still aplenty before we begin 2022.
This child’s murder will go unsolved. She will become another crime statistic listed under “other” for a drive-by shooting. A tragic ending, but one all too familiar now.
[4]
The weeks pass, and soon the summer wind begins to chill. The redbrick house is now empty; void of warmth or human touch. It will become another vacant property with a dark past.
A young father and his daughter walk by after school, their home only a few blocks further down.
He stops, points at the cracked window, looks down at his daughter — smiling in her pink dress and sneakers — and says, “This is why we keep away from windows after dark.”
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