The pictometry map refreshed, hit off a cell tower. I rebid again, just to be sure, and received the same cell tower. No location revealed.
The phones were useless.
I didn’t hear anything in the background. After another thirty seconds, I release the call and try call back. It went to voice mail, and I disconnected. Nothing I could do. It was more than likely what we called a butt-dial. Happened all the time.
Twenty calls in queue. What the fuck?
# # #
“Nine-one-one Center.”
“They’re trying to get into my house!” Another female. On a cell. I rebid the call.
“What is your address ma’am? Ma’am?” I looked at pictometry. I got a street address. I rebid again. Same house. Same street.
“Please, please, send the police,” she whispers.
“I need your address so I know where to send the police,” I explained. Pictometry is helpful, but not a hundred-percent accurate.
She fed me an address. I’m surprised. She spoke slow and clear. I entered it. Verified it. It matched the mapping system. “Okay, tell me exactly what’s going on?”
I filled out the text on the job template as she talked: 4 M’S TRYING TO BREAK INTO COMP’S HOUSE—BREAKING WINDOWS DOWNSTAIRS—COMP HIDING IN UPSTAIRS BEDROOM.
I have enough information. I plugged in a burglary-in-progress event type and sent the job.
Now I can supplement the job with additional information to keep responding police informed. “Do you know these men, ma’am?”
“No.” The whisper is barely audible. “I’m under the bed now.”
I typed that.
“Did you see them?”
“Yes.”
“Were they white, black, or Hispanic?”
“It was too dark. I couldn’t tell.”
“Did you see what they were wearing?”
“They were covered in, I think they, it looked like they were covered in blood,” she said.
“Blood?” I added that. 4 M’S POSS COVERED IN BLOOD. I sent the supplemental information, and got ready to add more. “Can you still hear them?”
“They broke my windows.”
“Do you think they left?”
“I’m not going down to check!”
“No, ma’am. I don’t want you to do that!” I pulled up the actual job on the bottom-half of the screen. Two police cars are en-route. “I want you to stay where you are. Stay on the phone with me. What’s your name?”
My job now, calm the caller. Reassure her. I don’t want to say police will be there any second. It doesn’t always work that way. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”
“Kenya.”
“Okay, Kenya, did these men have any weapons?”
“I didn’t see them with anything, but I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“That’s fine. That’s okay. I’m just sharing all this information with the police, so they will know what to expect when they get there.”
“Where are they?” She sounded worried. “I think they are inside the house.”
**SHE THINKS THEY ARE IN THE HOUSE NOW** --sent the supplement.
“Does it sound like they’re downstairs?”
“Can you hear them?” she asked.
I heard it. Groaning. Moaning. It’s muffled. “Kenya?”
“They’re outside my door.”
I typed that. Sent it.
“Kenya, I want you to stay very quiet.” I’m talking in a low voice, too. Hope that is calming. “But don’t hang up. Keep the phone on. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We’re both quiet. I refreshed the job. Police on scene.
“Kenya, the police are outside. Don’t move. Stay quiet.”
I heard what had to be her bedroom door bang open. It’s Kenya I heard next, screaming. Giving away her hiding spot. “Let go of me!”
“Kenya!”
I jumped up, faced the police dispatchers. It’s a home invasion. “They have her!”
The line is still open. Screams echoed in my headset. I can’t figure out the sounds. All I pictured is something like . . . pudding stirred in a bowl with a wood spoon, or mayonnaise into mac-salad. Wet, puckering. I have no idea what else describes the sounds I’m hearing.
“Where are they?” I yelled.
“They’re in. They’re in.” Allison had the job and was on her feet, too. “Police are inside the house!”
“Police!” I heard from the headset.
Swearing. Must be the cops.
Kenya’s screaming had stopped.
Gunshots.
“Shots fired,” I yelled.
Allison and I, normally, would have the attention of everyone. I mean everyone if we’d yelled “shots fired” like that across the floor.
Tonight, no one noticed. Other employees had heads down, or were on their feet shouting, too. Only I was just noticing this. All the yelling. I’d been too caught up in Kenya’s call.
Supervisors were in different pods, assisting. The Operations floor was in frenzied disarray.
It’s a Tuesday. Rarely is it this busy unless it’s summertime. Or like I’ve said, a holiday.
More than six hours left to go, I thought. I sit. Listen. Police have the scene. Nothing more I can do from here anyway. Despite being in queue, I am not going to disconnect the call. Not yet.
“Officers down,” Allison yelled.
That did it. There was sudden silence, but it didn’t last. But there it is. For just a moment our job captured every one's attention.
Supervisors had plenty to do when a responder was in trouble. Milzy rushed over to Allison.
Kenya’s house would be swarming with cops.
“Kenya?” I said. “Hello?”
The struggle continued. All calls were recorded. A playback would be used in court. I’d have to testify. No way around it.
We’re forty calls in queue. The number kept climbing. I’d never seen this before. Heard it happened once when a tiny earthquake shook part of the county with little more than patio furniture tipping over during the aftershock.
I logged the job number down on a pad so I could check on Kenya’s situation later. I didn’t want to hang up, but it truly was no longer my concern.
Again, just the way it was.
# # #
I took the next call, and thought, it’s going to be one hell of a Happy Halloween. The crazies were getting cranked up and primed early.
“Nine-one-one Center,” I said.
“It’s my fault,” he said.
“What’s your fault, sir?” Another cell. I rebid the call. He’s at a park in Mendon.
“This is. All of it. It’s my fault.”
“Where are you, sir?”
“I’m going to Hell.”
You might be. “Well, where are you now, sir?” I’ve got a pretty solid location. His verifying it would be helpful. It’s a big park. Lots of entrances. Lots of trails.
“We knew what we were doing. We knew it was wrong. At least, I did. I knew it was wrong. But that didn’t stop us. It should have. But it didn’t. It didn’t.”
“What was your fault?” I asked.
“The tests. The H7N9 testing.”
I sighed, knowing I needed to control the call. Incoming ones kept stacking. “Sir, do you need police, the fire department, or an ambulance?”
I could click on a button and this guy is connected to Lifeline, where people are trained to talk with loonies who just needed to be heard, talked out of suicide, and sometimes just given info on how to get fed or where to find shelter for the night.
“There’s no stopping it,” he said.
“Stopping what?”
“Sure. You could try and blame Strong, or the U of R. It was their money. Their labs, but I could have quit. I could have walked away.”
Strong? “The hospital?” I asked and cringed, upset with myself for feeding the shitstorm conversation.
“They’re hungry. They’ll just keep eating and eating.”
I closed my eyes. “Sir, I’m going to send an officer out to talk with you. He’ll just be coming by to make sure you are all right. Where are you in the park?”