Long Mile Home: Boston Under Attack, the City's Courageous Recovery, and the Epic Hunt for Justice by Scott Helman, Jenna Russell
Authors: Scott Helman, Jenna Russell
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and Michelle had settled for less expensive tickets in right field. Their friends in front mocked their cheap seats, text messaging Jason during the game to ask him if he could even see the game. Soon enough, as the crowd started to thin, empty seats became available. Heather and her seatmates joined the group down by home plate. By the seventh inning, though, Heather and two of her girlfriends were getting cold. They went to the restroom, wandered up to the stadium gate to wait for the others, then decided to head for Game On!, a large sports pub steps from the ballpark. Before too long, Jason and the others were ready to join them, but the line outside the bar was long and slow-moving.
We’ll meet you at
Forum
, Jason texted, as he and his group started out for the bar on Boylston Street. Around 2:30, Heather texted Jason that she was on her way to Forum, too.
• • •
T he brothers from Cambridge were already on Boylston. At 2:37 P . M . ,Dzhokhar and Tamerlan Tsarnaev were captured by a surveillance camera rounding the corner from Gloucester Street. Tamerlan led the way with his hands in his pockets, his backpack firmly strapped onto both shoulders. Dzhokhar followed a short distance behind, weaving slightly to avoid oncoming pedestrians. His pack was loosely slung over one shoulder, swinging slightly side to side with every step. They paused then, photographs taken from across the street would later show, loitering and talking for several minutes in a doorway next to Whiskey’s Steakhouse. A couple of minutes later they were in motion again, still carrying their backpacks, heading up the sidewalk toward the finish line.
• • •
F irefighter Sean O’Brien was working the south side of Boylston, across the street from Forum. The crowd size had been building since 2:00, as people coming from the Red Sox game flowed onto the street. Many of them wanted to know how to get across Boylston, to the bars on the other side. “You can’t,” O’Brien told them, half joking. “Give up.” As 2:30 came and went, he considered when to go and find the captain to discuss the 4:00 P . M . shift change. He didn’t want to move down the street too soon, in case an emergency happened and he had to get back to his post. It was a pessimistic thought on a day that was going perfectly smoothly.
Across the street,Pat Foley, another firefighter, reminded himself that he was off at 4:00. The cowbells were getting to him. Every time a runner finished, the clanging swept through the crowd. He was glad he wouldn’t have to listen to the noise much longer. About 2:45, as he passed by Fairfield Street, he sent his wife a text message, asking if she wanted him to buy her a marathon T-shirt.
Why don’t you swing by Tiffany
, she texted back, referring to the upscale jewelry store nearby. The sassy quip made Foley smile.
Details don’t pay THAT good
, he texted back. Then he started walking back toward the finish line.
Frederick Lorenz, a Boston fire lieutenant leading the city’s emergency medical team, was patrolling the finish area in a golf cart. The medics had hip pouches with all kinds of antiterrorism gear, like masks and kits to use in case of a chemical attack. They felt prepared, but they didn’t expect to need any of that stuff. After a while, as it got colder, Lorenz decided to get some hot soup at Shaw’s, a supermarket just around the corner. He parked the golf cart down the street and walked into the store.
Nearby, an army of volunteers staffed the main medical tent, a makeshift but elaborate operation just beyond the finish line; in all, some 1,400 medical volunteers were on duty throughout the marathon course. Typically, the doctors and nurses working in the tent treated conditions associated with running—things like sprains, hypothermia, heat stroke, and hyponatremia, a dangerous sodium deficiency. If anyone required more intensive care, several top-tier hospitals were only a mile or two away. The
We’ll meet you at
Forum
, Jason texted, as he and his group started out for the bar on Boylston Street. Around 2:30, Heather texted Jason that she was on her way to Forum, too.
• • •
T he brothers from Cambridge were already on Boylston. At 2:37 P . M . ,Dzhokhar and Tamerlan Tsarnaev were captured by a surveillance camera rounding the corner from Gloucester Street. Tamerlan led the way with his hands in his pockets, his backpack firmly strapped onto both shoulders. Dzhokhar followed a short distance behind, weaving slightly to avoid oncoming pedestrians. His pack was loosely slung over one shoulder, swinging slightly side to side with every step. They paused then, photographs taken from across the street would later show, loitering and talking for several minutes in a doorway next to Whiskey’s Steakhouse. A couple of minutes later they were in motion again, still carrying their backpacks, heading up the sidewalk toward the finish line.
• • •
F irefighter Sean O’Brien was working the south side of Boylston, across the street from Forum. The crowd size had been building since 2:00, as people coming from the Red Sox game flowed onto the street. Many of them wanted to know how to get across Boylston, to the bars on the other side. “You can’t,” O’Brien told them, half joking. “Give up.” As 2:30 came and went, he considered when to go and find the captain to discuss the 4:00 P . M . shift change. He didn’t want to move down the street too soon, in case an emergency happened and he had to get back to his post. It was a pessimistic thought on a day that was going perfectly smoothly.
Across the street,Pat Foley, another firefighter, reminded himself that he was off at 4:00. The cowbells were getting to him. Every time a runner finished, the clanging swept through the crowd. He was glad he wouldn’t have to listen to the noise much longer. About 2:45, as he passed by Fairfield Street, he sent his wife a text message, asking if she wanted him to buy her a marathon T-shirt.
Why don’t you swing by Tiffany
, she texted back, referring to the upscale jewelry store nearby. The sassy quip made Foley smile.
Details don’t pay THAT good
, he texted back. Then he started walking back toward the finish line.
Frederick Lorenz, a Boston fire lieutenant leading the city’s emergency medical team, was patrolling the finish area in a golf cart. The medics had hip pouches with all kinds of antiterrorism gear, like masks and kits to use in case of a chemical attack. They felt prepared, but they didn’t expect to need any of that stuff. After a while, as it got colder, Lorenz decided to get some hot soup at Shaw’s, a supermarket just around the corner. He parked the golf cart down the street and walked into the store.
Nearby, an army of volunteers staffed the main medical tent, a makeshift but elaborate operation just beyond the finish line; in all, some 1,400 medical volunteers were on duty throughout the marathon course. Typically, the doctors and nurses working in the tent treated conditions associated with running—things like sprains, hypothermia, heat stroke, and hyponatremia, a dangerous sodium deficiency. If anyone required more intensive care, several top-tier hospitals were only a mile or two away. The
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