Laying Eyes on Him

How could the shooter have survived? The team sent a second robot to get eyes on him, but it hung up on debris. They’d have to send guys down the hallway.

A team crept carefully across the carpet, M4s raised. As they got closer to the gunman’s hiding spot, they found the walls had been blown completely apart. They looked through the 16-inch wall stud gaps, searching for the gunman. One officer, Senior Cpl. Chris Webb, heard a muffled sound. He looked through a hole, scanning a pile of debris, and spotted a tan military vest. The gunman lay curled on his left side, head down, his body covered by wall chunks. His muscular right arm lay at an angle, his fingers still laced through the trigger of his black rifle.

Officers moved carefully down the hallway after the explosion and found the gunman lying dead, apparently from the blast, curled on his left side with his fingers still on his rifle’s trigger. (Dallas SWAT)

A blossom of blood spread from the gunman’s head. His chest heaved slightly as he took a breath. Webb looked through his sights and put his finger on the trigger. He was about to fire a shot into the man’s head, just to be sure. But now the gunman was quiet and still. Webb rolled his finger off the trigger.

The officers called Doc Eastman to either pronounce the gunman dead or summon medics. Eastman studied the gunman through the blown-up wall, checking to see if his chest was moving up and down. Nothing. “Suspect is down,” SWAT Senior Cpl. Matt Smith said over the radio.

The ATF’s Green thought they should check the area for explosives, because the gunman had bragged about having bombs. To Green, the gunman’s vest looked similar to those worn by suicide bombers. He and other officers hooked up straps to the gunman’s body and used the robot to flip him over.

Nothing happened; they believed the area was safe.

Many of the SWAT guys stopped and looked. They needed to see the man who’d tried so hard to kill them. Banes, one of the officers in the firefight, stared at the gunman’s body, twisted in a pile of sheetrock and dust. It was strange, seeing him in the same kind of tactical trousers the cops liked to wear. Banes wanted to feel vindicated, but it wasn’t like that. He just stood there looking down at the man, wondering why.

The SWAT guys headed downstairs, back through the bloodstained stairwell and into the college lobby. Canete had heard that an officer from Dallas Area Rapid Transit had been shot. He asked a patrol officer how the guy was doing.

“He’s dead.”

Jesus. “Who else from our guys got shot?” Canete asked.

“We had four killed,” he said.

Dallas police stood in salute as fallen officers were transported into UT Southwestern Medical Center vans at Parkland Hospital in the early morning of July 8, 2016. (Rose Baca/Staff Photographer)

Canete felt dazed. So many. In the lobby, SWAT officers sat in chairs, looking at a large television screen, watching the mayor and police chief give their latest news briefing. Soon they would learn the names of the fallen: Sgt. Mike Smith, the father of two whom the paramedics had tried to save on the way to Parkland. Patrick Zamarripa, Lorne Ahrens and Michael Krol, all from DPD. Brent Thompson from DART.

The police union arrived with bags from McDonald’s. Some officers ate cheeseburgers. They sat with faraway looks.

As Canete and Banes and the others walked out into the night, they felt they’d never seen the city so still and quiet. They drove through the empty streets to police headquarters and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. They joined dozens of officers, some still spattered in blood, others weeping, waiting in long lines to type their statements. It marked the beginning of a long investigation. Everything they had done would be examined and dissected and second-guessed.

Just before 4 a.m., negotiator Larry Gordon (far left) and SWAT brothers sat in the El Centro lobby, watching Mayor Mike Rawlings and Police Chief David Brown give a news briefing. (Dallas SWAT)

After officers used deadly force, it was customary for detectives to take their weapons, examine them, count the bullets. A detective approached Borchardt, the SWAT officer who’d delivered the explosive, and asked for his gun.

“But I didn’t shoot,” Borchardt said. “I drove the robot.”

The detective, puzzled, turned to a colleague: “What are we supposed to do with him?”

They let Borchardt keep his gun and sent him home.

Then it was Banes’ turn. He unholstered his handgun. “No, your rifle,” the detective said.

Banes shook his head. “You’re not taking my rifle.”

He felt as if the rifle was the only reason he was alive. All those dead police officers, and you want my damn rifle?

Canete, standing beside him, could see Banes getting angry, knew he was still in threat mode. “It’s OK, just give him the rifle.” Banes grudgingly handed it over.

The detective asked Banes to stand next to the wall for a photograph. He handed him a whiteboard with his name and badge number. Banes stared into the camera, hurt and angry. He’d just risked his life and now he had to stand for a mug shot?

He drove home in silence as the sun rose, the beginning of a bright, blue-sky day. As he pulled into his driveway, he looked around at his tidy suburban neighborhood, lawns neatly trimmed, basketball goals in driveways. Mothers and fathers were waking, rousing children from bed. Maybe they’d see what happened on the news. But to them, it was just another Friday.

Banes felt out of place. He’d just helped kill a man. Had nearly been killed himself. His cellphone rang and he heard his 14-year-old son’s voice. “Dad, are you OK?”

He sat quietly. “No,” he said, still sitting behind the wheel. “No, I’m not OK.” For the first time, he broke down.

A while later, his old narcotics sergeant, now retired, showed up with a bottle of whiskey. “Brother, I ain’t leaving until this is empty,” he said. They sat at the kitchen table and poured a glass. “Talk to me,” the sergeant said.

Banes and the other officers who had fired were told to take time off while the department figured out what to do with them. For Banes and Canete and Scott, that meant time in the quiet. Too much time. Alone in their heads, replaying what happened over and over.