Opening Salvo

Jamila smiled at Abigail as she set her tumbler of coffee on the desktop of dispatcher station two. Abigail looked up at her, a little more grim than usual, and said, “Sometimes this job just sinks to a whole new level of depressing.”

Jamila’s smile faded and she put her hand on Abigail’s shoulder commiseratingly. “Busy morning?”

“Not really, but I just got a call about a hit-and-run. A pickup truck ran a stop sign outside Claremont Middle School and hit a woman and two boys crossing the street. The driver just barreled over them and sped off. I’ve got units and ambulances on the way.” Abigail had two children of her own, aged eight and eleven.

“A mother and her kids?”

“Don’t know. Probably. The caller was pretty hysterical.”

Pedro at station three chimed in: “I just got a call on the same incident from another witness. Damn, these things come in bunches, don’t they? I got a report twenty minutes ago of a five-year-old girl who fell from her apartment balcony.”

Abigail looked grieved. “Five years old!” she muttered.

Jamila glanced at the station two display screen to scan the reports. Pedro’s caller knew the hit-and-run victims and had been able to give their names. She nodded at Abigail. “Okay, I got it. You’re relieved. Get out of here.” Abigail logged off the station, stood up, gathered her purse, jacket, and empty Redbull can, and left. Jamila slid into her seat, fitted the earphone into her ear, and logged in. Her station light blinked red at once: a call was being routed to her station.

“911. What is your emergency?” Jamila said, speaking into the mike of her earphone, noting the time automatically: 12:04 pm.

“Are you recording this?” It was a man’s baritone, oddly muffled.

“Yes, sir. It’s department policy to record all 911 calls. What is your emergency, please?”

“I just wanted to confirm that you’re recording this, so I don’t have to repeat myself,” the man said. “I have placed four C-4 explosive devices on timers at heavily trafficked locations throughout the city. The devices are set to detonate in about four hours – at exactly 4:00 pm. The first device is located inside the utility closet under the down escalator of the Trent Street subway station. I will call again at 1:00 pm. This will give you time to check the station and confirm that what I am saying is true. When I call, I will provide you with a list of demands, which I would appreciate you passing on to the Mayor.”

Jamila sat there blinking. The man’s precise way of speaking and matter-of-fact, almost amiable tone made it difficult to take him seriously. She fell back on the playbook. “Sir, making a bomb threat – even a false one – is a crime and subject to prosecution.”

“Go do what you have to do. I’ll call again in one hour.” The phone clicked off.

Jamila pushed herself away from the station, propelled by one long exhalation. Then she waved to Earl at the supervisor’s desk, pulled herself back to her desk, and leaned forward to her screen, tapping on her keyboard to retrieve the call details – the number and location of the caller.

Earl appeared by her side. “What’s up?”

Jamila responded, not looking up, “Bomb threat. Here. Listen to the playback.” She plugged in another earpiece and gave it to Earl, who listened intently to the recording while she dispatched units to both the address from where the call had originated and the subway station.

Earl looked at her. “Think it’s for real?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

Earl said, “All right. Block off all further emergency calls to this station. Pedro” – Pedro looked up – “you, too. We’ll use these two stations to coordinate our response. Pedro, call it in to the precinct captain. Tell her she may need to inform the Chief and the Mayor. Then call Metro Rail Transit and tell them to shut down and evacuate Trent Street Station. Tell them units are en route.” Then to Jamila: “Alert the bomb squad.”

Pedro and Jamila got to work. Jamila patched herself to the bomb squad hotline; the officer-on-duty answered, “Lieutenant Evans here.”

Jamila said, “Lieutenant, 911 Dispatch here. I’ll be sending you a recording regarding a multiple bomb threat. The caller claims he has placed explosive devices at four locations. We have one location: the subway station on Trent Street. Details are in the recording. Please be advised: the alleged bomber has said he will call again at 1:00 pm.”

“Whoa. Four bombs? Okay. We’ll gear up and head to the station. Keep us informed.”

Something was niggling at Jamila. “Lieutenant, what’s your full name?”

A pause on the other side of the line. “Lieutenant Curtis Evans. Why?”

The blood drained from Jamila’s face. Evans. She tried to keep her voice steady. “Nothing. We’ll keep you apprised.”

She started breathing deeply to calm herself. Earl looked at her alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Jamila went back to the reports on the hit-and-run. The Lieutenant’s name should have rung bells at once, but Evans was a somewhat nondescript name.

Earl repeated, “Jamila, what’s wrong?” Jamila had brought up the personnel record of  Lieutenant Evans. She read aloud: “Spouse: Christine, age thirty-two. Child: Jack, age ten.” She crosschecked the information with the names of the hit-and-run victims: Christine Evans, Jack Evans, and Kyle Kurita. “Oh, my God.” She looked at Earl and pointed to the screen. “The wife and son of the bomb squad officer-on-duty just figured in a vehicular accident, less than fifteen minutes ago.”

Earl said, “But who’s Kyle Kurita?”

Jamila said, “I don’t know. A neighbor? Classmate? Some kid crossing the street? Hold on.” She brought up the list of emergency calls from the morning shift and began going through them. Then a hunch took hold of her chest in an icy grip, and she turned to Pedro. “That little girl who fell from the balcony. Anything new about her?”

Pedro answered, “Yeah, I’ve been monitoring the updates. The paramedics said she was DOA. And the officers who checked the apartment found a woman unconscious and bleeding on the floor – probably her mother. Looked like she had been beaten. They’re calling it a B&E now.”

“Names?”

“Hold on, I’m checking the hospital records.... The little girl was Megan Choi, the woman was Kerstin Choi. The woman is in the ER at Sandstone Hill Medical.” His eyes suddenly widened as it sunk in. “The bomb squad captain’s name is Harry Choi, isn’t it?”

Jamila, Earl, and Pedro looked at each other in shock. Earl pulled himself out of it and raised his voice to the entire room. “All right, everyone. I want updates and follow-ups on all emergency calls from the past twelve hours copied to stations two and three.” To Jamila, more quietly: “Check all recent victims against the bomb squad roster.”

A radio call came in to Pedro. He reported, “There was no one at the alleged bomber’s location. It was a vacated storefront, not even a phone hook-up. The officers on the scene are doing a search of the surrounding area.”

Another call. He said, “Metro Transit and the officers on the scene are evacuating the Trent Street station. The site commander says the utility closet is unlocked and ajar. They haven’t opened it, of course, but they can see blinking lights through the door crack. The bomb squad is still en route.”

Jamila looked up from her screen, her face a grimace. “Earl, in the past hour, we’ve received reports of an assault on one Jacob Korinsky, husband of Sergeant Stephanie Brand, and a fire at the domicile of Roberto and Maria Esteban, parents of Officer Renato Esteban. The fire is still being put out and they don’t have any information yet on casualties.”

Earl said, “Brand and Esteban are both in the bomb squad?”

“Yes. We should check with the other Regional Dispatch Centers and see if they’ve gotten any other reports of incidents involving members of the families of the bomb squad. My guess is there are more.”

“Have they been informed?”

“I can’t imagine that they haven’t. The site commanders must be calling them at this point, if they haven’t yet.” She continued reluctantly, dreading to put into words what was in all of their minds: “Someone is taking out the families of the bomb squad, just when they may have to take on the delicate work of defusing four ticking bombs. In about five minutes, all hell is going to break loose around here – because someone’s just declared war on this city.”

A silence fell on the three of them. Finally, Earl said, “Who the fuck are we dealing with?”

(June 2012)