I wake up before my alarm, which is unusual for me these days. The notebook with my scribbled questions about Marcus sits open on the nightstand, and I stare at it while drinking my first cup of coffee. Today feels different. Today I have work to do.
I start with the basics. The police report should be public record, but getting access to it means dealing with bureaucracy. I call the downtown precinct first, explain that I'm a retired detective looking into an old case for personal reasons. The desk sergeant is polite but unhelpful.
"Five years old, you said? That's gonna be in archives. You'll need to file a request in writing."
"How long does that take?"
"Could be weeks. Maybe months."
I hang up frustrated. Weeks I don't have. Marcus needs answers now, and honestly, so do I.
I try a different approach. The hospital where the children were taken would have records, but HIPAA laws make those nearly impossible to access. Still, I call St. Mary's and speak to a nurse supervisor who worked there in 2018.
"That accident," she says, her voice getting quiet. "I remember it. Worst day I ever had in pediatric emergency. But sir, I can't give you any information about the patients."
"I understand. I'm not asking for medical details. I just need to know... how many children were involved? How serious were the injuries?"
There's a long pause. Then: "Fifteen children on that bus. Three died that day. Twelve others were injured, some critically." Her voice cracks slightly. "I still think about those families."
Three dead. Twelve injured. The numbers hit me harder than I expected. I thank her and hang up, staring at my notebook. Marcus ran a red light and destroyed fifteen young lives in an instant.
I spend the next two hours online, searching through local news archives, school websites, obituaries. The internet is both too much and not enough information at the same time. I find the names of the three children who died: Emma Rodriguez, age 7. Tyler Chen, age 9. Madison Brooks, age 6.
Six years old.
I print their photos from online memorial pages and lay them on my kitchen table. Three faces smiling back at me. Emma had missing front teeth and pigtails. Tyler wore glasses and had a shy grin. Madison looked like she was laughing at something just outside the camera frame.
I have to step away for a moment.
When I come back, I force myself to keep digging. I find some information about the injured children too, though it's harder to piece together. Several had broken bones, internal injuries, traumatic brain injuries. Some spent months in the hospital.
By noon, I have a list of fifteen names and as much information as I can gather online. But I need more. I need to understand what these families went through, what they're dealing with now.
I decide to visit Roosevelt Elementary, the school the bus was serving. It's a twenty-minute drive through neighborhoods that feel familiar from my police days. Working-class families, small houses with chain-link fences, kids' bikes in driveways.
The school is older than I expected, red brick with a sign out front advertising their winter fundraiser. I park and sit in my car for a moment, trying to figure out what exactly I'm doing here. What am I hoping to accomplish?
Inside, I ask to speak with the principal. The secretary, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes, looks at me suspiciously when I explain I'm looking into the 2018 bus accident.
"Are you a reporter?" she asks.
"No. I'm a retired police detective. I'm trying to understand what happened that day for... personal reasons."
She studies me for a moment, then picks up her phone. "Mrs. Patterson? There's someone here asking about the bus accident."
Ten minutes later, I'm sitting across from Principal Patterson, a tall woman with graying hair and tired eyes. The office is small and cluttered with children's artwork and administrative paperwork.
"That accident changed our school forever," she says without preamble. "We lost three beautiful children and nearly lost several others. The whole community was devastated."
"I'm trying to understand the impact it had on the families," I say. "How are they doing now?"
Mrs. Patterson leans back in her chair. "Some better than others. The Rodriguez family moved away about a year after Emma died. Couldn't bear to stay in the neighborhood. Tyler Chen's parents divorced two years later. The stress, the grief... it tears families apart."
She pauses, looking out the window toward the playground where children are running around during recess.
"Madison Brooks' family is still here. Her parents started a foundation for child safety advocacy. They turn their pain into purpose, I suppose." She looks back at me. "Why are you asking about this? It's been five years."
I struggle with how to answer that. "I'm looking into some unresolved aspects of the case."
"What's unresolved? The driver ran a red light and killed three children. He paid with his own life. What more is there to investigate?"
Her words sting, but they're not wrong. From the outside, it's a simple case. Reckless driver causes tragedy. But I know about Marcus now, about his guilt and his need for redemption. That complicates things.
"I'd like to speak with some of the families, if that's possible," I say.
Mrs. Patterson looks skeptical. "I can't give you their contact information. But..." She opens her desk drawer and pulls out a flyer. "Madison Brooks' parents hold a memorial service every year on the anniversary. It was last month, but they also run a support group for families affected by traffic accidents. They meet here once a month. Next meeting is this Saturday."
I take the flyer. It has a photo of Madison, the same laughing girl from the online memorial, and information about the support group.
"Thank you," I say.
"Whatever you're really doing," Mrs. Patterson says as I stand to leave, "please be respectful of these families. They've been through enough."
Driving home, I think about her words. Am I being respectful? Am I helping Marcus find peace, or am I reopening wounds that have barely begun to heal?
That afternoon, I call the number on the flyer. A woman answers on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Brooks? My name is Ethan Miller. I'm a retired detective, and I'm looking into the bus accident from five years ago. I was wondering if I could speak with you about it."
There's a long silence. Then: "Are you writing a book or something?"
"No, nothing like that. I'm trying to understand the impact of the accident on the families involved. It's... personal research."
Another pause. "You said you're a detective?"
"Retired. I worked homicide for fifteen years before I retired last year."
"Can you come by today? Around four? My husband will be home from work by then."
I'm surprised by her willingness to meet, but I agree. She gives me an address about ten minutes from the school.
The Brooks house is a small ranch-style home with a well-maintained yard. There are wind chimes hanging from the front porch and a small garden with a bench surrounded by flowers. A memorial garden, I realize.
Karen Brooks answers the door. She's younger than I expected, probably mid-thirties, with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks tired, but there's a strength in her posture that suggests she's fought hard battles and survived them.
"Mr. Crowe? Come in."
The living room is comfortable but sparse. A few family photos, some children's drawings framed on the walls. On the mantle, there's a large photo of Madison in a pink dress, smiling that same infectious smile I saw online.
"Dave will be here in a few minutes," Karen says, gesturing for me to sit on the couch. "Can I get you coffee?"
"That would be great, thank you."
She disappears into the kitchen, and I study the room more closely. On a bookshelf, I notice several photo albums and a stack of what look like legal documents. On the coffee table, there's a folder marked "Madison's Foundation."
Karen returns with coffee and sits across from me in an armchair.
"So you're investigating the accident?" she asks.
"Not officially. I'm trying to understand what happened that day and how it affected everyone involved."
"What do you want to know?"
"Tell me about Madison."
Karen's face softens. "She was seven when she died. Would have been twelve now." She picks up a smaller photo from the side table. "She loved horses. Wanted to be a veterinarian. She was funny, always making jokes, always trying to make people smile."
Her voice is steady, but I can see the effort it takes.
"She was on the bus because she stayed after school for art club. If she hadn't stayed that day, if we'd picked her up instead..." Karen shakes her head. "You can't think like that. It'll drive you crazy."
The front door opens, and a man walks in. Dave Brooks is tall and thin, wearing work clothes and carrying a lunch cooler. He looks at me with curiosity and wariness.
"Dave, this is Mr. Crowe, the detective I told you about."
Dave sets down his cooler and shakes my hand. His grip is firm, calloused from manual labor.
"What kind of questions are you asking?" he says, settling into the chair next to his wife.
"I'm trying to understand the impact of the accident. How families have coped, what kind of support was available, what the long-term effects have been."
Dave and Karen exchange a look. They've had this conversation before, I realize. They've learned to be careful about who they trust with their story.
"The first year was hell," Dave says bluntly. "Pure hell. Karen couldn't get out of bed some days. I couldn't concentrate at work. We went through all our savings paying for counseling and taking time off."
"The community was amazing," Karen adds. "The school, our church, even strangers who heard about the accident. People brought food, helped with bills, just sat with us when we couldn't stand to be alone."
"But it changes you," Dave continues. "Losing a child changes everything. Your marriage, your faith, your whole perspective on life. Some couples don't make it through."
"Like the Chens," Karen says quietly. "Tyler's parents. They divorced about two years after the accident. Helen couldn't handle being around anything that reminded her of Tyler, and Robert couldn't handle pretending to move on."
I think about Marcus, wondering if he knows about the divorce his actions indirectly caused.
"What about the other families?" I ask.
"The Rodriguez family moved to Phoenix," Karen says. "They couldn't stay here. Too many memories. We still exchange Christmas cards."
"And the injured kids?"
Dave's expression darkens. "Some of them are doing okay. Others..." He shakes his head. "Jenny Morrison was eight when it happened. She had a traumatic brain injury. She's thirteen now, but she functions at about a six-year-old level. Her parents have devoted their lives to caring for her."
The weight of it settles on me. Fifteen children on that bus, and the ripple effects have been devastating. Marriages ended, families relocated, children permanently disabled, parents turned into full-time caregivers.
"Have you ever thought about the driver?" I ask carefully. "Marcus Webb?"
The question changes the atmosphere in the room immediately. Dave's jaw tightens, and Karen looks away.
"What about him?" Dave asks, his voice hard.
"Do you know anything about him? His circumstances, why he ran the light?"
"Does it matter?" Dave's voice rises slightly. "He killed three children and destroyed dozens of lives. I don't care what his circumstances were."
Karen puts a hand on her husband's arm. "Dave."
She looks at me with tired eyes. "I've thought about him sometimes. Wondered what kind of person does something like that. But honestly? I can't afford to think about him too much. I have to focus on living with what he did, not trying to understand why he did it."
"He died in the accident too," I say quietly.
"Good," Dave says without hesitation. "At least he couldn't hurt anyone else."
The harshness of it surprises me, but I understand it. These people have been living with the consequences of Marcus's split-second decision for five years. Their compassion has been exhausted by their own survival.
We talk for another hour. They tell me about Madison's Foundation, their work advocating for school bus safety improvements. They show me photos of Madison, share memories of her laugh, her drawings, her dreams of becoming a veterinarian.
By the time I leave, I have a much clearer picture of the devastation Marcus caused. But I also have something else: a deeper understanding of how trauma ripples outward, affecting not just the immediate victims but entire communities.
Driving home, I think about what I'm going to tell Marcus tonight. How do you explain to someone that their moment of reckless despair destroyed so many lives? How do you help someone find redemption when the people they hurt can barely find healing?
As I pull into my parking space, I notice something that makes my blood run cold. There's a small girl sitting on the steps to my building. She's maybe seven years old, wearing a pink dress, and she's staring directly at me with dark, serious eyes.
Even from this distance, I recognize her from the photos.
Emma Rodriguez.
The first child Marcus killed.