by Jonathan Stone
Now I’m just gonna start up this here machine, okay? Tap the microphone, make sure it’s running, and ask you some questions. My partner Detective Anderson over there in the corner, he’s gonna sit quietly and take some notes, and you just answer truthfully, just say what happened. Name?
But you know my name.
I know, son, but we have to get it officially. So, name?
Owen James Ames.
Age?
Twelve. Are Mike and me in trouble?
No, son, you’re not in trouble. Now, tell us where you live.
Edson Farm, rural route 3. Where you came to get us at.
Okay.
I’m scared.
(PAUSE. SLIGHT WHIMPERING.)
Now, now, calm down. We’ll take good care of you and your brother, okay? So you just tell us what happened.
Starting when?
Well...why don’t you tell me first how you happened to be there in the bomb shelter?
Well, we’d go play in there.
Really?
Well yeah, see ’cause our farm’s got no good climbing trees, and the driveway’s dirt so’s our bikes is no good on it, so we’d go play in it. It was fun in there.
Didn’t your dad lock it?
(PAUSE. SLIGHT WHIMPERING.)
Son, it’s okay. Just answer and everything will be all right. So, did your dad lock it?
Not at first, no. He said it was so hidden, there in the high grass, that no one would know where it is, and he said as long as we swore not to tell anyone at school about it, he’d leave it open and we could play in it. But we had to keep it neat and promise not to touch any of the supplies or nothin’.
(MORE WHIMPERING.)
Now, Owen, I’m sure he wouldn’t be mad about that. I’m sure it was okay.
But then I told him how I’d told Becka at school about it, and he thought she might tell her folks, and he said it was important that no one else know, because we wouldn’t have the room or supplies to save our neighbors, so then he started locking it.
So then what?
Well he kept the key on the Frigidaire, so we would just open it up anyway and play there, and when he found us in there we was plenty scared, but he just laughed and walked away.
And tell me about yesterday.
The Russkie attack?
Uh, yes, the Russkie attack.
Well, you know, our pop said they could come anytime, they were learnin’ to disguise theirselves, and speak American and such. So we was gettin’ ready for ’em. We’d pretend Emma was a Russkie, and Leo.
Emma?
You know—our cow. And Leo’s our rooster. There weren’t no one else to play it with. We’d push Emma over and declare victory. Anyway, when we went in there, we’d lock the door from the inside.
And what’d you do in there?
Turn on the lamp. Lie on the couch. Turn on the radio, mostly. Pop said we could fool with that. We’d lie there in the dark and listen to the Cardinals. It was cool.
Did your dad seem worried about the Russians? Here in Indiana?
He talked about ’em a lot. How evil they are. How Communism is the devil’s faith and such. He’d tell us stories at bedtime, and the Russkies was always the bad guys. He said our family and our farm was about the last people the Russkies would get to. We’d have the longest experience of American freedom. He said that was the good news. He said the bad news was by the time they got to us, they’d have already overrun everywhere else, New York and Chicago and Atlanta and all the cities, and we’d be the last defenders of freedom, the last to fall.
Overrun, huh? The Russians here in Indiana?
On weekends, he drove us to some of the missile silos, way up to Gary and Wheeler. Talked about how missiles would come from Russia straight to Gary and Wheeler and hit our missiles before they launched—unlessen we launched ours first.
You want a glass of water, Owen?
No, sir, I’m okay.
Okay, so back to yesterday. Tell me everything you can about what happened yesterday.
We finished our farm chores, me and Mike, and we was playin’ in the shelter, and we had it locked like always...
Like always, what does that mean?
You know, bolted from the inside, like our dad showed us to keep out the Russkies. And then we heard a car engine and tires on the driveway, and we was gonna open the shelter and see who it was, but right away there’s yellin’, bunch of voices hollerin’ and whoopin’ and my pop yellin’ “Hey! Hey!” real angry, and then we hear like a pop, pop, pop...and someone scream out and then a loud moanin’ like some animal in pain, moanin’ like I never heard before, I figured it must be Emma our cow, but see it can’t be because I hear Emma bellowin’ at the same time, frightened-like... And we didn’t know what was going on, and we was real scared, so we turned out the light, and listened... And then got even scareder ’cause we heard footsteps runnin’ toward us, and someone pullin’ on the shelter door real hard, just pullin’ and pullin’ and pullin’, and then there’s a big loud crash against the door. And then it’s real quiet, and we stay real quiet, and I’m listening for Russian, and there’s more pop pop pop, which I figured out by now is shootin’, and then laughin’, and then they’re talkin’—
They?
The Russkies... Male and female, sir. They got this bad laugh.
Can you hear any words?
No, just laughin’ and screamin’ like they was drunk or somethin’, like they was at a carnival and ridin’ a carnival ride, that kind of wild fun screamin’... I heard ’em makin’ cow sounds over by the barn, and then three shots, and I hear Emma our cow moan and go quiet, and that’s when I know it’s Russkies.
How do you know?
Takin’ our milk supply. Pop said they’d do that. Said they’re all starvin’ over there. We’re real quiet, and I can hear the kitchen screen door slammin’, and their voices.
Then?
Then a minute later, I hear ’em again in the yard, and they’re calmer now, and I got my ear pressed up against the shelter door, and I can hear what they’re sayin, and they say it in English, which I figure they musta been practicin’ and trainin’ on for the attack.
What did they say?
They said, “There’s a boys’ bedroom,” and then they’re quiet. If they seen our bedroom, I know’d they musta been in the house.
Good thinking, son. Go on.
I move back—into the back of the shelter. I don’t hear ’em comin’ over. But next thing I hear, they’s outside the shelter door. Still usin’ their English. To sound like they’re from around here, but I can tell they ain’t.
What are they saying?
They say, “I ain’t touchin that,” and then, “Well, you got to,” and then there’s a scrapin’ on the door. And then there’s pullin’ on the door, more pullin’, just like before, and then more talk. One goes, “It’s locked.” Other one goes, “Yeah. From the inside.” And then it’s quiet. And then...
(PAUSE. CRYING.)
Take it easy, son. Just go nice and slow.
Then they shot out the lock, sir. So loud. Me and my brother, Mike, jumped. And they come down the bulkhead steps, and into the shelter.
And then?
Well, when they gone in the house, that’s when me and Mike got the shelter all ready.
Meaning?
We know where Pop keeps the gun, and we know where the shells are, but he thinks we don’t. So we got the gun—which we NEVER touched in the shelter before, I swear to you, sir—and we put the shells in...
How’d you know how to do that?
Why, we shoot squirrels and varmints and such all the time with our .22s, so we know how to work Pop’s gun no problem. And we had it all set up. The chair pulled over, Pop’s gun propped nice and steady on top of it, some shells lined up on the seat and Mike holdin’ the rest of ’em. And they come into the shelter, and course it’s all dark on ’em, suddenly comin’ straight out of the sunshine like that, just like for us when we come in here playin’, so we shot the Russkies, the both of ’em. Shot both shells at ’em, put more shells in real quick, and shot again, we was so scared.
And then?
Then we stayed right there in the shelter. We was too scared to go out and find more of ’em. I jus’ ran over to the shelter door and pulled it closed.
And you and Mike sat in there with the...the dead Russkies?
We sat in there and I turned on the Cardinals game, sir, to get us to not think about it, and then you came. We looked at ’em, lyin’ there. Russkies all right, like Pop warned. Beards and weird clothes and funny boots and such. Are we in trouble, sir?
No, you’re not.
Can we see our parents now? Are they mad at us? Is that why they haven’t come to git us yet?
(PAUSE.)
Sir?
Sorry. Yes, son?
Are they mad at us?
No, they’re...(PAUSE.)...they’re proud of you. You’re good boys. They’ll always be proud of you.
Sir?
Yes, son.
Sir, did...did the Russkies get ’em?
(PAUSE.)
Yes, son.
The...the Russkies got ’em?
Yes. That’s right. The Russkies. Your parents died defending our country.
Defending...defending the United States of America...?
Yes. They’re heroes, your mom and dad. And you boys are heroes, too. You hear me? Heroes, okay? Don’t you ever forget that. Now we’re gonna bring your brother, Mike, in here, so you can be with him. We were talking to him in the next room, so he could tell us what happened, too. And now, some nice people are gonna come take care of you both. They’re with the state of Indiana. And you’ll be safe from the Russkies, safe from everyone, from now on. Come on in here, Mike. You just sit down here next to your brother, Owen, for a spell. That’s it. Now you got to be nice to each other, you hear? Be real nice to each other, from now on.
And now, fifty-five years later, Owen James Ames turns off the recording once again. Presses the button on his computer. That’s how it is now. He had the old reel-to-reel recording transferred to a cassette tape years ago, and the cassette tape to a CD after that, and he recently had the CD digitized and backed up on the cloud, whatever that is exactly. He’d been able to get hold of the tape originally because of the FOI Act. He’d been able to locate it in the first place, because of who he is. Because of his authority and influence. He’s listened to it occasionally, now and again, over the years.
He turns to Detective Bowman. Good man. Taking over the division. Just as Owen James Ames, former chief of detectives, is finally retiring. He shifted to a consulting arrangement a few years ago so local law enforcement could still tap his long, unparalleled expertise. But now, at long last, Ames is stepping away.
“Spree killers,” says Ames. “Started the night before at a gas station outside Terre Haute, killed an older couple in Evansville, stopped for food or fuel or thrills or God knows why at an isolated family farm.” He smiles tightly. “Ours.”
He squints out the window. “That was the enemy, Bowman. Not some frozen, starving, struggling peasants six thousand miles away. Benign-looking everyday kids from just up the highway, kids whose brains got scrambled up by who knows what, a father’s drunken intimidation, or a mother’s sexual advances, or relentless humiliation, or rape or incest at their own isolated family farm, or else they were just bored crazy, and something snapped in them.”
He leans back in the big leather chair, swivels a little, drums its arms with the fingers of both hands. “That’s your enemy. Homegrown, home-sprung violence bred right there in Indiana. Violence the local cops tried to comprehend, reconstructing it for weeks, months, I’m sure, and in the end, nobody knew any more than we do right now, a half-century later.
“Spree killers, Bowman. Stopped by a twelve-and ten-year-old who thought they were Russians.” Ames shakes his head, smiles again, more wistful now. “My pop was paranoid about a Russian invasion. Hardworking farmer, eighth-grade dropout, mule of a man, never touched the sauce, but all caught up in what he saw in the newspaper and on our grainy, fuzzy TV. Paranoid—but as it turned out, not paranoid enough.”
Bowman is smart enough to stay silent. To know he is hearing something significant. A confession from fifty-five years ago, and a confession now. Was Ames playing it now, for Bowman, to guide him somehow in his new role? To offer a lesson, a cautionary tale, about the rush to judgment? About the true nature of bravery? About humility?
Former chief of detectives Ames is sure Detective Bowman has heard some version of this story before—through hearsay, or seeing old news clippings, or offhand gossip from chatty detectives at adjacent desks. Some version of the story has inevitably made its way around every police force where Ames has ever worked—Philadelphia, Baltimore, DC. Decades on the toughest urban forces. A long way from a farm in Indiana.
Most cops, after all, don’t have a defining moment like this. A moment of terror, a sharp crack of gunshots that have shaped a life. But it’s always been a version of his story, Ames has discovered, filled with inaccuracies, drifting into myth. So every so often over the past fifty-five years, Detective Ames has shared the tape. To correct the version. To set the record straight.
What former chief of detectives Owen James Ames doesn’t say to Bowman, because it’s trickier, more complicated...
How, yes, he’s clarifying the record—but not quite setting it straight.
How his confession as a twelve-year-old boy in Indiana has forever given him extra intuition into the other side of the interrogation table. How it has endowed him early with special insight into the subtleties of the truth.
How, yes, the events of that Indiana morning steered him somehow inevitably, inexorably into this career. Gave him a lifetime of trying to repair that day. To see what went on, on the other side of the bomb shelter door. To see what goes on on the other side of locked doors ever since.
How a bomb doesn’t necessarily fall from a Russian plane. A bomb can be hiding anywhere, take any form, detonate anytime—from right beside us, or even from within us.
How when he plays a certain section of that tape, the words of his twelve-year-old self still reverberate—across the decades—with fresh pain:
—And then got even scareder ’cause we heard footsteps runnin’ toward us, and someone pullin’ on the shelter door real hard, just pullin’ and pullin’ and pullin’—
How it had been his father, it turned out. His poor father. Trying to get to the gun in the bomb shelter. To protect his family. To defend them. A father’s protective instinct. Not knowing, of course, that the boys had been playing in the bomb shelter.
Not knowing he was inadvertently leading the killers right to the boys. Did his father realize all of this in his last moments, pulling frantically at the shelter door? That his two boys were in there? That the killers would now look to see what was behind that bolted door?
—And then there’s a big loud crash against the door.—
His father’s body, blasted, hitting the door.
—And then it’s real quiet, and we stay real quiet, and I’m listening for Russian, and there’s more shooting, and laughing—
Now Detective Bowman will understand for sure, beyond the myth and hearsay, the ancient prairie rifle that hangs on the wall behind Ames, amid all the plaques and citations. Most assume it’s just a memento of his rural upbringing, shooting rabbits, squirrels, other varmints, but Bowman will know now, for certain, it is much more than that. He’ll know exactly what gun it is.
“Russkies,” says Ames, shaking his head once more. “Good Lord. Seems like another lifetime.”
And yet, it is this one.
Ames smiles wistfully, ruefully. “To a twelve-year-old farm boy, it was the Russians. But it was never really the Russians, was it?” He cocks his head, looks at Bowman, assuming that Bowman will see the point: It was people who talked like us. Looked like us. Could be us. Until suddenly, they weren’t.
Ames sits up suddenly in the big leather chair, stands up sharply, reaches out to shake Bowman’s hand. “You’ll make a terrific chief of detectives, Bowman. You’ll do great.”
He places his left hand over their handshake. As if confirming it. Cementing it. Blessing it with a big, warm smile.
It was never really the Russians, was it?
That was enough, right? That should serve as enough of a useful lesson, a cautionary tale for Bowman, right?
Bowman didn’t need to know the rest. No one needed to.
Especially Mike.
He’d never been able to find his brother’s confession tape. His ten-year-old brother, Mike, interviewed in the next room. He didn’t know exactly what was on the tape, or exactly what Mike had said. He’d always been curious.
He’d learned early—real early—not to trust confessions.
Because twelve-year-old Owen James Ames had known right off it wasn’t Russkies.
He’d known it was crazy people. He’d known by the voices, by the accents, it was someone from around here. Who sounded like they were from just down the road. He could tell by the sounds. He could tell by the snippets of crazed conversation. He could tell by the screaming. He could even tell by his father’s confused, “Hey! Hey!” that it was someone that his father—for a moment—thought he knew.
Just as Owen James Ames knew—had always known—that it was their father pulling on the shelter door.
Knew it immediately. As it was happening.
He hadn’t let his father in because if he opened the door, he knew the killers would get in, too.
He hadn’t let his father in because he was protecting Mike.
Letting his father die. To protect his kid brother. To protect himself.
—We was too scared to go out and find more of ’em. I jus’ ran over to the shelter door and pulled it closed.—
Closing the shelter door quickly behind the two dead “Russians” to keep his brother from seeing their father’s body. The body Owen knew was lying out there.
You boys are heroes, the Indiana sheriff had said.
Really? Leaving their own father to die? Heroes?
His brother, Mike, would be at the retirement dinner next month.
He’d never shared with Mike that he knew it wasn’t Russians. The convenient, well-turned lie his paranoid father had armed him with. His lie to the police, to protect his brother and himself. His lie to let them be seen as simple, deluded twelve-and ten-year-old farm boys.
It was never really the Russians, was it?
As it was never simply the Blacks or the Latinos or the skinheads, in his intervening lifetime on the chaotic, drug-infested, crime-ridden streets of Philly and Baltimore and DC. It was never simply the Other.
It was, instead, how you reacted to the Other. The Other being the stress of the moment. The angry crowd that gathered spontaneously. The incendiary situation. The Other being what you caught yourself thinking. The surprising emotions and reactions and versions of events that rushed at you. What you said in the moment, what you chose not to. The Other was yourself, and you had to discover it for yourself, by yourself, and preaching it to Bowman would do no good.
It was never simply the stranger on the other side of the door. It was the stranger on this side.
The one who, fifty-five years later, was still keeping it to himself.
Telling himself once more the truth in the lie, the lie in the truth—that he was still protecting Mike.
He’d always protected Mike.
He was a born protector. He was a born cop.
Who had learned so early...
There is no shelter.