Completely Normal

We were out walking the dogs when the cops rolled up.

Three SUVs, lights on, came to a halt perpendicular to the sidewalk, not more than 15 feet from where we were standing.

We stopped and waited, expecting some sort of explanation. Instead, in a conversational tone, one of the cops just said, "Keep walking."

"That was our plan," I said, and we kept walking.

Half a block later we were home, still looking over our shoulders, still wondering what was going on. In the interim, several more SUVs had arrived, and the cops were out of their cars, searching for someone. Overhead, a sheriff's helicopter appeared and was circling—low and at times right over our heads.

Meanwhile, pedestrians ambled by, cyclists cruised past, almost as if the increasingly abnormal scene was completely normal.

We sat in the sun on our front deck, occasionally venturing to the sidewalk in front of our house to see if anything different was happening. The little bridge over the ravine had been blocked off, and car traffic was being diverted. A couple more police vehicles came and went, yellow tape was deployed, cops patrolled the stretch of sidewalk in front of the still-parked SUVs.

Two women walked by, checking Twitter on their phones. "Any update?" my wife asked. "Just something vague about the fire department responding to a 'scene of violence,'" one of them replied.

A second helicopter was now circling the area, but aside from that little had changed in the half-hour since we returned home. We sat on our deck, reading the paper, searching Twitter for any kind of update. There was nothing.

By 7 p.m. the helicopters were gone, along with most of the police cars. I went inside and began the completely normal routine of making dinner—music in the background, a baseball game on mute on TV.

By 8:30 p.m. dinner was over and Anthony Bourdain was getting sloppy drunk on "No Reservations."

That's when we heard the shots.

Outside, there was nothing to see, but someone on a bullhorn was calling for "Junior" to come out of the house.

"Drop your weapon and come to the front door with your hands up."

Again. And again.

***

This happened four days ago, and this morning the neighborhood seems completely normal. Almost insanely so.

I've given some thought to the people who live closest to the scene. Some are empty-nesters, some have very young children. I wonder what they're thinking, how they're processing that beautiful summer evening. What they saw out their windows, how they're explaining it to their children.

Because as it turns out, "Junior" is dead. He reportedly shot himself right around 8:30 p.m. 

Earlier, not long after we walked by their front door, Junior shot his mom several times. Somehow she made it out of the house and was rushed to our local Level 1 trauma center. There's been no word how she's doing.

Junior was 20 years old, his mom is 44. We didn't know them.

***

We still haven't walked back past the house.