Shots Fired in Terminal 2

by William Hazelgrove

  In 2012, the Puerto Rican Police investigated Santiago's behavior and confiscated his weapons. The firearms were later returned to him in May 2014.3 Also in 2012, Santiago applied for and received a Florida driver's license—which he used to apply for a gun permit—even though he had never lived in Florida.4 He moved from Puerto Rico to Alaska with his brother and joined the Alaska Army National Guard on November 21, 2014.5 At this point in his life Esteban had held two jobs and both were in the army. He was a trained combat engineer and, by the nature of basic training, he was a trained killer. During his time with the Alaskan National Guard he went AWOL several times and missed drills and was eventually interviewed by Army criminal investigators for what they called “strange behavior.”6 He served in the National Guard until August 2016, when he was discharged for “unsatisfactory performance.”

  During this time, Santiago also worked as a security guard. Other workers referred to him as “quiet and solitary.”7 He had a girlfriend in January 2016, but was arrested for assault after he broke down a door and tried to strangle her.8 The case was pled down to a deferred prosecution agreement. In November 2016, Santiago went to the FBI field office in Anchorage and told the agents that the government was controlling his mind and making him watch Islamic videos. He added that the CIA wanted him to join the group and said he was hearing voices in his head telling him to commit acts of violence.9

  The FBI called in the local police, who took him to a medical facility for a mental health evaluation.10 This veteran was clearly suffering from PTSD or worse, and he took the desperate step of contacting the FBI. The result was an investigation that uncovered no link to terrorism. The feds essentially signed off on Santiago and left the matter to the local police, who took his Walther 9mm from him but then returned it in December because he had not been convicted of a serious crime or committed to a mental health facility. Santiago was on his own again, with his gun still in his possession. He was a weaponized human being, hearing voices telling him to kill, but the FBI and the local police had determined that he was not a threat. The voices didn't stop, and he booked a flight to New York on December 31, but then canceled it. He would later say that he was concerned about the amount of police in New York City. So instead he bought a ticket for Fort Lauderdale–Hollywood International Airport in Florida.

  On January 6, Santiago boarded a flight out of Anchorage and headed for Fort Lauderdale, Florida. His gun was safely checked in a locked box along with his ammo. The gun was the same one that had been taken from him twice before and given back because he had been deemed mentally competent. After the shooting he would be diagnosed with schizophrenia.

  Everyone is converging on the lower-level baggage claim area of Terminal 2. It is the first thing you do when you get off the plane. Get your bag and head for the shuttle bus to the cruise ship because you have a whole process waiting for you there. Cruise ships have their own security protocol, and after they check your passport the same screening of baggage and personal items, with metal detectors and bomb sniffing puffers, begins. The lines snake around and around, long and sometimes stressful. A misplaced passport means you will not get on the ship, and it will leave without you. Having all your documents is your lifeline to getting on the ship. So getting out of the airport as fast as possible is your goal.

  This is why Terry Andres had reached the baggage area and had already gotten his luggage from carousel three. Olga Woltering is there as well, looking for her luggage, along with Shirley and Steve Timmons. Mary Louise Amzibel is by carousel three, and so is Michael John Oehme.1 Everyone wants to get to the cruise ship and get checked in because then you have that first glorious moment with your piña colada or margarita in hand and you have made it and you have handed off all your cares.

  Esteban Santiago has also left his plane also and headed for the baggage claim. He has claimed his one small suitcase and disappeared into the men's room. It is 12:54 p.m. when Santiago emerges from the men's bathroom with the Walther 9mm tucked into the front of his pants and covered by his shirt. He holds the case and a backpack in his left hand, and as he walks past carousel two he pauses awkwardly to pull the gun free with his right hand.

  The surveillance video is hard to watch. It shows a man walking and then reaching into his belt like someone pulling out a camera. Meanwhile, Terry Andres leaves his wife, Ann, for a moment and is looking for a luggage cart. Santiago swings out his gun and starts shooting to his right, toward the window and doors. In the video he now looks like a man holding a water hose waist level. People who saw him before he started shooting said he looked very agitated, trying to get his one piece of luggage. Others said he looked almost at peace as he started to fire.

  Mark Lea of Elk River, Minnesota, thought firecrackers had gone off. He was about one hundred yards away from Santiago when the shooting started, and he described what he saw: “He [Santiago] walked around the baggage claim area…and point and shoot; point and shoot. Anyone who was in his path of walking was shot where they were.”2 It would seem Santiago was a great marksman, but he was simply on top of people when he shot them. Soldiers are not trained to shoot to kill. They are trained to just hit some piece of the target.3 In the fog of war, and at the long range most killing is done, solders usually fire at a shape or a muzzle flash. They are not trained to shoot people in the head or aim for the heart. The anxiety of war and senses gone haywire turn most soldiers into frenzied firing machines trying to hit anything they can. It is when Santiago gets to carousel three that he inflicts his death shots, and they are all head shots. This is not how he was trained, but this is how he kills.

  Terry Andres is shot in the head and falls to the ground. Then Shirley Timmons is killed instantly with a head shot, and her husband, Steven, is shot through the eye, with the bullet going through the roof his mouth. Olga Woltering goes down next, shot through the head, and then Mary Louise Amzibel and Michael John Oehme are both shot in the head. Oehme's wife, Kari, is shot also through the neck and the shoulder. Mark Lea sees Kari screaming afterward, asking where Michael is and if he is okay: “She asked if he was still alive…. I saw a pool of blood and he was shot in the head. I tried to console her and tell her he was fine. He was two feet away. He wasn't breathing or moving.”4

  The area around carousel three is a blood bath, with four human beings bleeding out under the fluorescent lights. On the other side of the carousel is another body in a pool of blood. A woman behind an information counter is shot in the shoulder, and a man with two boys is shot in the wrist. Santiago drops one clip, loads another, and continues firing.5 He is aiming between the luggage stacked by carousel three, targeting the people who are hiding. In ninety seconds he is out of bullets. A man lying on the ground swears at him.

  After running out of ammunition, Santiago turns and heads back toward the other end of the terminal, dropping his gun on the way. Near the exit, between the Starbucks and the escalator, he suddenly throws himself on the floor. He is spread eagle and calmly waiting to be arrested.6 Behind him are the dead and the dying and the wounded. It is all over in ninety seconds, but lives have been changed forever. Two deputies reach Santiago and cuff him. They hustle him away and quickly radio in. They have the shooter in custody, the area is secure. It is a lone shooter, they repeat. This is no comfort to the wounded and the dead.

  Nobody in Terminal 1 knows what has just happened in Terminal 2. There is no announcement. It is almost sleepy in the terminal, with a midday languor hanging over us. Initially, there is no sign anything has happened at all. It is five minutes after one, and just another day in an American airport. We have resigned ourselves to the fact that we are not leaving the airport. Anywhere we go will be expensive, with transportation and restaurants, and like most families after a vacation we have spent up to the limit. Better to stay in the airport and get some snacks. The kids join together in a single idea: we are tired and hungry.

  “Dad, I am hungry,” has become a mantra. We as parents knew this was coming. Clay announces he is g
oing to look for food. I have already gone to a concession stand and bought a bag of granola and some vitamin water. The granola and water will remain in the terminal for days, unopened.

  “Let us know what you find,” my wife calls.

  The man is still asleep behind the benches, wedged into a yoga-like position. Someone else might wonder if he is dead, but long layovers in airports require a different way of looking at things. A few minutes later I see the first police car zoom past the outside window. The first blue lights bring another and another and another. Even though Terminal 1 is the newest of the airport terminals, it still has the vacuous feel of a bus station. The gray carpet of the airport matches our moods. The sirens blaring by outside do not change the tenor of the moment. We are from Chicago and are used to sirens and lights. My daughters sit on our luggage, yawning.

  I look up and see more police cars go whizzing by. I remember later thinking it was strange but that it was probably just a security problem. We have to get something to eat at some point and, more than that, we have to come to grips with what to do for six hours in an airport.

  “We still need to get some food,” Kitty murmurs, frowning at the escalators leading to the lower baggage area. I turn and stare at the now-steady stream of police cars and ambulances going by the outside windows.

  A voice crackles over the loudspeaker. Something about an event occurring in the airport. There is no lockdown. No panic. People are still walking casually through the terminal. Skycaps are checking luggage. The people behind the United counters chat, as firetrucks, ambulances, and police cars continue to race by. Terminal 1 is still in the middle of a lazy day of travelers facing up to the reality of flying back to a winter that is giving Chicago two-degree temperatures. We are still in our shorts, T-shirts, and tennis shoes. Like most people, we are putting off the realization that we have to return to a frozen Midwest where people have been slogging through snow while we cruised around Caribbean islands.

  We are still in the lull of the great American vacation and even though we have been told that “an event” has occurred, we have no sense of danger. I am not sure how we find out exactly that a shooting has occurred in Terminal 2, but we suddenly know. I think someone at the ticket counter tells Kitty there have been “shots fired in Terminal 2.” This type of information moves along its own pathways, an amalgam of hearsay, fact, and the droning loudspeaker.

  “There's been a shooting,” Kitty exclaims, facing the windows.

  I turn reflexively and watch the steady blue stream of flashing lights. Nobody is running. Nothing has changed. We have seen many shootings on television and while this one is closer it has no reality. Our kids have gone through routine lockdown drills at school. After the Sandy Hook massacre, the principal stood at the entrance to my daughter's elementary school with a police car parked in the front circle. We have seen Michael Moore's Bowling for Columbine, but like many suburban Americans who work in economic hubs centered around large cities we don't know anyone personally who owns a gun, and so there had been nowhere to focus our concern.

  But I am concerned now.

  “I'm going to look outside.”

  Kitty looks at me. “Do you think that's smart?”

  I shrug. “I'll be fine.”

  I pass through the terminal doors and stand among the skycaps waiting for their next baggage customer. I turn and stare down toward Terminal 2. I see an ocean of police cars and ambulances, a wall of flashing mayhem. But Terminal 2 is a separate building, and the body language of the people around me gives no indication of danger at all. I wonder if a shooting has really occurred or whether this is rumor or false alarm…. Such is our reluctance to accept any type of carnage as really affecting our personal lives. I remember the statistic that puts the chance of getting struck by lightning in front of the chance of being in a mass shooting.

  I go back inside and Kitty stares at me.

  “What did you see?”

  I shrug. “Lot of police cars…. Where's Clay?”

  My wife turns to the escalators leading to the lower baggage claim area.

  “He's still not back.”

  More police cars. More sirens. I turn away from the window and frown.

  “I better find him.”

  Kitty and I look at each other. The danger is there now. It is in the air and moving like a dark fog rolling over a forest. We feel the vibration that something is terribly, terribly wrong. It is hard to know exactly when you perceive that your safety zone or sense of well-being has changed, but we suddenly both feel like we are on a dark street in Chicago. Kitty looks at our daughters and then stares at me.

  “Find him!”

  I take off and go down the escalator into the darkened baggage claim area. People are standing around several television monitors. I walk over and see the bright red CNN headline—“Five Believed Dead, Many Wounded in Mass Shooting, Ft. Lauderdale Airport.” My heart begins to beat heavily. There are people who have been murdered not five hundred yards away. I stare openmouthed at the image of people running on the airport tarmac. People are running for their lives just outside the terminal. It is on the television, but it is also just outside this building.

  We are in the lower, darkened area of baggage claim, where suitcases are revolving and passengers are grabbing their belongings and running to catch a cab or connect with an Uber. In the baggage claim of Terminal 2, people are dead on the floor or bleeding to death. I take off again, moving quickly, texting as I walk.

  A text comes back—“By the Starbucks.” I see the green sign and head there. People are now moving faster, a subtle uptick in the human buzz of any mass-transportation hub. The televisions are all announcing the same carnage, and people who have been in the woozy land of a tropical vacation are now unsure of their position in the universe. The danger is seeping into the terminal and senses are heightened, our breathing, heartrates, and metabolic changes reaching back to our primitive brains that ready us for fight or flight.

  Another announcement over the PA. An incident. Something about shelter in place. Yet people are dutifully standing in line, waiting for a latte or a cappuccino. Such is our reality until it touches us. I see Clay walking toward me munching on some chips.

  “Where have you been?” I shout.

  Clay stares at me with my own eyes, brown hair, a twenty-year-old version of myself.

  “I told you I was looking for food.”

  My reality is not his. I am supposed to be the protector, and I feel danger all around us now. I think strangely of the time Careen disappeared on a Florida beach for a few minutes and how I ran up and down the beach thinking that would be the day my life changed forever.

  “There's been a shooting in the other terminal,” I say, walking toward the escalator.

  “No shit, Dad.”

  “Let's go!”

  Clay stops. “What about food?”

  “Fuck the food.”

  This is me when I get stressed. I start cussing like a truck driver.

  Clay mutters, but he now has the wide-eyed fear I am feeling. We both quick-time it up the escalators and almost run through the terminal back to Kitty and the girls. People are next to the windows watching more emergency vehicles, police trucks that look like small tanks. Some people are by the ticket counters. Others have stopped moving altogether. It is as if the terminal is suddenly filled with people who move like distressed bees, not quite sure what to do in the hive anymore.

  Kitty is looking around, as I am. There is something moving out there, something dark, and we both feel it. Our daughters are both standing in their shorts and T-shirts, sunglasses and tennis shoes, and our family vacation paraphernalia suddenly feels ridiculous, as if we have been cast in the wrong movie. We should all be wearing military uniforms right now, with helmets and flak jackets, not standing here tanned, with sunglasses in our hair and sunscreen in our pockets. An alternate universe has descended and we are struggling to catch up.

  “I'm still hungry,” Clay says.
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  “Me too,” Careen shouts out.

  Callie is quiet, her large blue eyes staring toward the windows and the racing emergency vehicles. Incredibly, we start talking about food again. Families are always either eating, driving, going to movies, dropping people off, touring, or visiting. Motion is required lest the family dynamic turn in on itself—something that happens on rainy days when everyone is stuck inside or during a family vacation that goes off the rails with a freak snowstorm and traps everyone in a cabin. In a way, getting something to eat is a welcome diversion, and maybe the hell that is taking place in Terminal 2 will stay there and we can be blissfully ignorant and fill our time concerned only with where to get a burger and a Coke.

  “We are going to get something,” Kitty says, and I suddenly don't like the idea of the family splitting up.

  And it is in this moment that my brain does a funny thing; it runs one moment into another one. I take a step toward my wife, and out of the corner of my eye I see what looks like a tsunami of people. In front of it are other people, and it is like a giant wave coming in, and people are running; they are running sideways, forward, straight up, and straight down. The tsunami is coming closer, and with it are screams and shouts and yelling and over top of it all is a woman's voice, and then…then, four shots explode in quick succession.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  The shots are metallic, like a mechanized weapon. They are four explosions of air and even then I wonder if they are from an AR-15, the gun of choice of terrorists and shooters. But this thought does not linger, or even exist, because I am running along with everyone else. My memory has it this way. People are moving sideways, lunging, twisting, like a movie freeze-framed before it is running again. Do I think? No. There is no thought now. My ancestors equipped my DNA with a fight-or-flight command that has me running in a zig-zag pattern with my kids and the avalanche of people, all of us bolting for the doors to get away from the bullets, to get away from death. Death is right there behind you, and your body knows it, and your adrenal glands have shot a stimulant into your veins, and you are now following your body, trying to find cover anywhere. The human tide demands you keep up, and later thirty people will be sent to the hospital from the stampede, but for now you are not thinking, you are just running and zig-zagging, and suddenly I am outside in the sunshine in the street with a woman and her baby in a stroller, and I am breathing like I have just run a marathon. People are running in every direction, and I see police cars speeding toward the far end of the terminal, and now I am behind a car and I am looking for my family and just like that the street is empty, with people crouched down behind whatever they can find. A man in the car I am behind is looking up at me and the woman in the stroller with the baby is asking if she can get in his car and he is staring in shock and not responding.