BATTLE

BATTLE

“Did you hear that?” Brock’s eyes snapped open.

His wife, Quenika, moaned. “What, honey? You hear somethin’?” She wasn’t really awake.

“Yeah. A noise downstairs.” He sat up in bed and waited a moment for his head to clear before he stood. He slid his feet into his slippers and stood, unsteadily at first. Brock stepped clumsily around Pepper the dog who lay central in the pathway between the bed and the bathroom, as usual. “Why aren’t you awake and reacting to that noise? Some watchdog you are.” Brock addressed Pepper as if the dog could understand or care what he was saying.

There was the noise again. A shuffling, like moving something. Or maybe sliding, like opening something. Brock was unsure. He knew he needed to investigate. He quietly slipped out of the bedroom.

He crept down the hall to the boys’ room and peeked in through the open door. Abe, 10 years old, slept closest to the door. He told his younger brother Diji, who was 6, it was to protect him. Abe also tolerated a nightlight for his little brother’s comfort. They were both soundly asleep. Diji had wrestled his stuffed Undertaker into a side headlock under his armpit and slept with a smile. Abe, as always, slept on his stomach. Brock opened the door wide to check there was no one in the room, then he closed the door. He was still hearing the sounds downstairs. He turned and sucked in a deep breath to muster the courage, and advanced toward the stairs.

Slowly, stealthily, Brock crept down the steps. He hoped not to alert whoever was down there of his approach. The element of surprise was his only hope in this situation.

He didn’t have a view of the living room until the bottom three steps. It was dark, but he could see a shadow moving over near the TV. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out a dark figure rummaging through the entertainment center cabinets.

Brock stood in the room, yet undetected, He couldn’t decide whether to call out now or to try to sneak up on the intruder. The choice became moot when Brock accidentally stepped on a dog toy.

The robber spun around in alarm. Brock could see he was a man in a black hoodie, but nothing more. Brock was hoping the guy would run away, but instead he charged and delivered a solid left hook to the side of Brock’s face that staggered him back.

That was going to swell. Brock held his jaw and watched as the intruder dismissed him and went back to his looting. Okay. This was going to get physical. Brock was no kid, but for 42, he wasn’t in too bad shape. It looked like he had at least 50 pounds on this guy. Brock was sure he could take him. Just as long as the robber didn’t have any weapons. Dear God, please don’t let him have any weapons.

Then it occurred to Brock he could pre-empt that situation. He grabbed the lamp off the end table and yanked hard to pull the cord from the wall. It didn’t work the first time, and Brock immediately looked to see if it had caught the robber’s attention. But the guy was making plenty of noise himself and hadn’t heard Brock. Second time the pull worked.

Now Brock stood with a heavy ceramic lamp in hand and the idea of using it as a weapon. He paused. Brock DeRomme was not a violent man. He’d actually never even punched anyone; not even in school. He usually was able to talk or bribe his way out of fights. That wasn’t going to work this time. He had to take action. But could he actually hit a man? This lamp was pretty hefty. Hitting a guy over the head with this would at least put him in the hospital, maybe even kill him.

He had to do something fast. The intruder was turning around. Brock swung the lamp horizontally and struck the man across the ribs. He heard a gasp as the breath exploded from the man’s lungs and he jettisoned about three feet back into the recliner. Brock wondered momentarily if he’d swung hard enough to break the man’s ribs.

But the robber bounced up and grabbed Brock by the shoulders and tried to throw him to the floor. His hood dropped and revealed he was a light-skinned black man, no more than 19 or 20. Just a kid.

Brock remembered something from wrestling, which they watched religiously in their house. He grabbed the kid between the legs and by the collar, lifted him over his head, and body slammed him through the coffee table. Brock was surprised how easy that actually was. He leaned over the stunned kid and said in a hushed tone, “Stop. Yer making too much noise.” He realized how ridiculous it sounded after he said it.

With remarkable tenacity, the intruder rose from the broken table with a swift kick to Brock’s midsection that doubled him over, leaving him open for the uppercut that landed him on the floor beside the sofa. The kid was quickly on him, his hands throttling Brock’s throat.

Everything was getting fuzzy. Brock had never felt like this before. He could barely breathe. The outer edges of his vision were vanishing. He had to do something to escape the vice grip. He tried to pull the young man’s hair but it was too short and there was nothing to grab. He tried to pull his ears, but he just shook that off. Finally, Brock reached up and gouged the intruder’s eyes. He was disgusted how the eyeballs felt to his fingers, but it was successful. His attacker released his chokehold.

Brock rolled him over and sat on the young man’s chest . He started repeatedly punching him in the face. But Brock had no idea how to deliver strong punches, so they didn’t really seem to have the desired effect. The young man laughed.

Brock looked around. He felt like his head was clearing. It seemed like he started to think reasonably. He needed something to effectively restrain this thief until he could contact the police.

Brock spotted the lamp nearby on the floor. He could tie the cord around his wrists to restrain him. Wait. There was no way he could hold this strong young man’s wrists together. No, he needed a better way to control his body. Without a moment’s hesitation, Brock wrapped the cord tightly around the intruder’s throat.

Now he could take the man with him. But Brock was feeling very weak, He couldn’t stand. He crawled on his knees, dragging the choking antagonist with him across the living room floor. Brock couldn’t catch his breath. He needed to get to the phone to call 911.

Quenika rolled over in bed and jarred awake. “Brock!” she shouted. She was foggy when he’d left the bed, but she was alarmed now by his absence. She grabbed her robe as she rose from bed and dashed out of the room. She called out to her husband repeatedly, but there was no response and it scared her.

She rushed down the stairs and looked around. She lost her breath when she saw the destruction throughout the room.

Then she spotted the worst possible sight. Behind the sofa, face-down on the floor lay Brock with the cord of the table lamp wrapped tightly around his neck. Quenika screamed.

“Mommie! Whass wrong?”

Her sons stood afraid at their bedroom door.

Their mother dashed up the stairs to grab her children in her arms. “Oh babies! Go back in your room and get back in bed! Mommie be in in a li’l bit. Now go!” She gave them affectionate scoots. She had to pretend everything was okay for them right now. She was completely falling to pieces inside, but not now, not in front of her boys.

Quenika grabbed her phone from the bedroom but didn’t place the call until she was downstairs so the boys couldn’t hear.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“My- hu- my- hu- floor…”                                                    

“Ma’am, I’m having trouble understanding you. Please take a deep breath and try to speak slowly.” The operator instructed.

Quenika followed the advice. “Uh- Thank you. My- husband is lying on the floor. He’s- I think he might be- de-e-ea-d!” She stared at Brock’s unmoving body on the floor at her feet.

“Is he responsive? Is he breathing?”

Quenika knelt down and shook her husband’s shoulder. “Honey! Honey, please answer me!” She burst into uncontrollably sobbing. She could see he was not only unresponsive, but he wasn’t breathing.

“No! No! He’s not breathing!” Quenika cried.

The emergency operator said she was sending police and squad, and they should arrive within 10 minutes. She also instructed Quenika to stay on the line until they arrived.

When they arrived, Quenika entered the security code on the pad to open the door. In her panic, she entered the wrong number at first, and had to start over, but then she let them in.

They turned Brock over and Quenika was shocked to see his wide unblinking unseeing eyes and open mouth. He held the lamp in his hand. It appeared he’d been hit by the lamp above the left eye on the forehead. The cord was wrapped several times tightly around his neck. Brock was dead. It seemed by strangulation.

While the coroner took pictures, two officers interviewed Quenika. Again, she saw her sons peeking out of their bedroom door. No doubt they were terrified and confused. Quenika wished so much that all of this could be done and all of these people be gone so she could hold her babies.

As if the bottom to her life had not already dropped out, the police then dropped the final bomb. How could this be?

There was obviously evidence of a struggle. There are no fingerprints other than her husband’s anywhere. Of course, they couldn’t say yet about any DNA samples they had harvested from Brock’s body. But the most perplexing fact was that all the doors and windows were locked and secured by the house security system. There was no sign of forced entry or exit.

And so, with whom did Brock DeRomme struggle? And how did he die?