Winding through the dried fallen leave trails of Kennesaw Mountain trying to digest the experiences of the previous days. The afternoon sunlight flickers through the thinning trees creating both a distraction and an irritant. The trail rolls through matted pine needles and fallen leaves. The trail declines to a bridge over a creek and then begins to climb. My breathing and pulse quicken as the trail rises toward Whitlock Avenue, but little is seen or heard outside of the vivid recreation of the previous night.
A quiet evening can always be squashed by one dispatch. A call that immediately raises the responding officer's heart rate, and starts the immediate sequence of planning and coordinating. Last night it was a fight. People were screaming for help and the desperation was conveyed through the voice of a six year old girl named Tara. Tara's cry for help was translated into the police language of codes and unnecessarily complicated words. This translation was sent to the closest officer through the mobile data terminal (MDT for short) located in his patrol car. Carl Johnson's MDT beeped and the information filled his screen: A fight in progress at 1207 Oakbend Trail, a six year old girl named Tara advises that her parents are having a physical altercation, screaming and fighting can be heard in the background. The same information is provided over the police radio in case Johnson is out of his car. However, he is in his car and is very close to the call. Johnson's beat partner, Joe Logan acknowledges the call and is a minute behind Johnson.
Johnson tells the radio operator and the other officers on the air that he's on the scene. He strategically parks his car in the street a few houses away and slowly approached the house. As he approaches he listens. He listens for people: for the victim, for the suspect, for information, for a six year old girl named Tara.
The house and the neighborhood were beginning to fall into disrepair. The house at 1207 Oakbend Trail and the other houses were in need of paint. Mailbox doors squeaked in the breeze as they hung on by a sole remaining hinge. Cars filled the driveways and street in front of houses built for four. The house Johnson approached was no different. A blue work van was parked in a driveway with markings that identified it's owner as a satellite dish consultant. Two more cars were in the driveway: an old Ford Bronco II with four flat tires was partially covered by a tarp and a Chevrolet Lumina with only one hubcap and a long angry scratch in the faded silver paint of the driver's door. Johnson negotiated toys as he neared the house from the side. The smells of hamburger helper and old laundry drifted toward him as did the sounds of people shouting. A screen door was closed in front of an open wooden door. Johnson crept closer.
Without warning the screen door flew open. The hinges were pushed to their breaking point before the springs on the door prevented it from striking the window behind. A woman ran from the house carrying a child in her arms. Shannon Gordon was about thirty years old. She was of medium weight and height. She was wearing a red t-shirt, jeans, and no shoes. Her brown ponytail followed her out of the house. Despite the best of intentions her speed was slowed by the child who clung to her neck. She was no match for the shirtless man in pursuit.
Alvin Gordon was angry. He was long past his limited ability to control himself or think clearly. His wife of three years had complained for the last time. Alcohol wasn't his problem and it wasn't his fault that he had been laid off from his job. Shannon was going to pay for her words. Alvin quickly overtook Shannon in the front yard. He ripped grabbed her arm and pulled. The little girl screamed and fell to the ground. Alvin grabbed Shannon by her pony tail and pointed a knife at her throat.
Shannon had no where to go. Alvin, who had never been a picture of sanity had finally gone mad. She knew she had to take Tara and run with the hope that he would lose interest when she reached a neighbor's house. Shannon held Tara with all of her strength and ran as fast as she could. But Alvin was faster. She shrieked when he grabbed her arm. His grip was too strong ans she could not break free. She let go of Tara hoping the resourceful child would run to safety. She then turned to face Alvin accepting her death, not knowing that her resourceful child had already saved her.
Johnson reacted quickly. His drew his pistol with automatic efficiency and shouted at Alvin. "Drop the knife." However, Alvin was no longer capable of hearing. A life of missed opportunities and failure had come to fruition and Shannon was going to pay the price. Shannon screamed, Tara screamed, and Johnson aimed. Racing heartbeats were suddenly separated by years. Johnson pulled the trigger on his weapon. The firing pin struck the primer and a small explosion launched the bullet through the barrel. In an instant three shots rang out from Johnson's pistol. Angry Alvin Gordon fell to the ground. The knife remained clutched in his hand.
As the incline leveled off and Carl Johnson skirted the traffic on Whitlock Avenue he continued on through rolling hills as he approached the Illinois Monument where four thousand men sacrificed their lives for their versions of freedom and liberty. Conversely, angry Alvin Gordon through his away for hopelessness and despair.
