grass and two paramedics go to work. They confirmed what Chief Banks already realized.
Two minutes later they put their equipment away and began the process of transferring the body onto a stretcher, then into the back of their emergency vehicle. Its siren, not really needed, couldn’t be distinguished from the wailing of the others as it screamed up Warren toward Columbia Memorial Hospital. Madelyn held her hands to her ears. So much noise. Such incredible noise.
Madelyn slowly turned around. She watched mothers huddle over their children. She saw police stop every man they didn’t know and throw them on the ground for a quick search. Directly in front of her, Chuck Wheaton unsnapped his camera from the tripod and went handheld. She was vaguely aware of her civics teacher focusing on her. Madelyn epitomized the anguish. Soon her face would tell the story to millions of people across the country and around the world.
And the noise continued to grow. It was overwhelming; unlike anything Madelyn had ever heard. She continued her slow circle, around and around, until she collapsed. This was her political coming of age.
“Please, please, everybody stay where you are,” Mayor Kenton repeated to everybody. No one listened in the chaos. And across the street, Roger C. Waterman was taking a leisurely shower as promised.
Chief Marelli had no experience in public executions, but he was still a cop. The murder occurred on his watch and the killer was at large. The podium was his crime scene. He mentally raced through the procedural questions. Where did the bullet come from? What angle? What height?
Okay, the front. Rule out Warren. The fall was backwards. The bullet exited slightly lower than the entrance point. He looked around, blocking out the cries. The shooter was higher than the crowd.
He studied the buildings across the street. On the corner, that old appliance store. No good. Not a high enough vantage point. The barber shop next to it. Still too low and too tight an angle. An art gallery. Not possible. J.W. Edmonds Hose Co #1. Maybe, from the roof, but unlikely. Too steep an angle. Too high.
He realized he skipped a building. The St. Charles.
Marelli keyed the microphone to his police radio attached to his shirt. “The St. Charles!” he called to his officers. The Chief stared at the front windows on the second and third floors. He looked closer. The third floor corner window. It’s open!
The 210 pound, 62-year-old chief hadn’t run in years. He was grossly out of shape. But today he sprinted like the high school track star he was in the 60s. Four of his men joined the pursuit. They darted across the street and flew through the heavy oak door, bounding up the twenty-four stairs to the third floor landing. Their Arasakas were drawn. Marelli led the way, pointing to two of his officers, Pomerantz and Hilton, to cover either side of the door to Room 301. Marelli signaled to Pomerantz not to touch the handle.
“Police!” he shouted. “Hands up! Come out, now!” After a five count he repeated his order. Now!” Marelli had never faced a real gunman on the other side of a door, not in all his years as an officer and then Chief of Police. Nothing even close. But instincts told him that the shooter could take them all down right through the walls. He motioned for his men to shift to the right of the door, affording more protection from the neighboring hotel room wall. They didn’t need further encouragement. Then with his Arasaka in his right hand, steadied with his left, he took a run toward the door, slamming right through. Marelli had also been a tackle for Hudson High and it all came back to him.
He had trouble staying on his feet, but never lost his concentration. In a blink of an eye he saw an assault rifle on the floor but assessed that no one was in the room. An AK-47? No similar, but not the AK . Three minutes and eighteen seconds had elapsed since it had been fired. The smell lingered in the
Two minutes later they put their equipment away and began the process of transferring the body onto a stretcher, then into the back of their emergency vehicle. Its siren, not really needed, couldn’t be distinguished from the wailing of the others as it screamed up Warren toward Columbia Memorial Hospital. Madelyn held her hands to her ears. So much noise. Such incredible noise.
Madelyn slowly turned around. She watched mothers huddle over their children. She saw police stop every man they didn’t know and throw them on the ground for a quick search. Directly in front of her, Chuck Wheaton unsnapped his camera from the tripod and went handheld. She was vaguely aware of her civics teacher focusing on her. Madelyn epitomized the anguish. Soon her face would tell the story to millions of people across the country and around the world.
And the noise continued to grow. It was overwhelming; unlike anything Madelyn had ever heard. She continued her slow circle, around and around, until she collapsed. This was her political coming of age.
“Please, please, everybody stay where you are,” Mayor Kenton repeated to everybody. No one listened in the chaos. And across the street, Roger C. Waterman was taking a leisurely shower as promised.
Chief Marelli had no experience in public executions, but he was still a cop. The murder occurred on his watch and the killer was at large. The podium was his crime scene. He mentally raced through the procedural questions. Where did the bullet come from? What angle? What height?
Okay, the front. Rule out Warren. The fall was backwards. The bullet exited slightly lower than the entrance point. He looked around, blocking out the cries. The shooter was higher than the crowd.
He studied the buildings across the street. On the corner, that old appliance store. No good. Not a high enough vantage point. The barber shop next to it. Still too low and too tight an angle. An art gallery. Not possible. J.W. Edmonds Hose Co #1. Maybe, from the roof, but unlikely. Too steep an angle. Too high.
He realized he skipped a building. The St. Charles.
Marelli keyed the microphone to his police radio attached to his shirt. “The St. Charles!” he called to his officers. The Chief stared at the front windows on the second and third floors. He looked closer. The third floor corner window. It’s open!
The 210 pound, 62-year-old chief hadn’t run in years. He was grossly out of shape. But today he sprinted like the high school track star he was in the 60s. Four of his men joined the pursuit. They darted across the street and flew through the heavy oak door, bounding up the twenty-four stairs to the third floor landing. Their Arasakas were drawn. Marelli led the way, pointing to two of his officers, Pomerantz and Hilton, to cover either side of the door to Room 301. Marelli signaled to Pomerantz not to touch the handle.
“Police!” he shouted. “Hands up! Come out, now!” After a five count he repeated his order. Now!” Marelli had never faced a real gunman on the other side of a door, not in all his years as an officer and then Chief of Police. Nothing even close. But instincts told him that the shooter could take them all down right through the walls. He motioned for his men to shift to the right of the door, affording more protection from the neighboring hotel room wall. They didn’t need further encouragement. Then with his Arasaka in his right hand, steadied with his left, he took a run toward the door, slamming right through. Marelli had also been a tackle for Hudson High and it all came back to him.
He had trouble staying on his feet, but never lost his concentration. In a blink of an eye he saw an assault rifle on the floor but assessed that no one was in the room. An AK-47? No similar, but not the AK . Three minutes and eighteen seconds had elapsed since it had been fired. The smell lingered in the
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