Let me tell you a totally fictional story with some eerie parallels to real life.
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2012/10/chp-officer-stabbed-nine-times-by-man-on-riverside-freeway-overpass-.htmlSo: A Cal-Free Ranger is rolling around his providence when the call of pedestrian looking to jump off a bridge reaches his ears. The call location is 7 miles away, not too far. Wasn’t doing anything important anyways, why not go save a life? Or at least stop him from going through the window of a mini-van killing soccer mom. I’ve seen it happen, not a pretty sight.
We get a lot of those calls. Usually it’s a homeless guy with a cardboard sign climbing around in the bushes trying to take a hit off his 55oz mega-big-gulp with a little bit a coke and a lot of jack before going back to pretending to be pathetic and starving. Occasionally it’s someone depressed enough to look for a flashy exit.
Something in the description of the call, how it came out made me think this was the later more than the former. I’ve learned a lot over my years patrolling the wasteland. A big one is to trust my instincts. When the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, I listen to them. I may not know the reason right away, but more often than not I can look back and say: “oh yea,… that’s where I saw that before.”
So, even though it’s suppose to be quitting time, and the call is someone else’s responsibility; I trust my instincts and blast up the freeway: 7 miles at 128 MPH = 3 minutes 16 seconds.
I had a buddy, a beat partner (the guy who’s call it actually belonged to) who puts out over the radio that he was just there and he didn’t see anything; further relating that he’ll go back and look again.
Go back to going home? Hmmm… no. trust the instincts.
I roll up on the location, and I see the red-white-blue flashing lights that indicate that someone else in authority was already there. My partner didn’t put out any traffic. Maybe it’s an allied agency? There’s a couple of city slickers that got their own enforcement deal, and while it’s my freeway, it’s their bridge. Maybe they got here first?
I run a light, activating my own code-3’s, and slide into an openish spot near the commotion.
Throw the car in park and jump out while it’s still moving. Standard operating procedure really.
I put out my radio traffic, that I’m here, that the jumper is here, and that someone else, I dunno who, is here.
Running up to the scene; I see a matching emblem to my own interceptor on the door of the patrol car already on scene. My partner, along with a mob of t-shirts and flip-flop wearing civilians are hanging on jumper’s leg. He’s about 15 feet up the perimeter fence of the bridge and all they can really get to is the cuff of his pant leg. Not much, but apparently enough to stop him from getting all the way over, he’s straddling the top of the fence, one leg bridge-ward, and the other is just hanging over the void and 32 feet pr second pr second away from soccer mom’s windshield.
Now I’m a hands-on type of guy, with 250 lbs of authority hung on a 6’3” frame. I get ready to jump into the frey when I hear:
“He’s got a knife!”Now, normally: a knife is a good enough reason to shoot someone. You can do a lot of damage with a knife. But: why are all these other people still hanging on if he’s got a knife? My buddy has his hands full, but he’s also got a gun and the same training I’ve got. He’s been on scene longer than me and he hasn’t shot the guy yet. Maybe he knows something I don’t?
That’s okay, I can help with all sorts of situations. I’m a helper.
And it just so happens, I’ve got a shotgun with bean-bag rounds secured in my trunk.
I use to think that was a stupid place for it. It’s not very convenient. You have to go open the trunk, get the case, open the case, get the shotgun, and then: you have to load the beanbag rounds. That’s a lot of difference between that and just grabbing the ‘real’ shotgun, which jumps into your hands loaded and ready to rock with the push of a single button.
But actually, it went quick.
Roll initiative. I go first. God bless fresh adrenaline.
Running: agility + athletics to get the key out and open the trunk.
Small motor skills decrease but grabbing a shotgun case with big ol’ handles on it isn’t terribly difficult.
Start running back to the party. It’s about 30 feet away.
Two steps.
25 feet away I get the zipper open; throw the case into the street. Worry about that later. Keep running.
Two steps.
20 feet away open the breech and combat-load the first shell. Keep running.
Two steps.
15 feet away: Aim. Fire. Slow is smooth… smooth is fast.
Shotgun skill: Remmington specialization: (5) (regular monthly training + dove hunting + clay pigeons) Agility: 3
Base target number: Range: Short 15 feet.
Spent my movement running, target actively trying to dodge, (although hindered by my compatriot)... I’ll let the GM pick the numbers on that one.
End result: shotgun to centre-mass, no armour. Body of 2. (Why can’t crack-heads go to the gym?) Stun damage fills up and then overflow into breaking most of his ribs (physical) He folds like a wet paper bag with a bowling ball dropped into it.
I’m halfway through the automatic muscle memory reload when I see my compatriot and his army of helpers swarm the guy. He was down for the count. There wasn’t a lot of fight left in him at that point.
Okay, breathe, widen the range of vision and focus on the environment a little more.
My buddy steps back. The civilians identify themselves as collectively off-duty from a handful of different agencies, and hand-cuff/hog-tie the suspect with precision that can only come from years of practise. No faking that. Okay, I believe them.
The smell of cordite hits my nostrils.
Cordite, and blood.
Blood? I look at dirt-bag. He’s not doing much… don’t see any open wounds really. Landing on his face from 20 feet up probably didn’t help his damage over-flow, but he’s still breathing.
I turn to look at my buddy. Minus an eye. His other eye still has lots of fire in it, but the long deep cut on his arm is pouring blood all over the Tazer still white-knuckle gripped in his hand. He’s also bleeding all over his uniform, a 2’ section from his ribs is steadily widening. The blood from his side is racing up despite gravity to connect with another spot growing down from his shoulder.
He puts out “officer down” again over the radio. Crickets. I try my radio. Dispatch copies, and starts sending the world to our door. A small eternity later we have his larger cuts field dressed as paramedics arrive. They whisk him away and life goes back to its regular speed.
Another call comes out. I answer up. Someone needs to cover it, and it looks like we are down a unit.
