DISCLAIMER: Adam-12 and Emergency! are the property of MarkVII/Universal and no copyright infringement is intended with the publication of this piece. The picture used for the cover comes from the Adam-12 episode "S.W.A.T.". ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.*This story may contain graphic language or depictions of potentially upsetting situations, therefore reader discretion is advised.* For plot purposes, intentional liberties may be taken with the depiction of any real life protocols and creative license taken with the portrayals of canon elements, including characters. Feedback is always welcomed and thank you for reading!

THE ORDINARY DAY

CHAPTER ONE

Monday, September 21, 1975

11: 50 P.M.

Granite Court and Granite Park area

It was just an ordinary day, like yesterday was, and tomorrow will be. There was nothing at all to mark this day from any other; the clock slowly ticked out the alloted twenty-four hours, the little box on the wall calendar reminded you not to use yesterday's date any more, the sun rose in the east and set in the west, traversing the sky with lazy solemnence. And, like all other ordinary days, people went about their usual business and daily routines. They went to work, they went to school, they did the housework. They clocked in at factories, they clocked in at offices. They folded laundry, changed diapers, washed dishes. They waited tables in fancy restaurants, they conducted board meetings. They pumped gas, they crunched numbers, they went shopping. They watched game shows and soap operas on tv, the lives of the fictional and the lucky showcase showdown winners infinitely more exciting than their own hum-drum existence. They took the car in for a tune-up, they dropped off a forgotten lunch at school. They placed letters in the corner mailbox, they walked the dog around the block. And some, enjoying this very ordinary day, decided to bask in the sun and warm temperatures in the bucolic beauty of the newly opened Granite Park.

Lush green sod carpeted the two-block-long park, a gorgeous granite fountain spewed water over the sides of sloped ornate bowls, and poured into the large, glossy circular base, the wide edge big enough to sit on quite comfortably. Trees carefully landscaped and manicured stood majestic, while tiny seedlings who hoped someday to be like the big trees overhead reached their thin spindly branches to the sky. A wooden picnic pavilion with a green-shingled roof offered shelter for those who wished to picnic outdoors, but not under the sun's harsh rays. Other wooden picnic tables dotted the park's landscape, spots here and there to dine alfresco, spread schoolwork out and study, or just laze against. Benches also speckled the park; you could sit and feed the pigeons, watch the other park-goers, or laugh as your children played happily on the brand-new playground equipment, yet untouched and marred by vandals. A beautiful stone fence surrounded the park, while a wrought-iron curved archway over the single entrance proclaimed its name. Antique-looking, but very modern street lamps spaced along the sidewalk, lending the park a very Victorian air. A small lot at the front provided enough parking for those enjoying the beautiful setting. Granite Park was the crown jewel centerpiece of the brand-new four-story Granite Court addition, a nearly block-long office and retail building built on the dead-end Granite Court street, with a neighboring parking ramp built alongside for easy access. Inside the new building, quaint little shops would rub elbows with small law offices, brokerage firms, and realty offices. The developers already had most of the space rented for the grand opening, set to happen in two weeks' time. They were only awaiting the final building inspection before they could start to allow their new tenants to move in. For now, the building was vacant.

Across the street in the park, many people were enjoying the beautiful sunny day. Several mothers sat clustered around the picnic tables, carefully watching their youngsters frolic on the playground equipment, while they chatted amongst themselves. A brightly painted minibus emblazoned with the words "Happy Time Preschool" pulled to a stop in the parking lot and disgorged several shrieking youngsters and three harried, frazzled-looking teachers. They carried blankets and picnic baskets for a rare treat: lunch in the park. They watched as their charges swarmed over the playground equipment while they spread blankets out on the grass. An elderly couple sat on a bench and held hands, gazing smiling into eyes that remembered the before-times, pre-wrinkles and dentures and eyeglasses and thinning hair. Fifty years of marriage had not dimmed their love for one another. A handsome young Marine strolled arm-in-arm with a pretty brunette in a pink flowered dress. They gazed fondly upon the elderly couple, hoping that would be them in fifty years' time. A college kid sitting near the fountain exchanged shy glances with the beauty he was tutoring in math; he was trying to work up the courage to ask her to the fall mixer, while she was wondering if he'd ever get around to asking her. A handful of teenage boys and girls played hooky from school and lazed about the park, tossing a Frisbee and posturing vainly for each other, as only flirting teenagers can do. A park groundskeeper put the finishing touches on the wooden picnic pavilion, already booked with a party reservation for the upcoming weekend. A young mother cuddled her six-month old daughter in her arms, while watching her young son play on the monkey bars. She smiled as she thought of fixing her husband his favorite dinner tonight and dancing with him in their living room after they'd put the kids to bed. It was something they hadn't done since the baby was born.

Another college kid dozed under the tented book of philosophy he was supposed to be studying, while his friend played hacky-sack in the sunlight. Four businessmen in suits enjoyed a take-out Chinese lunch at one of the picnic tables, the boxes of food filled with moo-goo gai pan, noodles, chop suey, and fortune cookies for dessert. They laughed with each other and made bets as to what their fortunes would read. Another businessman sat farther away from them, munching on a turkey sandwich while reading the headlines of the day's newspaper. He smiled as he read the baseball box scores, maybe the Dodgers would go to the pennant this year after all. He made a mental note to remember to toss a couple of bucks into the office betting pool. Hell, who knew? He might win. Not enough to take his wife to Europe, like she wanted to go for vacation, but maybe enough to take her for a nice dinner and a show. He snagged up the dill pickle his wife had packed for him in his lunch, crunching down on it, and gazed idly at the other park-goers. It wasn't crowded, by any means, but it was busy, the air ringing with the joyful shrieks and yells from the playing children.

A lone figure dressed in camouflage from head-to-toe stood atop the roof of the Granite Court building, surveying the park across the street. The sun beat down on him from overhead, but he paid it no mind. A pair of binoculars hung from a strap around his neck, and he raised them to his eyes, momentarily scanning the people in the park below. Then he lowered the binoculars and looked at his watch. He still had time. He leaned his arms on the parapet of the roof and studied the park-goers, as he mused to himself just how clever he truly was. But cleverness should also be firmly backed up with carefully laid-out plans, and he'd done just that. He had triple-checked everything, from the weather, to the park, to the building he was on. He knew the layout by heart, what exits were where, how the doors locked, how the security systems were set up. And it was only a matter of intricate planning on his part, for he was nothing if not incredibly detail-oriented.

He was by himself in the building, he already made sure of that, having dispatched the security guard quite easily and with post-haste. He knew that the contractors working on the building had already finished up, and were only awaiting the final building inspection. So he was assured that no one from the contractor's office would be there today. His biggest problem that whole morning was lugging his equipment up to the roof. He'd had to unload a footlocker and several other items from his pickup truck out front, but he'd gotten it done with a minimum of fuss. He'd gone down to the basement of the building and disabled the security alarm, along with the elevators, including the service one he'd used to haul his equipment up to the roof. He also shut off the electricity to the place. He made a final round of the building then, locking all the fire escape doors and entrances from the inside so that no one could get in. When that was done, he made his way up to the roof one last time, making sure the fire escape door up there was held open by a large cinderblock. He scanned the people in the park below disinterestedly, then he turned around and moved away from the parapet. And no one in the park even noticed him up there.

He surveyed his set-up with a critical eye. He'd rigged a small shelter for himself out of a piece of tarp attached on one side to one of the building's big air conditioning units, while the other side of the tarp was attached to one of the air vents. He'd created the shelter for the purpose having somewhere for him to get in out of the sun when he felt like it. And he felt like it now, so he plopped down in a webbed lawn chair, popped open a can of soda, and settled back. He studied his equipment carefully. There was the footlocker, which held his most prized things, a transistor radio with batteries, a hand-held police scanner with batteries, a small cooler filled with energy bars, trail mix, and cans of pop. Reaching over and picking up the transistor, he tuned it to an all-news station, then he set it on the rooftop next to his chair. He picked up the police scanner next, turning it on to make sure the batteries were fully operational, then he set it down, also. He mentally checked over his final plans one last time. He looked at his watch once more, then dumped the remainder of his pop out onto the tar rooftop, settling his sunglasses over his eyes and straightening his camouflage ballcap. It was now noon, time to set his plan in action. He stood up, moving over to the footlocker. Flipping open the lid, he removed a sturdy tripod and quickly set it up, testing it once to make sure all the pieces locked into place. Next, he removed a small, remote control device, along with several small boxes, and set them down next to the tripod. Lastly, and lovingly, he removed his most treasured and favorite item from the footlocker, affixing it carefully to the tripod's swivelling plate. He leaned his head back, drawing in a deep breath of fresh air. It felt so good to be alive, he didn't want this day to end at all. He took one last survey of his settings and nodded to himself. It was time. He gave the tripod-mounted high-powered rifle with a silencer and scope attached one last caress, then he slipped his finger gently over the trigger, sighting in on the people in the park below.

And then he smiled. After all, it was just another ordinary day…

12:00 P.M.

Routine patrol, Central Division

"I almost didn't come into work today," says Jim Reed from the passenger seat of Adam-12. He sticks his arm out the window and waves to a bunch of schoolkids playing outside for recess on their school grounds. He smiles as they shout and run to the chain link fence to wave back.

I cast him a wary glance. "Why's that?" I ask. "You sick or something?" I slow the speed of the cruiser down so that Jim may acknowledge his adoring young fans.

He shakes his head. "No, it was my horoscope," he chuckles.

"Officer Friendly! Officer Friendly! Hi, Officer Friendly!" shout the kids with glee. Jim is the school's safety officer, otherwise known as Officer Friendly. It's too bad they don't know him by some of the other sobriquets I occasionally consider for him, such as Officer Doofus and Officer Mopey, or my all-time favorite: Officer-I-Don't-Wanna-Fill-This-Report-Out-So-You-Do-It-While-I-Get-A-Cup-Of-Coffee.

I roll my eyes. "You bonehead. You can't skip work because of your horoscope." Having passed the school, I goose Adam-12 back up to normal speed.

"I know it, Pete," he says. He falls quiet, gazing at the passing scenery with a small smile. He just waits, knowing what's coming next.

I sigh, taking the bait as always. Otherwise, he'll spend the rest of the watch sitting there with that silly-assed smirk on his face. "Okay, so what'd your horoscope say that made you not want to come in today?"

"It said 'Untold danger and disaster lurks on the horizon today. Use caution.'" he tells me. Then he waits patiently some more.

I roll my eyes as I bite again, like the idiot I am. "So what'd mine say today?"

"Untold danger and disaster lurks on the horizon today. Use caution."

I stare at him. "You're kidding, right? There's no way in hell my horoscope would read the same as yours, Jim."

He nods. "Yeah, that's what I thought. But it's funny, all the horoscopes listed say the same damned thing. Weird, huh? Maybe the planets are aligned funny." He snaps his finger. "That's IT! The moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter has aligned with Mars, and peace will guide the planets, and love will rule the stars!"

I groan. "I wish you'd quit listening to the Fifth Dimension," I say.

He grins widely. "You're just jealous 'cuz Lawrence Welk went out of style ages ago."

I glare at him. "I do NOT like Lawrence Welk, pal. Jazz, yes. Some rock, yes. Easy listening, no."

"Let's face it, Pete, you're gettin' old," he jibes good-naturedly. "I predict a rocking chair and a cat dozing on your lap in the near future."

I grin wickedly. "Oh, I can see a rocking chair, all right. And a cat, yes. A delightful little sex kitten I can teach to purr for me. And together, we'll make the chair rock."

"Dirty old man," he says, laughing.

I nod, chuckling. "Damned straight." I shrug. "Your stupid horoscopes were likely a misprinted error on the newspaper's part."

"What if it's not?" he asks.

"Disasters and danger come in many forms, Reed. It can mean anything from a plugged up toilet to a splot of mayo on your uniform. I wouldn't worry about it."

"Says the wise elder," he comments.

"Ah, you're learning, young grasshopper," I tell him wryly. "I've taught you well."

He shrugs. "I've learned at the hands of the master," he tells me gravely.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, remind me to thank Mac for his wise words when we get to the station," he says, completely deadpan.

"Smartass," I tell him with a snort.

"Yeah, but you like me anyway, right?" He regards me with one of those high-wattage Jim Reed grins.

I shake my head, grinning back. "No. I only put up with you 'cuz Ed Wells is even worse."

"You comin' over to watch the fight on tv Saturday night?" he asks.

"I planned to. Did you want me to bring anything?" I ask.

"Um…yeah. Bring the pretzels and the chips. I'll supply the beer and sandwiches."

"Is Jean okay with that?" I ask.

He gives me an evasive look. "Yeah," he says with a nod. "She's got plans that night to meet with one of her friends from her writing class." He doesn't elaborate, and I know not to push him, since the Reed's marriage has been somewhat rocky as of late.

I glance in the rearview mirror and see a car speeding up on us. It zips out around us in the left-hand lane, and continues on, doing well over the posted speed limit.

"You're gonna go after that car, right?" Reed asks, pointing out the windshield at the car that has nearly left us in the dust.

"You bet I am. They'd better have a damned good excuse for passing a police car like that," I say, pushing down on the accelerator in order to catch up to the speeder. I quickly catch up to them and fall in behind them, giving two blasts on the horn so I can get their attention and direct them to pull over. Signalling, the blue Ford Galaxy pulls over to the curb and I pull in behind it.

Reed picks up the radio mike. "Dispatch, this is One-Adam-12. Run a check on license plate 452 Ocean-Victor-Nora," he says.

"One-Adam-12, stand by," comes the dispatcher's voice. A few seconds later she comes back on. "One-Adam-12, license plate 452 Ocean-Victor-Nora is a 1973 blue Ford Galaxy, registered to a Richard or Leona Zehring, of 2556 Sepulveda. No wants."

"One-Adam-12, roger. Show us code six at the corner of Pico and Western on a traffic stop," Reed tells the dispatcher.

"Roger, One-Adam-12," she replies.

We both get out of the squad car and approach the Galaxy. Reed stops near the back passenger side, while I go up to the driver's side window. "License and registration, please," I say to the only occupant, the driver.

She is a pretty blonde teenager in a red shirt and blue jeans and she looks up at me with a giggle. "Is there a problem, Officer?" she asks, batting her eyes at me.

"May I see your license and registration, please?" I repeat once more. I exchange an eye-roll over the roof of the car with Reed.

She fusses with her purse, pulling out a shiny red leather wallet. She hands it to me. "There, it's in there."

"Take it out of the wallet, please," I tell her.

She opens the catch on the wallet and pulls out her license, handing it to me. She smiles widely at me.

"I need your registration, too, Miss," I tell her.

"Oh, silly me!" she burbles. She reaches over to the glovebox and fishes the registration out, giving the piece of paper to me. "I just don't understand why you stopped me, Officer," she says. "I didn't think I was doing anything wrong."

"Is this your current address, Miss Zehring?" I ask her. "2556 Sepulveda?"

She nods, making her large hoop earrings sway dangerously. "Yes, it is."

Reed has come around to the trunk of the car and I hand the license and registration to him. "Run her," I tell him. Then I turn my attention back to the girl. "You came up behind us at a fairly high rate of speed back there," I tell her. "Then you proceeded to pass us, still speeding, and when you pulled back into the lane, you were still going too fast."

"Oh!" she says, tapping her finger against the steering wheel of the car. "I didn't know the speed limit back there."

"It's posted 35 miles per hour," I tell her. "And you were doing well over that, I can assure you."

"But I didn't see any signs," she says.

"They're there," I say. "You just needed to look."

"So, you're gonna write me a ticket?" she asks. "Even though I didn't see the signs?"

I nod. "I am. Wait in the car, please." I go over to Reed, who is getting information from the dispatcher.

He looks up at me as I approach. "She's clean. No wants or warrants," he says. "You want me to write her?" He has the ticket book in his hand.

"Yeah, go ahead," I say.

The driver has ignored my request to stay in the vehicle and has gotten out. She comes around to the back of her car. "You're really going to write me?" she asks.

"Yep," I say.

"Even though I didn't know the speed limit?" Her voice holds a bit of dismay.

"Yep," I say once more.

"I won't sign it," she snaps, her attitude taking a turn for the worse. "I won't sign the damned ticket. This is ridiculous. Do you two know who my father is?" She folds her arms and taps her foot impatiently.

I shake my head. "Nope." We get this a lot, the old oh, do you know who my father/uncle/brother/boyfriend/husband/neighbor is? routine. I could almost guess at what her next words would be. She was going to claim her daddy was an attorney, and therefore his darling daughter shouldn't be given a traffic ticket, on account of him being a lawyer and all.

"He's Richard Wendsworth, attorney at law. He's a very prominent attorney here in Los Angeles. Surely you've heard of him?" Her tone drips with derision.

"No, miss, sorry. We haven't," I say.

Reed has finished writing out the ticket and holds the book out for her to sign. "If you'll just sign here, miss, you'll be on your way," he tells her.

"I told you, I won't sign it," she snaps at him.

"It's not an admission of guilt, it's merely a promise to appear in court at this date and time," Reed tells her patiently. Like I said, we get this a lot. "You can fight the ticket then, if you wish."

She tosses her long blonde hair, fixing us with a narrow-eyed gaze. "And if I don't sign it?" she asks ominously.

"We'll be forced to take you to jail," I reply.

"You'd take me to jail over a TRAFFIC ticket?" she asks in astonishment.

"If that's the way you want to play it," I tell her. "It really makes no difference to us, one way or the other. But it might to you. Jail isn't all that pleasant of a place to go to, especially over a traffic ticket."

With a sigh, she takes Reed's ticket book and pen, scribbling her name furiously. She shoves the book and pen back to Jim, glaring at me. "There. I signed the damned thing. Are you happy?" she asks snidely.

"Incredibly so," I tell her in a bored tone, as Jim tears off her copy of the ticket and hands it back to her, along with her license and registration.

"Honestly," she gripes, snatching her papers back. "You think you pigs would have something better to do with your time than harass innocent people."

I give her a small smile utterly devoid of any humor. "Have a nice day now," I tell her in a bit of a snide tone of my own. "And remember to drive the speed limit."

"Screw you," she snaps, huffing off to her car. Flipping us the bird, she climbs in and pulls away from the curb, carefully obeying the speed limit.

"She told you, huh?" Reed grins as we climb back into the squad car.

"Yeah," I say. "My feelings are so hurt. I will cry HUGE tears into my pillow tonight because of it." I nod at the radio. "Clear us."

Still grinning, he picks up the radio mike. "One-Adam-12, clear."

"One-Adam-12, roger," replies the dispatcher.

Reed replaces the radio mike back in the holder, shaking his head. "Just another ordinary day on the streets of L.A., huh?" he says ruefully.

I sigh. "Yeah, you got it," I tell him.

"One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, copy a domestic, 496 East Elm Street," says the dispatcher as she sends us on another call. "Respond code two."

"One-Adam-12, roger," Jim says into the mike.

We're only about a half-mile away from the call, so we get there quickly. When we pull up to the curb, there's a cluster of curious neighbors standing around outside on the sidewalk, watching as a shrieking woman in a pink housecoat and curlers tosses clothing and other items out onto the lawn of the residence. A man, clad in an undershirt and brown pants, stares bewilderedly at the clothes flying past his head. Reed and I exchange a glance as we get out of the car. "I'll take the male subject," I tell him. "You take the female." He nods, and we start up the sidewalk to the house.

"Oshifers," the man says as he spots us. "I'm sho glad you're here. My wife is trying to kick me out of my housh." He sways unsteadily as we approach, and even from several feet away, I can smell the booze rolling off of him. "Pleash, do shomething," he says.

"You keep that rat bastard away from me!" shrieks the woman from the porch. "I don't want him here! Take him to jail! Let him sleep it off in the damned drunk tank!" She pitches another armload of clothes out onto the lawn for emphasis.

"You shee?" he asks. "She'sh gone complete…hic…ly crazy. All I had wash ONE little drinky, and she goesh nutsh. HIC!"

I recoil involuntarily from the smell of beer and rank body odor. "Um…yes, sir," I say placatingly. "May I see your driver's license please?"

"Oh no," he says solemnly. "I don't have one. It got taken…hic…away from me for too many DUI's."

Imagine that, I think to myself. "Do you have anything with your name on it, your social security card, a credit card, anything like that?" I ask. I glance up to see how Reed's faring with the female half, and he appears to have her calmed down a bit.

My subject nods sagely. "I have a shocial shecurity card," he tells me, fumbling in his pants pocket for it. He pulls it out and hands the whole wallet to me.

"Could you take it out of the wallet for me, please?" I ask politely.

"Shertainly," he says, grandiosely flipping the wallet open and removing his social security card. He hands it to me with a boozy flourish.

I study the name. "Mr. Leonard Kretzwinkle?" I ask. "Is that your name?"

He nods. "Indeedy, Oshifer. I've lived here at thish addressh for ten yearsh now. Never had a problem until today. I take one little drinky and she goesh bonkersh."

Reed comes down the walkway towards me. "Pete, can I talk to you for a minute?" he asks.

"Sure," I say. "Stay here, Mr. Kretzwinkle," I tell the drinky drunky.

When we're out of earshot of the two combatants, Reed begins to speak. "Mrs. Kretzwinkle is going to call a friend of his to come pick him up. He can stay at the friend's house until he sobers up. She doesn't want him taken to jail, just away from the residence for today and tonight."

"Any sign of assault on her?" I ask.

Reed shakes his head. "No. She says he never hits her when he gets drunk, he just gets goofy."

I look past Reed's shoulder at Mr. Kretzwinkle, who is trying to pick his clothing up from the lawn, and not having much success. He keeps losing articles of clothes out from under his arms. "If he agrees to go with the friend, I don't see any problem with that. We'd better ask him, though, and make sure it's fine with him."

"Okay," Reed says.

We approach Mr. Kretzwinkle, who is staring confoundedly at the clothing trail behind him. "Mr. Kretzwinkle, your wife is willing to call a friend of yours to come pick you up and keep you until you sober up. Do you have a problem with that?" I ask.

He looks up at his wife on the porch. "You'll call Larry?" he yells.

She comes down off the porch, arms folded across her chest. "Yes, you old fool. I'll call Larry for you. He'll come and get you, like he always does. You either go with him or you go to jail. It's your choice, Lenny."

His lower lip pooches out and begins to tremble. The drinky drunky is getting weepy, never a good thing. "Aw, you're a good wife, Mavis," he says, tears spilling down from his eyes. "I shtill love you."

She rolls her eyes and sighs. "Yeah, Lenny, I still love you. But not right now. Just agree to go with Larry and I'll get this mess picked up, okay?"

"Okay," he mumbles. "I'll go with Larry, honey. Whatever you say."

"Is there going to be any more problems after we leave?" I ask, handing Mr. Kretzwinkle his social security card back. "Because if we get called back out here again, someone's going to go to jail."

Mavis shakes her head. "No, there'll be no more trouble, Officer. Thank you for coming out. Sorry to have bothered you."

"It's not a problem, ma'am," Reed tells her. "That's what we're here for."

"All right," I say. "You listen to your wife, Mr. Kretzwinkle, and go with your friend for today and tonight. Then you can come back tomorrow, after you've sobered up, okay?"

"Okay," he says. "Whatever you shay, Offishers." He waves bye-bye to Reed and I as we head back to the patrol car and climb in.

"How about we start thinking about where we wanna take seven at?" I ask as we pull away from the curb. "I'm kinda starting to get hungry."

"Maybe that new sub shop over on Ventura?" Reed asks. "I hear they make a mean meatball sub."

"Sounds good. Go ahead and request it," I tell him.

"Dispatch, this is One-Adam-12, requesting code seven at Gary's Subs at 2313 Ventura Boulevard," Reed says into the mike.

"One-Adam-12, continue patrol," replies the dispatcher.

"One-Adam-12, roger," Jim says. He replaces the mike and turns to me. "I guess we'll have to wait for awhile," he tells me.

"Typical," I sigh. "It's just another ordinary day."

12:05 P.M.

Granite Court and Granite Park area

Through the scope of the rifle, he watched the people in the park below with a dispassionate air. He scanned the many random faces, trying to decide on a suitable target. He wanted someone who could be used to set the initial chain of events into motion. Someone whose sudden collapse might be noticed by a few, but ignored by the others. He didn't want to frighten them just yet, it wouldn't do to have his plans unravel by a screaming mob fleeing the park. With a sigh, he scanned the faces once more, and then one jumped out at him as far as suitability. The lone businessman who'd been enjoying his lunch and the paper in the park stood up from the picnic table, carefully taking his trash over to a nearby trash barrel and discarding it. And that was the last thing he would ever do. He started to turn, paper tucked under his arm, and the man on the roof pulled the trigger at that precise moment. Clutching his chest, the businessman keeled over onto the grass, dead from the bullet wound to his heart. Stepping back from the rifle, the man on the roof watched as one of the young mothers noticed him fall and approached the face-down man, feeling at his neck for a pulse. She motioned for one of the other young mothers to call for help at a nearby pay phone, and while the woman was doing that, she tried to roll the man over onto his back. With the help of another mother, she got him rolled over, and the two of them gazed horrified at the blood seeping from the wound in his chest. But since no one had witnessed what really happened, they weren't sure how the businessman ended up getting shot. Backing off in fear, they returned to their picnic table to await the arrival of help, while their children played unconcernedly on the playground equipment nearby. No one else noticed the dead man on the grass, completely oblivious that he'd been executed just yards away from them.

The wail of a siren approaching in the distance heralded the arrival of the cavalry. One of the young mothers, clutching her baby to her shoulder, ran out into the middle of the dead-end street to flag down the rescuers. The man on the roof watched her dance frantically in the street for a minute, then he calmly pulled the trigger, dropping her dead with a well-placed shot to the head. She crumpled to the ground, her child screaming in her arms, and he quickly silenced the baby's cries by blowing its head off. Mother and child lay in the roadway, gunned down like they were rabid dogs. The man turned his attention to the siren-screaming vehicle coming up the street. He smiled as he saw it, a black-and-white sheriff's car. It screeched to a halt in the middle of the street and the black-uniformed deputy got out and started to approach the dead woman in the street. A shot to the throat felled him alongside her, his white helmet thumping hard against the ground as he dropped.

People in the park began to take notice of the commotion on the street. A few curious ones had wandered towards the sidewalk when they heard the siren stop nearby. The man on the roof searched their faces as they babbled silently among themselves, gesturing to the dead woman and baby in the street, alongside the dead sheriff's deputy. Confusion colored their faces and he giggled to himself as he picked one of the scowling buisnessmen out for his next target. Carefully squeezing the trigger, he fired a shot into the man's stomach, causing him to crumple in agony, his hands over his gut. Faces began to look around as people tried to figure out just what the hell was happening. So the man fired another shot at a teenage girl, her arm linked with another girl's, blowing her head off in a mist of red and grey. Screaming, the other girl started to dance away in horror, but he fired on her, too, driving a bullet home through her heart. People began to panic now, as they realized they were being fired upon from somewhere nearby. Shrieking, some tried to flee into the park, while others tried to flee to their vehicles. Shouts of "Gunman!" rang out and spread rapidly through the park like wildfire. The preschool teachers hurriedly tried to gather up their charges and make for their brightly painted minibus, but he fired at them, catching one little girl in the shoulder, blasting it to shreds. He shot at one of the teachers, severing her spinal cord with a quick shot to the neck. She flopped to the ground like a broken marionette. One of the young mothers tried to coax her little boy down from the monkey bars; the gunman got him down for her with a shot to the chest. The little boy dropped to the sand below, his mother screaming next to his dead body. Some of the frightened people streamed out into the street below, and he peppered them with shots, killing a few, wounding a few. Some he allowed to limp back to what little cover the parked automobiles offered. He wasn't going to kill everyone, not yet, anyway.

Siren wailing, a red Los Angeles County rescue truck came roaring down the street and screeched to a halt at the curb. With dismay, he realized that it was evidently county's jurisdiction in which this park and building fell into, not the city's like he'd planned. It was a minor crimp in the details, but he'd deal with it. Grumbling, he took aim at the windshield of the truck, the sunlight blazing down on it nearly blinding him. He fired a couple of shots into it that shattered the glass, and he was amused to see two blue-shirted paramedics bail out the passenger side of the truck in a big fat-assed hurry. They dived for cover at the side of the rig, putting them out of sight of the man on the roof.

He turned his attention back to the people in the park. He noticed that everyone had scrambled for cover wherever they could find it for now. He watched them, cowering behind overturned picnic tables, benches, the granite fountain, the park pavilion, the low stone wall. Those that couldn't find shelter huddled as close to the ground as they possibly could. He could hear the sobs and moans of the truly scared and grievously injured. He noticed one of the teenaged boys peeking his head up from over the fountain, and a shot from the gunman took the kid's head off.

The low moaning siren of an approaching fire engine caught his attention. But instead of coming down the road, the fire truck stopped in the street, about a block and a half away from the scene of carnage below. With a grimace, he realized that the firemen aboard and their truck were out of his shooting range. The modifications he'd made to the rifle in order to improve its accuracy had cut down on its range. Oh well, no matter. He noticed one of the young mothers he'd already wounded was making a desperate crawl on the sidewalk towards the paramedics. He allowed her to get to the front of their rig, then he fired into her chest, killing her. He saw one of the medics start to dart out to help the fallen woman, but a quick shot over the medic's head made him change his mind. Just for good measure, the gunman took aim and shattered the red light bar at the top of the vehicle, the headlights, the two tires on the left side of the truck, and the sideview mirror on that same side. So they wouldn't get any ideas about trying to help any of the wounded. He stopped firing momentarily, gazing at his watch. His whole attack had taken less than ten minutes, he estimated. He threw back his head for a moment, brimming with joy. He was doing what he was born to do, be a cold and calculating sniper on a rooftop. Only HE decided who would live and who would die. He would kill and maim with abandon, striking stark fear into the hearts of those that cowered whimpering below. And when he got through, he was sure that he'd leave no one alive, he was certain of that. For he was GOD! and he was hunting humans. And that powerful notion made him feel exhilarated, alive. He was going to be something he'd always longed to be: famous.

Turning away from the gun a moment, he grabbed up the police scanner and turned it up. With a sigh of disgust for himself, he realized that he had only programmed in the city police bands, and not the county bands on the scanner's crystals. He paused, thinking. Surely the county deputies couldn't be expected to handle an incident like this on their own, could they? And he could have sworn that he'd heard that part of this area was in the city jurisdictional lines. He waited, keeping an eye on the people below. He fired a few random shots over their heads, just to keep them bowed down for now. And then the scanner in his hand crackled to life, giving him the message he wanted to hear, the female dispatcher's voice calling out over the airwaves with precise words.

"One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, assist county fire at 1000 Granite Court…"

12:15 P.M.

Routine patrol, Central Division

"One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, assist county fire at 1000 Granite Court," comes the dispatcher's voice over our radio. "Respond code three."

Reed picks up the mike, looking puzzled. "One-Adam-12, roger," he says into it. Clicking it off, he looks at me. "Wonder what that's all about?" he asks. "County usually doesn't ask for our help on their calls, especially county fire."

I reach over and flip on the lights and siren. "Dunno," I say with a shrug. "Maybe they have a big fire and need traffic control or something."

He leans forward and peers out the windshield. "I don't see any smoke or anything," he says. He frowns. "Granite Court," he says thoughtfully. "That's that development that was the subject of a bit of dispute over city and county a few months ago, I think."

I flick a glance over at him, then keep my eyes on the road. "I guess I don't remember it. What was it about?"

"Jurisdiction," he says. "Whose area the development landed in. There was a boundary issue. One side of the street is in county's jurisdiction, while the other side of the street is in the city's. It gave the zoning board fits, if I recall right. They finally resolved it by dividing the jurisdiction right down the middle of the road." He shrugs. "Maybe it's a city call that was given to county by mistake, and they don't want to handle it."

"Could be," I say. The radio interrupts me before I can say any more.

"One-Adam-12, and any available units that can respond with One-Adam-12, meet Los Angeles County Fire Engine 51 at the corner of Adamson Avenue and Palmtree Drive," the dispatcher tells us.

"One-Adam-12, roger," Reed says once more into the mike. He bites his lip. "Bomb threat, maybe?" he asks.

"They haven't asked for the bomb squad yet," I say. "Maybe it's a family dispute or something. Or a bar…"

The dispatcher interrupts me again. "One-Adam-12, and all units responding with One-Adam-12, copy further information on this call. LA County Fire Engine 51 reports that their paramedic unit is under fire from a sniper at 1000 Granite Court."

Reed and I exchange astonished looks. "Did she say a SNIPER?" he asks. Grabbing the mike up, he clicks it. "Dispatch, this is One-Adam-12, requesting a repeat on that last transmission," he says.

"One-Adam-12, and all units responding with One-Adam-12, LA County Fire Engine 51 reports that their paramedic unit is under fire from a sniper at 1000 Granite Court," the dispatcher patiently repeats.

"One-Adam-12, roger," Jim says. "Christ, a SNIPER?" he asks.

"One-Adam-12, please advise what you have when you arrive on scene," the dispatcher says. "We are receiving multiple calls regarding a sniper shooting at subjects in the Granite Court and Granite Park areas."

"One-Adam-12, roger," Jim says. "We'll advise of the situation when we arrive on scene."

I turn the corner and reach over, turning off the lights and siren. "We're coming up on Adamson and Palmtree," I say.

Reed points to a big red fire engine parked on the street. "There's Engine 51," he says.

I pull the squad up next to the fire truck and the two of us get out. The fire captain approaches us. I recognize him as Captain Hank Stanley from Los Angeles County Fire Station 51. "What do you have?" I ask. "Dispatch told us it was a possible sniper."

"It's not a possible sniper," he tells us grimly. "It IS a sniper. He's got two of my paramedics pinned down by their truck. They report that there are several casualties and injuries that they can see from their vantage point. They're unable to get to anyone though, he shoots at them whenever they try." He gestures up the street to the scene that lies about a block and a half away from us. "You can see for yourselves."

Jim and I both look up the street where he points. And what we see on the street before us is like something right out of Dante's Inferno. Shock turns to disbelief, turns to horror as we visualize the gruesome scene. The dead and the dying lay scattered on the pavement, like soldiers fallen on a bloody battlefield. "Oh, sweet Jesus Christ," I breathe, completely stunned. I reach in through the open window of the patrol car and grab up the mike. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I click it and begin to speak. "Dispatch, this is One-Adam-12…"

"Dispatch, this is One-Adam-12, do you copy?"

"Dispatch copies, One-Adam-12, go ahead with your traffic."

"Dispatch, we appear to have an active sniper situation in the vicinity of 1000 Granite Court. Request One-L-20 and all units responding to this to meet me on Tac2."

"Roger that, One-Adam-12. One-L-20, did you copy One-Adam-12's traffic?"

"One-L-20 copies. Switching over to Tac2...One-Adam-12, this is One-L-20 on Tac 2, what exactly have you got, Pete?"

"Mac, we've got a sniper somewhere in the area of Granite Court. We're unable to ascertain his location at this time. We believe he's either on the roof of the Granite Court building or in the parking ramp right next to it. County fire reports numerous injuries and possible fatalities on the ground and in Granite Park. We have several civilians pinned down by gunfire, along with a county paramedic unit. Request a SWAT team, logistics truck, sound truck, and several ambulances be set to our location at Adamson Avenue and Palmtree Drive. Also request Air Ten if available."

"Roger, Pete. I'll go ahead and have dispatch call for the SWAT team and the ambulances, along with Air Ten. Can you give me an appoximate estimation on the number of civilians involved?"

"Uh…roger, Mac. It appears at this time that this is likely going to be a mass casualty incident. It looks like there's multiple fatalties and injuries, primarily in the park across the street from the gunman's location. I'd like a clear radio frequency to continue to transmit information."

"Roger, Pete. Stay on Tac2. All responding units stay on Tac2."

"One-Adam-11 copies, remaining on Tac2."

"One-Adam-14 copies, remaining on Tac2."

"One-Adam-43 copies, remaining on Tac2."

"One-Adam-49 copies, remaining on Tac2."

"Mac, this is Pete. You might want to have the dispatcher switch over to Tac2 also, just so we don't have to keep switching back and forth with information. That way she'll be advised of what we need right away."

"Roger that, Pete...Dispatch from One-L-20 on main ops, please switch over to Tac2 for the duration of this incident."

"Roger, One-L-20, dispatch is switching over from main ops to Tac2."

"Dispatch from One-L-20, request that you go ahead and activate the SWAT team and have at least two ambulances sent to this location. Also roll the logistics truck and a sound truck. I'll advise if we need further when I arrive on scene."

"Dispatch copies, One-L-20. Will activate SWAT team and request ambulances to be en route."

"One-L-20, this is Air Ten. We've been copying your traffic on Tac2 and are en route to your location now. We have about a ten minute ETA from the heliport to the area. We'll remain on Tac2."

"Roger, Air Ten, from One-L-20. Pete, does it look like there's any buildings that will need to be evacuated?"

"Possibly, Mac. We're not sure if the office building across the street from the park is open to the public yet or not. County fire is looking into that for us right now. We've got another building on the corner that should be evacuated, along with a used car lot. Uh…from what we can see here on the ground, you might want to consider activating the mass casualty and trauma teams from the area hospitals. I think we're gonna need more than just two ambulances on scene. This looks pretty bad, Mac."

"Roger, Pete. I'll make that decision when I arrive on scene. I have about a ten minute ETA to your location. Just stand by for now."

"Copy, Mac. We're standing by."

And, up on the rooftop of the brand-new, yet-to-open Granite Court building, the gunman also stood by…