I was working at Universal Studios on December 1, 1988 when a crazy man approached the security gate and asked to see Michael Landon, who wasn’t there. When the two security guards in the booth turned him away, the crazy man shot and killed them both, then ran into what witnesses believed was the parking area under the building where I worked.
A few minutes later, another young security guard ran into our office and told us to close the blinds, lock the doors and don’t come out until notified. This young man’s face was pale and he was shaking as he spoke. We didn’t realize until later that the shooter was seen running into our building, so as that frightened kid ran from office to office to warn everyone, he knew he also might run straight into the shooter, who had already killed two of his colleagues.
I had never seen terror in my life until I saw that young guard’s face.
Sirens blared outside, but we sat, helpless, not knowing what to do. I’ll never forget that while my co-worker, Terry, and I fought off the urge to panic, one of the producers told us not to worry.
“It’s not our time,” she said. She was adamant, as if she knew without a doubt that this was not the day that any of us were going to die.
In my frightened state, I didn’t know how she could possibly know that for certain, but her certainty comforted me.
No one else died that day. Later, I heard on the news that the gunman had run through the parking area and escaped, only to be cornered by police in a nearby park. They shot and wounded him and he was transported to the hospital.
When I left work that evening, I had to walk past the security gate where the guards had been killed. It was now a crime scene and the area was swarming with police. One of the bodies was still there, covered by a white sheet. Other than at my grandfather’s funeral, I had never seen a dead body.
I didn’t know this young man who was lying lifeless on the ground. I don’t think I had ever spoken to him, but I passed him every day as I walked from the parking lot to the office. I felt a deep sense of regret that I didn’t know his name. I desperately wished that I had said hello or said something nice to him that morning.
I thought I had held up pretty well that day, but when I walked past his lifeless body, I burst into tears and cried as I drove home.
It never should have been “his time.”
I just looked up the incident online and read that the shooter was a longtime mental patient who thought that Michael Landon was a Nazi. He was declared not guilty by reason of insanity and ended up being confined for life in a mental hospital.
Many years have passed since that terrible tragedy at Universal Studios. I have rarely talked about it and have never written about it before. But I still think about it, and every time innocent people are gunned down by a mentally ill person, I think of Jeren and Armando, the Universal Studios security guards.
I know both their names now.
I also know that it never should have been “time” for 49 other people who were just killed by another crazy person in Orlando.
Today, I’m sending flowers to the Universal Studios security guards.
I only wish I wasn’t 28 years too late.
***
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/99792499@N00/3612094774″>”Crime Scene Do Not Cross” tape</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a>
2 Comments
What a frightening experience, Ann. I can’t imagine being terrified beyond words. But it is said that putting it into words helps to deal with the memory of such an event. God bless you for writing about it.
What a frightening experience, Ann. I can’t imagine being terrified beyond words. But it is said that putting it into words helps to deal with the memory of such an event. God bless you for writing about it.