(
Here's my editor's letter from tomorrow's City Paper
. Simulcast at www.citypaper.net.)
Tuesday morning, Oct. 9. It's covered in flowers now.
Bouquets of tulips and lilies wrapped in thin sheets of paper, or in clear plastic. And stuffed animals — brown teddy bears, pink apes. An American flag, draped over some of the flowers.
You don't often see a makeshift memorial at an ATM machine.
•••
Earlier, Tuesday. The Daily News reports that the guy who reportedly confessed to the crimes has robbed banks before. He served seven years for a string of heists in the early '90s.
Now he has three kids, all under the age of 4. Works hard, according to his neighbors. They don't understand it. Quiet, but he didn't seem the type. They never seem the type.
On a window of his apartment in the Far Northeast, there's a sticker warning people that the premises are protected by Brinks Home Security.
•••
Saturday afternoon, Oct. 6. My wife withdraws some money from the ATM built into the exterior of the bank, just across the driveway from where it happened. She wasn't sure she'd come back here, but it is the closest branch of our bank, and it seems silly to drive farther.
Mid-transaction, some teenage kids walk up, looking behind her. "That where it happened?"
My wife nods.
"So cool."
She looks at them. "There is nothing cool about it. Two men were killed there."
They skulk away.
•••
Late Friday, Oct. 5. Police arrest a man who allegedly confesses, tells them where to find the murder weapon. It's buried in a small hole under an industrial park, beneath a stone.
Police credit tips from citizens, including an auto dealer in Bucks County, who said the alleged killer bought his getaway car with a bad check.
•••
Early Friday morning. Television news vans still crowd the small parking lot, broadcast antennas thrust high up in the sky.
The entire front of the ATM is still cranked open, as if lifting its own front panel in surrender. Take what you want. Just don't hurt anybody.
You can see splotches that look like bloodstains on the bottom of the machine.
•••
The day before. Thursday, Oct. 4. Thirty minutes after it happened.
My wife, kids and I drive by, see the flashing lights. It's hard to tell what's going on. My first thought: car accident.
But no. Something else.
Flashing red everywhere. Cops on the roof of the OTB joint across the lot. Yellow crime scene tape blocking off the area. People standing, pointing and murmuring.
Two bodies under white sheets.
Just a minute before, a few blocks away on Bleigh Street, I ask my wife if she'd mind stopping at the ATM.
•••
Thursday morning. A little after 8 a.m.
It happens.
Five shots, in a matter of seconds.
Usually a bank robber will threaten you. Give them the money, nobody gets hurt.
This guy didn't give the guards a chance. He shifted right into hurt.
•••
Wednesday night. Two retired cops — now working for a security company in Pennsauken — go to bed for the last time.
•••
Before all of this: There's a man who decides he needs money.
He knows the daily routine at the Wachovia Bank in the Roosevelt Mall. He knows how the ATM cash delivery run works. Knows one guy stays in the truck, two guys work the machine.
At some point, this man comes up with the idea to overwhelm to the two guards working the machine. Yeah, that's the way to do it.
Later still — maybe it's the night before, maybe it's in that split second when he runs toward them on Tuesday morning — the man decides that the best way to do this is to shoot the two guards. Just squeeze the trigger until they go down.
When he comes up with this plan doesn't matter.
Something in his brain clicks, and suddenly, it all makes perfect sense to him.
I spent some time in a used bookstore today, and this was the hands-down find of the day: a 96-page paperback from 1952 entitled They Called My Husband a Gangster, by Mrs. Jim (Alice) Vaus. For only two bucks, and with a title like that, how could I pass it up?
