Long Mile Home: Boston Under Attack, the City's Courageous Recovery, and the Epic Hunt for Justice (31 page)

The Campbells were a private family. They hadn’t asked for any of this attention. They understood, though, that Krystle had become an emblem of Boston’s sorrow. And they understood the expectations that came with that. So they put on the strongest faces they could muster and began representing their daughter at public events. Patty threw out a ceremonial first pitch at a Red Sox game at Fenway Park—the first time, her husband said, that she had worn a broad smile since the bombing. They attended a benefit concert at an Irish pub not far from their house. They stood alongside other proud parents at the University of Massachusetts Boston graduation ceremony, watching as the chancellor presented Krystle’s posthumous bachelor of arts degree to her brother, Billy III. They went to a New England Patriots game, where the team honored victims of the April attack. Throughout, they tried to reclaim their lives. They got out of town a little with friends and family. They doted on their grandson. In September, Patty returned to her job in food services at Harvard Business School. Billy worried about her all day, until she walked back in the door. He kept his phone in his pocket all the time. Some days went okay, and some didn’t. Sometimes the days cut both ways, like when they went to a relative’s wedding in Philadelphia, or when they received Krystle’s friends at home to look through pictures. Every celebration of life was a reminder of loss.

One of the better days came on a gorgeous, cloudless Tuesday in late September, five months after the bombing. With the morning sun shimmering on the sea, Krystle’s parents, brother, and nana boarded a private ferry at Boston’s Long Wharf alongside dozens of other relatives and friends. After a short ride, the ferry pulled up to a dock on Spectacle Island, the beautifully restored former landfill out in Boston Harbor that had held a special place in Krystle’s heart. The group walked off the pier and onto a path that led up a hill, through a meadow of wildflowers and chirping crickets. At the top sat a wooden gazebo, built on an overlook offering majestic views of the Atlantic off the back side of the island. Above the entrance, a new sign had just been hung, yellow letters on two varnished boards:
KRYSTLE M. CAMPBELL GAZEBO
. Krystle’s work family on the islands, led by state park officials, had thought this a fitting way to honor her memory and her love of this place.

Billy came in a gray suit. Patty wore blue pants, a cream-colored jacket, and pink tennis shoes. They took their places in the front row of white chairs arranged in front of the gazebo. Friends and family filled in behind them. The flags of the United States and Massachusetts flapped in the salty breeze. Krystle was “the lady with the million-dollar smile,” Medford mayor Michael McGlynn said during a brief ceremony. She represented the confidence Americans had in their way of life, McGlynn said, invoking the words of the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness: Only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” Her friend Tim Getchell told of Krystle’s role in building the islands community. “This gathering is a small reminder of the huge presence she had out here and always will,” he said. Patty spoke last. She walked up to the lectern and tearfully thanked everyone for their heartfelt words. “God bless you,” she said. “Thank you.” In that moment, it was all she could manage. “I’m sorry,” she said. Then Patty, Billy, and his mother, Lillian, walked together toward a big red ribbon stretched across the gazebo entrance. With a pair of giant green-handled scissors, they cut the ribbon together, officially opening the gazebo under its new name. They walked slowly inside, studying the plaque hung in Krystle’s honor. The red ribbon danced in the wind.

On the boat back to Boston, the solemnity of it all seemed to recede. There would be hard days ahead—that was certain. But this day felt like a celebration of Krystle’s life, a warm gathering of many who knew and loved her, who came out to cheer her exuberance, her fondness for blue eye shadow, her indelible Boston-ness. “It feels really good,” Billy said as he walked among the guests on the ferry. “It really does.” Nearby, Krystle’s friends and relatives stood by the boat’s makeshift bar, talking, laughing, and swapping hugs and stories. A few of them cracked open blue aluminum bottles of Bud Light. Patty stood among them, a bottle in her hand, too, gazing out a window at the sparkling waves.

 • • • 

T
he October weekend had been busy, progress mixed, as always, with reminders of her limits. In one quiet step forward—one she had not planned to take just yet—Heather Abbott had gone on a date Friday night. It was one of her biggest quandaries: how to reenter the dating scene; how to explain her story to new people. Standing at a bar in her high heels, Heather looked just like everyone else—that was the point. So when was she supposed to tell a potential suitor about her missing leg? And how would she handle it if he rejected her then? For months she had pushed the thought away. She wasn’t ready. Then a friend offered to set her up with a guy who was also an amputee, having lost his leg years before in an accident. It seemed like a good way to start, so she accepted. They sat on bar stools side by side and talked. The conversation went well. At the end of the night, when they started to get up, they found themselves momentarily stuck. Their prosthetic legs had somehow become hooked together, and neither one had realized it until that moment. They couldn’t help but laugh as they pulled the prosthetics apart.

The next night, someone pulled a fire alarm in her Boston hotel, and Heather was forced to walk downstairs from the twenty-first floor. Going down stairs was still not easy, and she was slow. There was a moment in the stairwell, people running past her, when she felt panic flare. By morning, it had become a rueful lesson: From now on, she would ask for a room on the ground floor. But Sunday morning brought a welcome revelation, too. She left her hotel room wearing her striking new blade prosthetic, the kind used by amputee athletes for running. Unlike her other prosthetic legs, which looked so real they were rarely noticed, this one, a high-tech, custom-made carbon-fiber blade given to her by the Challenged Athletes Foundation, couldn’t be missed. She had been afraid that people would stare as she walked across the busy hotel lobby, but no one did. Blending in was liberating. She checked out and headed for the athletic fields at Harvard University.

Outside, a cold October rain was falling. On a soaked playing field at Harvard, Heather joined a circle of other amputees doing warm-up stretches. She wore the hood of her gray sweatshirt pulled up over her head to fend off the chill. “You’re running your own race,” Joan Benoit Samuelson, a two-time Boston Marathon winner and Olympic gold medalist, told the group on the field, participants in a clinic for disabled athletes run by the foundation. “You’re showing us it can be done. . . . Go get ’em.” Heather would have loved to make it look easy, the way Benoit Samuelson made it sound, but she knew better by now. Like just about everything else, this was going to hurt.

Heather and the others lined up on the edge of the field, standing on artificial turf stained dark green by the rain. When the trainer gave the command, they ran to the other side, passing rows of orange cones along the way. On the first trip across, Heather was the slowest, her movements tentative and awkward. She was having a hard time figuring out how high to lift her prosthetic leg; she didn’t want to scrape it on the ground and trip herself. On the trip back across the field, the trainer said, they would go faster. “Pull back, reach out; pull back, reach out,” he called as they started off. Heather tried to concentrate on his instructions, reaching with her new leg, planting it and pulling past it. She tried to set aside the fear of falling. They reached the starting line again, stopped and turned around. “We’re going to work on speed from here out,” the trainer told them. She was still moving slowly, feeling her way in the cold.

On the wet field, morning became afternoon. The rain faded into mist, but the damp persisted. Heather kept running back and forth across the turf. Down the field and back, a short rest, then again. The ache in her leg became a constant throbbing, the new prosthetic pounding on her flesh with every step. Still she kept at it. It was possible that running would get easier in time—there was no way for her to know for sure. She kept going anyway, ignoring pain and doubt. It was the only way forward that she knew.

This book would not exist without critical contributions from so many, starting with our colleagues at the
Boston Globe
, whose tenacious reporting, elegant writing, and thoughtful editing during a very difficult week in April—and in the long days afterward—built a strong foundation for
Long Mile Home
. We are deeply grateful to work alongside them each and every day. Never have their breathtaking skill and dedication been more apparent than in 2013.

Our editor at the
Globe
, Mark S. Morrow, was a constant source of wisdom and counsel, as he has been to each book under his direction. His insights and judgment were essential, as was his steadying presence. Brian McGrory pushed this project from the beginning, rightly seeing the story as the
Globe
’s to tell. We are thankful for his support and leadership throughout. Christopher M. Mayer again proved his unwavering commitment to in-depth, long-form journalism and his expansive vision of what that can be. Other senior
Globe
editors were partners as well, including Christine S. Chinlund, Jennifer Peter, and Doug Most.

A number of journalists within the
Globe
family deserve special mention, starting with Sally Jacobs, Patricia Wen, and David Filipov, whose deep reporting and captivating writing on the lives of Tamerlan and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev played a key role in the book; their careful review of the manuscript was also indispensable. Eric Moskowitz’s story on Danny, the carjacking victim, was one of the unforgettable
Globe
pieces published after the bombing, and his assistance in getting that story right here was invaluable. Mike Bello and Liz Kowalczyk were especially generous with their time and guidance. We are grateful to David Abel for his firsthand account of the bombing, and to Bryan Marquard for sharing his own memories of the days that followed. Steve Silva’s brave video of the scene on Boylston Street was an important resource, as were the searing images of John Tlumacki and David L. Ryan.

Many
Globe
reporters conducted vital interviews with key sources, including Andrea Estes, Shelley Murphy, Thomas Farragher, Jonathan Saltzman, Jenn Abelson, Sean P. Murphy, and Kevin Cullen. Thanks to Scott Allen for his considerable editing and reporting talents. Stephen Smith and the rest of the Metro editing and reporting staff worked tirelessly to cover every angle of the story, as did the
Globe
’s graphics, photography, video, and online teams. Special thanks to Mark Arsenault, Matt Carroll, Michael Rezendes, Brian R. Ballou, Todd Wallack, Kay Lazar, Maria Cramer, Maria Sacchetti, Andrew Ryan, Andrew Caffrey, Bill Greene, Michael Levenson, Stephanie Ebbert, Akilah Johnson, Jenifer B. McKim, Wesley Lowery, Milton J. Valencia, Evan Allen, Derek J. Anderson, Alli Knothe, Vernice Liles, Dina Rudick, Chiqui Esteban, Ryan Huddle, Lane Turner, Bryan Bender, Noah Bierman, Matt Viser, Christopher Rowland, Michael Kranish, and Tracy Jan.

Janice Page was integral in developing a vision for
Long Mile Home
and helping us fulfill it. Ellen Clegg has continued to be a strong advocate for the book and the paper. Our thanks go as well to the
Globe
’s literary agents, Lane Zachary and Todd Shuster, who championed this project from the start and stood by us the rest of the way. At Dutton, our editor, Jill Schwartzman, was a trusted voice and dedicated partner. She deftly helped shape the book with a strong hand but a gentle touch. Thanks also to Ben Sevier, Brian Tart, Christine Ball, Amanda Walker, Stephanie Hitchcock, and Linda Cowen for sharing our vision and for all their work to make
Long Mile Home
a success. Thanks to Janet Robbins for her sharp editing. Our fact-checking team of Matt Mahoney and Stephanie Vallejo was crucial to our endeavor. Their careful scrutiny makes everything they touch better. Researcher and writer Walter Alarkon filled a big role in chronicling the national response to the bombing and the intelligence shortcomings that preceded it. Thanks also to Lisa Tuite, Jeremiah Manion, Maria Amasani, and Jim Wilson for their photo and research assistance, to Peter S. Canellos for his sharp editorial input, and to Jonathan Albano for his close review of the manuscript. Thanks to Mary Zanor, for her enthusiastic collaboration, and to Susanne Althoff, Anne Nelson, Francis Storrs, and Veronica Chao for their support.

We are forever indebted to the many, many people who took the time to help us understand and accurately capture the events of April 15, 2013, and all that came after. A few deserve special recognition, beginning with those whose stories form the core of the narrative: Heather Abbott, Shana Cottone, David King, Dave McGillivray, and Krystle Campbell’s parents, Billy and Patty. By letting us into their lives, they have given the world complex, personal, and otherwise unattainable perspectives on the marathon attack and its aftereffects. We always believed in telling this important story through the eyes of the people who lived it; they made that possible, and we are extremely grateful.

Our sincere thanks, also, to: Shane O’Hara, Allison Byrne, Alain Ferry, Brighid Wall, Pat Foley, Sean O’Brien, Danny, Michael Lawn, Timothy Getchell, Sean McLaughlin, Bryan Conway, Susan Kane, Edward Davis, Thomas Menino, Deval Patrick, Nick Cox, Mike Powell, Rich Correale, David and Beth Henneberry, Kevin Brown, Jim Davis, Carlos Arredondo, Jason Geremia, Anne King, Rekha Drew, Alma Bocaletti, Scott Grigelevich, Greg Comcowich, Ann Todd, Brian Fleming, Bob Leonard, Patrick Menton, Jimmy Caruso, Frederick Lorenz, Dennis Keeley, Daniel Conley, Daniel Linskey, William Evans, Timothy Alben, Edward Deveau, Raymond Dupuis, John DiFava, Jeff Campbell, Saro Thompson, Kenneth Tran, Brian Harer, Vicma Lamarche, Michelle Hall, and Amy Formica. Special thanks as well to Tom Grilk, Jack Fleming, and their team at the Boston Athletic Association.

Finally, we are indebted to our families for the unconditional support that has been essential to this project and all of our work. To Jessica, Jonas, and Eli, and to Kevin, Cadence, and Poesy: our boundless gratitude and all our love.