Authors: Lisa Gardner
“This has to be our secret,” I told her seriously.
I hailed a cab and both of us went to work.
“N
INE-ONE-ONE.
Please state the nature of your emergency.”
No response.
I studied my ANI ALI monitor in front of me, as the information started to scroll. “Nine-one-one,” I repeated, shifting slightly in my desk chair. “Please state the nature of your emergency.”
“I got a big butt,” a male voice said.
I sighed. Like I hadn’t heard that one before. “I see. And this enlarged gluteus maximus resides at ninety-five West Carrington Street?”
“Dude!” the voice said. Laughter in the background. Giggles really. This is what happens, I reminded myself, when you work graveyard shift.
I continued, in a professional manner: “And does this enlarged posterior belong to Mr. Edward Keicht?”
“Man,
how
did you know?”
“Sir, are you aware that when you dial nine-one-one, your name and address appears on our monitors?”
Awestruck silence. “No way, dude!” Apparently, Mr. Keicht had been imbibing a little more than just beer this evening.
“And are you aware that a prank call to nine-one-one is a felony offense that could land you in jail?”
“Cool!”
“Say hi to the nice policeman at your door, Mr. Keicht.”
“All right!”
“And remember, this is your brain on drugs.”
I clicked off line one, then contacted one of my officers to do the deed. All calls to nine-one-one required an officer response. Hence that whole felony offense thing. In approximately three to five minutes, Mr. I Got a Big Butt wasn’t gonna be feeling so grand about life.
One twenty A.M. My twin monitors remained blank, the phone
lines quiet. Not too bad a night, but then it was only Wednesday. Call patterns had a tendency to pick up as the week went on. Friday and Saturday were madness, a deluge of domestic assaults, drunken disorderlies, and OUIs. Sunday around five was the second busiest time. The witching hour, we called it: five o’clock being the hour when most noncustodial parents were required to return the 2.2 children to the custodial parent. Except judging purely by call volume, feuding parents enjoyed screwing with each other more than being responsible caretakers. By 5:01, we’d have the first call and the first officer involved in the weekly game of “No, ma’am, you may not shoot off his balls just because he’s two minutes late,” to be followed shortly by “Sir, a visitation agreement is a legal document; I suggest you read it.”
I tried to avoid Sundays. Domestic disputes made everyone cranky—the callers, my officers, me.
Overall, the city of Grovesnor, all twenty-five thousand people, was tame compared to my time in Arvada. There, I’d worked in a major call center, handling hundreds of calls an hour. These days, it was me, sitting alone in a darkened room with the dog that was not my dog. I generally received between ten and forty calls a shift. Ten on a night like tonight, forty on a weekend.
Number one call I handled every night—wrong number. Number two call—Mr. Big Butt, or Mr. Pepperoni Pizza to Go, or whatever latest thing a bunch of bored kids thought was funny. And yeah, I dispatched a uniformed officer to each and every address. Hey, I didn’t make the rules.
Only a third of the calls to 911 are for actual emergencies. More typically, I got reports of reckless driving, a dead or injured animal in the road, the occasional complaint against noisy neighbors. Information came in on my ANI ALI screen—ANI standing for Automatic Number Identification, ALI for Automatic Local Identification. Landlines were the easiest calls, with name, phone number, and address winking across my screen. Cell phone calls and Internet-based phone carriers (think Vonage) automatically went to the state police for them to sort out location, as such numbers weren’t linked to a physical address, making it difficult for me to dispatch an officer.
In addition to my ANI ALI monitor, I had a second system, the Dispatcher Event Mask. I entered all the information from the call into this system—details of an accident, description of an intruder, whatever. Then, I could shoot this information straight from my computer to an officer’s Mobile Data Computer in his police cruiser. Push of a button and ping, we were all on the same virtual page.
Assuming the system didn’t crash. Assuming I had the wherewithal to multitask between two monitors while simultaneously soothing a distressed caller, asking all pertinent questions, and typing in all relevant answers.
But other than that, easy breezy.
My ANI ALI monitor blazed to life. Name, phone number, street address appearing on the screen. I put on my headset and hit the button.
“Nine-one-one. Please state the nature of your emergency.”
“I…I don’t know.” Female voice this time. Quivering.
“Ma’am? Do you need assistance?”
“My husband is angry.”
“I see. Are you at home, ma’am?” I rattled off the street address from my screen; she confirmed. “And your name, ma’am?”
“Dawn.” She didn’t offer a last name. My screen listed the number as belonging to Vincent Heinen. For the time being, I didn’t press her.
“Dawn, nice to meet you. I’m Charlie. Is your husband at home?”
“Yes.” Her voice had dropped to nearly a whisper. I took that to mean he was someplace close.
“Are there kids in the house?”
“No.”
“Pets, dogs?” Officers like to know about dogs.
“No.”
I settled in, got down to it. “Has he been drinking?”
“Yes.” Very soft now.
“Dawn, is he in the room?” Then, when she didn’t immediately answer, my own voice dropping low: “Are you hiding from him? You can hit a button on the phone. One beep for yes. Two beeps for no.”
I heard a beep, and I took a deep breath. Okay, so the makings of a genuine call. At my feet, Tulip stirred. She seemed to sense my tension, sitting up.
“Dawn, are you afraid of him?”
Beep.
Still monitoring the call, I got on the radio. “Four sixty-one to nine twenty-six,” I said into the radio.
Nine twenty-six, aka Officer Tom Mackereth, tagged back. “Nine twenty-six to four sixty-one.”
“Four sixty-one to nine twenty-six, I have a female party online,” I informed him crisply. “States husband is angry. States husband has been drinking. States she’s afraid of him.”
“Nine twenty-six to four sixty-one, location of caller?”
“Four sixty-one to nine twenty-six, sending through.” I updated my Dispatcher Event Mask with the extremely limited data I’d collected thus far and shot it through to Officer Mackereth’s mobile computer. “Four sixty-one to nine twenty-six, caller states they are at home, no kids or animals present.”
“Nine twenty-six to four sixty-one, can you get more details? Description of both parties, is the male party armed, are we talking alcohol, or also drugs?”
No shit Sherlock
, I felt like saying. But our radio dialogue, plus the 911 call, was being recorded for posterity, so I kept to the script.
“Four sixty-one to nine twenty-six, will do.”
Back to my caller, who’d remained disturbingly silent.
“Dawn, it’s Charlie. You there?”
Beep.
All right, contact reestablished. I leaned closer to my event monitor, adjusting my headset. I could hear the woman better now, the rapid sounds of her distressed breathing as she tried desperately not to make a sound.
“Dawn, are you in the bedroom?” I asked quietly, wanting to keep her communicating.
Another beep.
“Are you locked in the bathroom?”
Two beeps.
Two beeps meant no. I pictured a bedroom, tried again. “The closet?”
Another beep.
I played the odds in New England colonial architecture: “Dawn, is your bedroom upstairs?”
Beep.
I added the details to the call profile, moving along. “Dawn, is your husband armed?”
Silence. Not a yes, not a no. Did that mean maybe?
I worked to clarify: “Dawn, Mrs. Heinen, is it you don’t
know
if your husband is carrying a weapon?”
Beep.
“Officer Mackereth is gonna love that,” I murmured to Tulip, who was sitting straight up and staring at me now. Situation unknown—an officer’s most typical and most dangerous kind of call.
I got back on the radio, summoned 926 and provided the short update: Caller was in the upstairs bedroom. Husband was within listening distance and may or may not be armed.
“Drugs?” Officer Mackereth wanted to know, because a drunk husband was bad enough, but a cokehead or meth addict was even worse—beyond the reach of logic
and
pain. Officers got tense about that.
I returned to Dawn Heinen.
“Dawn, does your husband do drugs?”
Beep.
I wasn’t surprised. I added to the profile.
“Dawn, has he done drugs tonight?”
Silence.
“You don’t know if your husband has done drugs tonight?”
Beep.
My fingers stilled on the keyboard and I closed my eyes, starting to feel the pressure. My job was to get information. I was Officer Mackereth’s eyes and ears. If I did my job right, he walked into a situation forewarned and forearmed. If I failed at my job, a lone officer got to approach a darkened house at one thirty in the morning, with nothing but his quick wits to save him.
I got back on the radio. “Four sixty-one to nine twenty-six. Caller
states she doesn’t know if husband is armed. Caller states she doesn’t know if husband has done drugs tonight, but states he has done drugs in the past.”
“Nine twenty-six to four sixty-one, roger that,” Officer Mackereth replied. I felt the weight of his disappointment in those words. He was counting on me, and I was letting him down. He notified me that his position was one block from the address. He was cutting his sirens and going dark. Meaning I hadn’t given him enough information. Meaning he was approaching quietly, in order to assess the situation for himself.
“Come on, Dawn,” I murmured under my breath. “We gotta do better. For all of us, we gotta do better.”
I returned to my caller, listening to the sound of her shallow breathing and straining now for other noises in the background. A husband calling a wife’s name? Shattering glass from a man in the throes of a violent rage? Or maybe even a knock on the downstairs front door marking Officer Mackereth’s arrival. I heard nothing.
“Dawn, is your husband still in the room?” I asked now.
Beep.
“An officer is approaching. He’s almost there, Dawn. Help is on its way.” I hesitated, struggling. My next order of business should be to establish a description of the offending party. That way if he tried to flee the scene, Officer Mackereth could identify him and give pursuit. I didn’t know, however, how to engage in such a conversation with phone beeps.
The tension again, my shoulders creeping up, a low ache developing in the back of my neck. Officer Mackereth should be at the address by now. Opening his door, looking up at the residence, trying to get a bead on the situation.
“Dawn, is your husband still angry?”
Beep.
Then what’s he doing? I wanted to shout. What kind of enraged man didn’t make a sound?
Then, just like that, I knew. I could picture in my head exactly what kind of angry man could stand so quiet, so still, right outside a closet door.
I grabbed the radio. “Four sixty-one to nine twenty-six,” I nearly shouted. “Don’t ring the doorbell! Do not approach! Stop immediately!”
A pause, I didn’t hear Dawn anymore, just my own ragged breathing.
“Nine twenty-six to four sixty-one,” Officer Mackereth came over the radio, his voice as dry as mine had been heated. “Nine eight two?”
Nine eight two was our own code. The numbers corresponded to the phone digits for WTF. What The Fuck? Hey, in this job, you had to have a sense of humor.
I took a deep breath.
“Four sixty-one to nine twenty-six,” I said. “Please hold.”
“Dawn,” I whispered into my headset, “does your husband like pizza?”
Silence, then beep, then the first noise I’d heard in a while: Dawn, weeping. “One more minute, Dawn,” I promised her. “Hang in there for me. Just one more minute.”
Quickly, I ran Vincent’s name through my system and came up with a second number, a cell phone registered to his name. Keeping my fingers crossed, I picked up my prepaid cell and dialed those numbers. Not a move from the training handbook. One of those things that, in this job, you just knew when to do.
For a surreal moment, I got to hear ringing in stereo. My mobile ringing in my ear. Vincent’s cell phone ringing in the bedroom. One, two, three times.
I was clutching my cell too tight.
Then my radio crackling to life: “Nine twenty-six to four sixty-one—”
“Shut up!” I hissed, just as Dawn’s husband connected with my mobile.
“What?” he said, one word, loaded with menace and threat and the icy cold kind of rage that kept his wife sobbing silently in their bedroom closet.
“Dude,” I shot back. “Want your fucking pizza? ’Cause I’m not standing out here any longer. Been ringing your fuckin’ doorbell for
five minutes now. We’re charging your credit card whether you take it or not, so get your fuckin’ pie, or I’m eatin’ it myself!”
I jabbed off my phone, then switched to my headset.
“Ass wipe,” I heard Dawn’s husband mutter, outside the closet door. Then, finally, sounds of movement. A distant door being yanked opened, pounding footsteps.
Belatedly, I grabbed the radio.
“Four sixty-one to nine twenty-six. You are pizza delivery. I repeat. You are pizza delivery. Male subject is most likely armed and coming to you in five four three two—”
“Fuck!” a male voice exploded through the radio.
“Police!” Officer Mackereth shouted. “Hands where I can see them, hands where I can see them!”
Sounds of a scuffle, more banging, another shout.
I stood up, couldn’t help myself. Grabbed my headset, squeezed my eyes shut in the middle of my darkened call center as if that would help my officer, somehow give him the advantage. Tulip started to whine. I bit down on my lower lip.
Then: “Nine twenty-six to four sixty-one.” Officer Mackereth, sounding out of breath. “Male subject subdued. Male subject disarmed.” Then, in a break from script. “He was carrying a Glock nine. How the hell did you know that? Holy shit, Charlie. Holy shit.”