Chapter 5
The main room of this bank branch was housed in a tighter area, but it had more customers than the one he last robbed. It was his second cruise through the parking lot and the majority of the spaces were filled again. One empty spot in the last row caught his eye and he backed into it. He’d checked it yesterday morning and on two other afternoons at different times. If he couldn’t find a window when the bank was mostly empty, he’d select a safer target.
This was his habit, making sure he knew every inch of the building inside and out, staking it out long enough to recognize the tellers and sometimes, the daily customers. His planning was precise. Same as his precautions. Despite the assurances of his partner, it was his neck on the line if something went wrong.
Last week’s hit had gone so well, he’d been tempted to call the bank and thank them. This must be how a drug addict feels. He couldn’t wait for his second high. But he still had a lot of homework to do.
He cinched his tie tighter, slipped into his suit jacket, and sauntered toward the building. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes skimmed the rooftop and entrance for surveillance equipment. A blinking red light no bigger than a pencil eraser confirmed his suspicions. Once inside, he strolled to one of the two customer service desks, picked up a white deposit slip, and reached for the pen chained to the desk. Removing his glasses, he casually surveyed the room.
Three teller windows, in addition to the drive-thru window, all located left of the front door. About a dozen desks on the right side of the room. Close. Too close. Anyone sitting at one of those desks could easily view customers at the counter in these confined quarters. Not good. Too easy to see suspicious activity and call for help. This particular bank branch was too risky. He’d have to regroup and find another mark.
He retrieved his cell phone from his breast pocket, stared at it for thirty-seconds, and then shook his head slowly. He balled up the deposit slip and dropped it in his coat pocket. Affecting a frown, he continued to shake his head and nudged his sunglasses onto his face. An unarmed security guard stood near the entrance with his hands folded in front of him. They made eye contact and he nodded.
“I’ll have to come back. It’s an emergency.”
If the guard watched him walk to his car, he didn’t know. It would be a mistake to turn around and look. He was simply a man interrupted by a text message. Nothing suspicious about that.
A competing bank stood on the opposite corner but it was a Good Neighbor branch, the same outfit he robbed last week. Hitting the same bank in back-to-back gigs was risky. Still, he was here in the parking lot and it couldn’t hurt to wander in and get a feel for the place. Reaching into his back seat he unzipped a duffel bag and searched for a pair of dark-rimmed fake eyeglasses. In another life, he might have been the nerdy accountant he’d gone to school to become. But he preferred investing his own money instead of managing someone else’s.
He smoothed his suit coat and straightened his tie. No harm in looking.
~ ~ ~
After five more days of research, his plan for this heist was faultless. He’d driven the distance between the bank and the police department and calculated the cops’ arrival once an alarm sounded. Even though this branch was the same bank as his last hit, it was perfect. Big enough to approach the teller without arousing suspicion and easy exit out of one of two driveways. Ideally, the light would be green at the main exit and he could drive straight through and zoom to the interstate. If it was red, he’d turn right and head toward the highway. Upon leaving the bank, if that exit didn’t feel right, he’d speed to the back of the building and get lost in the neighborhood streets. He’d already plotted and timed all the routes.
It surprised him that his partner was on board with this. He’d expected objections to robbing the Good Neighbor bank twice in a row. But the first gig only netted a couple thousand dollars, which they’d split. Chump change compared to the potential in those drawers. His share was gone, which was why he wanted to roll again. Plus he champed at the bit to make another hit, like a junkie waiting for his next fix. This was the ultimate high.
The self-tanning lotion he’d applied to his face over the last few days darkened his skin to a yellow-tan tint. He tugged the black curly wig over his shaved head and pushed the fake eyeglasses up his nose with his forefinger. He’d wait to wedge the black licorice between his front teeth, giving him the appearance of a gap. The candy lodged there would annoy him and he didn’t want to insert it until necessary.
As he entered the bank he smiled, feeling as calm and serene as if he walked into church. Only one teller wasn’t busy and he sauntered up to her window and slid the mailing envelope in front of her. He’d learned the bigger bills were kept in a lower, second drawer. The instructions read: ‘Put all the money from both your drawers in this bag. I have a gun.’
Holy shit. She was the same teller from the first Good Neighbor bank. He’d been in this bank seven times and she’d never been behind the windows. What the hell was she doing here?
Her eyes widened, and he suppressed the urge to react. He recognized her but did she realize it was him? Her eyes filled with tears and her hands trembled when she stepped back and opened the cash drawer. The gun remained in his jacket pocket. He felt sorry for her. The color drained from her face and slow tears rolled down her cheeks. But she followed his instructions exactly. In seconds, the bulky mailer was in his left hand and his right hand eased the gun from his side. “Sorry, miss.”
The room exploded with the sound of the gunshot and he ran to the door amid the chaos. Once inside his car he sped to the traffic light, which conveniently shined green, and breezed through the intersection. In less than thirty seconds, he was on the interstate, yanking off the wig and the glasses. Oh, man, he had a hard-on. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
~ ~ ~
Mr. Gleaner insisted that morning that she work at a different branch today. When she arrived at her regular station at Mound Avenue and opened her window, the robbery replayed in her mind as it had every day and her hands shook while she cashed a check for her first customer. Mr. Gleaner hovered and watched. His proximity didn’t help matters. Her nervousness caused her to miscount the first time and she double-counted the amount out loud.
Running his hands up her arms from her elbows to her shoulders, Mr. Gleaner leaned close and whispered, “Kenna, step into my office so we can talk.”
Dutifully, she’d propped the closed sign in her window and followed him into the glass-enclosed office, grateful for the interruption. Mr. Gleaner furrowed his brow. “Have you been sleeping, sweetie? You look . . .” Likely he couldn’t think of a word horrid enough to describe her appearance.
She shook her head. “Not so much, no.”
Folding his hands in front of him, he nodded in sympathy. “I know it’s hard to get back up on the horse.”
The metaphor confused her but she knew what he meant. Every morning when she stepped into her station, a spot that was as comfortable as a second home, she recalled the gun barrel aimed at her stomach and the icy look in the robber’s eyes. Her hands trembled with each new customer.
“I think a location change will be best for you, Kenna. Why don’t you work at the East Seventh Street branch for the next two weeks? They are short-handed with vacation requests. Head over there now. I’ll pop over this afternoon toward the end of the day and we can go to dinner. How does that sound?”
“Yes, sir.” This felt like punishment and she hadn’t done anything wrong.
Sandy arched an eyebrow but remained silent while Mackenna signed off the computer and shut down her workstation.
Because each branch was a mirror of the next, Mackenna walked into the East Seventh Street bank completely familiar with procedures. Mr. Gleaner was right. The new surroundings boosted her confidence and after the second customer, she was as comfortable as if she’d always worked there. The other tellers welcomed her and, since communication between banks occurred regularly, Mackenna was happy to connect faces to familiar names.
The morning breezed by without incident until he walked in.
The different environment lightened her mood and she smiled when she raised her eyes to the new customer and repeated by rote, “Hi, I’m your good neighbor. How can I help you today?”
And then the envelope slid into her line of vision. This time she looked up at her robber, determined to notice every detail about him. Tan. Glasses. Thick curly hair. The top of his head about five inches higher than the edge of the glass partition. She didn’t see a gun but his note stated he had one and she knew it to be true.
He smiled. An obvious gap in his teeth. Surely that would be a detail police would welcome.
Once again, the FBI agent’s training instructions echoed in her head. “Stay calm and give the robber the money.”
She carefully emptied the upper and lower drawers, mentally calculating how much she removed. He’d escape with thousands of dollars this time. So much, she could barely stuff it all into the mailer. Unlike the first time, she looked up as she moved the envelope toward him. “Sorry, miss,” he whispered. It sounded like an apology. And then he raised his gun and fired a deafening shot. He was out the door before her finger released the panic button.
At least she didn’t faint this time. Instead, she grabbed her pen and retrieved a BRSD form from the lowest drawer. The East Seventh Street branch was newer than Mound Avenue and more progressive. Tellers had Bank Robbery Suspect Description forms designed to aid in identifying an assailant. The blanks were intended to help jog the employee’s memory: build, eyes, complexion, teeth, jewelry, whether a note was used and the wording, method of escape, description of vehicle. All the questions the police had verbally asked at the Mound Avenue office. She wrote furiously, filling in as many blocks as she could. All hell would break loose when the police swarmed the place and she didn’t want to forget a single detail. His manicured fingernails. The tooth gap. A young, white man with a bad tan.
The teller beside her screamed. Remarkably, Mackenna remained calm. As if her life wasn’t pathetic enough, now even gunshots didn’t upset her.
Just like before, the bank went into lockdown and police uniforms and FBI agents in three-piece suits crowded into the bank. She recognized two of the agents who also investigated the first incident. One of them, a bear of a man, straightened his tie as he approached her.
He extended his hand to display his credentials and identified himself, apparently not making the connection. “Hello. I’m Special Agent Demond Crews. And you are?”
The minute she said her name, he remembered. She could tell by the quick jerk of his eyebrows. She offered him a confident smile. “I think you’ll be happier with my observations this time, Agent Crews.”