Thursday, November 23, 2017
The drive was quiet and scenic. Once they were outside of Denver, the surroundings were mostly open fields, but the blue mountains in the distance provided a breathtaking view away from the smog of downtown. The patrol car hummed along I-25 at a steady 75. After half an hour, they were far out of Officer Malone’s official jurisdiction, so he lowered the police radio’s volume and turned on the FM radio to the golden voice of Freddie Mercury singing “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
Malone whistled and hummed along while Jeremy stared out the window in a daze. The adrenaline faded away, leaving a twisting sense of anticipation in Jeremy as he awaited his arrival to Rocky Mountain Mental Health Institute.
“About forty-five more minutes,” the young officer said as they passed through Colorado Springs. Jeremy looked out his window and saw Pike’s Peak in all her glory.
The next stretch was treacherous, as the Rocky Mountains disappeared from sight thanks to the rising foothills in the area. The remainder of the drive consisted of dirt and abandoned buildings. They drove into nothingness.
Then signs of life started reappearing. Dirt gave way to greenery, billboards popped up on the side of the highway, and warehouse buildings popped up behind the truck stops.
It occurred to Jeremy that whatever way the trial had ended, he would have been on this same route. The major prison where the big shots were sent was in Cañon City, just a few minutes west of Pueblo.
Pueblo will do just fine. It’s a beautiful city, he lied to himself.
The engine hummed softly as they approached their exit. The turn signal clicked on as the car turned into town, where neighborhoods and a strip mall were now in sight. Officer Malone zigzagged through the city for five minutes before passing a large shopping mall and turning down a side road. A large brick sign welcomed them to ROCKY MOUNTAIN MENTAL HEALTH INSTITUTE: COLORADO DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN SERVICES.
Two flagpoles stood tall behind the sign, one with the Colorado state flag and the taller one the U.S. flag, both flapping furiously in the wind.
“Here we are,” Malone spoke up for the first time in almost an hour. They approached a massive brick building that stood five stories tall. A row of windows ran along each floor that stretched as long as a football field.
The car stopped at the hospital’s front doors, where the electronic doors parted for a group of three nurses and a large security officer.
They were there for him. One nurse held a clipboard beneath her bosom, and the other two waited with their hands clasped in front of them.
This is my new home. The next phase is underway.
There was no press waiting, no news vans parked in the lot, no mourning family members awaiting his arrival. He was officially in the middle of nowhere and no one gave a shit about him here. The drama of the trial was over and he was now an afterthought—a footnote in America’s ugly history of gun violence.
He was not the mental health champion he sought to be. Nothing had changed with regard to how the mentally ill were treated. The world carried on as normal, awaiting the chance to offer their thoughts and prayers for the next mass murder of their fellow citizens.
But Jeremy’s eyes were still on the prize.
You can count on one thing for sure. I will change the world.