Killeen massacre remembered

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Killeen massacre remembered Survivors relive horror on 10th anniversary of Luby's rampage By KELLEY SHANNON Associated Press KILLEEN -- It can be something as simple as seeing a pumpkin or autumn leaves. Or as terrifying as watching the World Trade Center towers tumble down. A distant tragedy, a seasonal reminder, the anniversary date -- all can re-ignite the horrors of Oct. 16, 1991, for those who were inside a Luby's Cafeteria in Killeen when a gunman shot and killed 23 people, then himself. Associated Press Arlia Davis holds a picture of his late wife, Kitty, outside the former Luby's Cafeteria in Killeen last week. Kitty Davis and 22 others were killed in a massacre in the cafeteria 10 years ago Tuesday. "It's something that you live with, but you go on. Somehow, you go on," said Kelley Fitzwater, 55. George Hennard crashed his pickup truck into the restaurant during the lunch hour. Then he stalked the customers, a pistol in each hand, firing randomly and at close range. If someone moved, he or she became a target. Pressed to the floor in the cafeteria serving line with her husband nearby, Fitzwater saw two women shot in the head. "It was just constant. He just constantly walked and talked and shot. He didn't stop, except to reload," she said. It remains the worst mass shooting in U.S. history. Over the years, some who survived the restaurant rampage and others who lost loved ones have stayed in touch, partly to heal and partly because they've formed lasting bonds. Some speak of a deep appreciation for life. But the 10th anniversary this week may be particularly difficult for them because of the nation's recent terrorist-inflicted tragedies. Mass violence -- whether the Branch Davidian fire in Waco, the Oklahoma City bombing, or school or workplace shootings -- can trigger memories of the Luby's violence, said Jill Hargrove, the victims' assistance coordinator for Bell County. "When you see massive amounts of people running from something, that's a triggering effect," Hargrove said. "They can relate so much to what's going on in New York. But each incident is unique." Some Luby's survivors plan to commemorate the 10th anniversary together at a private ceremony and dinner organized by Hargrove. "They are precious people," Hargrove said. "They're not just victims." Arlia Davis, 78, wasn't at Luby's that day, but he rushed to find his wife at a hospital at nearby Fort Hood. He remembers Kitty Davis' 8 1/2 hours of surgery, her transfer to another hospital, her kidney failure and, three days after the shooting, her death. Today, Davis catches big catfish, has five grown children and enjoys family fish fries. He likes to make jam, and he helps deliver flowers as a favor to a daughter-in-law. "I made up my mind that I was going to live my life," he said. Kitty's first name actually was Kriemhild. They met in Berlin during one of his military tours of duty. They married June 5, 1951. To this day, Davis wears his gold wedding ring. He has her wedding dress. A gold-framed photograph of Kitty is displayed in his dining room. "Every morning I sit up here and eat breakfast and look up at her and see her," he said. State Rep. Suzanna Gratia Hupp of Lampasas lost her parents in the Luby's shooting. She was there, too, but escaped unharmed. She since has married and laments that her children, ages 5 and 3, will never know their slain grandparents. Al and Suzy Gratia had been married 47 years. "Obviously, it stinks, and we would have rather lost our parents 20 years later and in a nonviolent way," said Hupp, 42. To this day, Hupp believes that if she had carried her gun inside Luby's, instead of leaving it in her car, as was required by law then, she could have stopped Hennard. "Dad and I were on the floor. We had the table turned up in front of us. This guy was maybe 15 feet in front of us," she said. "I can't tell you how frightening it is to just sit there and wait for it to be your turn." She became an outspoken advocate for the right to carry concealed handguns. The law took effect in January 1996, months before she won election to the Texas Legislature. "I would like to think that I was able to help change the law here in Texas," she said. "Now people in Texas can legally protect themselves." Killeen police officer Ken Olson arrived at the cafeteria after Hennard's shooting spree began. He remembers the day vividly. Olson first stood by a pillar at the restaurant entrance. He saw Hennard pointing a gun down at someone, and Olson fired with his 9 mm pistol. "It hit him. It stopped him from injuring any other people," Olson said. "What I did had to be done." Olson moved in and took cover behind Hennard's truck. Hennard retreated to an area by the restrooms and kitchen and continued to fire at Olson. Another Killeen officer, Alex Morris, also took part in the gun battle. Highway patrolmen assisted. Ultimately, Hennard shot himself in the head and died. Witnesses said it was clear Hennard, a 35-year-old son of a doctor, was mentally disturbed. "Is it worth it? Tell me people, is it worth it?" Fitzwater recalls him saying over and over. Among those slain were Su-zann Neal Rashott, who left behind a 14-year-old daughter; Venice Henehan, who was passing through town while traveling to her granddaughter's wedding in Houston; and Michael Griffith, who liked taking his children camping and canoeing. And there were so many more. Their names are carved on a granite memorial stone at the Killeen Community Center. At the top is the date, Oct. 16, 1991. The attack is not specifically mentioned. Immediately after the shooting, Killeen residents wore white ribbons to honor the victims. Townspeople still talk of someone they knew, or a relative of someone they knew, who was killed. Survivors say they still feel the lingering effects: They make mental notes about the location of restaurant exits. Fitzwater didn't want to stand in lines for quite some time. Hupp pays special attention to men who enter public places by themselves. "It's like something that you never forget where you were when it happened," said Killeen Mayor Maureen Jouett. "That day the community came together. There was a lot of outpouring of support." After the tragedy, the cafeteria was remodeled and reopened. Survivors and their families were invited back to dine. Struggling to improve its bottom line, Luby's closed the cafeteria in Killeen a year ago for financial reasons. Today the building stands empty. Its serving line is still intact. Its menus remain, advertising fried okra, buttermilk biscuits and au gratin macaroni. Townspeople dine at the new restaurants that have popped up nearby along U.S. 190. And survivors of the shootings count their blessings. http://www.chron.com/cs/CDA/story.hts/metropolitan/1089301