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Elle knew from the previous meetings she had attended that the middle-aged man had survived the shooting without a scratch, but his wife had been critically injured and was still hospitalized because of recurring infections and other complications.
Having gained everyone’s attention with his outburst, he said, “What the hell are the police doing? It’s been two months. Sixty days, for crying out loud. And they haven’t even identified the suspect.”
There were murmurs from others who were likewise disgruntled. One even ventured that Levi Jenkins had been the culprit after all, inciting others to chime in and express their frustration and anger over the seeming ineptitude of those investigating the shooting.
The first man said, “My wife isn’t out of the woods.” He was a big, burly man, who used a beefy fist to wipe away the tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks. “I could still lose her, and, so far, the person responsible for her misery is as free as a bird.”
The young woman sitting next to him put her arm across his shoulders, squeezing them and whispering, “Dad,” as she passed him a box of tissues.
Dr. Sinclair waited a moment, then said, “Several of you here today lost a loved one. How do you feel about the suspect still being unidentified, much less apprehended?”
Everyone looked toward a grieving couple, who now leaned into each other. The woman began to cry against her husband’s chest. Their daughter, a freshman in college, had been killed.
A young man whose wife of only three months had fallen beside him didn’t move or make a sound and kept his head down.
Although Elle had attended the meetings on a regular basis, she had yet to contribute anything, because she feared that she couldn’t get through her account without falling to pieces.
“Elle?” Dr. Sinclair said. “Anything to say?”
Glenda had urged her not to hold back. “What’s the point of going to the sessions if you don’t let it out? You have a heartrending story to tell. Tell it. Not only because it’ll be cathartic to you. It also might help someone else there. That’s what these sessions are about, right? Sharing and supporting?”
With her friend’s words echoing inside her head, she began in a wavering voice. “I lost my son. His name was Charlie. He was only two years old. He was the love of my life.”
Once she started speaking, the words poured out of her. She told about how they’d come to be at the fair, about parting from Glenda and then getting caught in the crush at the gate.
Her eyes remained dry until she told them about Howard Rollins. Elle had since learned that he’d been a widower, but she had met his two daughters at the last session. They were here again today and began weeping softly as Elle described his kindliness and joviality.
She skipped the details of how he’d died and went on to describe the sequence of events, much as she had several times to Compton and Perkins. Throughout, she remained as factual and unemotional as possible.
“Charlie had become cantankerous and was trying to climb out of his stroller. I reached down and pressed his shoulder, pushing him back into the seat.” She paused momentarily. “I told him he couldn’t get out, that there were too many people. If he got out, he could get lost.”
She looked around the circle in an appeal for them to understand. “See, this stroller is bulky. I couldn’t carry Charlie and push it through that crowd at the same time.” She put her hand to her mouth. “If only I’d lifted him out…” She couldn’t go on until she’d swallowed hard and taken a deep breath. “But I didn’t. Instead, I buckled him in.”
When she stopped there, you could have heard a pin drop. It seemed that no one in the room was even breathing, except for her. Her breaths were coming in gasps that sounded noisy in the silence.
“Then the first shot rang out.”
She told them about the instant she realized what was happening, of falling to the ground as Howard Rollins collapsed against her, of watching helplessly as Charlie’s stroller got farther and farther out of her reach.
“A man who was fleeing ran into it, colliding hard enough to tip it onto two wheels. Another man—his name is Calder Hudson—came from behind me and tried to catch it. That’s when he was shot.” She paused to take a Kleenex from her pocket and used it to blot her eyes.
“He fell on top of the stroller, and it went all the way over. Charlie was inside it, but the bullet penetrated and hit him. I want to believe that he died instantly.”
Following another weighty silence, Dr. Sinclair said, “Everyone here can appreciate how difficult relating this is for you, Elle.”
She nodded.
“Do you have anything to add, Mr. Hudson?”
Elle’s head snapped up. She looked at Dr. Sinclair, then swiveled around. He was standing just inside the door, in shadow beneath a soffit, looking self-consciously aware that every eye in the room was now trained on him.
His eyes connected with Elle’s. As though speaking only to her, he said, “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“I’m glad you’ve joined us.” Dr. Sinclair indicated an empty chair between two that were occupied.
With apparent reluctance, he walked around the circle toward the appointed seat and sat down, nodding to the person on either side of him, one being the burly, outspoken man. He shook Calder’s hand.
“Do you have anything to contribute to Ms. Portman’s account?” Dr. Sinclair asked.
