Days 199 and 200 – Writing Exercise
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Trouble rarely knocks on the front door and announces itself. It always comes disguised as something else.
I learned this first-hand early one morning when my older brother, Joey, knocked on the front door at 2:30 am, something he had never done before, and when I opened the door, he fell down and said four words: “it wasn’t my fault,” then bled to death on the doorstep before I could get an ambulance.
What wasn’t his fault?
That I learned about ten minutes after I called emergency services. A police car and a black sedan arrived out the front of our house.
I’d seen enough police TV shows to realise the black car was most likely the FBI, and my brother had been into some serious crime.
Or my father had finally stepped over that invisible line, but what did that have to do with Joey?
In Joey’s case, he had always maintained no one was getting hurt; it was just the redistribution of wealth. He was dumb enough to believe what he was told.
I thought it was too good to be true.
After calling 000, I went next door to Dr Rogers’ house and pounded on the door. He was used to people in our neighbourhood doing that because he took only a minute to answer.
Now it would be to tend a dead brother lying lifeless half in and out of the doorway. And that I was home alone.
We could hear the sirens on the cold night air. All he said was, “Where is he?”
It was not the first time I had to call on him for my brother.
“I think he’s dead.”
He reached back to get his bag, and we walked quickly to our. He shook his head when he saw the body and that it was not moving.
The harsh orange coloured light from the overhead porch light cast an ethereal glow over what could be described as a macabre scene out of a horror movie.
He checked the usual places for a pulse and then saw the bullet wounds in his back. “He’s lucky he made it to here. You didn’t hear any gunshots”?
It sounded matter-of-fact, but I knew it was hurting him. He had delivered all of us children and had watched us grow up.
“I only heard the pounding in the door.”
The doctor stood and looked at the decking around the body, and then followed a trail of blood coming from the street. I followed the doc.
He stopped by the pole that had a street light barely illuminating the ground below. Pooled blood. Someone had brought him home and helped him to the door.
Then left him to die. Someone who Joey had called a friend, who he believed had his back.
The doc muttered to himself. We could see the police car coming towards us, siren blaring and lights flashing. We made it back to the porch just as the cars screeched to a halt.
Two officers and two men in suits.
Another police car arrived; officers jumped out and began securing the scene, pushing the growing group of onlookers back.
People had started to wake up and either come out the front and stand on their verandas or peer through the front windows.
For some it was an event to watch, others the culmination of a series of violent events that had taken over their street, and sadly our house was the epicentre.
This was not going to help me.
Not any more. My parents had resisted the courts dragging me off to child welfare after Joey’s last arrest, saying my house was not a suitable environment because of my brother’s criminal activities, and the fact my father wasn’t quite operating a legitimate business.
My mother was at her wits’ end, having finally issued an ultimatum to her husband and her two eldest sons. My sister, Anna, had been sent to her grandmother’s two states away.
Perhaps I might share the same fate.
There was only one certainty in all of this: the fact that my mother was not a criminal, and to keep her reputation, if not her sanity, she would have to leave. She had threatened it, and I knew it would happen.
If she was here now, she would have broken down and cried.
The second police car had the sergeant who had last visited, and had reluctantly left me in situ based on now broken promises.
There was not going to be negotiations this time.
..
I think that Sergeant Donovan was glad to see that the doc was with me. He wasn’t going to ask a question he knew I would have to lie about.
He knew my mother was at the hospital, on night shift because it paid more and kept us afloat. My father gave money when she nagged enough, but it was never enough, and if it wasn’t for her mother, we would not be living in the house.
We lived rent- and utility bills free. We had to find the rest.
Alex, my other brother, was out; where I didn’t know and didn’t ask. He was slowly worming his way into Joey’s organisation, against all advice. For all I knew, he could be lying dead in a back alley somewhere.
I had no inclination to join, or associate with them, as much as they tried intimidation. The leader was a boy not much older than Joey’s, tougher, meaner and street-savvy. But, after all said and done, just a boy, out of his depth.
The Sergeant knew who he was and with this development, hell was about to rain down on him and his neighbourhood gang cohorts.
The two FBI guys had stood back until her arrived. He looked at the body, then the doctor who shook his head, then looked at me.
“What happened?”
I looked at the body, which was once my brother. It was the precise moment tears came as the full weight of what happened hit me.
“He’s dead.”
An ambulance, lights flashing but no siren, arrived, and the paramedics came, walking quickly.
“Who’s inside?”
I think he knew. “Just me. Mom’s at work, and Alex is- I don’t know where.”
He shook his head, refraining from saying what he thought. Instead, “Have you told your mother?”
That’s when I realised I hadn’t, too wrapped up in the horror of it all.
Perhaps the Sarge realised that it was all too much for me because he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “None of this is your fault. If you have your mother’s phone number, I’ll call her.”
I went inside and got the cell phone she had left for emergencies. I guess this qualified. It was the only number available. I gave it to him.
The paramedics were checking Joey and talking to the doc. There was nothing they could do for him. One of the two remained with the body; the doc was taken aside for an interview. The other paramedics took me to the ambulance and checked.
I watched the sergeant animatedly talking to my mother, though I suspect he would not be making any headway. Being told your eldest son had been found shot dead and lying on your doorstep would have a profound effect on you.
A new truck had arrived with crime scene investigators who were getting dressed and propping before examining the crime scene, even if the crime had been perpetrated elsewhere.
…
An hour had passed, the doc had gone home, the paramedics had gone, and the coroner had replaced them. Forensics had collected everything they considered relevant, and then the body was removed, and would be taken to the morgue for a post-mortem, and my mother would have to go there and verify it was her son.
That was going to be brutal, but at least he didn’t die in front of her. That image was going to live with me for a long time.
The sergeant had come over after the call to my mother saying she would be coming home as soon as she could.
I had no phone number for my father, and had found it easier to deal with his absence from our house by pretending he didn’t exist
Alex still hadn’t come home, but if I knew him, seeing all the flashing lights and police, he would be, more likely than not, in hiding somewhere near.
The Sergeant had held off questioning me until my mother arrived. In the meantime, Mrs Quick, who lived on the other side, had come over and identified herself as a family friend and stayed with me.
When we were alone, she asked, “What happened?”
“Joey is dead.”
She knew someone had died on the doorstep, but she didn’t know it was Joey. She was visibly shocked and took a moment before asking the next question. “How did he die?”
“The police say from multiple gunshot wounds. I could see he had been shot in the back.”
“Was he dead when you found him?”
“No. Doc thinks he was helped to the front door, they left, and he knocked on the door. I opened it, and he collapsed, and died a few seconds later.”
“Did he say who killed him?”
I thought about it, but no one other than the police needed to know what he said, not that it was much and certainly not the name of his killer.
My best guess was that he and his fellow criminals were caught in the act of robbing someone or some place and the owner or night-watchman shot at them.
Eight times was a little excessive, and once might indicate there was a group to shoot at. Eight bullets meant he was alone or there were two of them. Alex…
My mother arrived in a police car. She was in tears, and came over straight to Mrs Quick and me.
There was wariness because Mrs Quick, though kind-hearted and helpful, could be a little judgemental. My mother thanked her, then hugged me.
The sergeant gave her some time, then came over. The two men in suits were not FBI but Detectives, one of whom came with him.
It was question time, and I would have to think about the answers I gave them. My father always said never to offer information, and to answer the questions with short, truthful answers, or as close to the truth as possible.
This was simply because he said liars needed to have good memories, and the police were prone to asking the same question seven different ways. I figured he may have been referring to his own experience with police interrogations.
The detective covered the usual ground, but added more. “How did your brother get to the door?”
“The doctor had worked out they arrived by car, he was helped to the door, and whoever helped him left.”
“Any idea who these others were?”
I got a very strange look from my mother. Perhaps she knew something I didn’t.
“No. I was inside, upstairs and was alerted by someone knocking on the door. My room is at the back of the house, not the front, so I didn’t see who dropped him off.”
“Who was he out with tonight?”
“Couldn’t tell you. He was not in the habit of telling me anything, perhaps to stop me from getting involved. I know my brother ran with one of the local gangs. He told me which one, but I didn’t listen because I preferred not to know. They actively try to recruit me, but I wasn’t interested. I know Alex was interested and went off with them more than once. And no, I don’t know where he is.”
It was clear then to them I was not going to be of much use, except from the time of the door knock till he dropped dead. I didn’t tell them what he said.
I think the detectives knew who my brother was, what he had been doing and who he ran with before they came. Neither seemed either surprised or moved that he was dead. One said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss ‘, but I don’t think he meant it.
They switched to my mother, and she seemed to know who he was involved with, and hoped they caught up with them.
Another hour after that, the Sargent left. Nothing more could be done until the morning. He had asked if we could stay somewhere else, but that was impossible at four or five in the morning.
So was sleep, though both of us tried.
Alex, however, was still missing.
…
I never got that night out of my head for a long, long time. I think in the end I finished up hating Joey for ruining everything.
Alex didn’t come home that night.
A week later, the Sergeant came back and filled us in on what had happened.
The next morning there was a police report of a robbery at a 24-hour mini mart not far from our place. There were three masked robbers: a man and two boys. The man had a gun, so it became armed robbery.
The mini mart owner had been robbed before, and after the last time got himself a gun. He put a sign in the front windows that said robbers would be shot.
Shoot them he did. He killed the man, in the process getting shot himself. The two kids with the man turned and ran at the first shot. The mini mart owner continued shooting indiscriminately at the two fleeing.
He thought he hit them but wasn’t sure. By that time he was losing blood and called emergency services. He just managed to see them jump in a vehicle and drive off. No idea what sort of car, but it was driven by someone other than the two.
That was the extent of his statement. Nothing was stolen.
Another report was of a car speeding and crashing into another car parked on the street not far from the minimart. One passenger got out and ran. The car kept going, presumably to drop Joey off.
It was seen leaving our house, and twenty minutes later was cleaned up by a garbage truck when the driver ran a red light.
The passenger who ran got three blocks away before he collapsed, and after discovery the next morning, seeming asleep on a stoop, was discovered to be dead. One of the stray bullets hit him in the leg, and he bled to death.
It was Alex.
The man was one of the gang leaders, and the two who died in the getaway car were kids younger than Alex.
It was a tragedy.
I didn’t know how to process that information, so I just put it out of my mind until the funerals. My mother and I went to her mother’s place, and we stayed there until the police finished with it.
We didn’t go back. Grandma sold it, and we lived with her. My mother tried to get on with her life, but after the funeral of her two sons she seemed to lose interest in everything.
To see half your family wiped out by senseless violent gad to leave a very large scar. The lesson I learned from it: keep on the straight and narrow.
Or do what we did. Sell up and go and live on the other side of the country where no one knew who we were.
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© Charles Heath 2026
