Oh, shit!
Thank God I was barefoot, because whoever it was would have heard my shoes on the hardwood floor. How they didn’t hear my heart pounding was a different question. I thumbed the hammer back on the Colt, but kept my index finger extended along the barrel. I carried the gun down at my side. I slipped out the door to the hallway and began moving slowly towards the great room. When I got to the great room, I peeked around the arched opening and didn’t see anybody. I did see the patio door was open, and I heard somebody off towards the side of the kitchen, down by the laundry and weight room.
Bronze Star or not, I have no idea how the infantry guys do this for real without having a heart attack. I swear I was terrified. I moved across the great room towards the kitchen, expecting to have somebody come around and blast me to shreds. I kept going until I made it across the room to the archway near the kitchen. I could hear somebody moving around in the kitchen clearly now. I said a silent prayer and looked around the corner.
“Hamilton?!”
Chapter 81: Consequences
Saturday, September 3, 1983
I stared at my brother, standing there in my kitchen. Of all the various scenarios that had run through our minds, my family was never included. Yes, they had been questioned, but it had never seriously crossed any of our minds. To the best of our knowledge, the only person who even knew where we lived or even our phone number was Suzie, and she certainly wasn’t involved. However, there he was, standing in my kitchen, a look of sheer hatred on his face, and carrying a gigantic Bowie knife.
“Hamilton?!” I repeated. “What are you doing?”
He stopped and sneered at me. “Nothing, now. You surprised me. Where’s the bitch and the brat? The car is outside.”
Hearing him call Marilyn a bitch brought me back to reality. My brother was the one behind everything. He had been the one to vandalize and torch her car, he had been the one who tried to firebomb my home, he was the one trying to kill us. “What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”
“It’s all your fault! You’re the reason we had to move out. You’re not supposed to be here! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
“Hamilton, that’s crazy!” I was staying out of arm’s reach of my brother. He was still holding that ridiculous knife, and the way he was talking, he was almost raving.
Saying the word crazy was not my best choice. Hamilton’s face turned red and he started sputtering and screaming. “I’M NOT CRAZY! DON’T EVER SAY THAT AGAIN! DON’T CALL ME CRAZY!” He advanced on me.
Screw that! I slowly stepped back, staying out of range. My gun hand was down by my side and he hadn’t twigged to the fact I was also armed. I didn’t want to provoke him any further than he already was. I held up my left hand and said, as soothingly as I could, “Hey, okay, sorry about that. Why don’t you sit down? We can talk this over.”
He sneered at me. “No, I’ll just come back someday when the bitch is here. I’ll talk to you later.” He lowered his arm and started to turn away.
I felt something cold and clammy grip my heart. Hamilton wanted to kill Marilyn and Charlie, and only then kill me! I fought down the urge to vomit. “Wait! Hamilton!” I called to him.
He turned to face me, and brought the Bowie knife up again. “What?”
I brought the Colt up and fired twice, hitting him in the chest, both times. It’s not like in the movies, where people go flying across the room. Hamilton simply fell backwards, to lie on the kitchen linoleum and begin leaking. I kept the gun trained on him and got closer, but it was obvious he was dead. I had hit him center of mass, just like they tell you to, and one or both of the heavy slugs had blown through his heart. Probably out the back, too, since massive quantities of blood were now seeping out from underneath him.
I felt shaky as the adrenaline washed through me. I took a deep breath and fought the urge to toss my cookies. After another minute, I set the pistol on the kitchen counter, and moved off to the bedroom. I slipped on my shoes, and then grabbed the phone. I dialed 911.
“Emergency! What is the nature of your emergency?” said the voice at the other end.
“There’s been a shooting. You’ll need to send the police and the coroner.” I gave my name and the address.
If the operator felt anything emotionally about these calls, she didn’t let it through on the phone. “Is the shooter still present?” she asked.
“I’m the shooter. I won’t leave.”
“Please stay on the line.”
“I’m sorry; I need to make a few more calls.” I hung up, which was probably a crime in itself, but I really didn’t care. I called John Steiner. As expected, he told me to be cooperative but to keep my mouth shut until he got there. No surprise there. I hung up on my long time attorney, with the realization I needed him now more than ever.
I went back out to the kitchen. Hamilton was still lying there, surrounded by a pool of blood. Part of me was thinking I should have done this years ago. Part of me was thinking I should have drowned him at birth. Most of all I was just saddened by the waste of it all. Now my family was completely and utterly destroyed. There was no going back from this, even though I had to do it. He was insane. He would have killed my wife and my son, and then tried for me. It would have never ended. Even if I had managed to capture him, or had told the cops what had happened and they had brought him in, he would have gotten out sooner or later. Unless you are foaming at the mouth crazy, or can be proved to be a menace, they have to let these nut jobs loose again. They wouldn’t have locked him up for good until after he had killed somebody!
I heard the siren long before it got to the driveway. Leaving my brother where he lay, I went to the front door and stepped outside. As soon as the police arrived I very slowly raised my hands above my head. The first car there was a Maryland State Trooper. He got out of the car and gave me a hard look. “Are you the person who phoned in the shooting?” he asked, his right hand on his pistol butt.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you still carrying the gun?”
“No, sir.”
“I want you to move very slowly, and lean against the door, with your legs spread and your hands on the door frame.”
“Yes, sir.” I assumed the position, which everybody knows who has ever seen a police show on television, and found myself quickly but thoroughly frisked.
At the end, slightly more relaxed when he didn’t find me carrying a weapon, I was allowed to stand upright again. “You’d better take me inside to the body. Is anybody else here?”
“No, sir.”
He kept his hand on his gun butt and I walked slowly ahead of him. We went into the kitchen, where he took in the gruesome scene, along with the pistol on the counter. “You want to tell me what happened? What’s your name?”
“My name is Carl Buckman. As for what has happened, I have already contacted my attorney, and he has told me not to say anything until he is present.”
At the mention of my lawyer, the cop’s face hardened. “Who is the victim?”
“His name is Hamilton Buckman.”
By now we could hear more sirens approaching. The clusterfuck was beginning. “Was he a relative?”
“My brother.”
“Oh, Christ,” he muttered. Then he nodded, “Well, put your hands behind your back.”