10-33 Assist PC

by Desmond P. Ryan

  “Gunshot?” she clarified, breathing deeply through her mouth, but her voice steady. The ambulance services dispatcher was now listening in on the call.

  “Yeah. To the head.”

  “Officer down. Gunshot to the head,” Rose repeated, her words causing a palpable stir in the radio room as the other dispatchers sitting at their workstations sat up a little straighter.

  “Officer down. All units stand by.” The voices of the other dispatchers directing the officers they were responsible for filled the room. “Repeat: Officer down. All units please stand by.”

  Almost immediately, every dispatcher board began to light up with both patrol and unmarked cars clearing the calls they were on and awaiting direction to the location where their fellow-officer had been shot.

  “How many ambulances do you need there, officer?” Rose asked. Her voice was calm, but her head was pounding and her hands were beginning to shake.

  “At least two.”

  “Requesting two ambulances,” she repeated. “Both officers shot?”

  “No. Only one,” Hoagie clarified.

  “One officer down, unknown injuries on a second. Two ambulances requested.” Rose’s eyes saw only the screen in front of her as she typed and relayed the updated information.

  Rose’s unit commander was on her Blackberry, notifying the chief.

  “Outstanding suspects?”

  “Two. Description for one is male, white, thirty to thirty-five years, in a black Audi SUV, first letter of four B-Bravo, first number 6,” Hoagie advised.

  “Suspect vehicle a black Audi SUV, four-letter licence B-Bravo, followed by three numbers starting with 6,” Rose confirmed as she typed the information into the text of the call, aware that her words were coming faster. All the dispatchers on the floor repeated the information for the officers under their command.

  “I don’t know, sir,” the unit commander said into her Blackberry. “We are just dispatching units now…. Yes…. I’m sure…. I don’t know…. Just a minute.…What division is the officer from?”

  “I have no units marked at this address,” Rose said, frantically scanning both her list of officers presently logged on to her radio band and the map of the area. “What unit are you from, officer?”

  “JPTF,” Hoagie replied.

  “JPTF,” the dispatcher repeated to the unit commander, taking deep gulps of air through her mouth in an effort to remain calm. “I don’t have them logged on.”

  “Anyone got JPTF units on their band?” the unit commander hollered.

  “No,” one after another of the dispatchers replied.

  “Shit,” the unit commander muttered.

  “All units, please stand by unless you have a priority,” Rose said, her voice now almost robotic, her breathing steady. “We have an officer down on Dawes Road. Two outstanding suspects in an Audi SUV last seen fleeing the area. Please use caution. Presumed armed and dangerous. I repeat: Officer down. Use caution when approaching the area.”

  Rose could taste bile in her mouth. She shot her hand up in the air. Another dispatcher stepped in and immediately unplugged Rose’s headset and plugged in her own. She tapped Rose on the shoulder. The responsibilities for this call had been transferred.

  Just inside the washroom door, her headset still on and its cord dangling at her waist, Rose lurched forward and vomited on the floor. Then she sank to the ground. Her father and his partner had been shot and killed ten days before she was born. And today her brother and her husband were both on the road.

  *****

  P.C. Justin Reynolds tossed his coffee cup out the window and practically dropped the transmission as he threw his car into drive. P.C. Robin Larkin, who had been having coffee with him, did the same thing, except he had to throw his car into reverse to get out of the parking lot. Wheels squealing on the rain-slick roads, sirens blaring, their hearts racing, both tore off in search of the suspect vehicle.

  With less than six months on the job, this was one of Justin’s first opportunities to be working without a coach officer, and he wanted to be the one to find that car and arrest the cop-killers. Robin, with all of two years’ experience under his belt, was equally as eager, wanting not only to be forever known as the one who caught the killers, but also to prove to the other guys in his platoon that he deserved to get the next spot that opened up in the Major Crime Unit.

  They were not the only officers eager to catch the killers. Across the city, cops were dropping whatever they were doing and rushing to the scene. Some officers, like the young rookie, were tossing their coffee cups out the window, while others were throwing driver’s licences back at the bewildered drivers of the cars they had pulled over. Still others were cutting off victims and complainants mid-sentence to join in the hunt.

  The heavy rain did not slow anyone down. The need to get there—to be there—usurped common sense.

  Ron Roberts was one of the officers who thrust driver’s licence, vehicle ownership, and insurance papers at the driver he’d just stopped. Ignoring her thanks, he ran back to his car and buckled himself in before speeding off, lights and siren on, to do whatever was required of him.

  A few scout cars narrowly missed getting into accidents. Some did not. Still others were not destined to make it to the scene as the ailing transmissions or drive shafts of their cars gave way under the sudden intense demands being made upon them. Most, however, sped to the scene without incident, hydroplaning more often than not, with radios turned up to hear whatever updates the dispatchers provided.

  Having just completed his training, Justin approached the scene in a textbook manner, watching intently for any suspicious vehicles leaving the area, not too sure of what ‘suspicious’ actually looked like.

  “Repeat that licence plate number again please, dispatcher,” he said.

  “All units please remain off the air,” the dispatcher ordered. “Unless you have a priority.”

  The rookie hesitated, unsure of himself, as he watched an Audi SUV drive past. He stained to see the licence plate, but his vision was obscured by the rapid swish of the windshield wipers trying to cope with the heavy rain.

  “Repeat the licence plate number,” he asked again.

  And again the dispatcher ordered, “Please remain off the air.”

  “B-Bravo. Four letters, three numbers. First number 6,” advised the kinder voice of one of the officers already at the scene.

  Justin looked in his rear-view mirror and saw through the rain-streaked back window that the Audi’s plate started with a C. And there was only the driver, no other occupants. He shrugged off his rookie inclination to feel foolish and continued to the scene, thankful that he had not further embarrassed himself by asking the dispatcher to clarify for a third time.

  As he squinted through the rain to focus on what was ahead of him, the young officer failed to see a head pop up from the back seat of the Audi, licence plate beginning with C-Charlie, first of four letters, followed by a 6, first of three numbers.

  *****

  Media relations is tricky at the best of times for any police service. When an officer gets shot on duty, however, the media relations office goes completely crazy.

  “I’ve got Janelle Austin on the phone, boss,” the clerk said.

  “Tell her to go fuck herself,” Marty Osaka, one of the highest paid civilians on the force, muttered, familiar with the pretty young reporter with the low-cut blouses who giggled with the officers, wore their hats, and stroked their egos while trying to extract privileged information for her pithy interviews. “No, wait. Tell her we’ll be doing a media scrum in an hour. And nothing more.”

  Then he groaned. This was just the beginning of a some long days for everyone, and there would be little room for error. Or playing favourites, no matter what was up for barter.

  The clerk relayed the information to Janelle Austin, then turned back to Marty.

  “Says she knows who the officer is and just wants to
give us a heads-up that she’s running the story as a Breaking in twelve minutes.”

  “For chrissake, Olivia,” Marty snapped, looking up from his Blackberry and loosening his tie as he walked over to the clerk. “I got the chief updating me, the union asking for info, every other news outlet in the city texting me. Why can’t Austin just hold off and let us do our fucking thing?”

  “I dunno, boss, but what do you want me to say?” the young woman asked, looking up from her desk.

  “Tell her she’s wrong? I don’t know. Where is everyone? Let me talk to her,” Marty said in desperation, grabbing the phone from Olivia. “And find all our media officers and get them back to the office asap.”

  He turned to the problem at hand. “Janelle? Marty. Listen, can you at least give us an hour to contact next of kin? Please?”

  *****

  The downpour had stopped by the time Duty Inspector Maurice Rowe came out of the building on Dawes Road, his face grey, his cell phone glued to his ear as he got into his car.

  Within a few minutes, the coroner arrived. She was an older woman who had been around long enough to be a familiar face to most of the officers and certainly to the duty inspector. She spent a few minutes down in the parking garage, and then she, too, was on her phone in her car, typing frantically on her laptop.

  Media trucks filled the street, capturing the coming and going of both cop and coroner, and showing the black van carrying Brian ‘Sal’ Salvatore’s body leaving for the morgue, where it would be autopsied the following morning. Despite the often-adversarial relationship between the media and the police, this afternoon there was a feel almost of reverence in the air from the gathered reporters.

  Every cop car in the city, it seemed, was parked around the building on Dawes Road. But whether on the scene or not, officers across the province were calling their loved ones to reassure them that theirs was not the name that would be chiselled on that sacred wall at the Police Memorial Gardens.

  *****

  One person who did not receive such a call was Janice Salvatore. Instead, Sal’s mother was summoned to the manager’s office at the bargain store where she had been a cashier for the past seventeen years.

  It was exactly four p.m.

  Janice Salvatore would dread the coming of four p.m. for the rest of her life. And she never worked cash again.

  “Sit down, Janice,” Vince said even before she could get through the door of his tiny office. She noticed that his eyes were red.

  “Is it Edie?” she blurted out, wondering if something had happened to Vince’s wife. She wasn’t well, Vince’s Edie. Never had been, really. Over the years, Janice had heard all about it. Like family they were: she and Vince and Edie. And her Brian. Vince had given Brian his first job stocking shelves overnights on weekends. And he had been a reference for her boy when he applied to the police force. Vince and Edie were more than just like family; they were the only family she and Brian had, really.

  “Sit down,” Vince repeated, beckoning her into the office, his heavy frame rigid as he struggled to hold back his tears.

  Janice stepped into the office and saw the chief of police in full uniform standing just inside the doorway.

  “Mrs. Salvatore,” the chief began, his voice and eyes softening as he took off his hat. “I am so terribly sorry….”

  *****

  Julia and Hoagie sat in separate offices at 54 Division, where the shooting had occurred. Homicide wanted to talk to them. Robby had come to the station and was bouncing back and forth between the rooms, making sure that what was left of his team was okay. That was all he could do now. They wouldn’t let him see Mike at the hospital, and Sal….

  Julia wiped her eyes as she quietly wept, Sal’s blood from Mike’s shirt now crusted on her sweater. Hoagie stared at the wall in front of him and thought of his wife and four young children.

  *****

  “Holy fuck,” the overweight Morality officer who had challenged the JPTF team in front of the Dawes Road building exclaimed. “That coulda been one of us!”

  Amanda glared at her colleague.

  “I mean, that was our target. If those fuckers…” His voice drifted off. “Holy fuck.”

  *****

  Reggie Stinson sat down in the living room to watch the ten o’clock news as he always did, tea in one hand, a slice of bread with jam that his wife, Mary, had made in the other. He usually caught only the top stories before he had to go to the bathroom for the first of many trips he would take before the night was over.

  Mary did not enjoy watching the news; she said it gave her nightmares. Instead, she had tucked herself into their bed with her own cup of tea and slice of bread with jam and the latest copy of Vanity Fair.

  They had been ending their days like this for the past fifteen years, ever since they downsized from their suburban bungalow to the one-bedroom apartment downtown that they were presently in. The apartment had been closer to Reggie’s work, which meant they could get rid of the expense of a car and out from under a huge mortgage on a house they didn’t even particularly like. Reggie had retired seventeen months ago, but they had been priced out of the housing market, and, truth be told, they enjoyed the downtown lifestyle.

  “Bloody hell!” she heard him shout.

  “What is it, Reggie?” she called to him, a little unnerved by this break in routine, although not enough to get out of bed.

  “A police officer has been killed and another one rushed to hospital,” he called back.

  “Oh dear. Anyone you know?” Mary asked, flipping through the pages of her magazine.

  “They haven’t released any names yet. Regardless, it’ll be a real cluster.”

  “I’m sure they’ll manage,” she said with a fond smile, knowing how conscientious he had always been. He had a plaque that they gave him when he retired that said just that. It hung in a place of honour to the right of the television.

  “None of the guys are trained tailors any more,” he declared. “There’s no way they’ll be able to get all of those uniforms up to snuff before the funeral.”

  “Do you think they’ll call you back in?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, maybe you could offer? You were the best tailor they’d ever had, weren’t you?” She set her magazine down and took a sip of tea.

  “I think I was the only trained one, yes,” he agreed.

  “Then give them a call in the morning. I’m sure they could use the help.”

  “I just hope they’ve got a plan in mind for what he’s going to wear if they’re going for an open casket. They say he was a squad guy. They’re the worst, you know. Haven’t worn the full uniform since the last funeral, likely, and no doubt have put on a few pounds. It’s very tricky to get the tunic to fall just so in a casket.”

  “You’ve done it before, love,” Mary said encouragingly. She smiled as she recalled how proud he had been of the news coverage of the last officer he had dressed. Front page of all the newspapers had a picture of the fallen officer in the coffin. His uniform looked immaculate and perfectly tailored, all thanks to Reggie’s eye for detail. “I’m betting, if you offer, they’d be more than thrilled to have you come back and do it again.”

  “Well, if they do, I’m not doing any of that last-minute stitching at the funeral home this time.”

  “That seems fair. I can imagine how unnerving that must have been.” She shuddered as she set her cup and saucer down on the nightstand beside her, getting ready to turn out her reading light.

  “It wasn’t just that. It was knowing that every newspaper in the country—the world, really—would have that picture with my tailoring front and centre.”

  “And they did. And it was wonderful. Everyone said so, Reggie. Now, if you’re going to be calling first thing, I’d suggest you forget the rest of the news and just get yourself into bed. It will be a long couple of days for you if you’re going to be outfitting the entire Toronto police force.”
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  Chapter Twelve

  Monday, October 31st, 2005 - 4:07 p.m.

  Emerg at St. Mike’s is always jammed. Saturday nights and holidays are the worst, but they were nothing compared to what had been happening since the undercover cop had been wheeled in.

  “Excuse me, folks,” the weary nurse hollered for what felt like the thousandth time to the sea of uniforms, suits, and reporters carrying steno pads and cell phones with the record button pressed. “You’re all going to have to wait somewhere else!”

  “Yeah! There are sick people here, you know!” a drunken man slurred from behind one of the curtains and then wished he hadn’t when an angry cop pulled the curtain back and told him to shut the fuck up.

  “Gentlemen and ladies,” a grey-haired man in a lab coat called out from atop the nursing station counter where he had climbed to be seen.

  “You’re all going to have a to wait either in the public waiting

  room or outside. I can’t have my emergency department hijacked like this. Please. If you persist, I’m going to have to have you all removed.”

  “By who?” one cop called out. The room erupted in laughter, making the overcrowded space seem more like a beer hall than one of the best trauma centres in the country.

  The grey-haired man sighed heavily as he looked down at the unruly mob.

  “Doctor,” a young woman being shadowed by a cameraman called out, her voice cutting though everyone else’s. “Janelle Austin. What can you tell us about the condition of Detective Michael O’Shea?”

  The room fell momentarily silent, everyone waiting for something—anything—about the condition of the fallen officer and, for most of the crowd, colleague.

  “I can’t tell you anything,” the older man shot back curtly. “And get that camera out of here.”