Four minutes later, Arthur was gone. He didn't speed; speeding attracted highway patrol. He drove exactly three miles to a pre-scouted "dead zone" without CCTV, switched to his own legal vehicle, and merged into the midday traffic. By the time the police were sketching a "man in a blue jumpsuit," Arthur was sitting in a quiet diner, finishing his taxes.
Inside the bank, his movements were surgical. He didn't shout or wave his weapon—an unloaded handgun, because a loaded one carried a higher sentencing risk and he had no intention of using it. He spoke in a low, level voice, providing clear instructions to the teller. He knew that fear was a tool, but panic was a variable he couldn't control. Instrumental criminal
When the day finally came, Arthur didn't feel a rush of adrenaline. He felt the quiet satisfaction of a mathematician reaching the final line of a proof. He wore a nondescript jumpsuit—neither too bright to be remembered nor too dark to be suspicious. He used a stolen vehicle he had acquired two towns over, knowing it wouldn't be reported missing until the owner returned from a weekend trip. Four minutes later, Arthur was gone