Question Everything... Then Dig Deeper

“Daddy. Daddy. Don’t. Don’t hurt mommy.”

As the small plaintive cry fades into the corners of the living room, it is immediately masked by three reports from a 9mm handgun. The entry holes in the woman’s forehead and chest are dime size while the exit wounds are each the size of a saucer. Bone splinters, brain matter, and blood spray the wall and furniture behind her. The female form momentarily convulses and then collapses onto the couch where she and her family had spent hours watching TV. She flops next to her daughter who is slumped over. The girl’s chin is on her chest and she is sitting in a large pool of blood. Both women are expressionless. Four eyes are closed. Two mouths are agape. The telephone rings again. The man will not answer it…again. The incessant ringing expresses the frustration of the caller.

“Daddy. Daddy. Why did you hurt mommy? Mommy, get up. Get up!”

From outside the house, a bullhorn blares. Police are trying another way to contact the shooter.

“Mr. Brankow. Mr. Brankow. What happened? Are you OK? Is your wife OK? How about your children?”

The questions coming from the front of the house cause Eliot Brankow and the boy to look toward the door. With one arm, Eliot swiftly grabs his son under the arms, hoists the boy to cover his adult chest, and walks awkwardly toward the front door. The phone continues to ring unanswered.

“Mr. Brankow, we don’t want anybody to be injured. Please come outside and talk. Father O’Brien is here. He wants to talk to you and your family. I am sure we can work all this out to your satisfaction. We just want to help.”

“Eliot. This is Father O’Brien. How can I help? May I talk to Mary? Is she OK? Please come out so we can talk this through. How are Alex and Maria? Are they OK? Please send them out. I just want to help you solve whatever is troubling you. I know you are a good man. I know God loves you. You know God loves you. Please come out so we can talk.” Strategically stationed behind patrol cars and two of the trees that line the middle-class neighborhood street, Buffalo PD ESU sharpshooters train their weapons on the door and windows of the living and dining rooms in the front of the house. They await the OK to fire.

“We’re coming out. Don’t shoot.”

“That’s great, Mr. Brankow. Now we can talk this through. Come out very slowly. All we want to do is talk face to face.”

Eliot has checked his two Glocks to be sure they are loaded and unlocked. He has gripped one in his left hand and stuffed the other in the rear of his waistband. Holding his son before him, the father struggles to open the door a few inches. He peers outside at the assembled force prepared to either accept him or bring him down like a wild animal. Turning back inside, he catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror by the door. Spittle that had been at the corners of his mouth now coats his lips. His mouth looks like he put it on vanilla icing. His eyes are red and glazed His skin is ashen. He is sweating profusely. He’s on fire. With his foot, Eliot slowly pushes the door completely open. The boy shield is ushered in front of his father onto the small two step stoop.

“Mr. Brankow, just relax. We want this to end peacefully.”

“Peacefully, my ass.”

With those words, Eliot pushes his son to the right into the rose garden that had been nurtured and loved by the adult woman now dead on the couch. The boy stumbles and falls to his knees. With his right hand, Eliot reaches into his rear waistband and removes the concealed Glock G30S, the twin of the gun in his left hand now raised. He aims in the general direction of the police force and commences indiscriminate fire. He gets off two rounds each from his right and left hands before the police respond. The sharpshooters don’t wait for the order to fire. The defensive response is overwhelming. Bullets cut into the man and the front of the house as if the slugs formed a sheet of hail blown by a stiff wind. The wooden door and frame are splintered and bricks are chipped away by rounds that don’t find their human target. Many bullets find their target. He is bounced about like a marionette and tossed backward. The contorted mass crumples backward into the open doorway. Police are trained to fire their weapons to suppress the threat of deadly force until it is no longer a threat. Eliot Brankow is no longer a threat. They stop shooting.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!”

Suddenly there’s silence at 3412 Woodmere Drive, Buffalo, New York. The reports of the police sharpshooter rifles briefly echo through the neighborhood. Violence that started out as a personal one-on-one inside the home ends as an impersonal ten-on-one slaughter outside.

“Sergeant Miller, retrieve the boy. Take him to the EMS bus. Make sure they get him to the hospital immediately. Father, if you would ride with the boy, it may help calm him down. You two, confirm the kill. The rest of you, once they give us the OK, we’ll enter the house.”

Captain Stankiewitz directs a contingent of four shield carrying officers over the body and into the living room. The Captain and one officer survey the living room abattoir, while the other three cautiously inspect every room in the house for possible family members or another shooter. The shouts of “clear” are welcome sounds to the Captain.

What he sees in the living room makes him uncomfortable. It’s not that he hasn’t experienced murder scenes before, it’s just that two women seemingly posed on the couch trigger thoughts of his wife and daughter. He wills himself not to tear up.

“Where is the Crime Scene Team? I want this house processed and sealed off now, damn it, now. Is the ME here? I want the bodies examined with all dispatch then taken downtown. I need to be sure there’s nothing hinky.”

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Lunch at his desk consists of soup du jour, a bottle of water, and a brownie from the cafeteria, plus a sandwich from home. The meal is not always sufficient for his six foot 205-pound body. At this stage in his life he enjoys eating and drinking…perhaps a little too much. The full mop of hair hints of a younger man. He smiles as he unwraps his peanut butter and honey. His dad used to take a PB&H to his office during planning season for his clients: fifteen hours a day, six days a week for six weeks at the office. No time for family or to take a weekend off for his beloved golf. But as his dad said, those six weeks helped pay for the family’s yearlong living and the three-week summer vacation. Peanut butter. He can see his dad’s face. David Drummer wonders if the love of certain foods is genetic. Stop. No time for reverie.

It’s time to review the contents of the package delivered yesterday to David’s townhome. The cover of the package is decorated with stamps and indicia confirming its point of origination…the island of Eleuthera in the Bahamas. Eleuthera. The name lifts David’s spirits. His dream is within reach. His dream of retiring to an idyllic world to fish and swim in the sea, write the great American novel, and become normal again. Normal is a concept that heretofore existed sporadically and vaguely in his mind and in loving conversations with Rachel. Rachel Vincent is the woman who shares his dream and has helped make their dream become real. Slowly his mind drifts into another place.

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