She fell quiet. I lay there in the dark, wondering if she was going to ask for more details. I hoped she wouldn’t.
Then she said, “Were they shooting at you, the people you shot?”
“Some of them.”
“But not all.”
“They all would have, if they could have.”
“The ones who couldn’t... is it because they didn’t have guns?”
I turned my head toward her in the darkness. “Why do you want to know about this stuff?”
“I just want to understand what it was like for you there.”
“It was hot. And dirty. And dangerous. A lot of people died. But the media didn’t get it right. The Iraqis didn’t hate us as much as the news made it sound.”
“So you were shooting regular soldiers?”
“There weren’t any regular soldiers. Not like you’re thinking of, guys with colored uniforms that are easy to spot. These were insurgents. And yes, most of my targets had guns. Once in a blue moon we’d go out looking for a high-value target, some big terrorist leader. I got a couple of those. They didn’t have guns in their hands when I got them, but they probably had a pistol on them somewhere, and if they didn’t you can be sure they had an AK-47 in the next room.”
“Is it hard shooting someone like that? I mean when you have time to think about it, not just in the heat of the moment?”
Right then I knew where these questions were coming from. She’d been talking to Cory. He’d laid out the rank and file’s opinion of snipers for her.
I said, “You mean am I a cold-blooded bastard?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I wasn’t going to say anything more. But then I realized if I didn’t, she’d think a cold-blooded bastard was exactly what I was.
So I said, “All the worst things soldiers do happen in the heat of battle. Taking time to think is good, when you have time to do it. It keeps innocent people from getting killed.”
“So police snipers... Is doing it for the police the same as doing it in Iraq?”
“It’s easier. And not as many people have a problem with it. Criminals are the only people who get shot by police snipers. People don’t mind that so much. Especially since I’m never going to shoot anybody unless they’re an imminent danger to someone else.”
She stayed quiet, but I felt compelled to add, “Anyway, I’ve never had to shoot anyone yet. Hostage situations are so rare. Most of what I do is surveillance, watching the team do raids and providing security for visiting ambassadors, stuff like that.”
She never asked me about it again. But from then on I thought about it, that conversation, whenever she seemed a little quiet. I’d wonder if she was thinking about what I do and what kind of person it makes me. I’d wonder if Cory was talking to her about it, bad-mouthing me behind my back.
Then her grandmother died. It wasn’t quick. She was in the hospital for a while. So there were trips to see her, and visits to April’s parents’ house. And then the last trip to the hospital, and the funeral and everything. I went with April to all of them. Well, I guess I missed a few, because of work, but I went along when I could. And I was there for her at home. I held her a couple of times when she cried. I was extra-nice to her, like you are with people who just lost someone. I thought I did a good job. I thought I was being supportive.
But then, a few days after the funeral, April started crying again, so I tried to hug her, but she pushed me away.
She said, “Don’t.”
I said, “What’s wrong?”
She wouldn’t answer me.
I said, “Are you mad at me or something?”
Again, she wouldn’t answer. She wouldn’t even look at me.
I had to ask a couple more times, but finally she said, “You can’t help me with this.”
I said, “Well, I guess that’s right. Nobody can help, really. Only time will make it better.”
She said, “No, I mean you can’t help.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t know how this feels.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. I didn’t know exactly what kind of relationship she’d had with her grandmother, but I’ve lost grandparents too, and other relatives. I tried to tell her that, carefully, trying hard not to be insensitive.
But she said, “No, I mean no one who kills people for a living can really know how this feels.”
I was floored. “What are you talking about?”
“If you’d ever felt this way, you wouldn’t be able to do your job.”
It was everything I’d been afraid of. And somehow it made me mad.
I said, “So you think I’m a robot? I never grieved for anyone? I’m not capable of it?”
She just looked at me and said, “I don’t know what you feel. But it can’t be like normal people.”
I couldn’t talk after that. I couldn’t make words come out. The worst of it was, she wasn’t mad. She was just sort of cold. Closed off.
We talked about it some more later that night, a little bit, but I don’t remember anything I said. I don’t think I made any sense, I was so upset. I know I didn’t say anything that had any effect on her. Nothing made a dent.
She moved out four days after that. Not back to her parents’ house. She already had an apartment lined up.
Barbara said, “Did she give you a reason?”
“Lots of them. She had a whole list. We were two different people, that’s the main one I remember.”
The look in his eyes showed that he was in fact capable of feeling grief. Barbara said, “I’m sorry. Did you ever live with a girlfriend before her?”
“No.”
Barbara wasn’t surprised. His personnel file included his results from the Meyers-Briggs Personality Type Inventory, which he’d been required to take when he joined the force. It showed he was introverted, cerebral, and extremely self-reliant. Just the qualities you wanted in a sniper, but not necessarily in a romantic partner. It would have been only natural if he’d had trouble getting along with his first live-in girlfriend.
She said, “Well, how did you cope with your relationship ending?”
“I don’t know. I just tried to work. Tried not to think about it. But in the end I couldn’t do either one.”
Gently Barbara said, “Tell me about what happened yesterday.”
I got the call while I was out on patrol. I got to the scene first, before Dean, so I picked a spot to set up in. It was in one of the offices of a car dealership across the street from the suspect. I had a clear shot out the window from there, straight at the side of the car the suspect was sitting in. It was only fifty yards away. The scope brought him so close I could see the pores on his face.
His name was Clarence Schappell. I remember thinking you wouldn’t expect someone named Clarence to ever do anything violent. His girlfriend’s name was Valerie. She was sitting in the front seat on the passenger side and he was sitting behind her, both of them facing front. Most of the time he kept the gun pointed at the back of her headrest, but sometimes he’d put it down. It was a heavy gun, a Smith & Wesson 686. That’s the big .357 Magnum, stainless steel with a six-inch barrel. It holds seven rounds, but one would be enough to kill Valerie, no question.
I got set up. It took Dean a long time to get there. I was on my own for probably an hour. And that whole time I’m worrying, the same old thoughts running through my head. But now it’s worse, because now I feel like I have answers to a lot of the old questions. I feel like I really do know this guy because of what he’s going through. You see, before I got there he was already on the phone with Barry. He told Barry he’s just trying to work some things out with his girlfriend. I can sure relate to that. I mean he’s gone way overboard, but I know just how he feels. A week or two ago I had moments when I fantasized about cornering April in a room somewhere, locking the door, and not letting her leave until she told me whether or not she ever really loved me, and why she did what she did. I didn’t do it, of course, but I felt like I knew what drove Clarence to do this.