EP. 250 - FLORIDA: THE PULSE MASSACRE, PART THREE: THE ENDLESS DAY.

Warning the following podcast is not suitable for all audiences. We go into great detail with every case that we cover and do our best to bring viewers even deeper into the stories by utilizing disturbing audio and sound effects. Trigger warnings from the stories we cover may include violence, rape, murder and offenses against children. This podcast is not for everyone. You have been warned. It was June 12, 2016, just after 5 in the morning. Orlando, Florida was still dark. As officers slowly made their way into the ruins of the Pulse Night Club, a sound filled the air. Not the sound of music or laughter, like the club had been filled with just six hours before. Now, it was the sound of crunching glass and blood beneath their feet. And over it, the ring of dozens and dozens of cell phones. As the world woke up to hear the news of the Pulse Night Club shooting, people all over began calling their loved ones in Orlando to make sure they were okay. For hours, as officers worked the scene, they could hear the victim's phone ringing over and over again. Calls for moms and dads, siblings, partners, all desperately trying to reach their loved ones to see if they were okay. But no one answered. No one ever would. Because all across the floor, bodies laid, waiting to be identified. The amount of carnage inside this building was hard to believe. All the people on the floor, they had dreams for their lives. Some were nurses, law students, parents, teenagers, but their whole lives ahead of them, all people with their own stories and aspirations, all wiped out in a single night. Off to the side, there was another body. He too was riddled with bullets, but investigators felt much differently about him. He was the monster who hours earlier had walked inside the club to kill as many people as he could. And that, he did. He had taken the lives of 49 people and injured over 50 more. In part one, we talked about his background. In part two, we discussed the details of the massacre he committed. But in part three, we will be talking about the people on the other end of those phone calls, bringing on the floor of Pulse, what they went through, who they lost, and what the immediate aftermath of the tragic shooting was. So with that, I'm Courtney Browen. And I'm Colin Browen. And you're listening to Murder in America. [Music] It was a scene unlike any other. Soon after 5am, people frantically ran through the parking lot of Pulse, carrying the wounded and bleeding in their arms. At that point, due to the sheer number of victims, Orlando had run out of ambulances for transporting the wounded. As EMTs with ambulances tried to rush the critically injured to get care, many panic survivors hit the windows of the overflowing ambulances, begging to be taken too. Dozens more victims were piled into police cruisers, fire trucks, and even local citizens' vehicles to make the one mile trek to the nearest hospital, Orlando Regional Medical Center. Cars flooded the streets, driving as fast as they could beyond the perimeter of the crime scene, praying that the people in their back seats wouldn't bleed out before they reached the hospital. By 5.27am, 90 survivors had been removed from Pulse. Everyone else who remained inside was dead. The scene inside of Pulse was like a war zone. The power had been cut. And as crime scene investigators, officers and EMTs entered the club, they faced darkness and sweltering heat. There was no AC. The smell of blood and the vastness of the bodies in front of them was overwhelming, strengthening by the second. One EMT was so overwhelmed by the smell that he tried to breathe through his mouth, instead only to gag at the taste of blood, booze, and gunpowder. After where they looked, there were bullets. The pitch black walls of the club were pin-picked with white puncture marks, each where a bullet had landed. Crime scene investigators would later determine that, in total, over 400 rounds were shot inside of the club. Those who survived suffered over 60 shots collectively. The 49 victims who were killed had been struck by over 200 total. One victim had 13 gunshot wounds, another had 10, and over 1/3 of the victims had gunshot wounds to their heads. At 4am, chief medical examiner Joshua Stephanie had received his first call regarding Pulse. At first, he was told there were about 11, maybe 12 bodies, but as the minutes ticked closer to 5.30am, the numbers climbed. 20 minutes later, a new text. 20 bodies. 30. 40. Usually, medical examiners arrive on scene to assess after police have done their investigation. But that wasn't the case here. News of the shooting was starting to spread. People were calling police, the news, anyone they could reach. Desperate for answers about their loved ones, Dr. Stephanie told CNN, "For every victim, there are 5 to 6 family members who will start calling immediately. They start calling anyone they can, and we want to set up one number and get all the information we can to give it to them." Dr. Stephanie didn't want these people to wait, so he arrived at the club and immediately he began going person by person, documenting where they were, what their wounds were, and if he could figure it out on site, who they might be. Some were easy to identify. Others based on the severity of their wounds weren't so easy. But all around Orlando and the world, family members and friends were waking up to the most horrific news of their lives, and they didn't know if the people their world revolved around, were dead, or alive. Hundreds of loved ones flooded the crime scene looking for answers. They were quickly directed to the nearby Hampton Inn, just a few blocks away. There, they gathered, waiting in agony. Noelle Santiago was one of these people. She waited for news about her nephew, 38-year-old Luis Wilson, who had gone to pulse with a group of friends. She told time, "There's a lot of mothers, aunts, sisters, everybody is waiting. The room is so crowded, and it's hot, and we have no news." Sadly, Luis was still in the building. He had been shot alongside his boyfriend, Jean Carlos Mendes Perez. Luis grew up in Puerto Rico. Throughout his life, he was often bullied for being gay. People called him homophobic slurs. But throughout everything, he knew who he was, and he was proud. He was so loving and accepting that people always knew they could be themselves around him. His friend would later say, "He was the first person on this earth I came out to, and he always protected and loved his friends. His strength and character was always an inspiration to all of us." But tragically, Luis's family would never hear from him again. Another person, desperate for answers that morning, was Christine Linoen. Christine woke up at 3am, and she wasn't sure why. She hadn't gotten a text or a call, but as she laid there in bed, she picked up her phone and began to scroll on Facebook. And as soon as she opened the app, her heart sank. The first post she saw was from a friend of her son. It warned people that there had been a shooting at Pulse, and expressed that he hoped the friends he got separated from were okay. Christine immediately shot up in bed. Her son, Christopher Drew Linoen, loved going to Pulse. Born on June 1, 1984 in Detroit, Michigan, Drew had been on the move from a young age. One of his favorite pastimes as a kid had been going to local malls to play dance dancer evolution while his mom looked on, and she loved to do it. Drew was her only son, raised by her in a single parent household. The two did everything together, and even referred to themselves as the Chris Linoen team. When Drew was young, he and Christine moved to Orlando, Florida, where she went to law school and became an attorney after working for a decade as an officer for the Michigan State Police. Despite balancing school, a career, and being a single mom, their little family of two flourished. Drew was intelligent, and after graduating from seminal high school, he enrolled at UCF and earned a degree in psychology in 2007. By 2009, he had also earned a master's degree and started working as a clinical psychologist. He loved him. vintage movies and was described as handsome, personable, and brilliant. All these flashes of his life and their life together spun through his mother's mind as she messaged Drew's friend who had made the post on Facebook asking if Drew had been with him. When the friend responded, the world fell out from under Christine. Drew had been there that night with his boyfriend Juan. His friend got separated from them and managed to escape. Later, he saw Juan getting dragged out of the club covered in bullet wounds. He didn't see Drew. Christine rushed out of bed and threw some clothes on. Her whole body rattled with adrenaline as she tried to wrap her head around the unknown. Did her son make it out? Was he in the hospital? Was he inside the club waiting for her to come rescue him? Was he outside the club wounded and wandering? And all of the questions, there was one certainty that Christine had. Drew wouldn't have left behind Juan. They must have been together. The love that the two had for each other was unlike anything she had ever seen. Their bond was unbreakable. And despite having only been together for a year, it seemed like they had known each other their whole lives. Initially, when Drew came out to his family, his father, who he saw about once a year, wasn't thrilled. But after seeing Juan and Drew together, the sanctity of their love was undeniable. 22-year-old Juan was a pre-finance major at UCF. He worked as a telemarketer and wanted to become a financial advisor. Things were going well for him. He had recently come out to his family, and they embraced him with love and acceptance. Now Juan was quiet. He rarely went out to clubs, opting to stay home and take care of his niece and nephew instead. But that night, he decided to join his boyfriend Drew and their other friends at Pulse. His former math teacher at Freedom High School would later say, quote, "Each time I think of him, I still see his beautiful smiling face in my mind. He was always so very happy, sweet, friendly, funny, respectful, courteous, caring, honest, and studious. I was truly blessed to know him, and the world is a better place because of him." The world was a better place with Drew and Juan in it. But there, in her bedroom, Christine had to grapple with the fact that she might not have just lost her son, but her future son-in-law. She got in her car and immediately raced to a 7/11 near Pulse, where she was going to meet up with Drew's friend and try to get an understanding of the situation. When she arrived, it was still dark out, aside from the rapid flashing of lights of emergency personnel. She asked a nearby officer if anyone was hurt during the shooting. He responded matter-of-factly, "Oh yeah, they're all over the floor." For Christine, it was like the twist of a knife. Was her son one of those people on the floor? Desperate Fransers, she tried to talk to anyone and everyone nearby to see if they had seen her son. Around that time, a news crew arrived on the scene, and Christine spoke with them, begging Fransers regarding Drew's whereabouts. Christine then went to the nearby hospital to wait for news. Families were given a hotline number to call to receive the latest updates, and at first, they were told news would be released at 4.30, then 5, then 5.30, then 6. The past of time dozens continued to call and text their loved ones. By this point, many of the victims' phones started going to voicemail because the influx of calls had drained their batteries. The longer they waited, the further back the time was pushed, and the more people gathered in the hospital with Christine, also looking for their loved ones. They spoke to one another, exchanging information, trying with everything they had to get to the bottom of where their children, partners, and friends were. As sunlight crept over Orlando, the endless day for these families had just begun. Soon after sunrise, Christine spoke with a reporter. Christine is joining us from Orlando right now, and Christine, I understand your son was in the club last night. Yes, he was. Have you heard anything? I haven't heard anything. I've been here since 4 o'clock in the morning. I've been waiting, I've waiting by the emergency room, see if anybody gets called in. What is your son's full name? My son is Christopher Line and in. Christopher Line and in. And what have the police been able to tell you? Well they said there's a lot of dead bodies in the club, and that's a crime scene. They can't identify anybody, so it could be hours and hours before we find out. The hospital said that there are some bodies at the hospital that came in and they died, and they're not identifiable yet either. And then there are a few that are in critical condition, that are not identified yet. But Drew was not in critical condition. He had died in the floor of Pulse, likely seconds after the shooter entered the building. But from the time Christine learned the shooting had taken place, to the time she learned her son was dead, 33 hours had passed. 33 hours of agony, of not sleeping, of not eating, of not knowing. When she finally learned the news, her whole world caved in around her. And then when she learned the true nature of his death, it was like losing him for a second time. When Drew's autopsy was released months after the shooting, she discovered that he had been shot from behind four times. One, as he laid on the floor, unable to walk, but likely not dead. He was shot another five times. She was given the clothes he died in, which she still has to this day. And though she lost her son, his spirit lives on, and it's tied to one spirit for all of eternity. Rather than have separate funerals, the families of one and Drew decided to hold a joint ceremony for them. Drew's ones refused to see it as a funeral, but rather a celebration of their lives and the wedding they never got to have. On the morning of June 12th, Christine wasn't alone in her grief. The hospitals and businesses around Pulse became a hub for desperate loved ones looking for answers. As we mentioned, many people gathered at the Hampton Inn, and there were so many people there that volunteers came by to pass out food and water. Pastors and grief counselors spoke with people in the crowd who were beside themselves with worry. Some of those people found out about the shooting on Facebook, or after receiving texts from people inside the club, and some awakened to a call that their life had changed, forever. Around 9 a.m. on June 12th, Ryan O'Vare was startled awake by a call from a family member. Ryan worked nights, so he was half asleep when he pressed the phone to his ear, but what he heard on the other end woke him up immediately. She was crying, so I thought something happened to one of her parents, or one of my parents, and she was like, "Have you been on Facebook?" And I was like, "No, I'm asleep." There was a shooting at Pulse in Orlando, and your sister was at the club last night, and she hasn't come home. Ryan was horrified. He dug for more information and quickly learned that a sister, 25-year-old Amanda Alveir, had been at Pulse with her best friend. 26-year-old Mercedes-Marisol Flores. Amanda was described as someone who deeply loved her friends and family. She was always willing to go out of her way to help those she cared about. She wanted everyone to feel special, and to make that happen, she often planned holidays and birthdays, months, and advance, but Amanda's best friend was Mercedes. Amanda's brother, Brian, told News6 Quote, "They would always make each other laugh. Everyone would see them laughing." The girls would laugh so much and so loud that people started referring to them as the hyenas, and while some people might have taken that as an insult, Amanda and Mercedes saw it as a badge of honor, they didn't carry any shame for their joy. They felt blessed to experience it so freely and openly, and that's exactly why so many people loved them. Her energy was truly infectious, and that's what drew the two together in the first place. The pair met at Valencia College where they immediately headed off. Mercedes's father, Cesar Flores, said, "They grew up together. They were best friends." And by 2016, they had grown into incredible young women. Amanda graduated and earned a job as a pharmacy technician, but she dreamt of becoming a midwife in Dula. She planned to go to school in the fall to make that a reality. Mercedes had been right there alongside her, cheering her on the whole way. Born in Queens, New York, Mercedes studied literature at Valencia College. She enjoyed planning parties, and she absolutely loved music. Her niece, Jennifer, told the Orlando Sentinel, "Whenever I was in the car with her, she always had music blasting, and I guess she got the love of music from my father and uncle who are DJs. She was just a really fun, nice person who cared a lot about her friends." She really did live her life the way she wanted to," and quote. Brian knew one thing as soon as he heard the news about Mercedes and Amanda. If they had really been at Pulse, both of the girls would have posted it on social media. He quickly grabbed his phone and opened Snapchat. His sister had a story posted. He clicked it and instantly felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. Just eight hours ago, Amanda had posted countless videos of herself and Mercedes dancing at Pulse. Being drinks under the flashing lights, singing along to the music and being unconditionally themselves, then there came one final story she had posted. The video begins with Amanda dancing to the music. Then you hear the gunshots. She scrunches her face in confusion, trying to figure out where the sound is coming from. The video abruptly cuts off, but W is typed in the center of the screen. Like Amanda accidentally hit her keyboard, as she tried to put her phone away in a rush. Her brother describes his reaction to the video "best". Still, Ryan went to his aunt and uncle's house, along with his mother to await the news. All day they were bombarded with news of the number of victims climbing, but Ryan tried to stay positive telling NBC, "She was strong, independent, stubborn. I firmly believe that if anyone could get shot and be too stubborn to die, it was my sister." Unfortunately, Amanda and Mercedes both died inside of Pulse that night. It wasn't until late that afternoon that Ryan and his family received the news on the porch of his aunt and uncle's home. For the entire family, it was utterly devastating, but for Amanda's mother, the pain was unbearable. She had three children, Nelson, Amanda, and Ryan. And after the Pulse shooting, she was down to one. She just wanted to help people, and a lot of that stems from her experience growing up being in hospitals because my brother, the middle child, on the oldest, Nelson, he died of cancer when he was 11. So this is the second child my parents have lost. For the family, the grief was only compounded by the hate and racism that began to brew online regarding the shooter. In an interview just hours after finding out Amanda died, he had a pointed message for the community regarding the shooter. "I know that there's a lot of hate building regarding the shooter and his family, which I feel like is unwarranted, and my mother was very specific about me talking about this. They lost a son, just like she lost a daughter, just like I lost a sister. It's not their fault and for people on the internet and in the media, you know, blaming them or, you know, they're getting threats and things of that nature. It's completely and utterly ridiculous. I know my sister and I know my parents and I know me and we don't want a better message of hate. We shouldn't be unifying hate. We should be unifying in love for the victims, the survivors, the community." Amanda was buried at the Garden of Memory Cemetery in Tampa, Florida, where Mercedes was buried has never been publicly released. But Amanda's family holds a toy drive called Amanda's Angels every year in her honor on her birthday, December 12th. Amanda's mother still has a can of hairspray that belonged to her, a can that she used leading up to the shooting. It's almost empty, but she keeps it in a box with her daughter's childhood journal. When asked why she kept it, she responded, "I don't know why, but it belonged to her." And that's reason enough. The law still affects Amanda and Mercedes' family's daily, but both of them find comfort in the fact that, at the very least, they died with their best friend at their side. It was reported that both were killed, while hiding in the stall inside one of the bathrooms. But sadly, other victims didn't have someone to lean on in their final moments. When Emily Addison woke up on June 12th and turned her phone off of "Do Not Disturb," she was met with a barrage of messages. Many were from her partner, 32-year-old Deonca D.D. With each message Emily read, she felt more panicked. The texts have never been released in full, but Emily told the Orlando Sentinel she said she was scared people were shot. For Emily, seeing the texts was devastating. She and Deonca had been in a relationship for seven years. And though, at the time of the shooting, they weren't technically girlfriends, they still supported one another, and Deonca was considered the stepmother of Emily's teenage daughters and the mother of her two-year-old son, D.R.E. Throughout raising their toddler, they had made an agreement together. As soon as he went to bed, they'd both put their phones on Do Not Disturb. That night, Emily had missed the texts and calls. She had slept through Deonca's final moments, and it's something she had trouble forgiving herself for. She told the Orlando Sentinel, "It felt like I wasn't there for her when she needed me most." Immediately after seeing the texts, Emily called Deonca over and over desperate for answers, but it went straight to voicemail each time. For hours, all Emily could do was call hospitals, friends, and the pulse hotline begging for answers. She told the Orlando Sentinel, "I prayed so hard my knuckles were white." By late afternoon on June 12, families and loved ones who were missing someone who had been at pulse were invited to a senior center, a few blocks from the club, where they could wait for answers. Emily waited there, along with Deonca's parents and sister, who had made the long drive down from South Carolina to Orlando when they heard the news of their worst nightmare. Sadly, that nightmare came true. At 10 pm, the names of some of the victims were released. Deonca's name was among them. She was shot while she hid in the bathroom stall, along with several others. Following the loss, Deonca's parents found comfort in their daughter's Bible. Inside, she had scribbled notes about her faith and questions about life and its meaning. For Emily, the loss of Deonca wasn't just the loss of a partner, it was the loss of a mother for her child. Deari was just three years old and couldn't wrap his mind around the sudden disappearance of one of the women he called mom. "He doesn't understand why she hasn't come back. He has no idea why." Emily told StoryCore, "My son, he's three now, and every night when we're going to bed, we walk up the stairs. He'll turn to her picture and say, "Nightnight, mommy." "I don't know how to get into understand that she's never coming back, and I miss her so much. That feeling is constant, like I need her to call me, I need to see her." So many people were left reeling with the loss of Deonca. She had an infectious spirit and many nicknames, little bit, lock, deity, and Deon. She was particular about her style and loved to wear her hair in long dreadlocks. She also loved fashion, particularly Michael Cores and Air Jordan's. She loved music, poetry, and basketball, and was also deeply spiritual and prided herself on her genuine relationship with God. In her own poetry, Shafton reflected on her faith, saying, "Many are called, but few are chosen." Deonca and Emily had moved to Orlando from South Carolina in 2012. Emily said that Deonca didn't like the heat, but had never stopped her from going outside to play with her son. For those who knew her, Deonca loved hard and was extremely devoted. And for no reason at all, she was taken from the people who not only loved her, but needed her. As we mentioned, many people waited for news about their loved one at the senior center near Pulse, where they were told to gather. Throughout the day, some were given snippets of information, while others waited an agony. Around 6 p.m., news crews captured heartbreaking live footage outside the center. As they watched some families exit the building, where they had just received the worst news of their lives. "Tom, I can only imagine just how agonizing this weight has been for them." "I can't imagine in the last half hour, so it would appear that more information is trickling out to some of these families. I'm going to step out of the way. We're going to let the photographer, Kim Olivier, zoom in, and over in this area along this curb, you can see little groups of people. And periodically over the last half hour, you can tell the people who have gotten bad news because they have been surrounded by friends, family, and in some cases, strangers who are trying to console them from the overwhelming grief that they've been feeling. We've been here for three or four hours now, when we first got here earlier today, we talked to a man named Baron Serrano. Baron has a brother, who's 37 years old, his name is Juan. Juan was at the nightclub last night, but Baron has not heard from him since. Here's what he had to tell us about what he's been going through today, looking for his brother. "I'm desperate. I'm completely desperate. We've been here since eight o'clock in the morning trying to find out where he had. If he's here, if he's alive or wounded or what. Honestly, it makes no sense to me, but right now I'm not even thinking about that, you know. So, talk to a man named Demetris Nalling. Now Demetris has, he was in the club last night, pardon me. With several friends, he says when the shooting started, it was a very chaotic scene, said the music was still going, and at first people weren't quite sure what was going on, but they figured it out very quickly, he said. And they all began to run. At some point, he lost track of his son, Bryson. And that's why he came here today looking for his friend, Bryson. And here's what he said to us. Love your loved ones. They're not always promised to be here another day with you. I was holding my best friend's hand and he told me, don't let it go. And I said, we don't get out of here. These families are going through something that you would never imagine. And to be there and to be luckily to get out and to have blood on you and see people die and see somebody come in and just visually just murder people like they're not even a animal. And coming out here live, you can see as we pan, there is another person who is being consoled by friends and family after apparently getting the news as I've been saying out here all day, the news that no one ever wants to get. We'll continue giving you updates out here, but for now, we'll send it back to you guys. While many families remained at that center for hours, others rushed to nearby hospitals in the emergency rooms. The crowds grew to the hundreds. Little by little, these people learned the fate of their loved ones. For the people who learned that their loved one died, their screams could be heard echoing throughout. Other people embraced each other, relieved to know that their loved one was alive. One man shouted at the sky, "Porkay, pleading with God, wanting to know why this happened." As the crowd grew larger, law enforcement moved the group to a hospital conference room. Standing before the crowd of people, they asked them to pull up pictures of their missing loved one. The pictures were emailed to hospital administrator Amy D Young, who had to print them out to help identify victims and survivors. Amy also had the difficult task of informing police officers of the deceased. She later said, "It felt like any second that I stopped, and I don't print these and take them to the cops, is another minute that this person is in total anguish. I could hear the screaming, the blood curdling screams. Every time they would pull someone into another room next to my office, and tell them they were dead, you just never forget that sound. It's horrible." For some, hours passed with no updates, and the concerned family members and friends were ordered to leave and call a hotline for additional updates. At 11 a.m., one of the hospital employees, Dr. Joseph Ibrahim, was sent out to the crowd to give them an update. There were easily 100 people in front of him, desperate for answers. Slowly, he went name by name on who they were caring for. With each name, people began to sob, or scream, or gasp with relief. When the list was finished, Dr. Ibrahim told the waiting families this, "If you have a loved one in critical condition, go to this corner. If they're stable, go to this corner." Everyone dead as they were told, but in the middle of the room, dozens of people remained, with no answers. Dr. Ibrahim told Central Florida Public Media, "And I think that's when it hit everyone. How many people we were dealing with that were going to be getting really, really bad news? We let them know that we still had several to identify. In the back of my mind, I knew we only had four, but we still had probably 100 people in the room. You could see them kind of start processing the reality of it. Okay, it's been six or seven hours. They've read the list of people who they know they have, and I haven't heard from my person. I can remember them staring back at us, like, what about mine?" Dr. Ibrahim was faced with the pleading eyes of terrified family members, but he had to turn around and he had to go back through the double doors at the end of the hall because he was needed there. For hours, the OR had been overwhelmed. Out of the 300 or so people that had been in pulse at the time of the shooting, one third of them were shot. Many others had injuries from the stampede of people trying to get away. On 2am on, the hospital was a revolving door of madness and anguish. Dr. Catherine Bondani told the Orlando Sentinel they were dropped off in truckloads and ambulance loads. Without prior warning, dozens of bleeding people lined up in the emergency room, and staff had to scramble to figure out how to tend to the overwhelming amount of victims. It was all hands on deck. Staff members, nurses and technicians arrived without even being told to come. The only trauma surgeon on call that night, Dr. Chadwick Smith, desperately called other doctors telling them to come as fast as possible. The trauma center at Orlando Regional Medical Center was only equipped to handle five patients a shift. With only two operating rooms, doctors had to think fast and were able to expand to six. The most severely injured were treated first and doctors performed emergency surgery after emergency surgery to save as many lives as they could. Like Gary said, we got essentially a call saying that we had some gunshot wounds coming in. We didn't know exactly how many we were going to get. Dr. Stone and I, the senior resident, went to the trauma bay to get ready for the patients to start coming in. And our first patient was relatively stable a way it can talk to us. And we thought maybe they're all going to be like this and that would be great. And then we quickly got two or three more that were very critical in nature. Several of our other senior residents came into the trauma bay as well as Dr. Parish to start helping us triage the patients. The trauma team, Dr. Smith and his awesome residents came in and started helping us kind of figure out who was sick, who was the sickest and what we needed to do. We quickly got about five patients and that was a lot for us and we thought maybe that was going to be it. And then they started lining up in the hallway. They weren't being brought in by ambulances. There was no paramedics coming in and giving us report and dropping them off. They were being dropped off in truckloads and in ambulance loads where our amazing nurses and techs were putting them on stretchers and rolling them into us and telling us that another patient's here, another patient's here, another patient's here and quickly our trauma bay became full to capacity and we had to move people out. So Dr. Smith and Dr. Parish and I started using the residents and quickly figuring out who was the sickest and who could move out of the trauma bay to make room for somebody else so that we could triage and treat everybody and in a matter of 30 minutes, I think we had multiple surgeons coming in the door to help us out. I saw dozens of nurses who I knew were not on that night who showed up. I saw techs coming from everywhere. We had X-ray in there. We had blood in there. We had everybody in there trying to figure out who was sick and who wasn't and we just started one by one moving through and trying to figure out who needed to go where and just going one by one and figuring them out and I think that Dr. Smith was really the kind of team leader who helped us kind of triage and move from patient to patient. Dr. William Haverin said the entire ordeal was surreal and another Dr. Joseph Ibrahim compared it to a war scene. In every corner of the emergency room, people were bleeding from wounds from both large and small ammunition since the shooter had used an assault rifle and a pistol. Some people had large cuts and scrapes from being dragged across broken glass, and others had shattered and broken bones from being trampled at the club. Doctors and nurses worked as hard as they could, but there was one problem that they couldn't fix right then and there. They needed blood. All the available blood in the area had to be rushed over to replace the enormous amount of blood loss the victims had suffered. They were bleeding to death and so our first priority is to stop the bleeding so that they're not losing blood anymore and then we have to replace the blood that they have lost. I just remember hearing where he went on sleep throughout the night is hearing my fellow nurses and every say, we need blood, get me some blood, get me some blood, get me some blood because then you might go to the core, get more blood. That's all we had to do to help these people because that's what they needed so very desperately. In the documentary Pulse Nightclub Survivors, other lives were saved. It was reported that among the five Pulse survivors who needed blood transfusions, it took more than 60 different blood donors to provide enough blood to keep them alive. One survivor in particular needed a mass transfusion that required 42 blood donors to save his life. The blood had to be rushed over in bag filled buckets. But thankfully, as soon as day broke, people from all around Orlando rushed to nearby centers to donate. That was one hurdle covered. Blood was flowing. Unfortunately, another hurdle awaited nurses immediately. Supplies were not flowing. Pressure bags are used to accelerate transfusions. They're the bags you see connected to IV stands, but the hospital only had so many of these bags. Not enough to pair with the gallons and gallons of blood they needed patients to receive. Nurses were forced to give victims blood by other means, squeezing it into victims with their hands as fast as they were able to. Libby Brown, who was working in the ER that night, told Central Florida Public Media, quote, "We're just out of resources." Just seeing nurses standing at the top of the bed, squeezing blood products into people, we have level one pressure machines that will push blood in faster. We have pressure bags that will help push blood in faster, but obviously those were all being used up. So you just see nurses at the head of beds squeezing blood into people." It was a horrible scene, growing worse and worse by the minute, but for Libby, one moment in particular stuck out. That morning, out of the 36 victims that were transported to the hospital in the first 39 minutes of the shooting, nine of them died. Their bodies had to be put on a gurney and pushed into a decontamination bay outside the trauma operating room. At one point, they had even ran out of sheets to cover the bodies. Libby said, "We didn't even have a sheet to cover a patient that was deceased, going to be lined up with the other bodies." So that was one of the times when I was like, "This is very, very bad." "Anyways, y'all, let's get back to the show." Many victims were saved due to the relentless work and dedication of the nurses and doctors that day. Many were also saved by one blood, a blood donation center that worked tirelessly with the hospital. But one blood had a connection to the pulse shooting in more than one way. As one of their employees, Ridolfo Ayala died in the shooting. Ridolfo, or Rodi, as everyone knew him, worked at the center as a biologics assistant. He was not only passionate about saving lives through his work, but he was extremely knowledgeable and was often called upon to provide insight. He loved to dance, and one of his favorite nights at Pulse was Latin night, where he could let loose listening to his favorite singer, Ricky Martin. In network, Ridolfo would break out into dance and encourage his co-workers to join him. Originally from Puerto Rico, he eventually moved to Orlando where he built a really beautiful life for himself. A member of his team, Adam Cologne, told people, "Rody would not hurt a fly. He was gentle and sweet and charismatic. He could rock a bow tie. He was famous for the bow tie. He wore very vibrant colors, suspenders, a full hawk one day and the following day blonde hair. He could spot him a mile away. Like many others that night at Pulse, Ridolfo was not ashamed of his sexuality. He embraced it, and the community embraced him back. That night, Ridolfo had gone to Pulse with a big group of his friends. By the end of the shooting, four of them had died." Behind the scenes, Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Joshua Stephanie was tasked with identifying and performing autopsies on the bodies that came to him in the morgue. He spent hours washing blood from the faces of the victims to try and identify them from the driver's licenses he found in their pockets or the photos of the missing that the families had provided. He took fingerprints, x-rays, he looked at tattoos and piercings, but there was one body in the morgue that was unlike the others. Dr. Stephanie told CNN, "The shooter was transported by himself. I autopsied him personally away from the victims. He fell to his best ethically, morally, for the families to separate the bodies, so they won't have a picture in their minds of the shooter next to their loved one. It just didn't seem like the right thing to do." But by the end of Sunday, June 12, the majority of the bodies had been identified. However, a Sunday turned to Monday, one body remained in the morgue unidentified. The body was labeled as a jaundole for several hours, until finally, crime scene investigators discovered a wallet, and the mess of debris and blood at the scene. Dr. Stephanie requested that the wallet be brought to him, and when he looked at the ID inside, he was looking at his jaundole. 25-year-old Haraldoh Ortiz, and it made sense that it was such a struggle to identify him at first, Haraldoh, who went by Drake, actually lived in Puerto Rico, and was visiting Orlando on vacation. Originally from the Dominican Republic, he grew up in Pennsylvania, before he decided to study law at the University of Dada del Este in Carolina, Puerto Rico. The trip to Orlando was a chance to see his idol, Selena Gomez, perform. On June 11, he posted a picture of himself with her wax statue at Madame Tussos, and posted it on his Facebook page. The caption read, "With the love of my life in Spanish, he had been excited for the concert for months, uploading videos of himself singing along to her music, and dubbing himself a salineater." One of his favorite songs was "Kill 'em with Kindness," something his friends and family members said he took to heart. His niece Tiffany Ortiz said, "He always made everyone laugh and was very kind to everyone." Haraldoh was also invested in his physical fitness, dedicating time to working out and taking pride and maintaining a healthy lifestyle. Even though he was on vacation, he still made time to hit the gym, hours before he went dancing at pulse. That night, he continuously texted his niece photos and videos of the fun he was having at the nightclub. When news of the shooting broke, Tiffany immediately tried to find out where her uncle had been that night. The moment she saw the name pulse, her heart sank. When Draldo's body was identified, the medical examiner had the relief of knowing that finally everyone had their name back. That didn't mean everyone was going to go home with their loved ones to receive a proper burial. But tragically, one body sat in the morgue, unclaimed, although the name of the victim was never released. The advocate reported that the young man's father wasn't upset at the news that his son was dead, but rather angry about his sexual orientation that he simply refused to accept. The father even refused to pick up the body from the morgue. Why? Because his son was gay. When something as horrific as a mass shooting, grief often brings communities together. In N Orlando, the LGBTQ+ community, as well as the entire nation, mourned the lives of 49 victims. But for the father of one Puerto Rican man, his grief was overshadowed by rejection. Meanwhile, other mourning families in the morgue would have given anything to have their child back. Now eventually the body was claimed by some relatives in Orlando. But for the medical examiner, Dr. Stephanie, that would remain one of the many heartbreaking memories he couldn't bring himself to shake. A man, miles from his home, cold and dead on a table, unable to be loved and accepted by his father in life, or in death. Meanwhile, other families would have given anything, would have traded places with their child sibling or spouse just to give them a chance at living again. One of those people was victim Gerald Wright's mother Maria. When she came into the morgue late on the 12th, she had been in the trenches for hours. That morning, she awoke to news of the shooting. As she sat down to have her breakfast, live aerial coverage of the club played on the screen. And there, in the parking lot, she saw her son Jerry's car. She stated that it was at that moment that she knew. Burner has been left in their car to make the drive to Orlando, and the whole way they called hospital hotlines, praying that Jerry had survived and wasn't one of the victims. She told Kaplan News, "It was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life. I remember saying on the drive up, 'Whatever happens, I will not let hate enter my heart. I packed a sweater, thinking in my mind that he would need it since hospitals are usually cold.' When they arrived at one of the family reunification centers, they walked into a sea of people who looked how they felt. She described the crowd in front of her as "lifeless, just walking zombies." Later she and her husband waited at the hospital. They waited, and waited, and waited. When the hospital read another list of all the victims they were treating, Jerry's name didn't come up. Maria told Kaplan News, "We were told we'd have to wait, not to call, not to head over to the medical examiner, just to wait." During that time I just remember sitting there thinking his last name starts with W, so he'll be one of the last ones, and ironically praying that my child might be so badly injured he couldn't reach out to me. That's what I was praying for, because the alternative was worse, and the alternative was indeed so much worse, because losing Jerry would be a loss for so, so many. Gerald Arthur Wright was the type of person that everyone could count on. He wasn't outgoing, or the life of the party, as his mother stated, however, he was the person who went out of his way to make sure everyone was having a good time. He remembered birthdays, and was the first person to offer you a ride to the airport if you needed it. He studied hospitality at Florida International University, and worked at Universal Orlando, and Walt Disney World. Just two days before the shooting, Gerald had been promoted at Disney World, where he worked as a merchandiser for Magic Kingdom and tomorrow. Ireland, he was excited for the future. He was incredibly close to his parents, often calling them twice a day just to chat. Sometimes when he called his mother would answer the phone, Yankee Stadium Center Field may help you, and Gerald would ask, "What's the score?" Gerald always knew what it felt like to be different. Growing up in Miami, he had a speech impediment, severe dyslexia, and had to wear a full body brace to keep his spine straight, but he never let it interfere with what he wanted to do. And that night, June 11th into the 12th, he wanted to go to Pulse. His parents were one of the last to get the news. When Maria was escorted to a room to identify the body of her son, it was the worst moment of her life. She said, "At this point, I'm looking over my dead child, and I realized there was styrofoam over where his chest should be. And I am just screaming, feeling as if my insides were gone." 49 families were plagued by that same horrible pain, but there was another pain that many experienced in the weeks, months, and years following the shooting, survivors guilt. Because for many people who were recovering in the hospital, after making it out alive, the relief of surviving was tamped down by the realization that their loved one had passed away. Brett regas went to Pulse that night with his boyfriend of three years, Frank Hernandez Escalante, who went by Frankie. Frankie had moved to Orlando after growing up in South Texas. There, he charmed everyone he met. His little sister would later say that he was the one who taught her how to walk in high heels. She remembered fondly that when she tried to leave the house, looking to shoveled. Her brother, who was always stressed to the nines, would affectionately tell her, "Nah-ah, go put on some makeup." When Frankie moved to Orlando, it was a massive loss to her. But at the same time, she saw how happy he was, living in a place that was more accepting of his sexuality. His mother, Esmeralda, admitted to the Tampa Bay Times that while she loved her son regardless of his sexual orientation, she wished she could have done better. She said, "I'm not going to say I was the best, but I would have loved to be more open with him. I always accepted him, but I could have done more. I wish my son was here so I could tell him things I never got to say, like ask him to bring his significant other." In Orlando, Frankie was able to not just accept his sexuality, but be proud of it. He became a regular at Pulse, where he proudly wore shirts that read, "Gay OK." He flaunted his tattoo which read, "Love has no gender." For Frankie, Pulse meant freedom. It meant being loved for who he was, and never having to worry about judgment for who he loved. And there was no man he loved the way he loved Brett. At the club that night, the two sat at the bar and the regular spots. Brett was more reserved, but Frankie more than made up for it, dancing the night away alongside him, and chatting with their friends at the club. When the shots broke out, Brett was sitting at the edge of the bar. He reached for Frankie, but the crowd rushing for the door quickly separated them. Brett dove beneath the bar, where he remained until the shooter was barricaded in the bathroom. When police rescued him, he immediately began to search for Frankie. He searched at the police station, at the hospitals, at the survivor center, and even at their home. But Frankie was nowhere to be found. The reality that he was one of the injured was terrifying. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait alone. Frankie's family immediately made the drive from Louisiana to Florida to find out any information they could. But it wasn't until Monday that they learned the horrible news. It's very, very difficult right now. I didn't know what happened to him. I don't know. I didn't know anything until 130 today. I've been to every place I could go and to try to find information. It was basically an answering service. Nobody would give you anything, nothing. They told you to leave your phone number and your name and his pictures and they will contact you soon as something happened. I didn't hear anything until his family got here from Louisiana. For Brett, the guilt was overwhelming. That night, Frankie didn't want to go out. The two even got into a little tiff over it. Until finally, Frankie changed his mind. It's something we've all done with our partners. A tiny disagreement over different needs or desires. It wasn't Brett's fault. And yet, since the shooting, he's been riddled with guilt. I blame myself for a lot of it because we could have easily just stayed home. Frankie's funeral was held in Texas where he grew up. Hundreds of people attended. Some from Orlando, some from his life back in Texas, where he was once on a tumbling team and had made lifelong friends at his funeral. Many members of his family were shirts that carried his message. Love has no gender. Here is his stepfather sharing his wish for Frankie. Sadly, Frankie's boyfriend Brett wasn't alone in carrying the heavy burden that his survivor's guilt. The night of the shooting, Leo Melenda's went to the club with his close friend, 40-year-old Javier Javier Jorge Reyes. Javier was a makeup artist who also worked at Gucci at the mall in millennia. He was fun, outgoing, and the type of person who would always give an honest opinion. Javier loved performing in drag, and the year before the mass shooting in 2015, he addressed up his Alice from Alice in Wonderland that the Orlando will come out with pride celebration parade. The next night, he had entered a costume contest wearing the same outfit at Parliament House. He was a proud Puerto Rican and sometimes playfully called himself Harvey George Kings, an Americanized version of his name. His style and charisma made him a popular regular at Pulse. One of his friends, Jose Diaz, explained to the Orlando Sentinel why so many people gravitated towards him. He was proud to be Latino, super proud. He was always positive. He was very humble. He was a lovely friend. That night, Leo was having the time of his life with Harvey. Here he is, speaking with the Today Show about that night. So it was basically a really fun night. We were about to leave when his friends said I need to use restroom. So me and Harvey stayed by the bar waiting for him when Shooter came in, and he just started shooting like Rambo. I remember my friend Harvey saying, you know, this is shooting. This is shooting. Just throw yourself on the floor and be quiet. And I was like, what? And he's like, just throw yourself on the floor. And that's when I guess the first shot hit me on my leg. And I said, Oh, my leg, my leg. And it's like, be quiet. Just be quiet and just stay on the floor. And I was like, my leg, my leg. I remember saying that part. And after that, I guess that's when I must got shot in the head. And I don't recall anything else after that. When Leo arrived at the hospital, doctors weren't sure he was going to make it. His heart stopped more than once, and he lost three liters of blood. His leg was shattered. The shot to his head meant that likely he'd lose his hearing and have significant vision loss. For three weeks, he hovered in and out of consciousness until finally he stabilized, lying in his hospital bed. One of the first questions he asked was what happened to Harvey. His mom then got quiet. She shook her head and told him, he's gone. You have to be strong. For Leo, the physical damage she had received was something he was able to overcome. Despite doctors having a grim prognosis, Leo's vision wasn't affected by the shot to the head. And he still has partial hearing. And after years of physical therapy, he can comfortably walk, but the psychological pain still lingers. He often asks himself why he survived and Harvey did not. He was still unconscious when Harvey's funeral was held on June 16th, just four days after the shooting. In attendance was John Clark, a seven-year-old boy with autism who was the son of a family friend. Before the shooting, when Harvey learned John couldn't get his haircut in public settings, he offered to cut his hair at home where he'd be comfortable. He was one of few people that John felt comfortable with. For John and his mother, this meant everything. That's the kind of person Harvey was. He went out of his way to make others feel comfortable. At the funeral, John held a rainbow teddy bear in honor of the mentor who cut his hair, taught him Spanish, and urged him to remember that it's okay to be different. In the days following the shooting, many fell themselves grappling with life's big questions. Why the person they loved? What could they have done differently? Was it somehow their fault that this happened? Latissia Pedro suffered with so much guilt over the death of her nephew, 28-year-old Angel Louise Pedro. That she had to see a psychologist. She began having unrelenting nightmares. Angel had recently moved from Chicago to Orlando. After his aunt urged him to move down there to continue his education. Following his death, she found herself overwhelmed by thoughts that if she had never talked to men to moving there, Angel never would have died. She told the Orlando Sentinel quote, "I have been going to the psychologist and even been put under medication." "This is a living nightmare. I can't get over it. There are days that I can get up, smile, and keep going on. There are other days in which it is unbearable." And that pain was shared by Angel's partner, Oscar. The two had been at Pulse that night to celebrate their five-month anniversary. After just a few weeks of dating, Oscar knew that Angel was the one. They moved in together, and their relationship was moving towards marriage. Oscar told the Orlando Sentinel, "I used to iron his uniforms, cook dinner for him, and take care of all of his needs. I miss everything of him, especially his laugh. I just wish I could tell him I love you one more time." End quote. There was a lot to love about Angel. He was described as a good kid, who was humble. He worked hard his entire life serving in the National Guard. At the time of his death, he had just been hired as an off-thalmic technician at Florida Restina Institute to support himself as he went through nursing school. But he would never get that degree he wanted so dearly. He was buried in Puerto Rico where he was born. One of the last posts he ever made on social media read, quote, "I hate goodbyes. Life keeps going, chasing dreams, keeping good friends in my heart." One of the most tragic things about the pulse shooting is just how many good friends were killed that day. Just hours after the first round of names were released, one survivor noted that they were close friends with six of the victims. The gay community in Orlando was tight-knit, loving, and supportive. And many of the victims that night weren't just regular fixtures in the scene. They were performers in it. People that encouraged others to get out there, to be themselves, and to have a good time. There was one couple in particular who emanated that perfectly. 25-year-old Leroy Valentin Fernandez and 35-year-old Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado had just begun dating a few months before the shooting, but the two radiated love for each other. Leroy confessed to one of his relatives that he was the happiest he had ever been because of his relationship. And really, it seems like that's because Leroy could be fully himself with Xavier. The two performed as drag queens, something they adored. Leroy starred as Indara Valkyrie, wearing big wigs, tall boots, and tight flashy bodysuits. On the stage, she'd impersonate Beyonce, splits, and all. Every night, he'd walk away with $100 in tips and a whole horde of new friends. He and Xavier bonded over their love of performing. On stage, Xavier went by Eman Valentino and sported a big top hat, a cape, and sparkles. His natural dancing ability had landed him jobs at bars across Florida, on cruises as a performer, and at Disney World. But there was one role that was important to Xavier above everything else, something that Leroy encouraged, his love for his son. According to Xavier's mother, he had wanted more out of life and decided to have a baby with his best friend and raise their child as co-parents. His son Kevin was his world. His mother told the Orlando Sentinel he used to do everything for that kid. That was his life. Tragically, that night both Xavier and Leroy were killed. Some family struggled immensely to keep smiling, or even to keep functioning in the wake of such tragedy. Twenty-nine-year-old Darryl Burt's family in particular were faced with a horrible juxtaposition, as they stood at his viewing. Darryl had just graduated with a master's degree in human resources. His family had flown to Orlando to celebrate the incredible milestone. Instead, they found themselves planning his funeral. Darryl Roman Burt II, or DJ, as he preferred, had been a hard worker all his life. At the time of the shooting, he was serving as a financial aid advisor at Kaiser University in Jacksonville. He loved to learn, something he accredited to watching PBS as a child. And he did all he could do to pass that knowledge on to others. He was a member of the Jacksonville J.C.'s, a non-profit organization to help young professionals with community engagement. He was extremely proud of his community, and he wanted to do anything and everything he could to make it better. When he had the opportunity to co-chair a J.C.'s event, he held a clothing drive to help the homeless in the community. As a go-getter, Darryl always believed in giving his best in everything he did. He knew that nothing was handed to him. He started working at McDonald's, then he got a management position, and then ultimately became an advisor at a university. It was said that he always wanted the best for his friends and family as well. He shone a light on everyone he interacted with. And yet, at the prime of his life, when he was meant to be moving on to greater things, his life was snuffed out. Here is some coverage of his viewing, held in his hometown in Central Virginia. Darryl Burt's grandmother tells me he was in the nightclub that early morning celebrating his recent graduation. The 29 year old had just received his masters and had the world ahead of him. These pictures captured DJ Burt in happier times. Just seven weeks before he was gunned down at the Pulse Nightclub, he was walking across the stage, accepting his master's degree in human resources. His family was in Florida by his side to commemorate that special milestone. While Burt wasn't from Central Virginia, his parents are. grandmother Marion Jackson still lives in Amelia County. She's the associate pastor at the church where her grandson will be laid to rest. He was a great kid. I mean, he was a wonderful kid. I remember his school days. He would go to school and how everything he tried to do, he put his best into everything he did. According to Burt's LinkedIn page, he worked as a financial officer at Kaiser University in Florida. He also volunteered with the Jacksonville JCs in an effort to better the community. The group says it's quote deeply saddened by his death. The Burt family is receiving friends and family here at the Scott funeral home until seven o'clock tonight. Of the 49 victims in the Pulse shooting, 23 were Puerto Rican. Many others were born in Central and South America. In Mexico, the Dominican Republic, Venezuela, Guatemala, Cuba, and Colombia, just to name a few. These victims' families wanted them buried back home where they had been born, where their ancestors were resting, and where their families would be able to have a part of their child nearby. Jean Carlos Nievis Rodriguez was one of those people. Born in Puerto Rico, he moved to Orlando with his mother when he was 14 and quickly established a life for himself in Florida. But his hometown, Calguas, was always in his heart. When the family moved, Jean immediately got to work supporting his mom, landed a job at McDonald's, and eventually worked his way up to managing a cash-checking business. According to his friend Yvonne, if he had to put in long hours to get it right, he'd do it. If he had to stay to work a double shift, he did it. That's why whatever job he went to, he became a manager. Just two months before the shooting, he purchased a spacious ranch home for him and his mother, so they could all live in a nice neighborhood. He and his mom weren't just family, they were best friends, too. In fact, the night of the shooting, he invited his mother out with him, but she declined, wanting to get some rest. His mother, DeMarie, said, "He always wanted to make sure I was taken care of. He was a really good son." And it wasn't just his mom he went out of his way for. When his sister needed help, he was the first to offer support. She remembered he once told her that he loved her more than he loved himself. Now, Jean was actually at pulse that night celebrating the fact that he had just become the district manager for cash financial. And he went to the club with his friends, Rodolfo Ayala Ayala, who we covered earlier, as well as Simon Carrillo, and his boyfriend, Oscar Aracena Montero. 26-year-old Oscar Montero and his boyfriend, 31-year-old Simon Carrillo Fernandez, were happy to go to pulse that night with their friend Jean. While Jean was celebrating a promotion, Oscar and Simon were celebrating the purchase of their first home. Finally, they had a place to call their own, and a yard for their three dogs to run around in. The two were about to begin a brand new phase in their lives. At the time of the shooting, both Oscar and Simon managed a local McDonald's, working long hours to put away money for vacations back to their hometowns. Simon had been born in Venezuela, while Oscar was from the Dominican Republic. Oscar loved his family and friends deeply, especially his younger siblings. Everyone said that he had an infectious personality that drew people to him. He loved dancing, and he had a fondness for dogs, which is something that, thankfully, Simon shared. Simon was full of energy, and all of his co-workers loved him. He was known for always remembering birthdays, and bringing cakes to work for celebrations. Like his boyfriend Oscar, Simon also wanted to be the best version of himself. One of his co-workers said, "He had to be the best. That was his thing. I cooked the best, I cleaned the best, I worked the best." That night, the couple had just returned from a trip, from Niagara Falls. They had spent hours at poles laughing with their friends, connecting with their community, and salsa dancing with one another. That is until 2 a.m., when they were both shot and killed on the dance floor. Oscar was buried back at home in the Dominican Republic, while Simon had died. then, the love of his life was buried in Orlando. 33 year old Martin Benitez Torres was one of the 23 victims who was born in Puerto Rico and it's something he was very proud of. While living in Puerto Rico, Martin got work designing costumes from Miss Universe Puerto Rico, which was one of his absolute favorite hobbies. Every Halloween he'd go all out, creating elaborate costumes not just for himself but for his friends and family as well. At the time of the shooting, Martin actually lived in Tampa where he attended university to become a pharmacy tech. The night of the shooting, he had driven to Orlando to meet up with family members for a party. Afterwards, he decided to check out Pulse. Tragically, he was shot and killed there. On social media, one of his relatives posted a tribute that sums up who Martin was and the situation beautifully. What happened in Orlando affects all of us because it is an act of hate against the freedom to be who you are. I'm trying not to fall prey to hate that the person who killed you, that the gringos, that Trump, the terrorists. Because then I would be a part of the vicious circle of judge and jury. They killed you out of hate for the freedom to be who you are and it makes me hurt inside because if there was anyone who always had a smile, who helped me, who was caring with me, my music and my madness, it was you. The emotional toll of losing a loved one and an event like Pulse is almost impossible to imagine. But there's another aspect of these sudden unexpected deaths that people often don't think about, that there were people who were emotionally, physically or financially, depending on these victims. Parents who are suddenly left as the single parent of a several child household, elderly parents or grandparents who are left without a caretaker, family members who are relying on the income of a person who was killed. For some, it can be hard to talk about, but that's one of the things about the aftermath of losing someone that is so challenging. There often isn't time to properly process the grief, because many are stuck with the logistics. The funeral, their belongings, insurance, getting bills paid, ushering kids to and from school. For the wife of victim Miguel Hernado, there was no time to slow down. The couple had three children. Here is his wife Minerva, speaking with WKMG about the loss of her husband. It's been so difficult, I mean, you know, we were when he was here, we were a team, he would do something, I would do another thing, you know, and he would help out with the kids while I would cook and now it's like, I have to be, you know, into places and I want. When asked how she could remain so strong and keep going, Minerva had a simple, but devastating answer. I have to do it for them, they don't, they're so tiny they don't know yet, they don't know what's going on and what charts because they won't know, you know, like how their dad was, how he cared for them. Miguel was just 30 years old. His entire life was devoted to his wife, who was his high school sweetheart and his three children, the youngest of whom was just one years old and the oldest, who was 15. Miguel was the sole financial provider for his family, managing a number of restaurants around Orlando and running a Mexican catering business. It's a job that he started early on. Born in Mexico, Miguel moved to Florida when he was a toddler and he grew up close with his extended family. His parents and seven siblings were in search of the American dream. When they first arrived, no one knew how to speak English. To make money, they opened a taco stand in front of theme parks, where Miguel would run the cash register and make tortillas. The love of sharing his culture and food with the world had never stopped and it allowed him to raise his boys without them having a want in the world. That night, Miguel was invited last minute to stop at Pulse for Latin night with some friends. Tragically, he lost his life inside and his family hasn't been the same sense. In honor of Miguel, his family planned multiple visuals over nine days on their front lawn. Every day, people from all over would show up, sharing stories about Miguel, and leaving flowers for him. At his funeral, white balloons were released to symbolize peace. While some victims didn't have children depending on them, they had others that did. 25-year-old and R.K.L. Rio's junior lived in Brooklyn, New York, where he dedicated himself to taking care of his grandmother, who suffered from late-stage Alzheimer's. It was something that showed not only his love of his family, but his love of caring for others as well. Day-to-day, he worked as a home health care provider and was studying social work at St. Francis College. Every day, he worked, went to school, and bathed fed and cared for his grandma. For anyone, that's challenging, but remember, and R.K.L. was just 25 years old. His family explained to the Orlando Sentinel that nothing was more important to him, R.K.L. than family. He loved bringing his loved ones together, especially over the holidays. His sister said, "My brother was very, very big on holidays and family. On Christmas and Thanksgiving, he would actually have us color-coordinate our clothes. On Thanksgiving, we would all have on Burgundy. Christmas, we would have on green. But his family never got to have those matching outfits again. But every holiday after June 12th was stained with the realization that someone was missing. The night of the shooting, and R.K.L. had actually been on a rare, much-needed vacation. He was due to fly back that morning and wanted to have one last night of fun before he returned to Brooklyn. As soon as the shooting began, and R.K.L. and his friends were separated, and while his friends managed to escape, he didn't. And R.K.L. life was taken, and with it, his family lost their foundation. His funeral was held at the Bedford-Stuyvescent Church, where a colorful display of rainbow colors greeted everyone as they arrived. His family was proud of who R.K.L. was, and he knew it. But some families were left to reconcile with the fact that their loved ones may have died without knowing how much they loved them. When Juan Chavez Martinez' niece, Brenda, learned that Juan may have been at Pulse the night of the shooting, she called him repeatedly, again and again and again. She told the Orlando Sentinel, "We continue to call. We didn't want to believe he was there." But for 24 hours, they never received a call back. When their phone did light up, it was a call from the medical examiner, and that's when they learned that Juan was dead. At the time, there was one regret hovering above all else in his niece's mind. She said, "It hurts because since he's passed away now, we can't tell him that we accepted it. We want him to know that we've always accepted him." But being accepted where Juan grew up at the time he grew up wasn't common. 25-year-old Juan grew up in Mexico, but he left as a teen to pursue a better life in the United States. He wanted to live somewhere where he felt he could be free in his sexuality. And once he arrived, he had never felt more free. He often sported bleach-blond highlights and vibrant, fashionable clothing. He went to clubs to dance to EDM and his favorite, Lady Gaga. All the while, he worked hard as a housekeeping supervisor at a resort to send money back to his family in Mexico. He worked overtime nearly every week, wanting to help his family escape poverty. At the time of his death, he hadn't seen his mother or been back to Mexico in eight long years. His niece went on to say, "For him to go the way he went, it was something that he did not deserve. It was something that none of the victims deserved. They had dreams, and they wanted to accomplish it, and they deserved to accomplish it. What happened is unbearable. It hurts. It's hard to even think about. It's hard to wake up in the morning and eat. It's hard to do anything. It's just stuck in your head, and you don't think about anything else but them. It happened to them in that moment." That night, Juan had been with one of his best friends, a 31-year-old who had a similar childhood and background. The foundation that they were building their lives on helped them both feel less alone as they navigated life in a new country. Joel Rayon Paniagua grew up in Veracruz and left to pursue the American dream in late 2015. He worked in construction and gardening and sent money back to his family in Mexico. He was extremely close to his friends and family members, including four siblings that all still lived in Mexico. He had been living with his cousin in central Florida for nine months, but he planned to move back to his home country. Although he loved to dance in party, Corona being his favorite beer, he didn't want to go to pulse that night. However, Juan talked him into it, coaxing him with the promise that it was Latin night. Both Juan and Joel were killed in the bathroom. The medical examiner told their families that their deaths had been instant. After them it suffered, which was a small comfort in a time where it was greatly, greatly needed. As 25-year-old Anthony Loriano Disla's mother Olga got on a plane to fly from San Juan Puerto Rico to Orlando. There was nothing that could bring her any comfort. She knew with certainty that her son had been at pulse. Anthony had been performing as a dancer since he was 10 years old. He had moved to Orlando to pursue his dreams of becoming a choreographer. Fortunately, nearly every week, he got to perform his own choreography, as drag queen Alanis Larell, at pulse and parliament house, another gay nightclub in Orlando. When he performed, he often wore sparkling gowns and a blonde pharafocid wig. His mother Olga told the Orlando Sentinel quote, "His makeup was flawless," end quote. Olga supported her son's love of drag, and she accepted his sexuality, but she rarely went to his shows, something she regrets now. She told the Orlando Sentinel quote, "Drag shows were very late, and I worked early, so I never went. Now I wish I had less time to sleep, and more time to enjoy his dancing." The night of the shooting, she knew her son was at Pulse, because he called her on his way there, excitedly telling her about his plans to go. His work schedule kept him out late, which was something that always worried her. She said quote, "His late night's dancing, being out in places that are not always safe, scared me, and that nightmare became a reality," end quote. When Olga landed in Orlando, she saw her sister's face. The instant she made eye contact with her, she knew that her son was gone. In a Facebook post, she wrote quote, "I felt my heart stop, like everything around me crumbled apart. Not imagining it was going to get more terrible and heartbreaking the day I stood in front of his coffin," end quote. Olga reported that her son's last words were quote, "Keep going normal. Whether that was on the phone or in person as he laid in the hospital, we don't know." But regardless of when it was said, it was a clear message from Anthony, on what he wanted for his mom, to keep going. It's not an easy feat in the wake of horrific grief. The death of Tevin Crosby, who died in pulse at just 25 years old, has left holes in not just his family's lives, but their psyche. Even years after his death, his sister wakes up in tears and has nightmares of gunfire and being trapped. She said, "Some days you don't want to move on, but I know I have kids, so I have to go on. Wake up in the middle of the night to crying and screaming from my kids because they're missing him and want to go to heaven to see him." Tevin was the center of his nieces and nephews' lives. Just days before he was shot and killed, he flew from his home in Saginaw, Michigan to his hometown of State's full North Carolina to attend their graduation ceremonies. The last words he spoke to his family members as he boarded a plane to leave from there for an extended vacation in Orlando were, "I love you." For a few weeks in June, Tevin wanted to stay in Orlando to celebrate Pride. And if anyone deserved a break, it was Tevin. His brother, Chavis Crosby, said, "He was very ambitious. Over goal he had in mind, he worked hard, whether alone or on a team he worked on that goal." He had attended Strayer University South in Charlotte and earned a degree in business administration. Soon after graduation, he became the director of operations for Total Entrepreneurs' Concepts. He was a sharp dresser who often posted motivational quotes on the Facebook page. In May 2016, he wrote, "The little things add up when you are on the road to success." And by all accounts, Tevin was on the road to success. Everything in his life was lining up. His family loved him, he had great friends, a great job. But instead of getting the life he deserved, he was buried at Belmont Cemetery in State's full North Carolina just two months after his 25th birthday. So far we've covered 48 victims of the Pulse Massacre. We've seen their stories, heard the pain of their loved ones, and seen the impression that they left on the world. This brings us to the 49th, a victim who hasn't received much coverage, but who's loved one left a message with the world that honestly stuck with us. Maybe it's because we all need someone who believes in us, or maybe it's the simplicity of the message. Or maybe it's a reminder that, in the darkest times, someone who knows our strength, even when we don't, can change everything. For months, 40-year-old Paul Terrell Henry encouraged his boyfriend Francisco Hernandez to go back to school. Francisco had dropped out just a year shy of his 4-year degree, and didn't have the confidence to go back and finish it. But the thing about Paul was, when he gave you advice, it was hard not to take it. Paul had actually been a pastor for several years, and had earned a theological degree, as well as a master's in business. He gave phenomenal advice, and always did so with a smile. His brother Anthony loved speaking with his brother, and hearing his thoughts on things. He said, "Ten years ago, we decided that we wouldn't go a full week without calling. We wouldn't go a month without seeing each other. Everything that we wanted each other to know, we told each other." His two kids, a teenage son and a daughter, looked up to him and his world centered around them. The night of the shooting, Paul Henry was indulging in one of his favorite things, dancing. All things music moved, Paul, so much so that he learned to play piano with no lessons, and sang every single chance that he got to. When his boyfriend learned he had been killed and pulsed that night, he told the Orlando Sentinel that he had made a decision. He knew I had the potential for greater things, he wanted the best for me to succeed, and to help me make something of myself. I'm going to make something of myself." In total, 53 people were injured, and 49 people were killed during the Pulse Night Club shooting, which took place in the early morning hours of June 12, 2016. All of the victims were real people with dreams, families, friends, and lives. They were celebrating that night with the community that loved them, embraced them, and encouraged them to be themselves. It isn't fair to reduce their stories and their lives to a single paragraph that will never capture the fullness of who they were as a person, but in light of this tragedy we must remember their names, honor their lives, and never forget who they were. For today's episode, we will be making a donation to the LGBTQ+ Center Orlando, an organization that continues to provide support and resources for the families of the 49 victims. Their names are Stanley Almovedar III, Amanda Alvier, Oscar A. Aracena Montero, Rdolfo Ayala Ayala, Martin Benitez Torres, Antonio D. Brown, Darryl R. Bert II, Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, Angel L. Candelario Padro, Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, Juan Chavez Martinez, Luis DiConde, Corey J. Connell, Tevinny Crosby, Frankie J. DeJesus Velasquez, Deonka D. Draeton, Mercedes M. Flores, Peter O. Gonzalez Cruz, Juan Arguerrero, Paul T. Henry, Frank Hernandez, Miguel A. Arado, Javier Jorge Reyes, Jason B. Josephat, Eddie J. Justice, Anthony L. Dysla, Christopher A. Lainonin, Brenda Marquez McCool, Jean Mendez Perez, Akira Monet Murray, Kimberly Morris, Jean C. N. Yavis Rodriguez, Luizel Ocasio-Capo, Haraldo A. Ortiz Jimenez, Eric Ivan Ortiz Rivera, Joel Rayan Paniagua, and R.K.L. Rio's Jr., Juan P. Rivera Velasquez, Gilmeri Rodriguez Sullivan, Christopher J. Sanfiles, Xavier Emanuel Sarano Rosado, Gilberto Ramón Silva Menendez, Edward Sotomayor Jr., Shane E. Tomlinson, Leroy Valentín Fernandez, Luis S. Villoma, Luis Daniel Wilson Leon, Gerald A. Wright, and Alejandro Barrios Martinez, and to play this episode out, 49 seconds of silence. [BLANK_AUDIO] >> Hey everybody, thank you so much for listening to this week's, tough to get through episode of Murder in America. These episodes are so heartbreaking, but these stories need to be told, these victims need to be remembered. We need to keep these discussions open, and Courtney and I aim to do that in hopes that someday something will change here in America. If you appreciate the work that we do here on the show and you want to support what we do, please consider joining us on Patreon. On Patreon you can get access to early ad free versions of the show, so if you don't like the ads, please consider joining us on Patreon, and on Patreon we also have an entire library of bonus content, so if you can't get enough of the show and you want more, by signing up on Patreon you can get access to an entire library of bonus episodes that will never be posted on the main feed they will live forever exclusively on Patreon. Also, don't forget to leave us a five star review wherever you listen to the show, whether it's Spotify or Apple Podcasts or wherever we love hearing from you guys and those five star reviews help us to grow. And on top of all of that, if you want to see photos from every case that we cover, consider following us on Instagram @MurderInAmerica to see photos from every episode every week. Anyways y'all, we'll be back next week with the final part in this four part series. I hope y'all have a great week and if you're listening on Friday and a great week or [BLANK_AUDIO] whatever, whenever you're listening to this, if you're not listening on Friday, thank you all for tuning in. And yeah, catch y'all on the next one. (gentle music)