banks in small cities like Murphy, where clerks were not protected behind bulletproof glass. First thing on a payday, they staged a surprise attack, emptying the tills, then fleeing in a stolen vehicle that would later be found abandoned.
The Andersons robbed a bank only once every three to five weeks, never on an exact schedule, reclaiming the element of surprise whenever they struck anew. They had pulled off five successful robberies in the past six months in Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. The Murphy police were determined not to let them make it six.
The truck was a blue four-wheel drive Ford pickup. Anderson jumped into the driver's seat and careened around the courthouse square to head out of town toward the lake.
That was not the shortest way out of Kentucky, but it afforded a tangle of back roads. Brandy and Church dashed for the unmarked car, and pulled out behind a pair of black-and-whites. In the rearview mirror, Brandy saw a couple of tardy uniforms caught by Chief Benton, and sent into the bank. Everyone wanted to chase the robbers; no one wanted to interview witnesses.
They radioed the state police, but the Andersons knew as well as they did that the nearest post was thirty miles from Murphy in the opposite direction. The sheriff's patrol was already on the way.
The line of vehicles barreled out of Murphy, headed toward the Land Between the Lakes. If the Andersons wanted to escape south into Tennessee, there was only one bridge. The state or county could get a patrol car there before the Andersons arrived.
Realizing that, the fugitives would probably swing north—if their intent was to get out of the state.
But there was nothing to keep them from losing themselves amid the dozens of roads between Murphy and the lake. The Andersons had hunted and fished this area all their lives. They knew the back roads so well that in every previous robbery they had eluded pursuit and disappeared.
“All cars!” the radio erupted. “We got a citizen's band report. Blue Ford pickup nearly hit a couple of kids while illegally passing a stopped school bus!"
“That's them!” Brandy exclaimed, and hit the gas.
Church flipped on the CB radio. Most of the police cars no longer had them, but the radios were cheap and their use free, so they were still more common than cellular phones.
The CB was full of voices this morning. “You damned idiot!” someone yelled. “Eastbound 94, you got a asshole in a blue pick'emup burnin’ rubber. Watch out—he'll try t'blow ya off the road!"
“Well, we know where he is,” said Brandy, hitting the siren to clear the morning traffic on the two-lane road.
The police dispatcher's voice closed off the CB chatter to announce, “The bank guard's dead. Anderson shot him first thing through the door. Get those bastards!"
A new voice on the CB shouted angrily, “Hey—mo-ron! You got yer ears on? Think you own the damn road?"
“Oh, God,” said Brandy. “One of these cowboys gets mad enough, they might try to stop him. The Andersons have already killed four people."
Church untangled the CB mike from the police equipment. “Breaker one-nine. Breaker one-nine. This is the police. Report whereabouts of blue 1987 Ford pickup driving recklessly east on 94. Suspects are armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend! Report location. Repeat, do not attempt to stop the truck!"
When Church let go of the switch, the reports walked all over one another as good citizens tried to help. “Turned off on 1713,” came through the garble.
Then, a different voice, “They just passed us, driving like—” A cracking noise, followed by “Oh, my God! They're shooting at us!"
“Stop your car! Let them go!” Church ordered into the mike as Brandy swung their car onto 1713. Then, when there was no immediate reply, “Are you hurt?"
“No,” the voice replied, shaken. “They kept going."
“They must have their CB on,” said Brandy, speeding up on the nearly deserted road. They were
The Andersons robbed a bank only once every three to five weeks, never on an exact schedule, reclaiming the element of surprise whenever they struck anew. They had pulled off five successful robberies in the past six months in Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. The Murphy police were determined not to let them make it six.
The truck was a blue four-wheel drive Ford pickup. Anderson jumped into the driver's seat and careened around the courthouse square to head out of town toward the lake.
That was not the shortest way out of Kentucky, but it afforded a tangle of back roads. Brandy and Church dashed for the unmarked car, and pulled out behind a pair of black-and-whites. In the rearview mirror, Brandy saw a couple of tardy uniforms caught by Chief Benton, and sent into the bank. Everyone wanted to chase the robbers; no one wanted to interview witnesses.
They radioed the state police, but the Andersons knew as well as they did that the nearest post was thirty miles from Murphy in the opposite direction. The sheriff's patrol was already on the way.
The line of vehicles barreled out of Murphy, headed toward the Land Between the Lakes. If the Andersons wanted to escape south into Tennessee, there was only one bridge. The state or county could get a patrol car there before the Andersons arrived.
Realizing that, the fugitives would probably swing north—if their intent was to get out of the state.
But there was nothing to keep them from losing themselves amid the dozens of roads between Murphy and the lake. The Andersons had hunted and fished this area all their lives. They knew the back roads so well that in every previous robbery they had eluded pursuit and disappeared.
“All cars!” the radio erupted. “We got a citizen's band report. Blue Ford pickup nearly hit a couple of kids while illegally passing a stopped school bus!"
“That's them!” Brandy exclaimed, and hit the gas.
Church flipped on the CB radio. Most of the police cars no longer had them, but the radios were cheap and their use free, so they were still more common than cellular phones.
The CB was full of voices this morning. “You damned idiot!” someone yelled. “Eastbound 94, you got a asshole in a blue pick'emup burnin’ rubber. Watch out—he'll try t'blow ya off the road!"
“Well, we know where he is,” said Brandy, hitting the siren to clear the morning traffic on the two-lane road.
The police dispatcher's voice closed off the CB chatter to announce, “The bank guard's dead. Anderson shot him first thing through the door. Get those bastards!"
A new voice on the CB shouted angrily, “Hey—mo-ron! You got yer ears on? Think you own the damn road?"
“Oh, God,” said Brandy. “One of these cowboys gets mad enough, they might try to stop him. The Andersons have already killed four people."
Church untangled the CB mike from the police equipment. “Breaker one-nine. Breaker one-nine. This is the police. Report whereabouts of blue 1987 Ford pickup driving recklessly east on 94. Suspects are armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend! Report location. Repeat, do not attempt to stop the truck!"
When Church let go of the switch, the reports walked all over one another as good citizens tried to help. “Turned off on 1713,” came through the garble.
Then, a different voice, “They just passed us, driving like—” A cracking noise, followed by “Oh, my God! They're shooting at us!"
“Stop your car! Let them go!” Church ordered into the mike as Brandy swung their car onto 1713. Then, when there was no immediate reply, “Are you hurt?"
“No,” the voice replied, shaken. “They kept going."
“They must have their CB on,” said Brandy, speeding up on the nearly deserted road. They were
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