As night turned into dawn, the parking lot was illuminated with the colorful lights of the many emergency units responding to the chaotic scene. The area was confined to the familiar yellow caution tape of a police crime scenes. Inside the building of the US Postal Service Distribution Plant, the arriving workers were being cordoned off to the far south side of the building away from the bloody slaughter. Police officers tried to control the mass hysteria of employees who had just witnessed the horrible massacre. The rth side revealed an unbelievable sight. There was blood splattered everywhere, while multiple victims laid in assorted disarray. An army of firemen and medics were attending to those victims who were suffering from shock and those fortunate eugh to escape fatal wounds. Many were victims of bumps and bruises from being trampled by other employees trying to get out of harm's way. One body of a woman in her mid-fifties was given particular attention. Blood spilled from a head wound and her right eye, which merely hung from its socket due to the impact of a bullet. A man laid a few feet away in a bloody heap, longer moving, longer breathing. Mira was a very likable mild tempered woman who got along with everyone. She was the last person anyone would have thought to have lost such total control.