One Shot

the door and hoped her graphics guy would come up with something along those lines unbidden.

    ______

    Also not present on the battlefield is urban law enforcement. The dozen simultaneous 911 cell phone calls lit up the emergency switchboard like a Christmas tree, and the local police and fire departments were rolling within forty seconds. Everything was dispatched, all of them with lights popping and sirens blaring. Every black-and-white, every available detective, every crime-scene technician, every fire engine, every paramedic, every ambulance. Initially there was complete mayhem. The 911 calls had been panicked and incoherent. But crimes were plainly involved, and they were clearly serious, so the Serious Crimes Squad’s lead detective was given temporary command. He was a high-quality twenty-year PD veteran who had come all the way up from patrolman. His name was Emerson. He was blasting through slow traffic, dodging construction, hopelessly, desperately, with no way of knowing what had happened. Robbery, drugs, gang fight, terrorism, he had no hard information. None at all. But he was calm. Comparatively. His heart rate was holding below a hundred and fifty. He had an open channel with the 911 dispatcher, desperate to hear more as he drove.
    “New guy on a cell phone now,” the dispatcher screamed.
    “Who?” Emerson screamed back.
    “Marine Corps, from the recruiting office.”
    “Was he a witness?”
    “No, he was inside. But he’s outside now.”
    Emerson clamped his teeth. He knew he wasn’t going to be first-on-scene. Not even close. He knew he was leading from the rear. So he needed eyes. Now.
A Marine? He’ll do.
    “OK,” he said. “Patch the Marine through.”
    There were loud clicks and electronic sounds and then Emerson heard a new acoustic. Outdoors, distant screaming, the splash of water.
The fountain,
he thought.
    “Who is this?” he asked.
    A voice came back, calm but rushed, loud and breathy, pressed close to a cell phone mouthpiece.
    “This is Kelly,” it said. “First Sergeant, United States Marine Corps. Who am I speaking with?”
    “Emerson, PD. I’m in traffic, about ten minutes out. What have we got?”
    “Five KIA,” the Marine said.
    “Five dead?”
    “Affirmative.”
    Shit.
    “Injured?”
    “None that I can see.”
    “Five dead and no injured?”
    “Affirmative,” the Marine said again.
    Emerson said nothing. He had seen shootings in public places. He had seen dead people. But he had never seen
only
dead people. Public-place shootings always produced injured along with the dead. Usually in a one-to-one ratio, at least.
    “You sure about no injured?” he said.
    “That’s definitive, sir,” the Marine said.
    “Who are the DOAs?”
    “Civilians. Four males, one female.”
    “Shit.”
    “Roger that, sir,” the Marine said.
    “Where were you?”
    “In the recruiting office.”
    “What did you see?”
    “Nothing.”
    “What did you hear?”
    “Incoming gunfire, six rounds.”
    “Handguns?”
    “Long gun, I think. Just one of them.”
    “A
rifle
?”
    “An autoloader, I think. It fired fast, but it wasn’t on full automatic. The KIAs are all hit in the head.”
    A sniper,
Emerson thought.
Shit. A crazy man with an assault weapon.
    “Has he gone now?” he said.
    “No further firing, sir.”
    “He might still be there.”
    “It’s a possibility, sir. People have taken cover. Most of them are in the library now.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Head-down behind the plaza wall, sir. I’ve got a few people with me.”
    “Where was
he
?”
    “Can’t say for sure. Maybe in the parking garage. The new part. People were pointing at it. There may have been some muzzle flash. And that’s the only major structure directly facing the KIAs.”
    A warren,
Emerson thought.
A damn rat’s nest.
    “The TV people are here,” the Marine said.
    Shit,
Emerson thought.
    “Are you in uniform?” he asked.
    “Full dress, sir. For the recruiting office.”
    “OK, do your best to keep order until my guys get there.”
    “Roger that, sir.”
    Then the line went dead and Emerson heard his dispatcher’s breathing again.
TV people and a crazy man with a rifle,
he thought.
Shit, shit, shit. Pressure and scrutiny and second-guessing, like every other place that ever had TV people and a crazy man with a rifle.
He hit the switch that gave him the all-cars radio net.
    “All units, listen up,” he said. “This was a lone nutcase with a long gun. Probably an