Oklahoma City Bombing

The car pool arrived at Rick Tomlin's home at 6 a.m. Wednesday. When he got in, the car pulled out on the rural state highway near his house, then picked up a major thoroughfare to take the four government employees to downtown Oklahoma City.

Rick hadn't been with his co-workers and co-passengers since the week before. He and his wife, Tina, had spent Easter in St. Louis, then drove through heavy rain to get home late Monday. Rick had decided to sleep late Tuesday morning.

But Wednesday, April 19, he went over in his mind the work waiting in his office at the U.S. Department of Transportation in the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Matters had to be cleared before he hit the road again Thursday for the DOT regional office in Fort Worth, Texas.

The morning was cool and cloudy, an Oklahoma April day that could turn into any kind of weather. Temperatures in the 70s were predicted, but elsewhere in the state, towns were conducting the annual spring ritual of cleaning up after severe windstorms.

Drive-time talk radio focused on the first 100 days in office of Gov. Frank Keating, whose ride in on the Republican election sweep promised new directions for the state government. Legislators debated tax cuts for bingo parlors and state funds for veterans' benefits.

The top story of the day, though, was the renovation of downtown Oklahoma City that had captured the imagination and the excitement of its citizens. Dreams of river canals, professional sports facilities, arts complexes and hotels were finally coming true. After a decade of spiraling boom-and-bust economics, residents had made a desperate move toward recovery. They voted for a sales tax that would finance the $285-million Metropolitan Area Projects plan.

Tuesday, the city council had haggled over contracts for a minor league baseball stadium just east of the downtown business district. It was a pleasant problem.

Today, though, city leaders and the governor started their morning at the Myriad Convention Center, about five blocks from the federal building. They convened at 6:45 a.m. for a popular annual event, the Metropolitan Oklahoma City Prayer Breakfast, co-sponsored by Mayor Ron Norick.

The 1,200 guests included the mayor, Keating, Lt. Gov. Mary Fallin, District Attorney Bob Macy and Police Chief Sam Gonzales. Gathered over sausage and eggs, biscuits and gravy, were representatives of nearly every major corporation and public utility in the area and other civic and religious leaders.

The breakfasters passed the first of the 11,000 guests scurrying to open the Midsouth-west Foodservice Convention in another part of the Myriad and then settled in to listen to a motivational speaker pump them into a new resolve to put their religion into their workdays.

The guests spoke of how great it was to live in Oklahoma City and how much better it was going to be when the renovation was complete.

The breakfast adjourned at 8:30 a.m., and most of the public officials and business leaders of Oklahoma City were soon back on the streets and on their way to their jobs.

•

Pamela Argo was up this morning, as every morning, at 4 a.m. She sometimes arrived at work by 5 a.m. If she could log on to her computer in the Quality Resources Management and Utility Review department at Presbyterian Hospital before the doctors arrived, her work went much faster.

In that hour between rising and leaving home, she was locked into her usual efficient routine, which revolved around her animals. Most were strays that Pam had found and carried home.

The three cats sat in the bathroom while she showered - white Neige and black Samson and orange Pumpkin settling into their regular spots on the windowsill or the sink or the edge of the bathtub. Pam carried on conversations with them while she dressed.

On April 19, she chose a typical outfit - black skirt, long black tunic shirt, black mesh hose, her big black bag and a black hat.

•

Reticent, quiet Dr. Charles Hurlburt let his exuberant wife, Jean, lure him into retirement activities that kept them almost as busy as the careers they hadn't quite left.

He went with her to cake decorating classes, and she convinced him they should both be Red Cross volunteers. They had recently completed training so they could assist in potential disasters.

But retirement also meant paperwork and red tape. Early April 19, they took Jean's Social Security papers and left the house.

•

Tuesday evening, Scott and Sharon Coyne sprayed their home for fleas, and thinking it would be safer for them and their only daughter, 14-month-old Jaci Rae, they went to spend the night at Sharon's mother's home. Both families lived in Moore.

She was a morning baby. "Arms up!" her mother said, and Jaci's hands flew high to slip through petite sleeves. Mother and baby played hide-and-seek with tiny fingers as they adjusted her clothing.

Sometimes they sang together. Jaci's favorite was "Itsy Bitsy Spider," and she could almost - but not quite - make the shapes with her fingers.

Pete DeMaster had an office at the Murrah Building and another at Tinker Air Force Base. But he spent a lot of time on the road, collecting personal background information on people who applied for top security clearances from the Defense Department.

He usually drove from home to Tinker and picked up a government car, but Pete had a new vehicle of his own, a 1995 silver Oldsmobile. He drove straight downtown to the Murrah Building, leaving at the same time as his wife, Karen, who tried to beat the tardy bell at Northeast High School where she was vice principal.

•

Rick Tomlin was frequently on the road in his job as a motor vehicle safety officer. He developed programs, supervised inspections and worked with highway patrol divisions as well as private trucking operations.

Rick, 46, was a conscientious government employee. Signs of waste rankled him. His arrival at the federal building at 6:45 a.m. gave him 15 minutes to start the coffee pot; he was the only coffee drinker in his office, so he believed he shouldn't brew on "government time."

Rick and his wife, Tina, were rarely able to talk on the phone when he was out of town, so they made the most of the instrument when he was office-bound. Tina, who worked in a photo processing lab at Glamour Shots, called him when she took a break precisely at 9 a.m.

This morning, he looked forward to the call.

•

Dr. Charles Hurlburt retired six years ago from the University of Oklahoma College of Dentistry, where he taught radiology to freshmen students for the previous 16 years.

Jean Hurlburt retired as a registered nurse at Deaconess Hospital but worked as many hours as Social Security would allow, saving her money for the travels they were learning to enjoy.

Charles was raised by missionary parents in the Belgian Congo. At age 24, he came back to the United States to study dentistry at Wheaton College in Illinois. There he met Jean, a nursing student.

Jean loved nursing, and she was the image of a classic, nurturing nurse. The staff at Deaconess was well aware that she checked out, then frequently sneaked back into the hospital in the evening to sit with troubled patients.

In contrast to his wife's energy, Charles was a quiet, humble man. He had a pacemaker, but he drove people to medical appointments and visited hospital shut-ins, and he didn't talk about what he did.

She learned to paint china plates, advancing from flowers to houses and scenery. He took care of the pool; together they gardened, creating a garden for their grandchildren.

They took senior citizen bus tours. Jean loved them and spent hours before the trips putting little verses, puzzles and cartoons in envelopes to entertain strangers on the bus. They flew to Israel and cruised to the Caribbean.

Their next trip was to be to San Antonio on April 21.

•

Sharon and Jaci Coyne went downtown together every day. Sharon worked in the Federal Court Clerk's office and Jaci stayed in the day-care center in the Murrah Building. With Sharon's sister employed by the U.S. Marshals Service and many family friends throughout the government offices, they joked about "the federal family" and Jaci's future as a U.S. attorney.

Jaci had her own small rituals. She liked to throw her bottle out the car door as soon as Sharon opened it; sometimes Sharon crawled on the garage floor in her office clothes to retrieve it.

Pete DeMaster planned for a career in the Air Force, but he was stationed with an AWACS unit at Tinker when he was divorced. More than the Air Force, he wanted custody of his daughter, Kristin, then 9 years old. He left the military as a captain and joined the Defense Department as an investigator.

Fatherly activities took him one day to a neighborhood swim party, and there he met Karen, who lived two houses away from him. She was raising a son, Brian, a year younger than Kristin.

They married 13 years ago.

A new stepson delighted Pete for several reasons, one of which was that it gave him access to the Boy Scouts again. His father had been a leader, Pete became an Eagle Scout, and the kind of kids scouting attracted were kids Pete liked.

But even after Brian announced he wasn't interested in scouting, Pete stayed, an avid Scout leader.

And, his friends teased him, a "perpetual Eagle Scout."

His emotions were let loose for only two causes - hockey games which he attended faithfully, and Karen, who he loved.

They would celebrate their 13th wedding anniversary April 24. Their tradition was dinner out and a dozen red roses.

•

Pam Argo, 36, still had family in Stigler, population 2,500 in eastern Oklahoma. She left there the day after high school graduation, but the close family ties held.

Pam's dad traveled frequently to Oklahoma City to work on Pam's 60-year-old brick house. The new fence was almost finished.

She and her husband, Tomy, had separated four years ago. They hadn't divorced because he was ill, and she continued to carry him on her insurance policy; sometimes she helped nurse him. Tomy died in March, and Pam took a much-needed vacation in Puerto Vallarta.

Her favorite color was black. From 200 hats, she picked one to wear to work each day in windy Oklahoma where hats are not a fashion staple. Her free spirit, in fact, was kept in control by a rigid sense of order.

The huge weekly calendar that sat on her desk listed her activities in detail.

The square for April 19 showed that her car insurance was due, that a friend needed a ride from the airport at 3 p.m. and that she had to complete paperwork for Tomy's burial benefits. For that last chore, she had made an appointment at the Social Security office at 9 a.m.

Just before 9 a.m., Pete DeMaster called another DOD agent in Lawton for some information. The agent promised to call him back in 10 minutes.

Pam Argo complained to her co-workers about having to go to the Social Security office; she had hoped to be able to conduct the business by phone or mail. She took a taxi the mile from the hospital.

"I'll be back in 10 minutes," she announced.

Just after 9 a.m., a Social Security employee stepped into the waiting area and called Pam's name. Another worker looked out the first floor window and noted aloud that a woman dressed in flashy black clothes - readily recognizable as Pam - had left a cab and was walking up the steps.

Sharon Coyne dropped the diaper bag in its place and handed Jaci over to the day-care teacher. "Mama's got to go to work," she told her.

She kissed her goodbye and said, "I love you."

Jaci smiled her answer.

The Hurlburts felt fortunate. They found a parking spot for their Toyota van right at the corner of the federal building at NW 5 and Harvey. At 9 a.m., they were standing in line in the Social Security office.

When she took her 9 o'clock break, Tina Tomlin immediately called her husband. She wanted him to know she had made it to the photo lab safely. Rick confided his concern about the work that had piled up during his days off.

Over the phone, Tina heard a loud noise. The line went dead.

It was 9:02.

An Excerpt by Heather Taylor

My adrenaline was the only thing that was keeping me going, because I hadn't slept for twenty-four hours and I didn't realize how serious the situation was. I heard some people screaming and ran over to this man who looked just like my grandfather. The man had severe lacerations on his scalp and neck, from falling glass. He was still breathing and was awake. He was shaking, a sign of shock. Dr. Spengler checked his lung sounds and yelled real loud, "Take a deep breath."

I left Dr. Spengler to see about a police officer who had fallen. He was lying on the ground, screaming that his back was burning. EMSA trucks began to arrive, but I was the only trained rescue worker there. I grabbed a C collar. I was yelling at the cop to hold still, since he probably had a cervical-spinal injury. I placed the collar on him. Someone got a long spine board and we strapped him to it and an ambulance took him away.

I realized that I didn't have any personal equipment on, and the scene was not safe and secure. We are taught that paramedics are not useful if they are dead paramedics. So I grabbed some gloves and gave some to the doctor. While I was putting them on, I looked up and saw a man walking on what was left of the third floor. I told Dr. Spengler that we needed to get him down because he was missing his right arm.

The south side of the building was the worst. Dr. Spengler decided we needed to set up the triage (an area where victims are given priority according to their condition), since no one else was doing it. More and more people started to arrive with the equipment we needed. The was the moment when I got scared. Dr. Spengler gave me triage tags and told me to follow him around and tag the people minor, moderate, critical or dead.

On the curb outside the building, the wounded were lined up. If they were talking, I tagged them minor; if they were bleeding severely, I tagged them moderate; if they were unconscious, I tagged them critical; and if they were not breathing, I tagged them dead.

As the firemen were bringing out the wounded, I tagged the first child dead. I heard someone tell me there was once a day care on the second floor. After that, I found myself making a temporary morgue - some call it "the church." A priest had arrived, and he followed right behind me, praying for the lost ones. The fireman were bringing out so many dead. As soon as I would take one child, another child was laid next to it. I remember one man, a bystander who was helping me, said, "Why all of the children, why?" I just watched him cry.

About six more dead children were brought out. I said a little prayer for them as I tagged them.

I will never forget my experience with this horrible tragedy. As I start my career in emergency medicine, nothing I will do will ever compare.