Settling a Score

Before Walt could leave there was some unfinished business he had to attend to. There was a man he had to kill.

3 years earlier, his oldest son, Will, then 20, had been shot to death by a police officer. Will was in college and playing football. After a game, he and some friends drove to the local bar strip, and being underage for the bars, a friend old enough to buy alcohol got out of the car and headed into a liquor store leaving Will at the wheel with several others in the back seat. The local police had been called to the bar strip over a bar fight that had spilled out onto the street. One of the officers motioned Will to move his car. Another officer, Officer Robert Spinelli, believing Will was somehow part of the melee and that Will was using his car as a weapon fired 10 shots at the windshield in front of the driver’s seat. Will died a short time later, bleeding to death in handcuffs while the police ransacked his car. They found a marijuana cigarette. Later, the media would report that there had been a “drug related police shooting”.

The loss of a child is the most devastating event that can happen to a human being, and the loss of a child by violence leaves parents in shock. There is no time to prepare, to say “good bye”, or resolve conflicts. There is only the shock, pain, and rage directed at the killer. Walt’s rage churned inside him for these past 3 years. Every “police involved shooting” or other perceived Government injustice reported in the media would send him into the depths of depression followed by a sulking rage ending in a migraine headache that would last for over 24 hours and during which he could not tolerate light or sound. For years he could not walk past the family photos that hung on the wall, inside the kitchen cabinet, on the fridge, or his wife’s dresser without breaking down. Slowly his grief turned to anger and the anger turned to rage – a rage that would not cool.

This man had killed his child. Will had done nothing wrong – he had been following the instructions of another police officer when that scumbag Spinelli overreacted and shot Will to death. Rather than render assistance and try to save Will, the police at the scene handcuffed him and searched his car. Walt could not get over the vision of Will being left to bleed to death lying face down on the sidewalk with his hands handcuffed behind his back.

After the shooting, Walt pressed the issue to the local District Attorney and the State Attorney General to no avail. The other police officers at the scene closed ranks around Spinelli, providing false and misleading testimony to investigators. Later, to add insult to injury, the police officer that fired the shots received an award for bravery in the line of duty by the local Police Benevolent Association. Meanwhile, Walt dreamed of tying Spinelli to his bed, pinning that award to his chest and then setting the bed on fire and burning his house down.

Things were different now. His young son was a young man – Walt had no children depending on him. He was getting older; time was running short. He might not get this chance again. A terrific blackout had gripped the metropolitan area and Walt decided this was the time to settle the score.

Walt rigged a carrying rack for a 5-gallon gas can on his bicycle. He packed his stainless steel Ruger Mini-14, .223 caliber assault rifle, a Ruger .357 magnum revolver, ammunition, matches and two butane lighters and a folding buck skinning knife and set out peddling his bike to his destination and either his destiny or that of Officer Spinelli - the man that had destroyed his life and took away his future. A lifetime of Christmas celebrations, violin lessons, Little League, camping, and vacations at the Jersey shore had been destroyed by that “sick fucking cop”, as Walt referred to Spinelli, and Walt was on his way to settle “all family business” as the line in the movie “The Godfather” said.

He had thought about using a diesel/fertilizer bomb like the one used in the bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City; he had the diesel and the ammonium nitrate and the knowledge, but he wanted to kill Spinelli personally. He wanted Spinelli to see it coming. He wanted Spinelli to bleed to death after being shot. And he wanted Spinelli to bleed to death while in handcuffs while someone stood by and did nothing to save him. He wanted to kill every member of Spinelli’s family right in front of him. He wanted to wipe Spinelli’s existence and all of his descendants clean from the Earth. He burned with a hate only the parent of a murdered child knows.

It was a 12-mile ride in the dark from Tarrytown down to Yonkers. Walt took the Saw Mill River Parkway as there were no homes or buildings along the route. The parkway was built for passenger cars with the view in mind. In the absence of gasoline during the blackout were no cars to worry about. Walt did worry about getting a flat tire on the way, and prepared for that, but his tires held up. He wasn’t worried about getting a flat on the way home, if he even made it home, as he could easily walk the 12 mile return trip without having to lug the 5 gallon gasoline can.

It took him 2 hours to make the 10-mile leg down the Saw Mill parkway from Tarrytown to the Executive Boulevard exit in the village of Hastings-on-Hudson. From there he would head South on Route 9 to North Yonkers and the home of the man that had shot his older son to death. It was 3 a.m., but a few people were up and standing on their porches or hanging out on the sidewalk. Walt thought it was funny that people still stayed out of the street, as there was no risk of getting hit by a car. No one interrupted his trip or sought to stop him. Perhaps the look on his face, the weapon strapped across his back, and the gas can on the back of his bike told the story of Walt. Or perhaps the locals were too surprised to do anything to stop Walt before he disappeared into the dark of night. Either way, Walt arrived at his destination.

Walt stared at the house as he walked around the sidewalk adjacent to the property. The house was on a corner. There was no “backyard” but there was a side yard with a children’s play set, a patio with a BBQ grill, a table and chairs, an old sand box, and a pink bicycle with long flowing pink plastic sparklers hanging from the handle bars. His plan was simple: He took the gasoline and poured it on the window frames along the bottom floor of the house and across the side porch door leading to the patio area. He ran around the house lighting each window frame on fire, with each going up in a loud “whoosh”. Then he crossed the sidewalk and into the street resting his stainless steel Ruger Mini-14 .223 caliber assault rifle across the roof of a parked car less than 30 feet from the Spinelli’s front door. He did not have to wait very long.

The three Spinelli children spilled from the house followed by their mother and father. As they came up the walkway toward the street and the parked car that Walter was using as a rifle rest Walter shot the eldest of the Spinelli children, a girl of 16, in the chest. The report from the rifle deafened Walt as well as the surviving Spinelli’s. Collecting his wits, and not yet realizing that his daughter lay dying on their tiny front lawn, Officer Spinelli turned in the direction of the rifle blast. His eyes were wide with terror when he met the gaze of Walther Thomas. Walt let a moment pass to allow Spinelli to recognize him and process what was happening. Then Walt shot the youngest Spinelli, a girl of 6, right between the eyes. The child went down like a wet rag doll thrown from a dog’s mouth. Walt then shot Spinelli’s wife and 12-year-old son, aiming for their lower legs. He hit them both the first time and they went down on the ground in a heap, screaming in terror agony.

Now Walt came out from behind the car toward a paralyzed-with-confusion Officer Spinelli. The light from the house fire made Walt’s face easy to see, though Spinelli had to look past the rifle Walt was aiming directly at him.

“You!!” Screamed Spinelli.

            “BOOM!!” Answered the Ruger mini-14. Walt had shot Spinelli through the top of his left foot, and Spinelli went down next to his writhing-in-agony wife and son.

            “You killed my son!!” Walt shrieked at the downed Spinelli. “Now I am here to kill your son! Your daughters! Your wife! I want you to see it and feel it! I want you to know what you did to me! And then I am going to kill you!!” Walt fired another round into the leg of Spinelli’s 12-year-old boy. “Your daughters are already dead, you fucking piece of shit!!” And Walt fired several shots into the head of the prone body of the older Spinelli girl, pulverizing her skull, and then paced over to the younger daughter’s body and fired two shots into her torso.

 “Ha ha! How’s that fucking feel, motherfucker? Huh?! They’re dead! Ha ha!!” Walt shrieked like the madman he now was.

Mrs. Spinelli began to low crawl toward her younger daughter’s body but Walt interrupted her efforts by firing a round into the back of her knee, the round exiting through the front of her knee joint and shattering the knee cap. Walt then turned, aimed, and fired at Officer Spinelli, striking him in the right kneecap. Spinelli’s leg exploded in blood. This seemed to stop Spinelli’s backward scoot efforts to evade Walt. Walt then turned and fired again at Mrs. Spinelli, striking her in her elbow. He kicked her in the face, reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of handcuffs, laid his rifle on the ground, turned her over and handcuffed her. He then roughly turned her over, withdrew his .357 from its holster at his hip and fired a round into Mrs. Spinelli’s shoulder joint. She was now bleeding from wounds in her lower leg, kneecap, elbow, and shoulder.

“Don’t worry, you fucking bitch”, Walt screamed between clenched teeth, “you won’t die for a while. You will have plenty of time to think about my son. He bled to death because of this piece of shit here you call a husband. What comes around goes around.” And with that he spit on her, “Ptuh!”

“He killed my son,” Walt said to no one in particular but motioning to Officer Spinelli as he looked up to find the Spinelli boy leaning against the smoldering house, “and now I am here to even the score and then some”. Walter emptied the remaining rounds of the 30 round magazine into the body of Officer Spinelli’s son, laid down the rifle, and reached into his pocket for another set of handcuffs. With the cuffs in his left hand and the .357 revolver in his right, Walt approached Officer Spinelli and opened fire, striking Spinelli in the elbow, shoulder, and ankle. He then clubbed Spinelli with the revolver, turned him over and handcuffed his hands behind his back.

It had been only 3 minutes since Walter set Spinelli’s house on fire, but now some of the neighbors were looking out their front doors and some were coming down into the street. A police siren wailed in the distance and from the sound it was headed this way. Walter went to his bicycle, removed a loaded 30 round magazine from his bag and retrieved his rifle. He engaged the ammo clip and racked the slide and let loose several rounds in different directions, screaming like a wild man. There were no more interruptions from the neighbors.

Officer and Mrs. Spinelli were shrieking in pain and agony as Walter approached them. He was holding the gasoline can in his hand - it was about half-full he reckoned. He poured the fuel onto the bodies of the Spinelli children and set them on fire. He returned to their parents who were wild eyed at the thought of being burned to death, and said “You think I am going to burn you, too? Fuck you. I hope you survive your wounds and live in agony, though I doubt you will make it through the night. Me? I am going to sit here and tell you what you did to my life.” 

Walt began to draw breath to speak again when a vision of his son Will lying in his casket flashed in his mind. His rage boiled over and he opened the buck-skinning knife he wore on his hip and tore away Officer Spinelli’s boxer shorts, seized his testicles and penis in his left hand, and cut them away from Spinelli’s body. As Spinelli shrieked in agony, hands cuffed behind his back, Walter stood back and admired his handiwork.

“Let me know when you are through screaming there, scumbag,” Walter said laughing, “because I want you to die with your balls and your dick in your mouth”.

Spinelli’s screams began to subside as the blood poured from the wound in his groin. Walter kicked Spinelli viciously in the head until Spinelli’s mouth was open, and then carefully deposited Spenilli’s genitals in his mouth. He walked over to a still very much alive Mrs. Spinelli, poured the remaining gasoline on her and her husband, stood back and looked her right in the eyes and said, “I changed my mind. Fuck you. I want you two to burn here, now, and then I hope you burn in hell,” and then Walt set them on fire. He stayed and watched until he thought Officer & Mrs. Spinelli were dead and then hopped on his bike as carefree as any 9 year old on the first day of summer vacation and peddled away. Walt didn’t make it to the end of the block before being shot to death by responding police officers. As he lay there bleeding to death in the street he smiled to himself and was as pleased as punch with the events of the evening. Walt's last words were to himself, unheard by others. "I got him, son. I killed the man that killed you. I destroyed the future of the man that destroyed your future. This was the best I could do."


       The following morning the neighbors crowded the scene of the Spinelli family murders, gawking in horror at the gory scene. More than a few knew of the famous case of the shooting of a young, unarmed college kid by the man lying charred in the small yard in front of his lightly damaged house – for some reason the gasoline had not succeeded in spreading to the rest of the home – along with his wife and three children. The lesson was not lost on any of them.

“What comes around, goes around.”

A Life Unmourned

            The evening’s fall of darkness is a terrifying time when you are surrounded by men that want, no are sworn, to kill you. The evidence of the enemy’s intentions lay all around him, as did the efforts of his comrades. The blood, everywhere on the ground, had been quite warm. Now the blood on the ground had congealed into a sickly, slippery, cold gel. He slid slowly on his back, pushing towards the Union lines and help. One hundred yards was all that separated the armies. That and the dead that lay between them.

            The disgraceful brutality of the day’s bloodshed seemed lost on the insects of the field as they sang and crooned their mating serenades with no more regard for the hundreds of dead men lying there than a man would have had for the death of hundreds of their kind. He hoped that their chorus would give cover to the roar of his labored breathing and pounding heart. Not that it much mattered. His heart was pumping his own blood out of his body through a hole in his neck, courtesy of a dying Confederate soldier in his first battle, a boy really, who discharged his rifle almost as an afterthought while being stabbed to death. He slid slowly on his back.

            This was not his first battle. He had seen the carnage and courage, the terror and valor, and the death and survival of those that fought and bled on the field. He prayed that those who sent young men to be slaughtered like this would know a violent death themselves. This was their war. It was their cause - yet it was his death. He had no dead man in this funeral. Well, other than he. He was here because life had failed him and he needed the $300 he got for taking the place of another. For $300 his life was spilling onto the ground from a hole in his neck. For $300 he had forged lifelong friendships with the short lived, bonds that can only be formed in the privation and fear where men seek the support of the man standing next to them. For $300 received he had the privilege of watching his newly acquired friends kill and be killed, their bodies decaying unburied and unmourned, for no reason that any of them could intelligently articulate. Now it appeared it was his turn. He slid slowly on his back.

            His head swam and his lifeblood flowed from the wound in his neck and still he slid slowly on, like a frog turned on his back that struggles to right itself. With 30 yards to go he stopped to rest. He opened his eyes to the beauty and miracle of the stars on a clear night. They greeted him impassively as they always had. The vastness and excellence of a clear night’s sky is imponderable but the stars remain unimpressed by man. He dared to let out a series of gasps. He needed air, needed to breathe, unable to concern himself that someone might hear. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting. When he opened his eyes again the stars were there but remained indifferent to his struggles. He slid slowly on his back.

            Drifting in and out of consciousness with 20 yards to go a lucid thought fought through the foggy mind of a dying man. This is a stupid way to die. He laughed to himself as another thought came to him. I wonder if I give the money back will they let me live? ‘NO’, said a voice. The voice was his. He thought of his children, 4 boys under the age of 7. Will they even remember me? They had been desperate. His wife thought the $300 would change their lives. It certainly changed my life. He slid slowly on his back.

            There was a body in his way; he could feel his head bump into it. He would have to go over it. He collected his strength and curled up as if to sit and then lunged back on top of the corpse, but the corpse moved and he slid off over its head. Then the soon-to-be-corpse sat up with wild eyes and made a gurgled sound in his direction. It was his Sergeant Major. Though he thought they had made eye contact the Sergeant Major did not appear to recognize him. Then the Sergeant’s eyes rolled up in his head and a torrent of blood came pouring from the man’s mouth. The Sergeant Major fell to his side, certainly a corpse now. He slid slowly on his back.

            A hand grasped his lower leg by the boot. When he looked down a young man missing the lower part of his body was hanging on to him. “Help me,” he hissed. “Help me”, he repeated. The half-man held a bloody piece of paper in his hand and was motioning for the soldier to take it. “Give this to my father, please.” With the bloody paper now in his hand he slid slowly on his back.

            He could see the cover that the men holding the line were sheltering behind. The blood that had been spewing from his neck was now just a trickle, and what little was left of his strength had left his body along with it. Five yards to go. He had to tell them who he was. He wanted his children to know what had happened to him and where he had died. He slid slowly on his back.

            He felt the earthen ramparts of the line. He had made it. Someone would see him. Someone did see him. He felt hands grab his tunic roughly and haul him quickly over the mound. He heard their voices. He tried to speak but could not. He held out the bloody paper that had been given to him by the man that had been blown in half by a cannon ball as he lay there on his back.

            “It’s a g-d damn Yankee!”

            He had only a brief moment to realize that he had sought help in the wrong direction before the soldier brought the bayonet of his rifle down into his chest, the blade piercing his sternum and pinning him to the earth. How unnecessary, he thought as his life slipped away, to have my blood on your hands. I was killed already. 

            His body slid slowly into the earth.

A day soon came where hundreds of thousands would come to pay their respects to the official that sent him and hundreds of thousands like him to their violent deaths. These multitudes would erect monuments and statues to this official, put his likeness on their currency, exaggerate his accomplishments, and revere his memory.  No one, not even the children of the Union soldier slain so mercilessly, would remember his life, his loss, his forced sacrifice, or where his body lay, unmarked, with the others killed that day.

           

C’est la Guerre.