Boston Strong Page 8
“The mayor was devastated that he couldn’t go to the finish line,” Governor Patrick recalls. “This was his last marathon as mayor, and I could tell that he hated to miss it.”
Normally, Menino attends the race and gives a speech at a pre-marathon pasta dinner on City Hall Plaza the night before. This year, with the mayor ailing, Governor Patrick would have to spend a little more time at the finish line shaking hands with sponsors and spectators alike. He was dressed casually in a pair of tan khakis and matching tan baseball cap. The sun was out but had done little to warm the chilly April air, so the governor wore a thick vest under his grey sport coat. The women’s winner, Rita Jeptoo, crossed the finish line a full thirty-three seconds faster than her main rival, Meseret Hailu of Ethiopia.
“Today I was running like 2006,” Jeptoo said at the finish line. “I was ready when I came to Boston.” In 2006, the Kenyan won the race by ten seconds.
The men’s winner, Lelisa Desisa of Ethiopia, had finished the marathon 16 minutes earlier.
Tradition dictates that the governor place the crown of laurel leaves on the women’s winner, and Patrick did just that as Jeptoo grinned for the cheering crowd. With Mayor Menino in the hospital, Patrick also crowned Desisa. The two winners then stood together with their warm-up jackets on, each with a hand on the Boston Marathon trophy. More photos were taken, and the roar of the crowd grew louder. Despite the throngs of people now gathered on both sides of Boylston Street, Officer Javier Pagan felt he could relax a little bit. The most stressful part of the day was now over. The winners had crossed the finish line unmolested by a drunken reveler. The crowd had been mild mannered so far. As Pagan scanned their faces, he saw spectators smiling, chit-chatting, and monitoring the progress of their husbands, wives, sons, daughters, and friends. After the winners were crowned, Pagan moved further down Boylston Street and away from the finish line a little in order to get out of view of people trying to snap that all-important finish-line photo of their loved ones. Governor Patrick stood on the shady side of Boylston Street, greeting school children who had the day off and shaking hands with well-wishers. After a few more minutes, he alerted his driver that it was time to leave. It was now just after 1 p.m. The governor looked forward to easing into his other role — husband.
“I needed to run some errands and maybe squeeze in a workout,” he recalls. “I also needed to get those pansies in their pots.”
[8]
TERROR STRIKES
On the morning of April 15, Tamerlan Tsarnaev was clean shaven. Gone was the thick black beard he had grown while in Dagestan the year before. He put on a white V-neck T-shirt, tan pants, and a black baseball cap with white trim. He no longer looked the part of a terrorist — and that was exactly the point. Tamerlan once again had that Euro-trash look that had caused him to be ridiculed in the boxing gym. He donned a thick, dark-hooded coat and a pair of sunglasses to cover his dark eyes. Today, he would appear to be just another Bostonian taking in the relative warmth of spring and the city’s most cherished sporting event. His brother opted for a dark V-neck tee, a beige hoodie, dark pants, and a white baseball cap, which he wore backward over his tousled hair. He looked like a college boy who had woken up too late for class. But of course that was the old Dhzokhar. Today he would prove to be something entirely different. The brothers carefully loaded two homemade pressure cooker bombs into nylon backpacks and lifted the straps over their shoulders to feel the weight. The bags were heavily loaded, but the nylon material was strong — and so were the Tsarnaev brothers. Each would have no problem carrying the heavy backpacks to their final destinations. The bombs themselves had been built within the pressure cookers as the online instructions had suggested. The devices were filled with ball bearings, zippers, nails, and black powder — which had been taken from the fireworks Tamerlan had purchased in New Hampshire. Each bomb carried an improvised fuse made from a string of Christmas lights. They would be set off by remote control detonators fashioned from model car parts.20 The most recent successful detonation of a pressure cooker bomb occurred in Pakistan in 2010, when insurgents attacked members of World Vision, a US-based Christian group that was operating out of the northwest part of the country. Six Pakistani workers were killed when the pressure cooker bomb was detonated remotely. Tamerlan and Dhzokhar had assembled their crude bombs while they cared for Tamerlan’s infant daughter, Zahira. The baby’s mother Katie, or Karima as she was now called, worked long hours to pay for food and to keep the family from getting thrown out onto the street. What she may not have known is that some of her weekly income was getting siphoned off by Tamerlan to purchase the materials he would need to kill.
By early afternoon, the brothers had made their way to Boylston Street. The first surveillance picture of the pair, time-stamped at 2:37 p.m., shows Tamerlan and Dhzokhar on nearby Gloucester Street. Tamerlan is wearing his backpack over both shoulders, military style. The dark glasses hide his sinister eyes. Dhzokhar is carrying his backpack slung low over his shoulder, student style. The brothers stopped in front of Whiskey’s Smokehouse at 855 Boylston Street, where they chatted briefly with eyes scanning the crowd. They soon parted ways. Tamerlan took up position just outside Marathon Sports at 671 Boylston, where the crowd stood four to five people deep. Multinational flags waved in the breeze as runners from several countries crossed the finish line with arms raised in personal triumph while loved ones cheered from the sidewalk and from the grandstand across the street. Dhzokhar walked further down the street away from the finish line, looking for a suitable target. He strolled by Forum at 755 Boylston Street when something suddenly caught his eye. It was a family — an all-American family. There was a mom, a dad, two boys, and a little girl. In Dhzokhar’s mind, it was perfect. He paced back and forth, looking for the ideal spot to drop his backpack. Once he found it, he called his brother.
Martin Richard was having a great day. He had the day off from school, and his parents had just bought them all ice cream. He had competed in the BAA’s relay race on Saturday as part of the marathon weekend festivities. The marathon was fun, but it was no match for the excitement Martin felt when he saw his favorite team, the Boston Bruins, play at the Garden. Bruin’s center Patrice Bergeron had been the boy’s favorite player, but Martin figured that his only way to make it to the pros was as a goaltender. Martin practiced constantly in goalie pads that were bigger than his little body. Like most boys his age, Martin dreamed big and hoped to one day be good enough to wear the spoked B in the center of a black jersey before an adoring Boston Garden crowd.
Also standing outside Forum was Heather Abbott and her friend Roseann Sdoia, a forty-five-year-old North End property manager whom Heather knew from Newport. Roseann — or Ro, to her friends — and Heather had many mutual friends and usually met up at Forum on marathon day to catch up. Heather was hoping to see Roseann there because Heather was considering moving to Boston’s North End. If there was one person who could help Heather make such a move, it was Roseann, who knew the tight-knit neighborhood’s real estate market as well as anyone. It was time to go inside, so Heather handed the bouncer her driver’s license and began walking in.
Across the street, lifestyle writer Megan Johnson was working the crowd at the VIP party at the Mandarin Oriental hotel. Johnson had cut her teeth covering the celebrity scene in Boston as part of the Boston Herald’s “Inside Track” gossip column. Each year, she’d hit the party circuit on marathon day to see what the mucky-mucks were up to, and perhaps catch a scoop on a drunken pro athlete, politician, or reality TV star. She had recently departed the Herald and had turned to writing for People magazine, among other publications — so on April 15, 2013, she was off the clock for the first time in years. She woke up that morning thrilled to not be working and thought to herself how excited she was to enjoy a free day — one of the most fun, wholesome events Boston offers. It was her tenth time going to the marathon, but the first she wasn’t covering. As she left her North End apartment, she soaked in the sunshine and w
atched a small parade make its way down Hanover Street. She then headed to the party at the Mandarin Oriental, which is located right at the finish line on Boylston Street. She arrived there around noon and found the party in full swing. The ballroom was packed with people, who stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows to watch the runners come by. The competitive runners had already come and gone, and many of the VIPs and politicians were making their way into the party after watching the winners from the grandstands outside the hotel. Megan and her friend took a selfie right by the windows around 1 p.m. They smiled, innocently enjoying the day, like the thousands of others blissfully unaware of the terror that was being organized below. The crowd included a who’s who of Boston’s fashion, political, and business worlds. Marilyn Riseman, a fixture on the city’s fashion and social scene, mingled with fellow elites, as did PBS television host Emily Rooney, daughter of the late 60 Minutes legend Andy Rooney. Public relations guru George Regan was also there, talking up clients and networking. The party is the hotel’s signature annual event — a gift back to its loyal clients and the city as a whole. The magnificent glass windows give the best indoor view of the marathon finish line in the city. Coupled with the open bar and elegant buffet, it’s one of Boston’s hottest parties every year — a place to see and be seen.
Michelle L’Heureux had been following her boyfriend Brian’s progress on her phone through the Boston Athletic Association’s runners’ app, which lets friends and family track their loved ones through the BAA’s website. Each runner’s bib includes a small computer chip that sends a signal to the site, allowing followers to see where exactly on the course a runner is located at any given moment. Michelle was also tracking two other friends who were running. Around 1:45 p.m., Michelle and her friends arrived at Marathon Sports, right near the finish line. It was sunny, the weather was mild, they had a few cocktails in them, and everyone in their group was in a free-spirited, fun mood. It was a great use of a vacation day, Michelle thought as she scanned the colorful, sun-splashed crowd.
“I’m so glad we stood at the finish line,” Michelle said to her friend Nicole. “Why have I never done this before? This is so fun!”
Also standing with them were Michelle’s close friend Caroline Reinsch and her boyfriend Christian Williams. Just a few feet away from Nicole was twenty-seven-year-old Jeff Bauman, who was standing with a group of friends to watch his girlfriend, Erin Hurley, run the race.
As Brian neared the finish line, Michelle and her group yelled to him. He saw them and slowed down. They were all screaming at him.
Michelle blew him a kiss.
He kept running, and Michelle watched him head down Boylston Street toward the finish line. She was so happy for him. Michelle took a picture with Nicole, each holding signs. In the background of the photo, you can see the LensCrafters store next to Marathon Sports. She posted the picture on Facebook with a message that read, “Brian just finished!!! Yay!! 3 hours and 41 minutes!!!”
Nicole decided she was going to meet some friends at the Cactus Club, a popular Boylston Street watering hole a few blocks away.
“I’m going to see my friend at the Cactus Club. I’ll be back,” Nicole said. They talked about whether Michelle would go meet her at the bar, or if they would just meet back at Marathon Sports. Michelle had to wait for Brian, who was headed to shower at his gym in the Berkeley Building near the John Hancock tower.
“Just text us,” Michelle told Nicole.
Nicole headed off but texted her only a few minutes later. “Line too long at Cactus Club. On my way back,” she wrote.
“We’re in the same spot,” Michelle replied.
Meanwhile, Brian ran to the bus and got his backpack. He pulled out his phone, switched it on, and called Michelle.
“I’ve got my bag. I’m going to go shower,” he said. “Then I’ll come meet you guys. I know where you are because I saw you.”
“Love you,” Michelle responded.
At approximately 2:48 p.m., Tamerlan Tsarnaev received a call from brother Dzhokhar on a prepaid, throwaway cell phone. It was a quick conversation lasting only a few seconds. The call ended, and both men walked casually away — this time without their backpacks.
Moments later, the finish line of the Boston Marathon was rocked by a thunderous explosion. Plumes of white smoke swirled high into the air, masking the agonizing screams below. It was similar to the battle recreated on the Lexington Green several hours before, only this time it was real — and catastrophic. Runners on Boylston Street were knocked down as the ground trembled under their feet.
Michelle L’Herheux’s boyfriend was walking toward the Berkeley Building when the first bomb went off. “That didn’t sound right,” Brian said to a man next to him. But he didn’t think it was something bad. He thought it was perhaps a dump truck banging or some other construction-related noise.
Her friend Nicole, who was walking back toward her group, saw the explosion. She saw a big puff of smoke and heard screaming. She knew her friends were right there. Stunned, she hardly had a moment to think, when behind her was another loud boom, this one at Forum. She didn’t know where to go, so she ran down Fairfield Street in search of safety, uncertain if there were more explosions to come.
Inside the first blast site, Michelle was in the middle of the most horrific nightmare imaginable.
She heard an excruciatingly loud explosion and looked up in front of her and saw a lamppost shaking from the blast. The image of the lamppost swaying is burned into her brain as an enduring image that haunts Michelle to this day.
She doesn’t remember falling to the ground, and pictures from the scene show that she never fell down. She does, however, remember pushing herself up from the ground with her hands, possibly because she had been partially knocked over at some point.
Oh my God, this is a terrorist attack, she thought to herself immediately.
She shielded her head with her arms and ducked down. She couldn’t hear anything. It was complete, dead silence. She looked past the lamppost toward the VIP bleachers and saw people running, screaming, crying, falling. But still, there was silence.
She saw smoke all around her, accompanied by a “disgusting” smell. She turned around — it felt like it took her twenty seconds just to turn around — and the whole scene appeared in slow motion.
As she turned, her hearing slowly came back, and she heard anguished, terrified screams and desperate yells. She witnessed total chaos. She started taking snapshots in her mind — snapshots that remain seared into her memory. She saw a foot in a sneaker on the ground right next to her own left foot. About three feet in front of her, she saw Jeff Bauman, sitting on the ground, both legs gone and blood pouring out of him.
That’s not real, Michelle told herself.
She saw another woman, later identified as Krystle Campbell, eviscerated in a pool of blood.
That’s not real, she said to herself again.
And she saw her friend Christian, covered in blood. Her other friend Caroline, who was unaware that she was two weeks pregnant, had already run away from the scene. She sustained serious wounds to her right thigh, while Christian’s leg and hand were shredded by shrapnel. That’s not real, she repeated.
She saw blood everywhere. It didn’t look real. It looked like she was in the middle of a movie scene.
She surveyed the carnage and thought to herself, I can’t be standing in this and not be hurt.
But she couldn’t feel anything. She looked down at her calves and didn’t see anything amiss. But then she looked down at the left side of her leg and saw that all of the flesh on the inside of her knee was gone. There was blood running down inside her boot. It looked awful, but she couldn’t feel any pain at all. She looked around at the mounds of tissue, limbs, and debris on the ground and wondered if some of it was pieces of her leg.
She thought she ran a block away from the scene, but in actuality, she ran only a few feet and stumbled through the shattered front windows of Marathon Sports.
“Help me! Help me!” she screamed.
Suddenly, she felt herself being picked up by several people and lowered to the floor. One of them elevated her leg onto a chair. She saw people ripping T-shirts into strips. A man ripped off his belt and cranked it around her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry I have to do this. It’s for your own good,” the man said.
In addition to Shane O’Hare, the people who helped Michelle were Lauren Blanda, who worked at City Sports on Boylston; Marathon Sports employee Joe McMenamy; and Andrew Daley, a former Marathon Sports employee who was working as a sales rep for Adidas the day of the race.
Joe held Michelle’s arm as she was being treated on the floor of the store.
Michelle looked up into his eyes.
“Don’t leave me,” she said.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Joe replied.
Mery Daniel did not feel the blast, but she heard it. At first, she thought it was a problem with an electrical speaker. Mery also didn’t realize that she was lying on the ground. She opened her eyes and looked to the left, where she saw another woman lying on the sidewalk with blood trailing down her arm. She was traumatized and confused. Mery then looked down at her own body and saw blood pouring out everywhere. She too felt as if she were in a movie. This can’t be real, she told herself. She could hear others screaming over the loud ringing in her ears. Her nostrils were filled with the pungent odor of burning flesh. As a medical student, Mery knew that many of her major arteries were destroyed. She looked over and saw smoldering limbs strewn about. She thought immediately of her daughter, Ciarra, and thanked God that she had not brought the child here — to hell. But would her child grow up without a mother? Mery gazed helplessly at her broken and bleeding body. Am I gonna die? At that moment, she heard another blast.