| UNFAIR PARK | In 1991, a Killeen city police car parks near the front entrance to Luby’s Cafeteria where flowers were left in memory of the victims. A gunman killed dozens at a Luby’s in Killeen 30 years ago. It changed Texas forever. ECHOES OF GUNFIRE T BY TYLER HICKS he man and his weapons were both from out of town. That’s one of the first things many Killeen residents, both past and present, will remind you: He wasn’t one of them. George Hennard was from Pennsylvania, and he was living in Belton, a city about 25 minutes away from Killeen, when he com- mitted what was then the largest mass shooting in U.S. history. On that fateful morning, he stopped for a big breakfast: a sausage-and-biscuit sandwich, a candy bar and doughnuts, all washed down with or- ange juice. It was Oct. 16, 1991, Boss’s Day. It would be easy to recap the grisly details of that day, to detail how Hennard, a 35-year-old man recently booted from the Merchant Marine, drove his blue 1987 Ford Ranger pickup through a plate-glass win- dow of one of Killeen’s most popular lunch spots and then opened fire. But this is not only a story about murder, nor is it only a story about the man neighbors called “standoffish” but “friendly,” foreshadowing the cases of often lonely, murderous men who would carry out mass shootings over the years that followed. This is also a story about what comes after, when the camera- men have long since left and the town is left to pick up the pieces. It’s about shadows, about how a day that began with a junk food breakfast casts darkness that shapes lives decades later. More than 30 years after Hennard killed nearly two dozen men and women, the peo- ple of Killeen — and, in some respects, all Texans — are still dealing with the emo- tional, moral and legal aftermath. “No community is, or could ever be, pre- pared for the tragedy which struck Killeen on Oct. 16, 1991,” the mayor and city council wrote in a “thank you” to first responders displayed in the Killeen Daily Herald later that year. “Our hope and prayers are that a similar event will never again occur in any community.” I n early December, amid a mass of holi- day shoppers at a Killeen mall, a man wearing a sweatshirt, face mask and white beanie fired a gun 10 times, sending one victim to the hospital. A few weeks later, police were still searching for answers: Was this a targeted action or an attempted mass shooting? “My concern is that a man pointed a handgun at another person and pulled the trigger 10 times, so he meant to kill that per- son,” police Chief Charles Kimble told local news. “That’s a dangerous person.” In August, a TikTok video captured what sounds like a gunfight between police and a shooter at the Killeen strip club Naked City. “That boy shooting, boy, that’s some big shit,” the TikToker told his followers as bul- lets ricocheted nearby. He is smiling at first. Then, when a man approaches the shooting off-camera, the videographer’s mood turns somber. “Hey bro, get down,” he tells the man. “That’s some big shit.” “I got family back there,” the man replies. That man is still repeating the same words (“I got family, I got family”) as the videographer starts to run, the TikTok still rolling. A day later, the video went viral. Those shootings were still fresh when the Observer phoned pastor Jimmy Towers to talk about what he saw, heard and felt in Oc- tober 1991. Towers, now 78, has the kind of temperament and timbre you’d expect from a veteran Baptist pastor. At once comforting and patrician, his Texas drawl trickles like molasses as he tells stories brimming with asides, anecdotes and spiritual musings. Early on in the conversation, he acknowl- edges his city’s grim record of tragedies – “We’ve had our share,” he says – but is quick to point out Killeen’s resilience. “There’s a sense that Killeen has the re- silience because of life experience with Fort Hood,” he says. It’s not uncommon for Killeen residents to travel to the airport to greet caskets carrying fallen soldiers coming home to the Army’s top training spot for heavy forces. “The community’s resilience through the years of life, death and tragedy has helped us handle it well,” Towers says. In October 1991, Towers was the new pastor at First Baptist and a recent trans- plant from San Antonio. When Hennard crashed through the Luby’s entrance around 12:45 p.m., Towers was in a Rotary Club meeting in the hotel next door. He didn’t know anything was wrong until he left for a funeral. A horde of people had gathered in the Luby’s parking lot, and a cop Towers knew was standing nearby. When the >> p4 Mark Perlstein/Getty Images 33 dallasobserver.com dallasobserver.com | CONTENTS | UNFAIR PARK | SCHUTZE | FEATURE | NIGHT+DAY | CULTURE | MOVIES | DISH | MUSIC | CLASSIFIED | CLASSIFIED | MUSIC | DISH | CULTURE | UNFAIR PARK | CONTENTS DALLAS OBSERVER DALLAS OBSERVER MONTH XX–MONTH XX, 2014 JANUARY 13-19, 2022
