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“Police officers are in your home!” another officer yelled. “Is anyone here?”
The house responded with eerie silence. They split up, each clicking on lights as they moved through the first floor. Nothing was out of place and there were no signs of forced entry. Donna clicked on the foyer light. The upstairs hallway was protected by a spindled railing that overlooked the open-ceilinged foyer. She started a slow climb up the stairs, her gun out in front of her. As she neared the landing of the second story she was able to see the far end of the hallway through the spindled railing. One of the bedroom doors was badly damaged and hanging from the frame.
“Up here!” she yelled to the other officers, who gathered quickly with guns drawn and raced up the stairs to join her.
“Bedroom at the end of the hall. Door looks like it’s been broken down,” she said, still crouching on the stairs and unable to see the master bedroom to the right of the landing.
“I’ll lead,” she said. “You cover.”
The officers behind her nodded and they all started a slow creep, one by one, up the steps. As soon as Donna crested the landing, the carnage outside the master bedroom came into view. A young boy lay on the floor. The pool of blood around him and the chest wound immediately told the story. The neighbor had, indeed, heard gunshots.
“Holy shit,” Donna said, gasping as her chest tightened.
The officers quickly scaled the remaining stairs and crouched into shooter stances as they aimed their guns at the open door of the master suite. Donna had a sudden feeling that the shooter was still inside the house. She grabbed the radio off her shoulder.
“Requesting backup and EMT at four twenty-one Montgomery Lane. At least one gunshot victim inside the house.”
“Roger that,” squawked a voice from the radio. “Backup is on the way. Dispatching EMT and ambulance.”
Donna pointed to the master bedroom. She tried not to look at the young boy on the ground, instead concentrating her focus on the bedroom and what might be waiting inside. As she got closer, she heard a noise and held up her hand for the officers behind her to stop. She listened until she confirmed what she thought she’d heard—crying. It was coming from the master bedroom. She moved closer and the sobbing grew louder. It sounded childlike. With her back against the wall, she yelled, “Police! You need to put your hands in the air. Do you understand?”
More crying came but no verbal response. With adrenaline flooding her system, Donna eased the pressure she was applying on the trigger of her firearm, knowing that it wouldn’t take much to discharge. She stepped over the dead boy and into the bedroom. She took a shooter’s crouch as she aimed her gun inside the room. What she saw confused her. A teenaged girl sat on the floor with her back pressed against the foot of the bed, her nightshirt stained red with blood, and a 12-gauge shotgun lying across her lap. Behind the girl, the bodies of two adults lay in bed, the sheets covered with blood. Freckled spatter coated the wall behind them.
Donna tried to understand the scene. The bodies. The girl. The gun.
“Put your hands in the air!” Donna told the girl, pointing her weapon at the suspect. The girl continued to cry but followed the order by lifting her arms.
While Donna kept her gun trained on the girl, another officer raced in and grabbed the shotgun off the girl’s lap. The third officer pushed the girl face-first to the floor and secured her hands behind her back. The fourth officer cleared the room and confirmed that no one else was present.
Donna slowly approached the sobbing girl, nodding at the officer to give her some space. Besides being first on the scene, Donna was the only female present and it seemed natural that she be the one who spoke to the girl. She helped the girl back into a sitting position, and in the process got a closer look at the blood that covered her nightshirt.
“My parents are dead,” the girl said.
“Did you shoot them?”
“My brother, too.”
“Did you shoot them?” Donna asked again.
The girl’s eyes were wide as she looked at Donna. “They’re all dead.”
“What’s your name?”
The girl’s cries softened.
“Alexandra Quinlan.”
CHAPTER 3
District Courthouse Thursday, September 26, 2013 3:50 p.m.
“WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST IMPRESSION UPON ENTERING MR. AND Mrs. Quinlan’s bedroom?” Garrett asked, still standing at the podium.
“I saw three victims and a suspect with a gun.”
“How would you describe the atmosphere inside that room?”
“Tense. Our weapons were drawn and I was on edge. My first impression was that Alexandra had shot her parents and brother, and that she was a danger to herself and my team.”
