It was Tuesday morning, four days after the kick of fear, when Michelle's phone rang and she didn't recognize the number. It was a detective from the Tulsa Police Department. They'd made an arrest in relation to our case.
Four of the five. In custody.
They'd also recovered a computer and he needed the serial number of mine to match them up. I gave it to him and then he asked if I could come downtown and participate in a photo lineup, to see if I recognized any of them. I agreed and we set a time.
One other thing he said, or that I thought he'd said, was that they had confessed.
Knowing I was going to be looking at photos of the men who kicked in my door, I began to relive it once more. To watch the replay in my mind's eye, always on repeat, always sending a shiver down my spine when I remembered Michelle's scream.
And in my mind as it plays, I glance up at the shirtless, unmasked leader of the group, and I see his face, and I can't remember it. Instead, for some reason I imagine the self-confident mug of NFL quarterback Michael Vick. I don't know why. I chalk it up to being a fan of the Philadelphia Eagles and being aware that Vick had been to prison for dogfighting.
The time came to head downtown, so Michelle and I went, just the two of us and Constance, following the detective's directions to the room where we would sit down and look at photos of the men who stole our sense of security. The detective asked us what happened, so we told him the story in our usual tag-team fashion. He produced some photographs and I stepped out of the room so Michelle could look at them without being influenced by me.
There I stood, in a dingy hallway in a police station downtown, holding baby Constance and steeling myself to look my attackers in the eye. I prayed that I would at least be honest and that God would help me through whatever emotions I might feel. To tell the truth, I was nervous.
The door opened and Michelle walked out. She shot me an encouraging look, took Constance from my arms, and in I went.
The moment of truth. How would I feel at seeing their faces? Would I be angry? Frightened? Traumatized? Would I even recognize them? After all, only one of them showed his face; the others had covered their faces with their shirts.
I sat down at the small table in the sparse room, leaned forward, and glanced at the first sheet the detective laid down in front of me. It had six faces on it. My instincts must've still been in a mode to get the guys out of my house as quickly as possible, because I initially skimmed the faces. Then I forced myself to examine them one by one.
Nothing.
He laid down another sheet. Six new faces. I examined them carefully.
"Maybe that guy," I said, pointing to one of them, "but only maybe."
"Okay," the detective said. "Let's keep going."
He put down another sheet with another six new faces. Nothing.
"One more," he said, laying down the last sheet.
And there, in the bottom left-hand corner, was a guy who looked just like Michael Vick.
"That guy," I said, pointing. "Out of everyone here, that's the only one that jumps out at me."
"Really?" the detective said.
"Yeah," I said. "It's weird, because every time I remember it, I picture Michael Vick as the main guy. And this guy looks like Michael Vick."
The detective smiled. "How sure would you say you are?"
"50 to 60 percent."
"Okay. Why don't you circle his picture and I'll get your wife."
He brought in Michelle and the baby, pointed at the picture I'd circled, and said, "That's the guy." Then he smiled again. "And I actually called him Michael Vick this morning."
That's when we discovered a deeper layer of tragedy in this. "How old do you think he is?" the detective asked.
"I'd say about 20, 22," I said. "And the rest of them were around 18."
"He's 15. The others are between the ages of 14 and 17."
Children. These were children.
We have five kids and we were robbed by five kids.
"Now, Mr. Palmer," he continued, "we have matched the serial number you gave us to the computer we have, and it is your computer. Unfortunately I can't let you have it yet because it is now evidence in a homicide investigation."
What?
"These kids went on a weekend of terror, basically. They performed several carjackings and robbed your house. Then they tried to steal a car that had some people in it. The driver saw them coming and started trying to drive away and these kids shot him. He's dead. And another passenger is in the hospital, dying."
These children, these boys. We found out later that none of them had been in trouble before. The unmasked boy was a star athlete in swimming and football.
And yet they kicked in our door and stole from us, and for what? For the thrill of it.
And now someone was dead. That someone? Was 16 years old.
And what for?
Why? Why did they devalue life to that degree? Not just ours, not just the one they took. What about their own lives? Why do they value them so little as to throw them away so quickly, in just a weekend?
I'm sure there is far more to this story than I will ever learn. There are just some things I will never know.
But I can know this: Jesus loves us all. He loves me and my wife and my family. He loves the family of that boy who is now dead. He loves the passenger, whose fate remains one of those unknowns.
And he loves those boys. He loves them enough to slap them in the face with the reality of their actions. He loves them enough to separate them from the rest of us, to give them the opportunity to consider their lives.
He loves them as much as He loves me. Or you.
I can't comprehend the depth of that love, but I can embrace it.
Because just as much as those boys need it? So do I.
So do I.
