A/N: I have to admit I'm not entirely sure when 9-1-1 was introduced in L.A. County. Let's just pretend it was in full swing for this story.

Chapter 3: Areas of Expertise

It was one of those nights, at the L.A. County Dispatch Center. No time for a coffee break—heck, there'd hardly been time for bathroom breaks. Sam Lanier had been a dispatcher for seven years, ever since a knee injury knocked him out of active duty, and he knew when he came in for his shift that evening that it was going to be a doozy. It had been over a hundred degrees all day, and a nasty temperature inversion was keeping the hot air trapped on the city, so even now, at ten p.m., it was in the nineties. People were going crazy, all over the county, but especially in the more urban areas, where the heat was relentless.

Luckily for the firefighters, there'd been only one structure fire that day. But it had sent multiple firemen to the hospital with heat exhaustion. The various law enforcement agencies dispatched from the center had had their hands full, as had emergency medical services.

Sam's first call of the night sounded like it was going to be a bad domestic violence situation, from what the caller said.

"It sounds like they're killing each other in there!"

Great. Never a good sign.

"All right, sir. I need the address of the incident, your name, and a number we can call you back at."

The caller provided the information in such a panic that Sam had to ask him to slow down and repeat himself. He finally confirmed that he had the correct information, instructed the caller not to try to intervene in any way, and dispatched two cars to the scene.

Sam's line rang again as soon as he pressed the button on his phone that said he was ready for another call.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"My baby just ate a crayon!"

One of the wonderful things about working dispatch was that you could make any facial expression you wanted, and nobody would care. Sam rolled his eyes, and replied. "Ma'am, is your baby breathing?"

"Breathing? Yes, of course he's breathing, or I would've said he wasn't breathing! But he ate a crayon—the whole thing, I think—and I don't know if it's poisonous!"

It sounded ridiculous to Sam, but it wasn't his job to decide that. It was his job to decide who to send.

"All right, ma'am. I need your name, and your address, and a number where we can call back, please."

She gave him the information, a little more calmly than the last caller—but not much.

"Try to keep the baby calm and quiet, and we'll have the paramedics out there shortly."

Sam felt ridiculous as he toned out Squad 36, and announced the call. "Squad 36, child swallowed a foreign object. 2387 North Bradshaw. 2-3-8-7 North Bradshaw, cross street Lilac. Time out: 2214."

He was glad that dispatch protocol did not entail stating what the child had swallowed. He wished, for the thousandth time, that there were a way to tell them not to respond with lights and sirens. A crayon, for Pete's sake. It would probably make for a colorful diaper, but calling 9-1-1?

When Squad 36 acknowledged the call, Sam once again opened his line, knowing it wouldn't be long until his phone rang again.

He wasn't disappointed.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"My girlfriend really needs help, right now!"

Oh boy. Sam recognized panic in the man's voice, so he knew he needed to get the location right away.

"All right—what's the address she's at right now?"

"Uh, her apartment—uh, 2389 Hanshaw, apartment 3-F. In Carson."

"Is that where you are, too?"

"Yes—I'm telling you, she needs help, right now! Oh shit—" And the line clicked dead.

"Sir?" Shit.

Sam keyed the information into their new computer system, and a page of information came up. The address had a long and recent history of calls—extreme intoxication, possible overdose, domestic violence, and on, and on. There was a flag from the Sheriff's department to respond law enforcement to any incident at the address.

First things first. Sam dispatched a Sheriff's car to the location, explaining the unknown nature of the call and the history of incidents. The deputy instructed him to have the paramedics wait to enter the premises until the law enforcement unit arrived. Then he hit the button to tone out the nearest available Fire Department station. For this type of call, the "help" the girlfriend needed might be anything from getting unstuck from a curling iron—which Sam sincerely doubted, based both on the address and the tone of the caller—to needing treatment for a gunshot wound, to needing to be rescued from a gang, or anything in between. Whatever it was, manpower would likely be needed. And if it wasn't, whoever wasn't needed would call themselves in as available as soon as they could.

"Station 51, unknown type rescue. 2389 Hanshaw apartment 3-F as in Frank, 2-3-8-9 Hanshaw apartment 3-F as in Frank, cross street Gardena Ave. Law enforcement is en route and advises to await their arrival before entering premises. Time out: 2222." An auspicious number, for a probably inauspicious call.

"Station 51, KMG-365."

Sometimes he missed the action of his old career, but today, Sam sure didn't envy whoever was at the other end of that radio transmission.

~!~!~!~

"Crap—I hate going to this place. Seems like we bail them out of trouble and then they just jump right back into it, all on their own."

"You remember our last call to that apartment?" Roy asked.

"Yeah—the one where the cops canceled us on arrival, because it turned out just to be a shouting match?"

"Uh-huh—and how 'bout the one before that?"

Johnny squinted and looked up to the corner of the cab, as if he might find an answer there. "Oh, yeah! When the chick smashed the picture frame over the guy's head, and claimed she didn't realize it would hurt him, 'cause they do that in the movies all the time?"

"Uh huh, except without glass in the frame. Sheesh."

They pulled into the apartment complex, and Roy turned towards building three.

"At least they don't have kids," Johnny commented, as he exited the squad.

Roy made a face. "Bite your tongue, Junior."

They pulled out their first-in equipment, and dutifully waited for the cop car to show up.

The engine pulled into the lot, and Mike parked it next to a hydrant, for good measure. The four members of the engine company trooped over to the squad.

"Hate these," Johnny said, to anyone who would listen, which at that particular moment was everyone, since all six men were thinking the same thing.

A minute later, a black-and-white pulled up in front of the squad, and two deputies emerged.

"Howdy, fellas," said one. "Here's the story: the guy called in that his girlfriend needed help, and then hung up. We're here about every other day, and I can tell you personally, this couple is freakin' nuts—both of 'em. So it'll go like this: we go in, make sure the scene is safe. You two medics wait on the landing outside, and don't come in unless and until I say. You other four, wait down here. After the medics check the situation out, we'll either call you in or dismiss you. Got it?"

"Got it," Roy and Johnny said in unison. Cap nodded.

"All right. Here we go."

The two deputies, trailed by Johnny and Roy, went up the flight of stairs and across the outdoor corridor that the apartment doors opened onto. A window slammed shut as they walked past, and the deputies ignored the sweet herbal aroma as they headed to Apartment F which, of course, was at the very end of the corridor. Johnny and Roy hung back by the door to Apartment E.

The first deputy positioned himself at the door, and the second put his back against the wall beside the door. They nodded to each other, and the first man pounded on the door.

"Police! Open the door!"

To everyone's surprise, the door opened immediately. A young man in a t-shirt and ratty cut-offs came through the door, hands in the air.

"She's in the bedroom. I can't wake her up."

"Hands on the wall, feet apart," the second deputy ordered. The man complied, and the deputy frisked him down.

The man looked at Johnny and Roy and all their equipment. "Come on, aren't you gonna help her?"

Johnny rocked back and forth on his feet, ready to spring into action when he was given the word, but didn't move yet.

The deputy finished frisking the man.

"Anyone else in there, besides the girl?"

"No," the young man said sullenly.

"You stay put," the deputy warned. "Let's go in, Ed," he said to his partner.

The two deputies moved cautiously into the apartment. Roy and John stayed where they were, waiting to be called in, or not. The man looked nervously at them, and their equipment. He looked at the dead-end of the outdoor corridor, and the four-man engine crew below. He looked back at Johnny and Roy, who were between him and the stairs. He bit his lip, and before anyone realized what his plan was, he vaulted over the railing, got a foothold on the opposite side of the railing, grabbed the bottom rail, and dropped the remaining six feet to the ground.

He rolled as he hit the ground, and came up running—right towards the engine crew, who had unwittingly positioned themselves in the middle of the man's escape route. Chet raised his hands and tensed his muscles, ready to make a grab for the fleeing man, but Cap grabbed Chet by the shoulder first.

"No way, Kelly. Not our area of expertise."

Cap kept his hand on Chet's shoulder as the man flew past them, and felt Chet's shoulders fall as the fleeing man disappeared behind the next building.

Chet looked back at Cap. "Yeah. I know. It was just kind of an instinctual reaction, you know?"

Cap patted Chet firmly on the shoulder. "I know. Good man. It's not our specialty. We expect the cops to stay out of the burning buildings; they expect us to leave potentially armed and dangerous individuals to them."

"It was awful tempting to stick a leg out and trip him, though," Mike said. "I didn't think he looked dangerous. Scared, yes. Dangerous? Not really."

Marco shook his head. "Sometimes scared people are dangerous because they're scared, though. And Cap's right, Mike. Not our area of expertise."

"I think we all know that," Cap said. "But here's what I'm wondering: what's he scared of?"

Nobody answered, but four pairs of eyes gazed up to the outdoor corridor outside Apartment F.

Johnny and Roy waited dutifully, as they'd been told. A minute later, one of the deputies returned to the door.

"Come on back. It's just the girl, like the guy—hey, where'd he go?"

Johnny pointed to the ground. "Vaulted over the railing, and took off like a bat out of hell."

"Terrific. Well, come on back. Looks like the girl is out cold."

Johnny and Roy followed the deputy into the apartment, to the bedroom, where the first deputy was watching over the still figure of a young woman.

She was lying prone on the bed, one arm splayed out to her side, and the other trapped underneath her body. Her eyes were closed, and at first, she didn't appear to be moving at all. But on closer inspection, her rib cage moved slightly, every five seconds or so.

One deputy stood between the bed and the wall, and the other placed himself in the bedroom doorway.

Johnny and Roy took the other side of the bed. Johnny laid the oxygen cylinder on the foot of the bed, and Roy placed his equipment on the floor by the head of the bed.

"She's breathing, but that's about all I can tell from here. Let's roll her," Roy said. "Towards us, on my count. One, two, three—"

With a screech like sheet metal being torn in half, the woman suddenly surged to life. She raised her previously hidden arm, along with the foot-long knife she clenched in that hand.

"Knife!" the deputy on the other side of the bed shouted.

She went straight for him, shrieking so loudly it made every eardrum in the room buzz. Without hesitation, she plunged the knife towards the deputy, who instinctively tried to protect himself with a raised arm.

The deputy yelled as the knife went straight through his forearm and out the other side. He fell against the wall, instantly as pale as the cheap landlord-white paint on the walls, and slid to the floor, the knife lodged in his forearm to the hilt.

The deputy at the door grabbed the woman, who was all of five-three and a hundred and twenty pounds, and took her down to the floor, laying her out face down. He wrenched first one arm, and then the other, behind her back, and cuffed her, in ten seconds flat. The woman continued her shrieking, and added hissing and spitting to her nonverbal repertoire. She banged her head and face repeatedly against the fortunately carpeted floor, until the deputy switched his position and restrained her head to prevent her from harming herself.

The deputy looked up from the woman.

"Get your men," he ordered Roy, who flew out the door.

Johnny leaped across the bed, and landed next to the impaled deputy.

"Ohgodohgodohgod," he was saying, staring at the knife embedded in his arm. "Get it out! Get it out, fucking get it out!"

"Don't pull it out!" Johnny said, as the injured man reached for his hurt arm. Johnny knew from experience not to make any sudden moves towards an upset person with a gun on his belt, so he held his hands out appeasingly, and locked his gaze with that of the injured cop. Blood dripped down the man's arm, coating his hand with dark red blood.

"You're gonna be all right—but you can't pull the knife out, because that might make it bleed more, okay?"

"Listen to him, Ed," the other deputy said.

Five pairs of feet pounded into the room. Cap surveyed the situation, and whipped out the handi-talkie.

"Dispatch, from Engine 51. We need two ambulances and an additional law enforcement unit at our location."

"10-4, 51."

"You guys hold her down," the deputy ordered Cap, shouting over her continued screeching. "Watch her—she tried to bite me already."

"She won't get through a turnout coat," Cap muttered, as he and Mike took the top end of the woman, and Chet and Marco took her legs.

The room was the definition of chaos. Roy set up the biophone, while the engine crew struggled to hold the frenzied woman down without hurting her, and Johnny and the uninjured deputy dealt with the wounded officer.

"Bitch fucking stabbed me. It fucking hurts, Pete," Ed said plaintively to his partner. His skin was alarmingly pale and sweaty.

"I'm gonna take a look now, Ed, okay?" Johnny said.

"Yeah. Okay."

Johnny examined the wound, and noted a steady flow of dark red blood. No spurting, no bright crimson streams ebbing and flowing in time with the man's rapid pulse.

"Ohgodohgodohgod, I'm gonna bleed to death," Ed moaned.

"No, you're not," Johnny said calmly. "There's no arterial bleeding, which is really lucky." He climbed back over the bed, and got the oxygen tank. "I'm gonna give you some oxygen, all right?"

"But—but—you gotta get the knife out!"

"No," Johnny explained calmly, as he looped the elastic of the mask over the man's head. "We can't take it out here, because even though it missed the arteries on the way in, that doesn't mean it'd miss 'em on the way out. Plus, the knife might be pressing on something and keeping it from bleeding more. So what I'm gonna do is stabilize it in place so it can't move on the way to the hospital, and then the docs will take care of it there, all right?"

Ed let his head flop back against the wall. "Okay," he said in a small voice, which was barely audible over the constant shrieking.

Roy was dealing with his own problem on the other side of the room. "Rampart, this is Squad 51. We have two patients. The first is a female, approximately twenty-five years old. She appears uninjured, but is currently being restrained after stabbing the second patient and attempting self injury. She is unresponsive to questions, and screaming continuously. Pulse is 140 and regular, BP is not currently obtainable, and respirations are fourteen, but all exhalation is screaming. We can't rule out medical reasons for her behavior at this time."

"Copy, 51. Administer ten milligrams diazepam, IM, and repeat vitals."

"Ten milligrams diazepam, IM, copy. Rampart, I'm transferring you to the other paramedic for the second patient."

Roy handed the biophone over to Johnny. They didn't usually switch off on who was talking, but this situation warranted a deviation from their routine.

Johnny picked up the handset of the biophone. "The second patient is a male, approximately thirty years old. His right forearm is impaled by a kitchen knife, with a maximum blade width of approximately four centimeters. There are no signs of arterial bleeding, but there has been venous blood loss of approximately five hundred cc's. Pulse is 110, BP is 100/65, and respirations are 20 and shallow. Skin is cool, pale, and moist. Patient is on O2, fifteen liters per minute via non-rebreather. He appears to be in significant pain. The object has not yet been stabilized."

"Continue O2. Start an IV, Ringer's, and administer ten milligrams MS, IV. Stabilize the object and transport immediately."

"10-4, Rampart. IV of Ringer's, ten milligrams MS, IV, stabilize the object and transport."

Johnny looked back at Ed. "All right—the doc says you need an IV, for some fluid to replace the blood you've lost, and I'll also give you something to help with the pain," he said, as he started setting up the IV. "When you're feeling a little better, I'm gonna splint everything up there, so nothing moves on the way to the hospital. Okay?"

Ed reached up to his face with his left hand, and pulled the mask off.

"Gonna puke," he said.

Johnny whipped a rectangular plastic-lined bag out of his kit, and held it in front of Ed's face. Ed made good on his threat, becoming even more pale than he had been.

Johnny looked at Pete. "I need you to handle this end of things," he said, handing control of the bag over to Ed's partner. Pete paled as he felt the warmth of the bag, but continued to hold it where it needed to be.

Johnny started the IV in Ed's left arm, and slowly pushed the morphine. Ed looked up in alarm. "The hell is that shit?"

Johnny raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's not usually the reaction it gets. It's morphine. Is the pain any better?"

Ed ignored Johnny, and instead looked at Pete, and laughed. "I'm fuckin' high, man! On the job!"

Pete just patted Ed's shoulder. "That's okay. You're off duty now."

"I am?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Okay." Ed settled back into the wall, and didn't protest as Pete put the oxygen mask back on his face.

"Pete, we're gonna need to switch places, here, so I can work on that arm," Johnny said. "And try to keep him distracted, if you can," he said in a whisper, as he crossed in front of Pete.

"Sure." Pete folded the top of the barf bag over, set it aside, and stepped over Ed's outstretched legs.

Johnny climbed over the bed, and grabbed the bandage bag and the splint box. He glanced at Roy's patient, whose screams had devolved into mercifully quiet moans. He reached Ed's right side, and started his engineering project.

Five minutes, piles of gauze, and yards of Kling-wrap later, the knife and Ed's arm were immobilized and firmly affixed to an arm board. Ed was ready to go to the hospital.

"Roy, what's your patient's status?" Johnny asked.

"Rampart just had me give her five more milligrams of diazepam, so we can get her in safely. We're not quite ready to transport yet, here, so if you're ready, go ahead. There's two more deputies in the living room with Cap, so if your guy's partner wants to ride in with him he can. I'm sure one of the other guys would ride in with me."

Johnny looked over at Pete, who was still going strong at distracting Ed from both the pain and the sight of the knife sticking through his arm.

"Don't think there's any question about whether the partner is gonna ride in," Johnny said. "Anyhow—we're gonna roll. Catch you at Rampart."

Johnny and Pete got Ed loaded onto the waiting Mayfair gurney, down the stairs, and into the ambulance. The second Mayfair rig was waiting, as were flocks of yammering bystanders.

"Oh, man! That's a cop on the stretcher! Somebody's in biiiiiiig trouble."

"Was it that fuckin' Billy and Christine again?"

"I dunno—Billy ran past my place a few minutes ago."

"I can see either him or Christine stabbing a cop. Aw, man—that's gross! Lookit that knife!"

~!~!~!~

Back at the apartment, Roy faced another challenge.

"You have to uncuff her," he said to the deputy who was going to ride in with them.

"No way, man. Cuffs stay on."

"Officer, she's heavily sedated. She won't be able to do a thing."

"Cuffs stay on," the deputy repeated.

"Listen. I can't transport her face down. I can have the doctor at Rampart tell you that, if you prefer."

The deputy glared at Roy. "Fine. I'll uncuff her, but at soon as she's on the stretcher, the cuffs go back on, hands in front."

"Fine."

The deputy keyed the cuffs open, and he and Roy transferred the patient to the Mayfair gurney. As the deputy promised, he replaced the cuffs as soon as he could. As he did so, the woman spoke, for the first time.

"Kill you all."

Neither Roy nor the deputy was foolish enough to reply.

"All you men."

A single tear fell down the woman's face as Roy finished tightening the straps on the stretcher. She closed her eyes, and kept them closed for the entire trip to Rampart.

TBC