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Gabrielle Giffords shooting: A fatal chain of events unfolds

Shaun McKinnon
The Republic |
On Jan. 8, a shooting left six dead and 13 wounded outside Tucson at this Safeway grocery store.

This story was originally published in February 2011.

It begins with a phone call.

Hi, this is Gabby Giffords ...

Supporters will gather for a quick photo. A few worried voters have tough questions to ask.

Come to Safeway tomorrow ...

A friend plans to drop by to offer a thank-you. A photographer will pack his cameras.

Tell me how we can make government work ...

Friday turns into Saturday.

In the darkness, at the north edge of Tucson, a young man checks into the Motel 6 by the interstate.

A saguaro cactus sign welcomes people into Tucson.

A set of lives are on a collision course, hurtling toward morning.

Sometime after 2 p.m. Friday, Jan. 7, 2011, the phone rang at Bill Badger's house in Tucson's Catalina Foothills.

Badger had just finished a few chores in the yard. His day had been full so far: a two-mile walk through Pontatoc Wash with Kirra, a 4-year-old husky-Lab mix. A drive in the spotless 1973 Jaguar XKE. He put the solar cover on the swimming pool and went inside.

The phone call was a recorded invitation from Gabrielle Giffords, the Democrat who represented the foothills in Congress. Come meet me tomorrow at the Safeway down on Ina Road, the voice on the phone said. Giffords wanted to talk to the people in her hometown.

Badger, 74, had never met Giffords, but he knew she was a military spouse, married to a Navy pilot turned astronaut. She understood veterans like Badger, a retired Army colonel. He could ask her about the higher premiums on the medical plan he used.

The Safeway event would fit into Badger's plan the next day to see a friend at a car show at a mall a little farther up the hills. He put it on his schedule.

Later that afternoon, the phone rang at James Palka's house off Orange Grove Road.

The phone call brought back good memories for Palka, a 63-year-old freelance photographer who met Gabrielle Giffords at an Independence Day celebration in Oro Valley more than three years earlier. He had supported her election and decided to photograph her at the July 4 event. The pictures had turned out nice, and he sent her copies, no charge.

After listening to the invitation to Giffords' event, Palka knew almost instantly he would attend. I'd like to see her again, he thought. She's one of the good ones. He would take his cameras, get photos of her mingling with the crowd.

Around 5:30 p.m., the phone rang at Roger and Faith Salzgeber's house in a secluded foothills neighborhood.

The automated call was as good as a personal invitation for Roger, a retired nursery wholesaler and a guy who had developed a taste for politics. He tells people he's "a Democrat with a capital L," a liberal ranter and raver.

Giffords was more conservative, but she won him over with her support for the health-care overhaul - for Salzgeber, 61, it was a case of political love at first vote.

He signed up as a volunteer in her 2010 re-election campaign the day after someone vandalized her district office, an attack many suspected was tied to her vote on the health-care bill. He had not seen her since the week after the election.

"Faith, let's go down there," he said. "It'll be a social call."

Toward the end of the afternoon, the phone rang at Susan Hileman's house, an angular structure at the edge of Tucson National Golf Club.

Hileman did not think of politics, not exactly. To her ear, the invitation sounded more casual, friendly: Hi, this is Gabby Giffords. Come to Safeway tomorrow and tell me how we can make government work better for you.

Government. She knew who was interested in the government: her friend Christina-Taylor Green. At 9, the little girl was already an elected official, even if the student council at Mesa Verde Elementary was a little less official than the U.S. House of Representatives. Surely, she would get a kick out of meeting Giffords in person.

Hileman, 58, hung up the phone and called the Greens, who live around a couple of winding corners in the comfortable neighborhood. She invited Roxanna Green and both her kids, but Roxanna and her young son were busy. Well then, she asked, was Christina-Taylor up for a Saturday morning outing with Susan? Was she ever! They could make it a girls' day out.

The date was set.

Friday afternoon turned cool as the sun slid down over Tucson, the chill desert air still beholden to January. It's too cold to ride bikes, Raoul Erickson fretted, but his friend disagreed and in the end, she won and the two suited up.

Giffords back home after third victory

Gabrielle Giffords did that a lot, talking her way to what she wanted. The year before, she wanted a third term in Congress.

Giffords was a former Republican and she could never be described as a liberal. But she was a Democrat in a year when a "D" by your name - and especially "D-Ariz." - was a liability. To win, she would have to muscle her way through the crowd of incumbent-toppling contenders.

She was up for the campaign, but the overt hostility bothered her. The threats, the gun at a town-hall meeting, the shattered window at her Tucson office. The crosshairs over her district on a campaign map distributed by former Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin.

She kept talking, and she got her way. After the election, the vote-counting took a week, but she returned to Washington the winner.

Even then, the violent imagery tugged at her. She confided her fears in Mark Kelly, her husband. "I'm somewhat concerned that at some point, someone's going to shoot me," she told him.

On Jan. 5, Giffords stood in the House chamber on Capitol Hill, repeating the oath of an office she had fought so hard to keep. When the Republicans staged an opening-week reading of the Constitution aloud on the House floor, Giffords joined in and proudly read the First Amendment.

Now she was home, and she wanted to ride her bicycle.

Erickson had picked her up at the airport and had given her a lift to her central Tucson condominium. She and Raoul had been friends since the 1990s and, with him, the politics were set aside.

The next day, she would be at one of her favorite events, "Congress on Your Corner." If all was going as planned, her staff by then had sent out a press release and an e-mail newsletter, and had triggered hundreds of automated phone calls to people in the area.

Before Giffords and Erickson finished their 10 miles, she snapped their picture with her cellphone camera, a reminder of a lovely Tucson evening.

A quiet, dark night

Night cloaked Soledad Avenue on Tucson's northwest side. No street lamps illuminated the neighborhood where Jared Loughner lived with his parents.

This is dark-sky country, where light-pollution ordinances favor astronomical observatories on the peaks.

As midnight passed, the streets grew quieter. The lights blinked out in windows.

But on Friday night, Jared Loughner wasn't home. While the suburbs slept, he was on the move.

At 11:35, he eased a faded Chevy Nova into the parking lot at the all-night Walgreens drugstore along Ina Road. Traffic had thinned as midnight approached.

Most nearby businesses had long closed, their windows dark. The big-box sporting-goods store. The big-box office-supply store. The chain pizza restaurant. The greasy smell of cooking burgers and fries from the 24-hour fast-food joint across the street mingled with the exhaust of passing cars.

Loughner climbed out of the Nova and entered the drugstore. He headed for the photo counter, passing a cashier who chirps a cheery "hello" to late-night customers. Loughner left a roll of 35mm film, with the store's promise that prints would be ready in about an hour.

He fired up the Nova and steered back into traffic, heading off on a circular path through the night.

About an hour later, he stopped at a Circle K convenience store off Ina Road near Interstate 10. The store buzzed, even at the late hour, drawing motorists from the freeway and night owls seeking soda, cigarettes and beer.

Loughner then guided the car across the street to a Motel 6.

Loughner stayed at this Motel 6.

The motel sits off the main drag, alongside the railroad tracks that follow Interstate 10. A room costs $43.71 a night plus tax. Internet service is $3, cash only.

In Room 411, the king-sized bed wore a spread festooned with seashells, flamingos, cityscapes and saguaros.

The room looked out on Miss Saigon, a Vietnamese restaurant, and logos for Jack in the Box and the Waffle House hoisted on signs easily visible from the freeway. A rhythmic rumble of diesel rigs on I-10 provided the bass line to a soundtrack of traffic and the braying horns of the freight trains.

Loughner wouldn't stay in the room for long. He was on the move, rambling up and down Ina Road, racing the dawn.

At 2 a.m., Loughner dialed Bryce Tierney, a friend he hadn't seen since March. The two started hanging out their freshman year in high school. They shared a taste for the same music and for weed. In 2007, they were cited for possession of drug paraphernalia when a sheriff's deputy found pipes, rolling papers and marijuana in Tierney's van.

Both later went through a court-run drug-diversion program and had the charges wiped from their records.

Tierney didn't answer the phone, so Loughner left a message.

"Hey, it's Jared," he said. "We've had some good times. Peace out."

About 20 minutes later, Loughner returned to Walgreens and retrieved his photos. In some of them, he was wearing a thong.

Another 90 minutes passed. He logged onto his My Space page and posted a message: "Goodbye," it said. And then, "Dear friends . . . please don't be mad at me."

A little after 6, with dawn still more than an hour away, Loughner stopped at a Walmart near the Foothills Mall, about 4 miles from the motel and deeper into the suburban neighborhoods. A sign at the sporting-goods counter informed customers that no one would be on duty until 7 a.m.

Loughner doubled back toward the freeway, stopping at another Circle K not far from his house. Then a little after 7, he drove back to the Walmart and asked to purchase ammunition. The clerk disappeared in the back for a moment. During the delay, Loughner vanished from the store.

Less than 30 minutes later, he arrived at another Walmart, in a newer power center west of I-10 on Cortaro Road in Marana. The shopping center was still quiet at that hour. A few people followed the smell of brewing coffee to a Starbucks. Other stores and eateries remained dark as the sun peeked over the Santa Catalina Mountains.

Inside the store, Loughner bought ammunition and a black diaper bag, the kind with straps to be worn like a backpack.

He already had a gun.

It was a 9mm Glock, the kind police carry. Small, light, reliable. He had bought it over the counter at a sporting-goods store a few months back.

Loughner turned onto Cortaro and headed east, under the freeway. An Arizona Game and Fish Department officer was at the same intersection and saw an old Nova roll through the red light about 7:30.

The infraction had nothing to do with game or fish, but the department's officers can make traffic stops when public safety is at risk. Running a red light was enough. The officer pulled the Nova to the shoulder.

The 22-year-old driver handed over his license and registration, and the officer ran the records. There were no warrants, no red flags. The officer gave the driver a warning. Loughner went on his way.

The Loughner family home.

Eventually, he returned to Soledad Avenue and the home he shared with his parents. The slump-block house with a flat roof was almost hidden behind the scraggly mesquite tree and cholla cactus in the neatly kept front yard. The driveway was the usual spot for the Nova and a battered white pickup truck.

Loughner started to remove the items he bought, when his father emerged from the house. The two started arguing, and Loughner pulled his black bag from the car. His father would later say he could tell something was wrong.

Loughner muttered and then fled, crossing the street to the north until he reached a dry wash that runs through the neighborhood. His father tried to chase him down, on foot and then in a car, but couldn't catch him. Loughner made his way down the wash and disappeared into the desert.

'Does she really want to go with me?'

Bill Badger arose early Saturday morning and took Kirra out for their morning stroll. The retired Army colonel and his wife, Sallie, adopted the animal more than three years ago when their son found her at a pound.

The dog was tough. She had come into the pound with three gunshot wounds, but she survived. A home in the foothills and a 2-mile romp through the wash were her daily rewards.

Back home, Badger ate a bowl of Oat Cluster Cheerios Crunch. The cereal was supposed to be good for his heart, and it didn't taste half bad. He told Sallie he was headed to La Encantada shopping center a couple of miles up Skyline Drive. His friend was displaying a 2011 Corvette at a car show.

Badger would take the family Toyota and not the Jag.

"Just tell me when you'll be back," Sallie said. "I want the car later."

Badger stayed at the car show for about 10 minutes, then turned the Toyota back down the hill toward the Safeway.

Roger and Faith Salzgeber arose around 6 a.m., with a full day ahead of them. The University of Arizona was playing Stanford at 4 p.m. A season-ticket holder for 28 years, Salzgeber had more than just a passing interest in Wildcats basketball.

The couple had coffee and breakfast, then leashed up Lola and Ripley, their Australian shepherds, for what turned into a long Saturday walk.

Roger had met many of the neighbors after canvassing the area for Giffords, so he waved often as they turned down one street and up another. The roadways rise and fall through shallow arroyos.

Around the houses, thickets of cactus and paloverde trees envelop the homes.

With yard work yet to be done, Roger and Faith left home around 9:10 and turned into the Safeway parking lot almost half an hour before the event was to begin.

Susan Hileman pulled into the Greens' driveway about 9:45 a.m. She wore jeans, a cardigan, a long-sleeve white shirt and cowboy boots. Christina-Taylor bounded out of the house, oblivious to the morning chill. Her mother pointed her back inside for a sweatshirt.

Roxanna Green chatted with Hileman while they waited.

"Does she really want to go with me?" Hileman asked. "Is there something else she would rather be doing?"

She and Christina-Taylor had become fast friends, working in the garden, going on outings. Sometimes they played pickup sticks. The little girl would distract Hileman and then move game pieces. They both knew about the subterfuge, and they both ignored it.

Roxanna smiled. "Anyplace she goes with you, she's happy."

James Palka packed his cameras. Not everyone shows up at these events on time, he thought. She's going to be there for an hour and a half. The best pictures will show her interacting with people and people standing in line chatting with each other.

There was no point in getting there early. Palka decided to wait. He would time his arrival for 10:30.

The drive to the Safeway took only a few minutes

Jared Loughner waited at a Circle K on Cortaro Farms Road as the sun rose higher in the sky. He was on foot now.

He had left the Nova at the house, where his father had confronted him. He ran into the desert and hiked north and a little east. Along the way, he dropped the black bag, ammunition rattling inside.

At the Circle K, he called a cab. The car rolled up at 9:40, and Loughner got inside.

The route from the convenience store to the Safeway passes Pima Community College's northwest campus, backdrop for Loughner's recent past.

For four years, he had taken an array of classes. Algebra, business management, yoga.

In 2007, he even met his congresswoman there.

Aerial image of crime scene where the Jan. 8, 2011, shooting by Jared Lee Loughner occurred near Tucson.

She was holding an event on campus. He submitted a question for her on a card, a question odd enough that a friend of his would remember it years later: "What is government if words have no meaning?" Giffords struggled to offer an answer. Still, her office later sent him a form letter, thanking him for attending. He kept it at home, in a locked box.

Later, his behavior grew more erratic. His outbursts scared some instructors enough that they began reporting incidents to campus police. Five times police went to classrooms because of him. In February 2010, he disrupted a class after another student read a poem about abortion. In May, he turned hostile when a Pilates teacher told him he would receive a B.

Loughner railed about ideas of free speech, about the meaning of words, then of numbers.

In June, a math teacher called campus police. She had used the number six in class. No, Loughner had insisted, bullying her. That number isn't called six. Call it 18.

Soon, he was waging his own private war with the school. He recorded a video tour of campus and posted it online.

"This is my genocide school," Loughner said after he received only partial credit on a late assignment. "And I haven't forgotten the teacher that gave me a B for freedom of speech."

After administrators saw the videos, and Loughner berated a biology teacher over an assignment, the college decided it was time for him to go. He would be removed from school until he had a mental-health screening.

Campus police delivered a letter of suspension to his house in September, reading it aloud in his garage. Loughner listened in silence.

But all that was months ago. Loughner had never returned to school.

Now he rode in a taxi, east into the foothills. A crescent moon was rising over the mountains, a thumbnail in the blue sky.

The drive to the Safeway took only a few minutes. At 9:54, the cab pulled into the parking lot at Ina and Oracle.

The fare was $14.25. Loughner had a twenty, so he told the cab driver he wanted to get change in the store. The driver accompanied him inside.

A few minutes later, Loughner emerged. A line of people stood in a walkway between the grocery store and the adjacent Walgreens, waiting to meet the congresswoman. A man walked alongside the line, asking people to sign a sheet of paper.

Loughner walked toward the front of the line and approached a young man sitting at a folding table.

"Is Giffords here?" he asked.

CHAPTER 2:At the edge of mayhem