‘I Know What Kind of Damage They Can Do,’ Victim Says

Kent Wingerd’s nightmares have stopped, but not the memories.

He can still see the silhouetted man emerging from the shadows with an assault rifle raised. The sight of his own blood blotting out the white paint of the crosswalk where he had fallen. The metallic sound of the weapon jamming when the man stood over him and tried to shoot him again.

The attack in April 1995 disabled the 41-year-old deliveryman, ruining his dreams of a professional bowling career.

Although Wingerd says he doesn’t spend time pitying himself, he blames the magnitude of the damage done to his body on the type of weapon used against him--a copycat of the AK47, which can fire dozens of bullets as fast as an attacker can pull the trigger. The gunman, whose motives remain unknown, had used that same weapon four days earlier to kill an Oakland police officer.

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Weapons such as the one that crippled Wingerd are what the Legislature had in mind when passing the Assault Weapons Control Act in 1989. The law banned 75 models of assault weapons, including the AK47, and provided a procedure for the attorney general to restrict similarly dangerous weapons as they came onto the market.

That has yet to happen: When one manufacturer waged a court challenge, Atty. Gen. Dan Lungren consented to put the measure on hold. As a result, not a single weapon has been added to the law in six years.

Wingerd, who lives with his parents in Monterey, says he was aware before the shooting of the awesome power of assault weapons from his time in the military. But he never thought too much about them. Now he is terrified.

“They should not be allowed out there,” Wingerd says. “I know what kind of damage they can do.”

Raising his pant leg, Wingerd points to a ravine-like gash, the plowing line of a bullet that traveled along his upper thigh. Near his knees, a series of bullet holes trace the path of a single bullet that ripped into and out of one leg and smashed through the other.

Lifting his shirt, he shows a wound in his chest near his heart. There are scars on his abdomen, on his back.

Initially he used a wheelchair, but recently graduated to a cane. His formerly muscular, 6-foot-2 frame has shrunk from 237 pounds to 173. He cannot lift more than 10 pounds.

Wingerd says he doubts he will ever resume his rise toward becoming a professional bowler. At the time of the shooting, he had already bowled five perfect games and was averaging a professional-caliber 210.

Still, he holds no bitterness toward his attacker, 26-year-old Sean Whittington, a supermarket clerk, who later died in a hail of police gunfire.

“I can’t hate somebody I don’t know,” he says.

The gunman began his rampage when he turned his assault weapon on Oakland Police Officer Timothy Blaine Howe during a traffic stop.

Four days later, he seriously wounded a bicyclist in a motel parking lot and tried to commandeer a couple’s van. As it sped off, he opened fire, shattering the van’s windows and shooting out a tire causing the vehicle to crash.

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That’s when Wingerd happened by on his way to deliver some tractor parts, his last stop for the night. Wingerd saw the van, but not Whittington. As he ran to render aid, the assailant appeared from nowhere.

“All I saw,” Wingerd says, “was a dark figure coming out of the shadows.”

Five bullets plunged into his body, slamming him onto the pavement. He lay still, hoping his attacker would think he was dead.

“I heard him walking up,” he says. “I could see him out of the corner of my eyes. I thought my life was over.”

Then the rifle jammed.

“I heard him say, ‘Sorry, sucker,’ and then he walked away.”