Four Saints
By Gordon Kearns
Part Six (Pages 50-58)
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Rabbi Freidman: "Susan, let's talk this over at home; our marriage might be on the line."
Susan Freidman: "I hope it isn't, John. And I will talk it out with you at home. But my decision is irrevocable. Miss Wallace, please tell Scot he has my support." She stood, thanked everyone for their interest, and walked out the door. Rabbi Freidman followed, his face burning with rage. I wouldn't have wanted to be around their house that night.
A loud silence remained in the wake of the Freidmans' departure, until Dr. Towbridge broke the spell: "That doesn't end it for us, of course."
Dr. Hornsby: "Not by a longshot. You gotta know the future of the school district is ridin on what happens in this office right now."
Barry Daniels: "It comes down to this, Wally "
Me: "Miss Wallace, please."
Barry Daniels: "MISS Wallace, then. It comes down to this: I'm your direct superior, and your evaluator, if you remember. Your refusal to cooperate in the best interests of the school district smacks of disloyalty. And your refusal to obey a direct order to end this memorial nonsense could threaten your position. Need I remind you: insubordination is a legitimate cause for dismissal."
Me: "Are you giving me a direct order, Mr. Daniels?"
Mark Stegman: "No, he is not."
Barry Daniels: "What did you say, sir?"
Mark Stegman: "I said, 'No, he is not.'" He turned to the superintendent. "Al, when I was named principal of MacArthur, you told me to gather the best damn teaching team in the country to staff my school. Good teachers are hard to come by, especially with the integrity and dedication of Wally. But good teachers, for better and worse, think for themselves, and act according to their principles --something you and I have preached in staff meetings for years. There's no way I'm going to allow Wally to suffer for doing the right thing. And make no mistake: she is right in this; you know it and I know it."
Turning to Dr. Hornsby: "Bill, I hope this memorial thing doesn't cause you to lose the President's Medal. But I can't stand by and allow Wally to be strung up for holding to her principles."
Dr. Towbridge, glaring at Dr. Stegman: "So be it, Mark. But you better know that your ass is on the line in this. If the fish hits the fan with the board, guess who's going to take the fall."
So that was the way it went. There was a motor rumbling in my stomach for hours afterward. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by Mark Stegman's sudden show of support. He was always stressing the importance of educators having and acting on principles of right and wrong. But I guess I'd become jaded by the many in our profession who talk one game and play another. So it was comforting to realize there was some courage and ethics around to balance, at least a little, the damage done by the ass-holes in our business.
Saturday, October 15, 1983
I picked Scot up at his house at about 10:45. The Barneses had invited us to lunch, and we would be able to see how the pedestal was coming along. Also, Mr. Barnes would be casting the title plaque; he thought Scot might like to observe the process. At the same time he had a proposition for Scot. Scot's athletic build coupled with his clean-cut good looks made him a prime modeling prospect. Mr. Barnes had two particular ideas in mind In the first, he wanted
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Scot, posing nude, to portray one of the young heroes he'd planned to include in his series of bronzes depicting characters from Greek and Roman mythology. He thought Scot would be a good Perseus, Orpheus, or perhaps the sleeping Endymion; the poses Scot naturally put himself into would help decide. Missy's "Naiad" was a part of this cycle. The second project Mr. Barnes wanted Scot to participate in was more personal to Scot: a depiction of Scot and Deborah frolicking naked about Mrs. Metzger's pond. Missy would take Deborah's part.
Scot found the idea of being a model challenging. He balked slightly at first at the thought of baring all for the sake of art, but with Missy's enthusiastic urging he agreed. Of course, Mr. Barnes called Mrs. Bennett, who was happy to give her permission, as long as it was all right with Scot. The first session was just to photograph several poses for later determination of the ones to go with. My presence as spectator didn't seem to bother either of the the shiny-skinned youngsters.
Throughout the session, the two children friendly-teased each other; and more than a few indiscreet pinches were traded, to Mr. Barnes's pretended frustration. All in all they had a ball, and Mr. Barnes collected plenty of good poses. The real importance of this idyllic interlude would be sadly apparent later.
Sunday, October 16, 1983
By my calculations it should have been the associate pastor's turn to preside at the noon Mass; but, damn the luck, it was the Monsignor who marched down the aisle as we sang the entrance hymn. So it should be no surprise that when the homily began, my bladder suddenly began calling urgently. Of course, I had to go to the rest room. As I was heading toward the back of the church, I caught sight of a familiar young face stifling a giggle. It was my little friend from Dickinson Elementary, Shannon Weber. She was sliding the forefinger of one hand across the forefinger of the other in the universal children's sign for "shame, shame." I winked and kept going. I made it back to my seat almost twenty minutes later, as the homily ended -- now wasn't that a coincidence?
Later in the afternoon I called Marty Stansberry and asked him if he'd like to share some conversation over pie and coffee at Garrett's. He liked.
Monday, October 17, 1983
It began raining again. Scot continued to impress his teachers. Barry Daniels avoided all contact with me, but I finished the deseg report and sent it away anyway, without his esteemed signature. Oh well, nobody will notice the difference.
Jenny Preston from over at Dickinson called. Old man Hornsby had been spitting nails all day. Everybody heard about the big confab at MacArthur; a real donnybrook, according to the scuttlebutt. Did I know anything about it? I confirmed what I figured she already knew: that it had to do with my "prying" into the background of Deborah Irving. I thought I'd be drawn and quartered, I told her, until my boss, Mark Stegman, stood up for me. So I'm okay until the next crisis.
Tuesday, October 18, 1983
The beginning of the end. Eight to two-thirty went all right. Mr. Barnes called to ask us to drop by to see the finished plaque. When I told Scot about it, he said he had to do the grocery shopping after school, but he could be ready later, about four o'clock. He'd call me.
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He didn't, and no one answered the phone when I tried his number. Then I called Mr. Barnes to tell him we'd be late.
At five, my doorbell rang. It was Marty Stansberry ...There is no way to soften the news of catastrophe, and this was the worst ...the very worst possible catastrophe. What is there to say? Scot Bennett was dead. A hit-and-run accident, as he was walking home from the grocery store.
Marty, my apartment, my world ...disintegrated. I could only stand there, my mind blanked, the blood draining from my head. When Marty saw me paling, he helped me to a chair. I shuddered, and surrendered to a paroxysm of sobs. Marty held me to him, trying to assume some of my pain, although for long minutes I didn't even realize he was still beside me. But in time the tide of my grief ebbed somewhat. And as I regained some small degree of composure, I asked Marty to go on with the details. The story was brief, but there was a sort of frightening deja-vu about it.
Scot was walking home from the supermarket carrying two fully packed plastic bags. The Traffic Mortality Investigation Team thinks his preoccupation with the awkward bags left him oblivious of the approaching car. Judging by the tire marks and the toppled trash cans along the way, it was obvious to the team that Scot was another victim of a drunken driver. Investigators are checking out all the local pubs for word of anyone who appeared excessively drunk and left with keys in hand. No other possibility was being considered. It was a drunken driver who killed the "poor boy," and that was that. What other conclusion could there reasonably be? Except perhaps that he was murdered, considering the tire tracks leading across two traffic lanes in an almost direct line to Scot. Of course, that was out of the question according to the TMIT. No one would want to kill this popular, friendly high school freshman. However, both Marty and I knew better
Marty was still on duty and had to get back to his rounds. He would check back with me later.
I wasn't ready to stay alone. I needed somebody to talk to. I drove over to the Barnes's place; they would still be waiting, wondering why Scot and I were so late. It began raining again, but as I drove along, I did notice the single-head lighted car behind me that turned with me at every corner, but my dulled mind failed to recognize its ominous relevance to the drama rapidly unfolding about me.
Peter Barnes and I sat without words on the dusty chairs of his workshop. When Missy heard the terrible news, she had run into the house for the solace of her mother's arms; which probably saved her life. Mr. Barnes had the finished plaque in his hands. All that remained was to attach it to the pedestal, and Scot's memorial to Deborah Irving would be complete and ready for placement in Mrs. Metzger's meadow.
When the bomb hit, I thought the world had ended. At the time I didn't realize it was a bomb. I just knew the thunderous bang, and the crashing of glass, and the dust filling my nose and throat, and being thrown against a packing case, and the sharp pain in my side, and the slivers of glass all over the floor stinging my legs and then ...opening my eyes to look at the dull beige of my hospital room walls.
My left side ached terribly. When I lifted the sheets to check my parts, I found my whole upper torso tightly taped. Three cracked ribs, they told me later. Both my legs were encased in bandages and tape and splotched with orangish disinfectant. The nurse came in to check my vital signs. She assured me I was alive. A shadow stood in the doorway and approached the foot of the bed as the nurse left. It was Marty.
"What happened?" I asked, "An explosion?"
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"A bomb," he said. Then he laughed sardonically. "The brass thinks it was a mob hit, which got Barnes's studio by mistake. They blame it on the labor trouble in the Slade Construction Company across the street. I guess there was a meeting about this one too."
"The Barneses? Missy?"
"Mr. Barnes caught it pretty bad. He's upstairs in serious but stable condition. Margarite Barnes, Jason, and Missy were inside the house at the time of the explosion; they're okay Margarite and Missy are with Mr. Barnes now.
"How are you doing?" he asked me.
"I'll manage, I think." A surge of awful sadness rose up the back of my throat and into my eyes. "God, Marty, what's happening? Everything's coming apart ...and so wrong. First Scot ...my dear ...dear Scot. Now this." The sobbing returned. Marty came to the side of the bed and took my hand, and waited patiently for my emotions to subside.
Then, still holding my hand, Marty said, "Somebody's working awfully hard to keep Scot's memorial to Deborah Irving from being built. Somebody wants to keep her erased. And, damn it, the whole world seems in agreement."
"I think they'll get their wish," I said, anger joining my grief. "I don't see how Scot's dream will ever be achieved." I pounded my fists down on the mattress. "It's so, so wrong, Marty. The bastards always win, and good people like Deborah and Scot are always crushed."
"No, Miss Wallace, not this time ...they won't be crushed this time." It was Missy, standing by the door. "I don't know if my dad will be able to fix the statue; everything was busted up by the explosion. I... I don't know if my dad will be able to fix anything any more. But Deborah and Scot are going to win; I'm going to see to it myself --no matter what."
"Oh, Missy," I said, "There's nothing you can do. Besides, whoever killed Scot and blew up the workshop is still out there someplace. If you try to do anything, they'll just get you too."
"Wally is right. Stay out of this," Marty said. "There's a killer out there ..." Missy interrupted: "From what I can see, there are a lot of killers out there. They keep killing and killing Deborah; and they'll keep killing Scot the same way --and anybody else who doesn't do the way they want. The schools are in on it; the church is in on it; the government is in on it; the newspaper and television are in on it; all those people who didn't want a little girl's dying to interfere with their Spirit of Seventy-six Days are in on it; and the police are in on it, too.
"Good people get fooled by them ...or they're afraid of them; nobody tells them they're wrong. But this time somebody has to stand up to them. And that's just what I'm going to do ...because I'm not afraid of them this time. I usually am --but not this time." With that, Missy ran out of the room and down the hall."
"Jesus, Marty," I said. "It's not over yet. Go after her."
Marty chased out of the room after Missy, but it was a futile chase. One flight of steps down, and she was outside, dissolved in a parking lot full of cars.
"What do you think she'll do?" Marty asked when he returned to the room. "What can she do?"
"God, I don't know, Marty ...she's so damn bright and imaginative ... ...and determined; and I'm so damn scared. But I don't think there's anything we can do to stop her. We'd better tell Mrs. Barnes, though I don't think there's anything she can do, either. She's got her hands full as it is."
The rain was coming down steadily.
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Wednesday, October 19, 1983
It was still raining, and giving no indication of wanting to stop in the foreseeable future. I didn't sleep during the night. The hall noises and conversations in the nurses' station were all I had to distract my mind from the horrors of the past week and, most likely, the days to come. Mark Stegman dropped by in the morning. I appreciated it, but it didn't ease my depression, or my fears. The doctor was here for a few minutes. He left directions that I be allowed to leave the bed for a wheelchair. My injuries weren't as severe as Peter Barnes's; only the broken ribs and lacerated legs, and a mild concussion. The doctor said I'd probably be able to go home to recuperate the next day.
About three o'clock in the afternoon Marty came by again. No, they hadn't found Missy yet. She apparently went home after she left the hospital; she must have walked all the way. She'd evidently changed dresses, leaving the wet things she had on the bathroom floor. After checking the closet, Mrs. Barnes figured Missy had put on her favorite blue jumper. Her raincoat and umbrella were still in the closet. She didn't come home the rest of the night. Mrs. Barnes had no idea where she could be, but, she said, Missy could be in real trouble if she were out in the rain. She apparently didn't take her asthma medicine last night or this morning, and Mrs. Barnes doubted she had her inhaler with her, either.
At three forty-five, the room telephone rang. It was Jenny Preston. After impatiently asking about my health, Jenny began excitedly: "Boy, is this building ever buzzing! I thought you'd like to know because of your interest in Debbie Irving." A quick excited breath. "Get this: there's been a reincarnation."
"A reincarnation? I don't understand," I said.
"The kids all say Debbie's come alive again. A couple dozen of them just came running back to school. They swear they saw her --out at Metzger's meadow, having one of her visions, just like before. Some of them tried to talk to her, but she wouldn't answer ...and she wouldn't move a muscle. It's pouring down rain, you know; and she was sitting like it was a dry summer day, except that the rain was dripping off her hair, and the mud was swallowing up her bottom. It sounds crazy, but the ones who saw her swear it was Debbie resurrected from the land of the dead."
A sudden lump came to my throat, and my hands started to shake. "Jenny ...does Hornsby know about this?"
"Are you kidding? Everybody in the building knows. The Girl Scouts are begging for their meeting to be called off so they can run over to the meadow and see if she's still there. Old Bill couldn't wait; he dismissed his PTA Executive Committee meeting as soon as word got to him. He bolted out of the building fifteen minutes ago."
Quickly I related to Marty what Jenny told me. "It's Missy," I said to him. "We've got to get to her. Grab my coat from the closet, and let's go."
"What do you mean, 'let's go'? You can't leave in your condition."
"My condition doesn't matter. Please, I have to know ...there's no time to waste arguing."
Marty grumbled; the nurse grumbled; and the nurse's aide grumbled; but after tucking my coat around me over my skimpy hospital gown, Marty picked me up as if I were still a little kid and raced down the hall for the elevators. Within minutes we were swerving through the streets with siren going and lights flashing, on the way to Metzger's meadow.
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It seemed later than it was. The low, rolling clouds and the continuous steady rain gave the appearance of nightfall. The soccer field looked like a lake as it reflected the lights of the two streets paralleling the boundary markers, a lake whose patterns of thousands upon thousands of unending splashes changed unpredictably with the whims of the fickle storm winds. The vision meadow was just beyond the south goal posts. Here the view was dimmer as the parallel streets separated and veered off according to their individual aims, taking their street lamps with them. A crowd was gathered under dark umbrellas some fifty yards from the tiny shadow sitting alone and motionless in a sea of mud. The rain seemed to be trying to beat Missy into submission or, barring that, to melt her down to soak into the ground.
The patrol car drew the attention of some of the near onlookers.
"She's been there for four hours, at least," said one.
"Hasn't moved a muscle," said another.
"Every time some someone would try to go up to talk to her or offer her a covering for her shoulders, they'd just shrug and turn around, saying something like, 'I guess that's the way she wants it. It's better to let her be.' Nobody's even tried to approach her for hours," said the first. "It's ...magic, or something."
"Almost nobody's approached her, you mean," said the second. "There was that man who came over from the other side of the soccer field."
"A man?" I said as fear grabbed my heart.
"Yes, a man. He came right up to her and stood there for a while. It looked as if he put his hand to her head ...you know, as if he was blessing her or something. Then he kind of fell backwards and ran away across the field, tripping a couple times as he ran."
I turned to Marty, "My God, it was him. Oh, Marty, get her ...get her fast."
Even as Marty was getting out of the car, the child suddenly bent forward, her back rising and falling in violent spasms. The "magic" must have stopped because Marty had no trouble reaching her. With quick ease he picked her up and held her in his arms tightly as he hurried back to the car. I opened my door as he came close, and he put the water-logged, wheezing child in my lap. Drenched, her thin, blue jumper was invisible over her shaking body. I gathered her inside my covering coat, hoping my own body heat might ease the cold wetness that enveloped her. But the shaking and the wheezing continued; the damned air refused to get to her lungs. But she was aware, she was well aware of her surroundings. And she wanted to talk --to talk and talk --to tell us everything that happened to her. She started her tortured narration as soon as she was placed in my arms, and didn't stop until she was taken from me at the hospital.
"Hi, Miss Wallace," she said. " ...everything's going to be all right now ...Deborah told me so ...just now. Oh, she was so nice, Miss Wallace ..." She began coughing violently --that kind of tight, dry cough that doesn't do any good, and must hurt horribly. Marty had the car speeding toward the hospital. Through the tired song of the siren and her own tortured gasps, Missy kept talking and talking. "It was awfully wet, Miss Wallace ... but I stayed there; I didn't move at all... I didn't move an eye or a finger or anything ...I didn't move, Miss Wallace."
"I know you didn't, Missy," I said.
" ...The water got in my eyes and dripped off my nose and rolled down my back into my panties ...but I didn't move. It felt real funny sitting in the water and mud ...But I couldn't move. I had to be Scot's memorial to his Deborah ...and I had to be a good one." She looked up into my face brightly, "And I know how to do it, too ...I can sit still for a long, long time ... and I did; I sat there all afternoon ...I made up a story about the naiad -- do you want to hear?"
"Yes, Missy, I want to hear. Please tell me about the naiad," I said.
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"Well," Missy continued, "this naiad ...she really loved her little brook, you know ...but she used to look out at the people world and see these other children running and playing and having the most fun time ...and every day she would sneak out of the brook to get a closer look at the people children --a tall boy and a girl who looked like the naiad herself ...and every day she would get closer and closer to them ...until one day ...one day ...she got so close to them they could see her ...and they said, 'How wonderful, it's a naiad girl and she wants to play with us' ...and they called her over to play with them and the naiad thought it was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to her ...but then she looked at her watch ...and she said, 'Oh, my ...it's getting very late ...and I have to get back to my brook where I belong' ...Just as she was about to jump into the water ...she heard Zeus hollering down at her ...'Hey little naiad,' he called, 'listen up ...you have to make up your mind now one way or the other. You can't be a brook person and be up playing with the people children all the time ...it's gotta be this way or that ...you have to go back to the brook you love ...and stay there forever, or you can go play with the people children all the time ...but ...you can't do both' ...Then he rumbled his thunder and flashed his lightning ...'Well --which way is it going to be: the brook or the people children' ...The naiad thought and thought ...then she touched her brook very lovingly ...and sadly ...and turned to the people children ...'Then I'll stay with them' she said ...and the three of them played and played forever more ..and the naiad never again went back to her brook ...and you know what, Miss Wallace?"
"No, what?"
"I pretended I was the naiad while I was making up the story ...I really was, you know. I'm the bronze naiad, you know ...only this time I was the real thing ...and the hours went by very fast ..."
She began coughing and wheezing worse than ever. Her body heaved forward with every attempt to loosen the stubborn tightness. I touched her forehead; it was oh, so hot. "Hurry, Marty," I said desperately. "Hurry."
Missy, recovering slightly from the frightening seizure, started up her narrative again. "That man came to see me as I was sitting there."
"What man, Missy?"
"The one who killed Deborah, I think. He walked right up to me ...right in front of me, but I didn't look up at his face. I didn't move." More wheezing. "He was standing over me a couple minutes ...then he said, real soft, 'Why did you come back, Sugar Pie?' That's exactly what he said ... 'Sugar Pie."'
"That bastard, Hornsby," I said under my breath.
"But I didn't answer ...I didn't move ...at all... He had a little gun in his hand ...like detectives in the movies have ...in holsters in the middle of their backs ...and he put it right against my forehead ...right in the middle ...he pressed it against me real hard ...he pressed it so hard it hurt ...but I didn't move ...I knew he was going to shoot me ...I knew I was going to die ...but I didn't move ...I wondered if it would hurt bad ...When somebody gets shot in the head in a movie, you see blood and icky stuff come out the other side ...I guess it's the person's brains ... That was going to happen to me right now, I thought ...He was going to shoot me, and my brains were going to fly out the back of my head ...I thought I'd probably hear the shot ...and for a second it would hurt worse than anything I'd ever felt ...In the movies the person dies right away, though ...in a second ...so it mustn't hurt very long ...I'll be able to take it, I thought ...so I didn't move. If he was going to shoot me, if my brains were going to be blown out, if I was going to be dead ...then that's what I would be ...but it was okay ...I was ready ...He could
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kill me ...I didn't move at all... Then he started breathing real hard and fast ...and his hand started shaking ...and the gun started bumping against my forehead ...it was hard ...and it hurt ...and, real funny: I could hear it bumping against my forehead ...Did you know you can hear a gun bumping against your forehead? ...And I knew he was going to shoot me right then ...and I thought, he's going to shoot me now ...but I didn't move ...and he was breathing harder and faster ...and I knew he was going to shoot me now ... now ...I thought, please, shoot me now.
"And then the gun fell down and hit my knee and went into the mud." Marty glanced over at me and nodded his head, lightly patting his coat pocket. "And then the man fell down backwards and sat in the mud ...but I didn't move ...and he was holding his chest and breathing real hard ...and he got up ...and started running away ...and he fell down some more ... That's when Deborah came to see me ...really, she came to me. She said I did real good ...I did an important thing ...She said everything would be all right, now ...she said ...she said in a little while she'd come and get me, and she and Scot and me would all three go skinny-dipping in Mrs. Metzger's pond ...and we'd rub mud allover each other and have the best time ..."
We pulled into the hospital driveway, followed by a car carrying a reporter and photographer from the city newspaper. It pulled up at Metzger's field as Marty was loading Missy into the squad car. They had been sent to cover the strange rumors about the reincarnated girl who had come back to the place where she had miraculous visions while she was alive. When we rushed the child to the hospital in the patrol car, they rushed after to get the whole story.
I watched from the door as Mrs. Barnes sat on the one chair in the corner of the emergency room. The nurses and doctors dashed in and out of the room with medicines and machines, desperately trying to keep Missy breathing, and I made up my mind that, damn it, Missy's cause would be heard. I couldn't be bothered about how ridiculous I looked in my soaking wet hospital gown, with a coat only loosely thrown over my shoulders. And so, as minutes stretched on forever, I sat in the waiting room, talking with the reporter, telling him all about Missy's involvement in the story of Deborah Irving and Scot Bennett, and answering as completely and frankly as I could all his questions. The more I talked, the more he himself became involved. Sensitive humans, and the reporter was sensitive, can't help but be affected by the tragic tale, and especially by the conspiracy of many "good people" to erase the truth of a child's existence. There was no way the story would appear in the paper with the same openness of my telling it, he said. Few, if any of the accusations could be verified, and, more important, Walter Harriman, who was part of the original group that decided to sweep Deborah Irving under the carpet, was the owner of the paper. Rather than have his report thrown out entirely, he said, he would try to boil it down to the barest of essentials to get the most important aspects of Missy's selfless crusade made public.
With still some time left before the deadline for the next morning's run, the reporter and photographer stayed with Marty and me as we waited out Missy's recovery.
But two hours after we brought her through the hospital doors, Missy died.
Thursday, October 20, 1983
The front page of the morning paper announced in dramatic black headlines, "Famous Educator Dead." That's right, the great Bill Hornsby, a nationally recognized leader in the field
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of education, was dead. At fifty years old, with the educational world worshiping at his doorstep, Dr. William Hornsby died suddenly and unexpectedly of a heart attack. He was found Wednesday evening lying alongside his parked car near the Green Glen subdivision, by the Paul C. Metzger Memorial Soccer Park. The paper said he apparently suffered his attack while driving along Soccer Boulevard, and pulled over to the side of the road to avoid an accident. It was very like this selfless humanitarian to put the safety of others ahead of his own needs. The police speculated that when the severity of his attack became unbearable, he must have stepped out of his car to seek help, and then collapsed. The entire front page was devoted to stories about Hornsby --his childhood, his education, his achievements, not the least of which was the Medal of Honor his Dickinson Elementary School received from the president that very morning. Even the foreign crises were relegated to inside pages on this tragic day in the life of our metropolitan community. The school board met in special session late last night and declared this day a holiday out of respect for the memory of this wonderful man. The county executive ordered that all flags be flown at half-mast, and the mayor of Central City asked the board of aldermen to issue a proclamation honoring Dr. Hornsby. A collection drive was begun by the Dalton Chamber of Commerce for a statue to be erected in the parking lot of the Dalton Shopping Mall for this man who had done so much for the economic welfare of the community. Monsignor Becker of St Michael's Catholic Church promised that his gentle, righteous soul would be remembered in the monsignor's prayers at every Mass for the next month. And Rabbi Freidman issued a statement that peoples of all religions would miss this holy man.
Marty told me later that when they found Bill Hornsby lying by his car, his shoes were solidly covered with mud, as were his pant legs up to the knees. Mud was splotched allover his coat, front and back. The official conclusion was that he probably rolled a little on the ground as he was suffering his attack. No explanation was offered for the line of deep footprints leading from across the soccer field to where he lay, nor for broken left headlight of his brown Cutlass.
On page six of section B in the paper, among a half dozen obituaries of notable people around the area who had passed away in the last twenty-four hours, was a small article headed, "Local Child Dies Keeping Vigil For A Friend." It told of one Melissa Barnes, a chronic asthmatic, who had passed away in the Lutheran Hospital emergency room after sitting in the rain all afternoon at the soccer park as a living memorial to another child, the late Deborah Irving. It was in that same spot that the Irving girl claimed to have witnessed apparitions back in the spring. Deborah Irving, the article noted, was the child who was so cruelly murdered at Janet's Motel in July. According to Miss Dale Wallace, a close friend of Melissa's, the Barnes girl believed that when Deborah Irving was killed, she had not been accorded the attention and respect she deserved. Ironically, the article went on, another youngster, Scot Bennett, who was working with Melissa in trying to get a fitting memorial for Deborah Irving, was killed Tuesday by a drunken driver in a hit and run accident. The reader was referred to a short item about Scot Bennett in the Sports section. It was true: in a lower right hand corner of that edition's page four, section C --under Local High School Sports Notes --there was a paragraph expressing regret about the untimely death of Scot Bennett, a rising young athlete from MacArthur High School.
So that was it; three innocent children dead, and a murderer honored. There would be no follow-up stories about Missy or Scot or Deborah. Mr. Barnes's studio was in shambles and his own condition was still listed as serious. Scot's dream was lost. How
Next: Part Seven (Pages 59-67)
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