The Devil in the Detail

by MARC MATNEY | 3rd Place, student short prose contest

One detail from the shooting of my stepfather has stuck with me above all. After the first shot, striking his abdomen, the two gunmen made him look up at them. This small detail, amidst all the violence, belies inhumanity that goes beyond ending a life. Slouched against the wall in the backroom of a Radio Shack, where he worked alone as day shift manager, he followed instructions. Their eyes locked, then came a second explosion from the barrel, and a burning in his right shoulder. They made him look at them ahead of the third and fourth shots, too, which struck him in the left shoulder, and another in the abdomen. It was then, however, knowing they intended to end his life and had undoubtedly succeeded, that my stepfather took from them the pleasure of requesting that added cruelty. He reclaimed what power he could and did not look away. While they may have ended his life, he would ensure that they remember his defiance for the rest of theirs. The next shot bore into the wall beside him. The assailants turned to leave, but one of them turned back, leveled the handgun, and shot him in the chest, a fifth and final wound. My stepfather would code upon arrival at the hospital, but would be revived, later claiming to remember the moment of death—describing it sincerely as the most wonderful feeling, akin to sinking into a warm bath. A victim’s survival, though, is sometimes treated in true crime as a happy ending, leaving the viewer a sense that life returned to something resembling normal. For my stepfather, the shooting itself took ninety seconds, but the violence remained long after. Violence has permanent fallout for victims and their families and indelibly alters their perceptions of crime and justice.

Violent traumas like these elicit varying reactions in those affected. Some feel reborn, rebuilding their life with emphasis on joy, knowing keenly how fragile life is. My stepfather, however, did not. After months in the hospital, he returned home with a veritable buffet of pills; those amber bottles lined side-by-side spanned the length of the bathroom vanity. He supplemented the pills with alcohol. He then asserted that residual violence against the most vulnerable person in his orbit, his stepson, who endured the wrath from a crime that occurred while he was far away, in a third-grade classroom. This lasted for years, until one day when I grew strong enough to fight back, surprising us both. As he had to his attackers, I did not look away, watching a wave of something approximating fear pass over his face, before he turned and left.

Contrasting my stepfather’s response to trauma, I chose the path of activism. I volunteered for a gun violence survivor group, befriending remarkable people who have transformed a portion of their pain into a beautiful tribute to their loved one, working to prevent other families from joining this club of survivors none of us thought we would ever be a part of. On a trip to Washington, D.C., with this group, my travel companion was a man who served as Chief of Tulsa Police for years, including when my stepfather’s shooting occurred. He cared deeply about Tulsans and took an unsolved case to heart. Throughout the trip, I felt a pull deep within me to ask him about the case, believing it was high-profile enough at the time that he might remember something that would be new to me, or that he would just remember it. That would have been enough, too. Ultimately, however, I did not ask, out of fear that he would not remember, that what had dominated my life for my most formative years was, for him, despite his compassion for families, just a dot on a map of Tulsa full of too many dots.

Ultimately, where this leaves me, in terms of how it has shaded the way I see the world, and crime and justice, is hard to know. I have witnessed the aftermath of violence, the perpetuation of violence, and the rejection of violence. I have felt frustration over an unsolved case and have seen the devotion of officers. I have felt the relief of a loved one returning home and have experienced the inner anguish of wishing that he had not. The best I can do is acknowledge that I am transformed by these events, that I am the sum of my experiences.

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Marc Matney is a graduate of Charles Page High School in Sand Springs, and dreams of becoming a novelist. He is in his second semester at TCC. This essay is his first contest submission, and his first submission for publication.

jack bord’s interests are to create artistic, meaningful works of art that can be enjoyed by all peoples and cultures. Being a designer and sculptor has allowed him to share his professional experiences in a beneficial way for both business and community projects. He has been a successful designer and has over twenty years of experience in design, fabrication, and installation. He is an Industrial Design/Sculptor graduate of Pratt Institute in New York.