Chapter 1 Skip to Chapter 3 A DAY THEY WON'T FORGET By Lauren Caruba Skip to Chapter 2 On a Sunday morning in late May, Denise Slaughter and Diane Zvara left to meet friends for brunch and drove up to the stop sign at West Gaywood and Memorial. Across the street and to their left, flames licked the gas pumps at the Conoco station. Black smoke billowed into the sky. "Diane, look," Denise said. "The thing's on fire." Then the driver's side window shattered. Denise thought the gas station had exploded. But as she turned right onto Memorial Drive, away from the flames, her left leg suddenly felt as if it were on fire, too. It wasn't an explosion, she realized. She'd been shot. Blood soon spurted from her leg, through her white jeans, and Diane reached over, instinctively, to plug the hole with her thumb. The women had driven right into the gunman's path. He'd been shooting for about a half-hour before he hit their car, and his rampage would continue for 30 minutes more. Armed with a pistol and an AR-15 rifle, he took over an auto body shop and ranted about Wal-mart, Jews and gay people as he fired off 212 bullets, the first at an unsuspecting customer waiting for a car wash and then indiscriminately at passersby. When it was over, two people were dead and six others, including two deputies, had been shot. It appears to have been Houston's first public mass shooting in the modern era. Four months later, a strikingly similar scenario played out only 12 miles away. On that Memorial Day weekend, Houston Police Department officers and Precinct 5 deputies converged on the scene, drawing fire as they tried to contain the shooter. Residents in the Memorial area dialed 911 with frantic reports of suspects, shots fired and people injured. Denise and Diane weren't the only ones to drive into harm's way, as side streets weren't cordoned off, and warnings weren't issued until after the shooter was killed. Armed residents, the flood of emergency calls and the sounds of different calibers firing in all directions introduced confusion for authorities, who initially suspected a second gunman and possibly a third. As mass shootings become almost routine across the country, a question arises: How can we ever truly be prepared for this? **** One street over, Brian Cesak was in his kitchen, reading the newspaper, when the first shots rang out at 10:15 a.m. "Stay here," he told his mother. "That's not firecrackers."

On the way out of the house, he grabbed his handgun, concealing it behind his back. Down the street, on the corner of Wycliffe and Memorial, he saw a black-haired, bare-chested man in black shorts. The man was clearly agitated, yelling something Brian couldn't make out and waving a semiautomatic rifle. He eventually walked east down Memorial, back toward the auto body shop, disappearing from Brian's line of sight. Brian is 55 and a chiropractor now, but the retired Navy commander once led his ship's fast-reaction unit, responsible for subduing intruders who might come aboard.

He also has hunted since he was a boy, and knew he was outgunned. Don't send any officers in to investigate, Brian told the 911 dispatcher. They would need a SWAT team. Minutes later, a police cruiser pulled up to the corner. Brian watched a spray of bullets strike the hood and windshield before the car sped off. Frustrated, he called 911 back. "What did I tell you? Don't send another cop in there," he told them. Police blockades eventually cropped up along Memorial, one block west at Wilcrest and four blocks east at Brittmoore. But nothing was stopping drivers on the streets in between from cutting through the Wilchester neighborhood to get to Memorial. Brian told the dispatcher that the streets south of Memorial needed to be closed. Hundreds of families could leave for church or the store at any moment. Police, though, were busy being ambushed.

Brian took cover behind trees and cars as the gunfire continued. It sounded like a shooting range. Then he began flagging down drivers heading toward Memorial, telling them to turn around. A line of cars backed up on Wycliffe. Eventually, a neighbor came out to help, and together, they redirected about 30 cars. Ken Gibbs, who lives a few houses down from Brian, also heard the shots and raced out of his house barefoot and in pajamas. He saw cars trying to get around the blockade by cutting through the neighborhood. On the next street over, he waved drivers down to keep them from heading toward the shooter. One car ignored him and kept going.

At one point, a woman in an SUV raced down Wycliffe from Memorial. "Oh my god, there's a madman shooting down there," she said to Brian. She was frantic and crying. "He shot my car." Brian urged her to keep going, as bullets could still reach her. They soon tore through the windows of an SUV and a pickup parked in driveways near where Brian and his neighbor stood. The gunman was still 350 yards away and not visible, but Brian worried that he was moving closer. So he cut through a neighbor's house to get back to his own, where he grabbed his rifle. He crept through his front yard until he reached the side of a brick house, and there he sat, waiting to take out the gunman if he came down the street. At one point, an out-of-state friend saw the shooting on the news and texted Brian, asking where he lived in Houston. Brian typed back: "Currently in a war zone." **** Around the time Brian watched the officer pull up, 17-year-old Nick Latiolais and his mother, Leslie, left their house for an urgent care clinic. The Stratford High junior wanted to see a doctor before his afternoon shift as a lifeguard. He thought he had pink eye. Nick drove along in a Jeep with the top down until he approached a group crowded around the stop sign at West Gaywood and Boheme. Cars were parked haphazardly, one with its hazard lights flashing. A man lying at the end of a driveway, clutching his leg, shouted "Help me!" over and over. No one was. Nick looked at his mother. "Mom, should we pull over?" "I don't know," Leslie said. "We don't know what happened." Someone might have hit the man while backing up, she guessed. Nick decided to stop, to see if he could help. His mother stayed in the car to call police. It was 10:25 a.m. Closer up, Nick saw that the man was bleeding from his right thigh. He was lying on his left side, legs curled together. "He's broken his leg," said an elderly man in the crowd. "Don't touch him."

Screw that, Nick thought. The man was hurt, and no one was doing anything. Nick kneeled next to him and applied pressure to the wound with his hands. He had been Red Cross certified as part of his lifeguard training, but he earned his first aid merit badge for Boy Scouts in eighth grade. He'd learned then, step by step, how to handle all manner of trauma. Now Nick was recalling the instructions. Control the bleeding. Calm the victim. Form a relationship. Keep him conscious. Treat for shock. Call for help. Wait. There was no room in his mind for panic. His vision tunneled. All he could see was the man's leg.

He needed something to soak up the blood. He was ready to strip his shirt off when he noticed the man was wearing a vest. "Can you take off your vest for me?" Nick asked. He crumpled the material and pressed down on the leg, and the man screamed. The elderly bystander spoke up again, saying Nick was causing too much pain, but he ignored him. "Hi, my name is Nick," he said. "I'm here to help you. You're doing OK right now. What happened?" "I've been shot." Nick glanced at his mother. He'd been shot, he mouthed and gestured to her. Get in the driver's seat, he told her, in case she needed to get away. Eventually, Nick would learn that the man's name was Artur, and he was a waiter at a nearby shopping center. The bullet had traveled first through the passenger door of Artur's sedan, then in and out of his leg. It struck, but didn't shatter, the bone. When he realized he could still drive, he'd turned into the neighborhood, traveling until it dead-ended. He got out of the car and tried to walk, then his femur — the largest bone in the human body — snapped. Nick looked for an exit wound. He flipped the man onto his back and found that the bullet left a much larger hole in its wake. The amount of blood was deceptive at first, because his pants were made from a synthetic fabric that wasn't soaking it up. Instead, blood was running down his leg. Nick adjusted the vest, rewrapping it to include the exit wound. "Am I gonna die?" Artur asked. "Am I gonna lose my leg?" Gena McGee stopped when she saw the crowd gathered. She had been out trying to run an errand when she hit a roadblock and went looking for an alternate route. Her hands were shaking as she called 911. Then she jumped in to help Nick, and in that moment, didn't make the connection that he was one of her students in AP U.S. history. Together, they fashioned a tourniquet with Artur's belt and tried to keep him calm. He begged them to take him to the hospital, but they told him it was better to wait for an ambulance. Two Precinct 5 deputies pulled up in separate cars at 10:41. There's a shooter, the officers told the group standing around. They didn't know where he was, or where he was going. Everyone should go inside. Nick still had his hands on the waiter's leg. One officer left to block off a nearby street. The other said the tourniquet wasn't tight enough and tried to adjust it. The belt snapped. Blood seeped through Nick's hands again. Why did she do that, he thought. They tied another one, using a camera bag strap from the deputy's trunk. At 10:51, paramedics arrived and took over, wrapping layers of gauze around Artur's leg. Then an ambulance whisked him away. A paramedic cleaned Nick's hands with water and alcohol. Even after the blood was gone, he could still feel it. Nick Latiolais talks about the day of the rampage

Denise Slaughter and Diane Zvara had overslept that morning, tired from all the festivities from the day before. Their son Colton had graduated high school, and a party, complete with a taco truck and margaritas, capped a busy week. Friends had insisted on treating them to the famous fried chicken at a Museum District restaurant, and so a little after 10:40 a.m., they were in the car.

Denise was setting up a navigation app when a news alert popped up about a shooting at Memorial and Wilcrest. But then she saw the commotion at the corner as she backed out onto West Gaywood and figured that was the source of the alert. A constable's car blocked her view of Nick and Artur. So she turned away and drove north, toward Memorial. When the shots hit their car, she and Diane fell sideways as the window shattered.

Denise lunged at Diane and shoved her down, ducking as she turned right onto Memorial. Bullets whizzed over their heads, smashing the rear passenger window and burrowing into Diane's headrest. Still hunched beneath the windows, Denise slammed on the accelerator, using the treetops to guide the car to the next side street. She veered right onto East Gaywood and back into the neighborhood. Once they were out of the line of fire, Denise felt weak.

"I've been hit," she gasped. She closed her eyes, then reached to feel if Diane was injured, too. The blood spurting from Denise's left thigh looked like a fountain to Diane, who also was covered in blood. Bullet fragments peppered her face and shoulder. But she was mostly unscathed. Diane focused on Denise's leg and keeping pressure on the wound. She saw a constable's car half a block away. Drive to him, Diane urged, but Denise was on the verge of passing out. Diane reached over and honked a couple times, trying to get the officer's attention. That didn't work, so she laid on the horn.

Deputy Wayne Ford, who had left Artur minutes earlier, now saw the red Tesla's shattered windows and blood everywhere. He retrieved towels and called an ambulance at 10:46 a.m. "Stay with me," Diane begged, as Denise's breathing became labored. Diane alternated between reassuring her that the ambulance would be there any minute and cursing about why it was taking so long. They heard the deputy plead with the dispatcher, explaining how serious Denise's injuries were. Denise kept her eyes closed, trying to calm herself. Silently, she said two prayers: one asking for the strength to hang on, the other for her family if she couldn't. Both their phones lit up with texts and calls. Colton called Denise's phone, which was still resting in the docking station. Diane tried to answer but dropped it. On her own phone, she took a call from a close friend, who heard snippets on the other end. "Can't talk now." "Colton." "Ambulance." When paramedics finally arrived, Diane was afraid to let go. She tried to follow Denise into the back of the ambulance, but she was told there wasn't room — another victim would be riding to the hospital. A little more than 15 minutes after Denise and Diane were fired upon, a neighbor had pulled up to the same corner, where a bullet hit his torso and ended up in his spleen. He reversed his truck at full speed down West Gaywood, clipping a car parked in the street before turning onto Tosca, where he saw the deputy already helping Denise. The man had emerged from the truck and collapsed. Diane jumped into the front of the ambulance, where she texted friends and family, then trained the camera on herself, to see what she looked like. Rivulets of blood ran down her face and throat. Dried blood caked her chin and was splattered across her white polo shirt. The macabre image later became known as her "ambulance selfie." As they rode to the Medical Center, Diane didn't know if Denise was dead or alive. Come back Monday, Oct. 17 for the next part in this series. This article appeared in print and online on Oct. 16, 2016. The reporter can be reached at laurencaruba@gmail.com Chapter 2 | Read it from the beginning THE RAMPAGE CONTINUES By Lauren Caruba Calls to 911 kept flooding in. There were varying locations and descriptions of the shooter — a man in a T-shirt, a man with no shirt, and then, a man with guns who was walking along an easement behind the gas station on Memorial Drive. Police weren't sure how many gunmen there were. One of the "suspects" was Byron Wilson. Byron had mistaken the first gunshots on the Sunday before Memorial Day for construction work near his house on Wycliffe Drive. Then he saw a police officer standing outside his dining room window and knew something serious was happening. Byron grabbed two weapons — a sawed-off shotgun and a low-caliber competition Magnum pistol with a powerful scope. In the heat of the moment, he filled his pockets with the wrong size shells. He was worried about his next-door neighbors, and friends who worked at an antique shop in a nearby shopping center. He thought he could help secure the area behind his home, so he cut through his backyard to the easement, which was dotted with dirt mounds from construction. He wondered why police weren't there already, to prevent the shooter from moving to the shopping center, where there is a T.J. Maxx, two churches and the antique shop. He never intended to fire his guns, and ended up hiding them behind the piles of dirt. He made it to the edge of the shopping center, then took cover behind a shuttle bus. He thought of continuing on to the antique store, to warn his friends, but realized the store was closed. So he stayed there, waiting for police. He had not heard gunfire for a few minutes when he saw a flash out of the corner of his eye. His left shin collapsed, folding at a 90-degree angle. As he fell, a second bullet hit his right shin. Thirty yards from where Byron went down, at the other end of the parking lot, a deputy constable had taken cover behind his vehicle. A bullet had narrowly missed his head minutes earlier as it traveled into his open driver's window, through his headrest and out the rear windshield. He couldn't get to Byron without exposing himself. But dispatch recorded the details at 10:41 a.m.: White male, approximately 30 years old, shot in the leg. Possibly a civilian. Other officers also were pinned down. When bullets began piercing another deputy's hood and windshield, Jaime Ayala ran around to the trunk. As he reached for his long rifle, a bullet ricocheted off the pavement, striking his right thumb. Another deputy took cover behind a brick wall. Almost a half-mile in the other direction, Deputy Danny Luna and another officer were working to blockade Memorial at Brittmoore. Rifle in hand, Luna was crouched behind his vehicle. He had rolled down both front windows, intending to aim through the openings. But the gunman beat him to it. A bullet struck Luna in the chest, lodging itself in the extra layer of Kevlar he was wearing that day. Pools of blood were spreading around Byron. He couldn't feel his legs, and he felt foolish. Why had he gotten involved? The helicopters circling overhead did not know who he was, he realized. He tried to signal to them, so they'd see that he wasn't a threat. The scorching pavement seared his skin, inflicting second-degree burns. He was so thirsty. Minutes passed. Byron tried to tear off some of his shirt to apply to his wounds. As he leaned forward, he was shot again, straight through his right shoulder. The gunman seemed to be going out of his way to not kill him.

Byron dialed his parents in Spring Branch. His wife, Kendra, was there to pick up their 3-year-old son, Ashton. She saw it was her husband on the caller ID. "I've been shot. I've been shot," he said. He told her he was lying in the T.J. Maxx parking lot. Kendra got in the car and raced home, wondering if he had been robbed near the antique store. Then, at 11:12, Byron took a call from a friend, Eric Lewis. Byron told him he had been investigating the gunfire, that he was worried about dying or never being able to walk again. Byron wished that Eric, an Air Force veteran who had planned to visit that day, could come save him. They stayed on the phone for 22 minutes. Eric heard the paramedics arrive and assure Byron that he'd make it. He heard him scream as they moved him. Then the line went dead. **** On a cul-de-sac north of Memorial, Kari and Peter Young had watched the chaos unfold through the blinds of an upstairs window.

Someone appeared to break into the garage at Memorial Tire and Auto, prompting Kari to call 911. A shirtless man with dark, close-cropped hair, moved in and out of the red-roofed shop, sometimes carrying a handgun, sometimes a rifle. Smoke curled upward from gun muzzles, and later on, from the Conoco gas station. A fire truck raced in, then police cars, and a helicopter — all taking fire. And at some point, another man crept through an empty sand lot behind the station. He crouched near an old fence and raised his hand. Kari thought he might be trying to take out the shooter. No, she realized — he was filming with his phone. When the shooter emerged from the shop and began firing again, the man realized how exposed he was. He fell as he ran back across the lot, avoiding the two or three bullets that followed him. Other families in the neighborhood were grabbing their firearms, but the Youngs don't own any. Before that day, Peter had never doubted the decision. But now, if the gunman broke in, their only advantages would be surprise and familiarity with their own house. He grabbed a handful of butcher knives, placing one in each room. Kari directed her three sons and their two friends who had slept over the night before to stay in an inner room and not post their location on social media. She also texted neighbors she knew were at the beach, warning them not to come home. The gunfire seemed endless. The shots, over time, less rapid-fire, more methodical, as if he were aiming. Outside, officers were gathering on a nearby street. Why weren't the police moving in on the shooter, Peter wondered. Then he realized: They didn't know where he was. Peter walked out his front door and flagged down a policeman, explaining that he could see the gunman from his house. He took him upstairs, to the spare bedroom, where they waited. "Is that the guy?" the officer asked when the shooter emerged from the shop. "Yeah, that's the guy." Soon, several rifle-toting officers in body armor and helmets were banging on the front door. Peter brought them to the same window. One officer crawled out and laid on the roof. Another, in camouflage, soon joined him. At 11:10, Peter heard a trio of shots. Police say they fired four times. The gunman was down. Twenty-eight minutes later, the city's emergency alert to shelter-in-place went out. The SWAT team swept through the neighborhood and later brought out a bomb squad to comb the area. Officers used a net to fish bullet casings out of the Youngs' pool. The officers on the roof remained there, keeping their eyes trained on the auto shop. Kari asked if she could get them anything. She brought one a Dr Pepper. When Peter went to the Chase bank across the street, where detectives were gathering witness statements, he looked back at his home. It had been within easy range of the shooter. Now, it was the safest place in Houston. **** Five days after the shooting, a memorial service was held at Chapelwood United Methodist Church for Eugene Linscomb. Linscomb, a 56-year-old father and Navy veteran, had been waiting to get his Mercedes washed when he was shot in the head. He worked as a landman for numerous oil and gas companies, including ExxonMobil, Apache Corporation and Rexpro Energy. He is survived by his daughter and his wife of 18 years. Police identified the shooter as 25-year-old Dionisio Garza III, a former Army sergeant who had driven from San Bernardino County, Calif., to visit friends. Before his rampage, he apparently broke into the auto shop and spent the night. Garza's military backpack was found the following day by a TV reporter, and police said a miscommunication between crime scene units led them to leave it behind. Inside were several documents, including Garza's birth certificate and discharge papers, as well as leftover ammunition police had already detonated. The records indicated he had received awards for his service in Afghanistan. In the weeks leading up to the shooting, Garza had grown obsessed with anti-government sentiments and the belief that the world was about to end. His family thought he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. "I'm sorry for what happened. I'm sorry to the families," Garza's mother, Michelle, told KPRC. "Words are just words. I wish there was more that we could do." After any mass shooting, the question most often asked is what drove the gunman to do what he did. But there is also this: What can be learned from what happened? This article appeared in print and online on Oct. 17, 2016. The reporter can be reached at laurencaruba@gmail.com Chapter 3 | Read it from the beginning SURVIVORS AND A SEQUEL By Lauren Caruba After Denise Slaughter arrived at Memorial Hermann on May 29, a swarm of doctors surveyed the damage. One bullet had traveled through both thighs, almost completely severing the femoral artery in her left leg. She should have bled out within minutes. A doctor could fit two fists into the exit wound. Another bullet had split her left ear, shearing off a chunk of her blond hair and grazing her neck. The last thing Denise heard before she went into the operating room at 12:30 p.m. was a doctor saying she might lose her leg. Over three hours, doctors sewed Denise's artery back together, cut away tissue and muscle and tied off blood vessels. They also fed a camera down her throat to check for damage. She spent six days in the intensive care unit. Three weeks and five more surgeries after she was shot while driving to brunch, Denise was itching to go home. So was Diane Zvara, who had spent all but two nights sleeping on a bench in the waiting room. Denise, already athletic, has thrown herself into her recovery. At 59, retired from real estate, her life has become rotating appointments with doctors, physical therapists, chiropractors and yoga instructors. She's still on blood thinners to prevent clots, and the extent of nerve damage remains to be seen. Being in heat and humidity is more uncomfortable now. But she can walk. Diane, retired from the oil and gas industry, promised she would not go out on the golf course again until Denise could, too. In mid-September, for Diane's 57th birthday, they played 18 holes. Diane hardly ever cries, but the tears came afterward. She often cried in the shooting's aftermath, whenever she had a quiet moment. "We actually saved each other's lives," Denise said. "Not many couples can say that." **** For the neighborhood, the attack crystallized one thing: If it could happen there, it could happen anywhere. "There's no safe neighborhood anymore, but there's safer neighborhoods, and I thought ours was one of them," said Brian Cesak. Brian, the former Navy commander who ran outside when the shooting began, said he doesn't regret his decision not to confront the gunman. He feels he saved more people by hanging back and directing them out of harm's way. That, he thought, was what God sent him there to do. Residents across the area quickly shared stories of where they were that day, what they were doing when it happened. Some had passed by the shooter beforehand. Others were out during the shooting and made it home safe. Then there were those who weren't physically injured but still had scars. As soon as Nick Latiolais made it home that Sunday, he broke down. Even after he showered, he felt drained, and could not walk in a straight line. Nick, the Boy Scout and lifeguard, wondered if he had done enough to help the man who'd been shot in the leg. He and his mother called around to try to find out Artur's condition. In the days that followed, he sometimes felt uncomfortable about the attention he received, from the media, and from classmates. He wasn't trying to be a hero or brag about what he did. He had just wanted to help. The nightmares came weeks later. Over and over, he relived that half hour. Then, on vacation with his family in Greece, he received a friend request on Facebook. It was from Artur. Messaging with him, as well as writing about the shooting for his high school newspaper and college essay, helped Nick process his feelings. "Now, whenever I see violence on the news I don't take it lightly because I've seen first hand how horrible it can be," Nick wrote in his essay. "Hearing stories about people being shot breaks my heart and gives me anxiety. Even parts of this essay raised my heart rate just writing them out." **** For Byron Wilson, recovery has been slow and painful. The first bullet shattered nearly 6 centimeters of his left shin, leaving fragments of splintered bone and bullet behind. The other shin was in better shape. He's had numerous surgeries and blood transfusions, but doctors haven't yet operated on his right shoulder. Bullet fragments prevent him from fully lifting his arm. To regain the use of his left leg, Byron wears an external fixator, a cage-like structure that will lengthen his remaining bone over time. A muscle graft from his stomach operates as a hatch, giving doctors access to the wound. Only time will tell if he can walk again. Amputation remains a possibility, if he contracts a massive infection. In the ambulance ride to Ben Taub Hospital, Byron heard over the radio that he was a suspect. He was furious. But he had added to the confusion by running out of his house with two weapons. Police questioned him and his wife, Kendra, several times at the hospital that day before ruling him out. It still stung. How could anyone think he was involved with that? Byron and Kendra decided to keep their rambunctious son, Ashton, away from the hospital until Byron was in better shape. They eventually told him that the Big Bad Wolf had gotten to Daddy. What else can you say to a 3-year-old? Being in a wheelchair does not suit Byron, who before was prone to pacing. It has made him feel helpless, like a burden on his family. Those feelings have manifested at times with fears of a home invasion, paranoia about someone in the yard or the sound of the house shifting at night. He could no longer work at the family oil and gas manufacturing company or actively help with Spring Branch Tavern, a bar he and his wife recently opened. He was not trying to get in a shoot-out like some Old West cowboy, as some have said. All he wanted was to help protect his home and neighborhood. He acknowledges that getting involved was reckless. But if he distracted the gunman from shooting someone else or if he prevented people from leaving the nearby church, he said, it was worth it. **** In the nearly five months since she was shot, Denise has made it her goal to see that the city learns from what happened.

Even a half-hour into the rampage, nothing had stopped Denise from heading toward the danger. Those living off Memorial Drive were "sitting ducks," she said, trapped in a bubble with the gunman. If the news alert on her phone that day had just said shelter in place, perhaps things would have gone differently. During an active shooting, officers' priority is to secure the scene, not immediately notify the public, said Harris County Precinct 5 Chief Deputy Ted Heap. Officers can't protect the public if they are not safe themselves, he said. Police also were wary about disseminating unconfirmed reports, especially while the number and location of gunmen remained in flux. The scene's perimeter that day extended hundreds of yards in every direction because of the distances bullets can travel when fired from a high-powered rifle. The shooter's position on Memorial, the area's main thoroughfare, also forced first-responders to wend their way through a maze of neighborhood streets, many of which dead end, in order to assist victims and close roads. That day, the city's Office of Emergency Management did not learn of the shooting until after 11 a.m., leading their Reverse 911 calls and emergency alerts to go out well after the shooter was dead. The Houston Police Department first tweeted about the incident at 11:03, seven minutes before the SWAT officer fired.