“He looked at me, Danny,” she said. “He looked at my belly and he smiled. Like he was glad. Like he’d do it again.”
The paramedics got there in under six minutes. By then the biker’s friend had come in from outside and was holding a wadded-up jacket against his chest. Lauren wouldn’t move. She stayed on her knees in the blood until the EMTs physically lifted her to a chair.
I sat on the edge of her bed in the ER and held her. She smelled like copper and antiseptic. Her shirt was ruined. Her hands were stained a brownish red that wouldn’t come off even after three rounds of soap.
A detective came by around nine. He told us the gunman’s name was Royce Phelps. Twenty-six years old. Two prior arrests. The store’s cameras caught everything. They picked him up forty minutes later hiding behind a laundromat on Fifth Street. Still had the biker’s blood on his shoes.
The detective said the biker’s name was Garrett Nolan. Forty-nine years old. Lived alone. Mechanic by trade. Rode with a small group out of Decatur. No criminal record. No military service. No particular reason anyone could find for why he did what he did.
