On the Edge

by Parker Hudson

As Kristen took out her wallet to purchase the scarf she needed against the cold breeze from San Francisco Bay, she glanced for a second at the key to Peter's apartment at the bottom of her purse. That brought a smile.

  Peter had met her late that morning and had taken her to his loft apartment in downtown San Francisco. She had smiled at the slightly eccentric, masculine touches in what was definitely a bachelor pad, complete with king-sized bed. They kissed in the bedroom after she had hung up her clothes, but when she moved to kiss him again, he pulled back and said with an exaggerated English accent, “Now, Princess Kristen, you may be here for a fairytale weekend, but the good Prince Peter has to earn money to pay for his apartment and other items he finds convenient, which means he has to work. They are expecting me to show up around 1:00 this afternoon to work on the Saturday morning edition, so we just have time to grab a bite to eat.”

  She frowned but let him go. He continued, “After lunch, you can go shopping and then come back to the apartment. Here's a spare key. You can then take a bath, make yourself lovely, whatever the right term is. And I'll show up about seven and be more than glad to pick up right where we're now leaving off.”

  He bowed. She curtsied. And, laughing together, they left for lunch.

  For the night's test run of “911 Live,” the police car in which the three men were riding with two officers from the north precinct had been fitted with special equipment in the trunk, making a live television link possible. Bob Grissom and the others could watch a small hand-held monitor in the back seat and see whatever scene Mark was following from the director's booth back at the station. By actually being in the police car, they could see, hear, and feel exactly what the emergency personnel were seeing, hearing, and feeling, supposedly one of the show's strong points. They could compare the two—live and televised—to test the validity of their reporting style.

  Bob Grissom and Bill Shaw wore miniature headsets linking them back to Mark and Janet in the control room. At 7:30 Mark brought up the “911 Live” logo and cut to John Blevins, the local newscaster who was substituting for the as-yet-unnamed national personality who would host the network show. Behind John were several monitors, and he began a recap of the various live stories in progress around the city, which they had been monitoring for the previous hour.

  Richard had arrived at the studio in plenty of time to watch all of the preparations being made and to marvel at the behind-the-scenes chaos which somehow always turned into a respectable television show for public consumption over the airways. Although he did not understand everything Janet was doing, he still found himself being quite proud of the responsibilities which she was obviously handling well, working with the various people necessary to direct and to produce such a complex undertaking. This was certainly her world, and he did not try to intervene in any way. Rather, he stood on the sidelines and watched, having an occasional chat with the few station personnel he knew.

  In the back of the police car, Bob was sitting in the middle of the seat, with the small monitor on his knees. Bill Shaw was on his right, with Tom Spence on his left. Bob talked to Mark over the headset about the need for additional equipment when the national show was underway, including wider angle lenses on the minicameras, and button microphones. Bill Shaw told Janet over their radio link that they should always know the names of the emergency personnel on duty on any given Friday evening, so they could add a local visual overlay whenever the national show might cut to their city, identifying the police officers, fire fighters, or emergency medical personnel involved in a particular situation. Janet made a note that it would be good to create a local visual overlay identifying their city, which they could also add whenever the network cut to them.

  The three television men had been introduced to their police officer hosts and escorts upon arrival at the north precinct. The officer driving their patrol car that evening was Pete Talmadge, who had been on the force for six years. His partner in the right hand seat, Doug Higgins, was younger. As they drove around, the three television men, particularly Tom Spence, who was not wearing a headset, asked them about their backgrounds and why they risked their lives every day as police officers. “Somebody's got to do it,” Talmadge replied. And, smiling, he continued, “And where else could I have so much fun with wonderful people like Officer Higgins here? Why, you should hear his stories about growing up. You guys should do a documentary on this man alone. He was a hero in his neighborhood by the time he was twelve!” The admiration for his partner was obvious in Talmadge's voice, despite the good natured joking. Higgins smiled, but didn't say anything.

  As the sun started down, Tom asked the younger officer, “Why do you guys go out at night? Isn't it more dangerous than during the daytime?”

  This time Higgins replied. “Yes and no. A lot of times policemen get in trouble when they let their defenses down. That's easier to do in the daytime, like when you stop somebody going ten miles an hour too fast, walk up to the car in the middle of the afternoon, and get blown away. At night, we assume that everybody we deal with is a bad guy, and we take as many precautions as we can. It keeps us focused, you might say.”

  Tom asked, and they all learned, that Officer Talmadge had a wife and two young children, the older about to start first grade in the fall. Higgins had only been married eighteen months, and he and his wife were expecting their first child in September. Tom made some personal notes on the pad he was carrying, in case there was a reason to expand the human interest side of the program that night.

  During the first ninety minutes of the test run, Janet had to admit that the pace and the subject matter were similar to many other shows already on television. The fact that it was live did add a dimension of excitement, since no one, including the anchorperson, knew exactly what would happen next. Mark Pugh and John Blevins skillfully kept the tempo upbeat during several slow moments. By this time in the evening, several of the original situations were still “in play”, and John ran through the recaps of each situation after their commercial breaks, as if they were following several football games at once.

  Suddenly over the police radio came the code for a possible armed robbery in progress at a fast-food restaurant. The location was only two exits north on the interstate from their present position. The officer driving the patrol car turned on the blue lights and sped up to respond.

  As the patrol car accelerated, the car just ahead of it on the interstate swerved quickly to the right, into the middle of the three lanes, to let the patrol car pass. The driver of the car already in the middle lane, seeing the car swerve in front of him and the blue lights from the patrol car pass him, was startled. But there were no van and no yellow flashing lights next to him, and he could see that he had room to maneuver if he had to. So he slowed with his brake as a caution, but he did not slam them on. The driver of the large tractor trailer behind that car was able to slow down without a problem. There was, therefore, no wreck on the interstate that night.

  The three television men could feel the adrenaline starting to pump in their veins as the patrol car sped up the interstate, its lights flashing and siren blaring. Exiting the interstate, Talmadge killed the siren and the blue lights. They were now on a four-lane main street, with low-rise suburban commercial development on both sides. The fast-food restaurant was located only two blocks from the interstate, and as they came down a slight grade, they had an excellent view of the store.

  Just after a white, four-door sedan pulled out of the restaurant parking lot, still a block away, their dispatcher radioed that the manager of the store had called to report a single armed gunman had just driven off in a white sedan with approximately three hundred dollars out of their cash register.

  “Tell them we've got the suspect car in sight and will be in pursuit on Route 36,” Talmadge said to Higgins.

  Higgins reached for the radio microphone while Talmadge turned on the blue flashing lights and siren and accelerated toward the white sedan.

  Immediately upon seeing the pa
trol car behind him, the driver of the white car accelerated rapidly around three cars in front of him and took off up the street at an increasing speed.

  “We're in hot pursuit west on Route 36,” Higgins said into the microphone. “Request back-up assistance.”

  The two professionals in the front seat automatically helped each other with the difficult task of chasing a car at high speed on a crowded city street. The three television men in the back hung on as best they could, and Bob Grissom was delighted to see that the picture coming over the television on his lap exactly corresponded to what they could see out the front window of the patrol car, as the minicam bolted to the light bar on the roof faithfully recorded their chase, even in the increasing darkness.

  “How are you guys doing? “ Mark asked from the control room. “Fine,” answered Bob Grissom. “I'm holding onto Bill and Tom, and they're holding onto the doors. The picture looks great!”

  “Tell central we may have to break this off,” Talmadge yelled to Higgins. “This is getting too dangerous for the conditions on this street, and we've got these passengers with us.”

  Higgins picked up the microphone and was about to repeat his senior partner's message when the white sedan suddenly veered to the right, up and into what appeared to be a large, vacant construction site, and stopped in a cloud of dust.

  Talmadge turned into the same driveway, and their headlights momentarily reflected off a large sign announcing that a new shopping center was to be built on that site. Talmadge brought the patrol car to a stop about thirty feet from the white sedan, parked parallel to the street in the large dirt lot. He stopped almost perpendicular to the street so that from his driver's side window and from Tom Spence's window behind him, there was an excellent view of the car, from which there had been no movement since it stopped.

  The veteran officer quickly turned on the spotlight attached to his patrol car next to his outside mirror and swiveled its light onto the sedan. He rolled down his window and cracked his door, but did not get out. Higgins also cracked his door, and both men drew their service revolvers. Talmadge nodded at Higgins, who picked up a second microphone, attached to a loudspeaker, and said, “You in the car, throw out your weapon, open the door, and get out real slow, with your hands in the air.”

  The window on the driver's side of the sedan began to roll down, and Talmadge leveled his service revolver on the car through his own open window. A single large-caliber hand gun was thrown out of the driver's window, about ten feet, and then the driver's door was cracked, and a voice yelled, “OK. Don't shoot. I'm coming out.”

  The driver's door opened, and a single man in his early twenties got out, raised his hands, and stood by the open door.

  “Be careful,” Talmadge said to Higgins. “I don't like this. It's been too easy. You go around on the right, and I'll circle in from the left.”

  The two officers opened their doors further and got out. “Stand right there with your hands up!” Talmadge yelled at the man by the car, as the senior officer moved slowly out from behind his own open door, all the time keeping his revolver pointed toward the car.

  In the back seat, the three television men could glance back and forth from the reality directly in front of them to the monitor in Bob Grissom's lap. Grissom was doing his best to feed a narrative of what was happening back to Mark Pugh in the control room.

  At the station, Richard and twenty or so of the station staff had been watching all the coverage that evening, but the drama of this live chase, accompanied by Bob Grissom's occasional narration, was by far the most interesting. Now they were all looking at the white sedan, bathed in the light from the stationary spotlight. They could see the car and the gunman with his hands raised. Unseen off camera, the two officers approached the car and the gunman from opposite sides, coming up on the rear of the car.

  The three television men watched from the patrol car only a few feet away. Suddenly and without warning, both back doors of the white car opened, and there were bright blasts and loud cracks from two automatic machine guns, firing on the police officers at close range. Though their reactions were quick, they were not fast enough for the fire power leveled at them. Each man was hit several times, and the two gunmeft kept firing. The driver leapt in the air and clapped his hands for joy. Bill Shaw in the back seat screamed, “Oh, my God!” so loudly that it almost knocked Janet off of her chair in the control room. Everyone in the station had seen the flashes of gunfire, but they didn't know the results. As soon as the firing finally stopped, Bill Shaw whispered into his headset, “Janet! They've shot both officers, probably killed them. We're here all alone. Get help! Get some help, quick!”

  Janet reached for the telephone by her elbow and, keeping her eyes on the monitor, which still showed the car and the gunman, she dialed 911.

  Everyone watching then saw the standing gunman point directly toward the side of the car where the spotlight was stationed, and the second gunman, crouched down behind the driver's seat, let fly another long burst from his machine gun to put out the spotlight. The burst of machine gun fire sprayed all over the patrol car, smashing the spotlight, but also breaking glass in the windows and ricocheting off the door posts and all the other metal in the car.

  Because of the angle at which they were parked, the structure of the car somewhat protected Bill and Bob, but not Tom Spence, who was directly in the line of fire, seated almost directly behind the spotlight. A direct shot grazed his upper left temple, but a ricochet off the open door post entered his upper chest, near his lungs, just missing his heart. The sound of the breaking glass and the ricocheting was deafening to all three men, who simultaneously tried to slide down in their seat. Both Janet and Mark heard screams over their headsets from Bill and Bob. Then suddenly there was silence.

  The minicamera on the roof, which had miraculously been spared any damage, quickly adjusted to the new low-light situation without the spotlight, and once again everyone at the station could see the car, though it was not as clear without the help of the extra light. The driver walked over and picked up his revolver from the ground where he had thrown it, then started walking toward the patrol car.

  Mark Pugh found that he still had control of the minicam by radio, and as the gunman walked first over to investigate Officer Talmadge on the ground and then toward the patrol car, Mark was able to follow him with the camera.

  While that was happening, the three television men in the back seat didn't know whether to look out or to stay down. “I've been shot,” Tom hoarsely whispered, trying to reach his right hand toward his chest, but unable to do so because Bob had fallen across him as the bullets ricocheted through the car.

  “Tom's been shot. What's happening? Please somebody get some help,” Bill pleaded across his headset to Janet. Janet noticed that her hands began to shake as she held the telephone receiver and relayed Bill's news and his plea to the 911 dispatcher. On the other end of the line, the dispatcher assured her that backup help would be there in less than two minutes, and she relayed this word to Bill through her headset.

  In the back studio, all the staff and Richard were on their feet, glued to the large monitor and hearing the internal communications being broadcast across the headsets and through large speakers set up for that purpose.

  Meanwhile the gunman, having kicked once at Talmadge's motionless body, turned toward the patrol car and immediately dropped into a shooter's stance when he saw the small red light on the minicam. For a moment he stared, and even in the near darkness the excellent minicam lens was able to pick up his facial expressions, as he realized what he was seeing. He relaxed a bit, but kept his revolver pointed toward the car, then walked in that direction.

  “We can't see anything, and Tom is bleeding like crazy. What's happening?” Bill whispered.

  “He's…he's walking toward the patrol car,” Janet whispered back.

  The gunman was looking at the camera, which was looking at him, and not until he was right up to the car did he notice what looked li
ke bodies in the back seat. “What's this?” he said out loud and opened the door next to where Tom lay. When he did so, the release of the pressure on Tom's lower body caused him to move, creating great pain, and he groaned. Bill and Bob moved slightly as well. The gunman, now bathed eerily in the glow from the overhead light inside the patrol car, yelled this time, pointing his gun right at Bob's head, “Who are you!?!”

  Bob Grissom, lying partly on top of Tom and feeling the blood oozing between the fingers of his left hand, staring down the barrel of a .357 magnum revolver, with a wild killer on the other end, could not say anything at first, but finally whispered, “Television.”

  Mark had been able to swivel the camera and refocus it up close, and from its position just above the gunman's head, with the light coming out of the patrol car, everyone in the studio could again see the recognition on the gunman's face. He actually smiled as he realized what was happening.

  “Television! You mean we're on television?” Bill didn't know whether to say yes or no, afraid of the possible reaction from either answer. But the gunman leaned in the car and shoved the barrel of the revolver right up against his head and yelled again, “Are we on television?” Bill closed his eyes and nodded once.

  The gunman pulled out of the back seat and yelled toward his friends in the car, “Hey, guys. We've been on television all this time!”

  To the horror of everyone in the station, the gunman backed a few paces away from the car, smiled toward the camera and used his free hand to smooth down the hair on his head. “What channel?” he asked in Bob's direction.

  Hoarsely the producer replied, “Five.”

  “Hey, guys, we're on TV5.” He smiled at the minicam again and flashed his revolver in front of his face. “Hi, Louise. This was for all the Diablos!”

  Then leaning down again into the back seat of the patrol car, where Bill Shaw was also now staring back at him, he laughed and pointed his revolver at the three men in turn. “Hey, pukeheads. You want I should blow your heads off on television?”