Alone With the Gunman

　　As police cars gathered in the parking lot, McAninch ordered the clerk to lock the front door. The young man eased around the counter, locked the door and pocketed the key. Then, seeing McAninch was focused on the police out front, he bolted for the back door.

　　Tammi was now alone with the gunman.

　　McAninch grabbed her by the hair, forced her up to the window and put his gun to her head —— showing police he had a hostage.

　　“Please don't shoot me,” Tammi said. She started to cry. “I have kids.”

　　McAninch turned the gun away and instead fired a shot through the window at police. Then he dragged Tammi to the back of the store and into a windowless office, a cramped space with a desk, two chairs, a phone and two computer monitors, one that showed views from security cameras inside the store.

　　McAninch told Tammi to take a seat and then sat next to her. The wait began. Tammi knew her only chance was to stay calm, show no emotion and try to keep talking to this guy.

　　The office phone began to ring. One of the calls was from a reporter at Indianapolis radio station WIBC, who had heard about the police chase and called for an eyewitness account. McAninch told her he was holding a hostage, and then asked the reporter to call a woman friend. The reporter linked them on a conference call and later broadcast portions of their conversation.

　　“What's up, baby？” asked McAninch.

　　“Nothing,” the woman responded. “What's wrong？”

　　“I'm in a gas station. There's about 50 police outside. I shot at them so …… they're probably going to end up killing me.”

　　She tried to talk sense to him. “Can't you go out with your hands up？” she asked. “Figure another way out of this.”

　　Nothing changed his mind. In the midst of the conversation, McAninch even put Tammi on the phone.

　　As time dragged on, Tammi asked him if she could go to the bathroom, but McAninch said, “Baby, I just can't let you go up there. They're liable to shoot through the windows.” Eventually he allowed her to relieve herself in a trash can.

　　At long last, police took command of the phone line. They now controlled McAninch's access to the outside world through a police negotiator.

　　When he first called, the negotiator asked McAninch who he was holding hostage. Was she all right？ Did he or Tammi need medical attention？ Then the negotiator settled into a long conversation calculated to keep McAninch calm.

　　Tammi was working on the same idea. When McAninch was off the phone, she took family photos out of her wallet. “Here's my daughter,” she told him. “She's a cheerleader. She's ten. Isn't she beautiful？”

　　McAninch studied the photo. “Yeah, she's a beautiful girl.”

　　“Do you have any kids？” Tammi asked.

　　Yes, he said, one, a 13-year-old daughter, but he had no pictures.

　　Tammi was trying to get to know him. Win his trust. It was already obvious to her that he wasn't expecting to get out alive. She had to find a way to convince him not to take her with him.