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The 911
Nightmare
Nightmare
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I love technology. I'm reaffirming my appreciation for technology since
I often complain about its inefficiency. As I've stated many times, it's
always the people implementing and using technology that determines
the level of its efficiency... or inefficiency.
I was a patrol officer when the 911 emergency telephone system was
first implemented. It's been with us for a very long time now, and one
would think that any problems associated with the 911 system would
have long since been resolved. But...remember? People remain an
intragal part of 911.
When I began my police career, the citizens of Baltimore would dial 222-
3333 for police service. It was a few more numbers than 911, but it was
easy to remember and dial, and I never heard anyone complain about
the number. The calls were answered in the police department's
Communications Division. The Division was heavily staffed by limited
duty police officers who were either permanently, or temporarily, unable
to work the street due to physical disabilities. The officers had street
experience, so they could easily relate to callers and the problems they'd
describe.
We responded to everything. The Police Commissioner at that time was
guided by a philosophy of service, and he projected that philosophy to
every aspect of the department's mission. For some reason, I'll always
remember a call I received early on a Sunday morning. The dispatcher
gave me the assignment, "Respond to [address] and investigate the
woman's problem." Doesn't sound like much to go on, does it?
However, remember that the dispatcher was a police officer. I knew
that he probably knew what the problem was and since he didn't
elaborate, I knew that the problem likely had nothing to do with police
work. I also knew that he was not omitting any information that would
affect my safety. You'll notice that I use the words "probably" and
"likely," because you must never take anything for granted when it
comes to police work. I responded to this call with the same care and
caution as I would on any other.
Okay...you're probably expecting something really scary. Sorry, not so.
A frail lady in her 80's answered the door. She was distraught – not
because she'd been attacked or that someone had attempted to break
into her home... no, nothing that dramatic. She was distraught because
the water in her toilet tank would not stop running. Now, if you're one
of the tough no nonsense cops, you might tell this woman to call a
plumber and leave it at that. Then again, picture yourself nearing the
end of your life, physically frail, living alone with no family or relatives
nearby, and living on a fixed income. I'm sure you could appreciate
having a police officer humiliate you for wasting his or her time for such
an insignificant problem. In this case, it took me all of a minute to fix
the problem, and I doubt the citizens of Baltimore suffered from my
brief out-of-title task.
What my Police Commissioner from long ago understood, and what
many of today's police chiefs and commanders have forgotten – if they
ever knew – is that, unlike technology, people don't change all that
much. Depending upon where you become a police officer, you may find
that 911 is a monster. In Baltimore, the 911 system became so popular
and utilized that Baltimore became the first city to implement the 311
system for non-emergency calls. While the 311 system has been
declared a stunning success, that's a conclusion that's open to
interpretation. Again, you've got people at the end of a telephone line –
rarely police officers these days – deciding what is or is not an
emergency and prioritizing calls in order of importance.
The basic problem with 911, or any other technology utilized by police
departments, is the belief of politicians and top police commanders that
the more expensive and complicated a technology is, the less people it
will take to feed the technology. When you join a police department,
you'll soon hear the complaints about Patrol's time being consumed with
"chasing 911 calls." You see, the uniformed police officers of the patrol
bureau or division of any police department are the people tasked with
responding to 911 calls for service.
Back to my first Police Commissioner. Looking back over the years
and all the changes I've observed, he seems like a genius. More
realistically, he was just a highly skilled and competent administrator.
When it came to calls for service, he knew that he had to structure his
human resources to meet demand, and that the police officer's response
time was the measure of efficiency. He also knew that uniform patrol,
the most important and indispensable entity of any police department,
had to be viewed and maintained as such.
I guess it all comes down to how you view things. When you're "chasing
911 calls," don't be too quick to blame the people making the calls.
First, look at how your patrol force is structured and maintained. If you
examine the issue closely along with all the schemes to dissect and
prioritize, you may eventually find yourself in agreement with me and a
long forgotten Baltimore Police Commissioner.
I often complain about its inefficiency. As I've stated many times, it's
always the people implementing and using technology that determines
the level of its efficiency... or inefficiency.
I was a patrol officer when the 911 emergency telephone system was
first implemented. It's been with us for a very long time now, and one
would think that any problems associated with the 911 system would
have long since been resolved. But...remember? People remain an
intragal part of 911.
When I began my police career, the citizens of Baltimore would dial 222-
3333 for police service. It was a few more numbers than 911, but it was
easy to remember and dial, and I never heard anyone complain about
the number. The calls were answered in the police department's
Communications Division. The Division was heavily staffed by limited
duty police officers who were either permanently, or temporarily, unable
to work the street due to physical disabilities. The officers had street
experience, so they could easily relate to callers and the problems they'd
describe.
We responded to everything. The Police Commissioner at that time was
guided by a philosophy of service, and he projected that philosophy to
every aspect of the department's mission. For some reason, I'll always
remember a call I received early on a Sunday morning. The dispatcher
gave me the assignment, "Respond to [address] and investigate the
woman's problem." Doesn't sound like much to go on, does it?
However, remember that the dispatcher was a police officer. I knew
that he probably knew what the problem was and since he didn't
elaborate, I knew that the problem likely had nothing to do with police
work. I also knew that he was not omitting any information that would
affect my safety. You'll notice that I use the words "probably" and
"likely," because you must never take anything for granted when it
comes to police work. I responded to this call with the same care and
caution as I would on any other.
Okay...you're probably expecting something really scary. Sorry, not so.
A frail lady in her 80's answered the door. She was distraught – not
because she'd been attacked or that someone had attempted to break
into her home... no, nothing that dramatic. She was distraught because
the water in her toilet tank would not stop running. Now, if you're one
of the tough no nonsense cops, you might tell this woman to call a
plumber and leave it at that. Then again, picture yourself nearing the
end of your life, physically frail, living alone with no family or relatives
nearby, and living on a fixed income. I'm sure you could appreciate
having a police officer humiliate you for wasting his or her time for such
an insignificant problem. In this case, it took me all of a minute to fix
the problem, and I doubt the citizens of Baltimore suffered from my
brief out-of-title task.
What my Police Commissioner from long ago understood, and what
many of today's police chiefs and commanders have forgotten – if they
ever knew – is that, unlike technology, people don't change all that
much. Depending upon where you become a police officer, you may find
that 911 is a monster. In Baltimore, the 911 system became so popular
and utilized that Baltimore became the first city to implement the 311
system for non-emergency calls. While the 311 system has been
declared a stunning success, that's a conclusion that's open to
interpretation. Again, you've got people at the end of a telephone line –
rarely police officers these days – deciding what is or is not an
emergency and prioritizing calls in order of importance.
The basic problem with 911, or any other technology utilized by police
departments, is the belief of politicians and top police commanders that
the more expensive and complicated a technology is, the less people it
will take to feed the technology. When you join a police department,
you'll soon hear the complaints about Patrol's time being consumed with
"chasing 911 calls." You see, the uniformed police officers of the patrol
bureau or division of any police department are the people tasked with
responding to 911 calls for service.
Back to my first Police Commissioner. Looking back over the years
and all the changes I've observed, he seems like a genius. More
realistically, he was just a highly skilled and competent administrator.
When it came to calls for service, he knew that he had to structure his
human resources to meet demand, and that the police officer's response
time was the measure of efficiency. He also knew that uniform patrol,
the most important and indispensable entity of any police department,
had to be viewed and maintained as such.
I guess it all comes down to how you view things. When you're "chasing
911 calls," don't be too quick to blame the people making the calls.
First, look at how your patrol force is structured and maintained. If you
examine the issue closely along with all the schemes to dissect and
prioritize, you may eventually find yourself in agreement with me and a
long forgotten Baltimore Police Commissioner.
| A 911 Tragedy |
Marshall Frank served thirty years in law enforcement in
Miami, Florida, including sixteen years working homicide where he
was a detective, supervisor -- and ultimately -- as a Captain he
commanded the Homicide Bureau. After retiring from the
Miami-Dade Police Department in 1990, Frank went on to become
a writer, now with eight published books, five fiction and three
non-fiction.
Marshall was kind enough to share the following true story from
his police career as a homicide investigator. The "Complaint
Officer" in this story was a civilian employee. Do you think an
experienced police officer may have handled this incident
differently?
Miami, Florida, including sixteen years working homicide where he
was a detective, supervisor -- and ultimately -- as a Captain he
commanded the Homicide Bureau. After retiring from the
Miami-Dade Police Department in 1990, Frank went on to become
a writer, now with eight published books, five fiction and three
non-fiction.
Marshall was kind enough to share the following true story from
his police career as a homicide investigator. The "Complaint
Officer" in this story was a civilian employee. Do you think an
experienced police officer may have handled this incident
differently?
| Calling 9-1-1: Staying Calm Can Be Hazardous by Marshall Frank |
Sometimes it pays to lose your cool.
Take the case of Lenona Suggs, age thirteen. Lenona was raised as a
single child by a single parent who worked by day and mothered by
night. She dreamt one day of becoming a lawyer and prayed that she
would makes grades that would earn a scholarship. She was an
attractive child, wire thin, with smooth chocolate skin and slanted eyes
which suggested a hint of Asia somewhere in her bloodline.
Mama had been married once but her man vanished one day after a
night out with the boys when Lenona was only a year old. Mama worked
the next twelve years cleaning white people’s homes in upscale
neighborhoods. A devoted mother, indeed, Mama would make sure her
daughter would never suffer the same foolish fate, marrying a loser,
then having no other skills than scrubbing toilets and floors on bended
knees. She read stories to Lenona at night, helped her with homework
and spoke openly about sex, drugs and violence and the rigors of life.
She often left Lenona home alone during late afternoons while she
worked beyond rush hour. She covered those bases also. “If you’re ever
real sick or you’re hurt, or you’re afraid, be sure and call 9-1-1,” she
said. “They will be at the house in seconds. And whenever you talk to
the police, try and be real calm and speak clearly so they can
understand you.”
“Okay, Mama.”
One bright Thursday afternoon, while Lenona was working on her
algebra homework, she heard a rap at the window. There was Darryl
Ray Stiles, a 15 year-old boy she knew from school, a boy who had often
made advances for her attention to no avail, a boy who had failed the
seventh grade and then the eighth. Lenona waved him off. “Go away!”
But Darryl was persistent. He beat on the window, then went to the
front door. “Let me in,” he shouted.
“Go away! Please.” Lenona scampered from door to door making sure
bolts and latches were in place. Then she peered out the windows
following his motion as he circled the house. She could see that he was
wired, intense, determined.
As he pounded on the door, she was afraid he’d break the locks.
Petrified, she lifted the phone and called 9-1-1. Her mother’s words
echoed through her brain. “When you talk to the police, try to be real
calm….”
Lenona: “Hello, my name is Lenona Suggs. I’m thirteen, and I’m alone,
and there is a boy trying to break into my house. He’s outside right
now, please send someone.”
Officer: “I see. Give me your address young lady.”
Lenona: “It’s 3640 Northwest 77th street. Please, he trying to get
inside.”
Officer: “I see. Do you know this boy?”
Lenona: “Yes, his name is Darryl. I know him.”
Officer: “Uh huh. And how do you know this boy, Miss Suggs?”
Lenona: “He be after me all the time in school. Please, could you send
someone out here. He’s trying to get into my house.”
Officer: “Sure. Just stay right there, and we’ll get someone out there as
soon as we can.”
And so it went. Judging by her quiet and deliberate manner, the
complaint officer logged the call as a domestic dispute between
schoolmates and lay it in the “non-emergency” stack. Police would be
dispatched only after other more pressing calls were answered.
A two-man cruiser arrived thirty-five minutes later where they found
the rear kitchen door ajar and windows broken with shards of glass
strewn about the floor. Inside, Lenona Suggs lay on the bedroom carpet
agaze at the ceiling in a pool of crimson blood, her clothes ripped from
her body and a screwdriver impaled into her heart. Lenona’s dream of
becoming a lawyer was forever terminated by a young lunatic and his
rock of crack cocaine.
No one will ever know, for certain, if Lenona’s life would have been
saved had the police rushed there in emergency mode. But we do know
that these split-second decisions are often guided by the emotional pitch
of the moment. In this case, Mama’s good advice backfired.
Sure, Darryl Ray Stiles was arrested, tried as an adult, and sentenced to
life in prison. But so what? Nothing could bring Lenona back.
Unconsoled by good detective work and a fine prosecution, Mama went
into depression and ultimately disappeared from the face of the earth,
just like Lenona’s father.
The Complaint Officer? Handicapped and wheelchair bound, this
congenial old man simply thought it was a domestic squabble and no
emergency, because the girl didn’t sound like she was in peril. He
wished the caller had been more hysterical.
No discipline was administered to the gentleman, but it didn’t matter.
He’ll live with it for a lifetime.
Yes, this is a true story…from the annals of Miami-Dade P.D. It could
happen anywhere.
Take the case of Lenona Suggs, age thirteen. Lenona was raised as a
single child by a single parent who worked by day and mothered by
night. She dreamt one day of becoming a lawyer and prayed that she
would makes grades that would earn a scholarship. She was an
attractive child, wire thin, with smooth chocolate skin and slanted eyes
which suggested a hint of Asia somewhere in her bloodline.
Mama had been married once but her man vanished one day after a
night out with the boys when Lenona was only a year old. Mama worked
the next twelve years cleaning white people’s homes in upscale
neighborhoods. A devoted mother, indeed, Mama would make sure her
daughter would never suffer the same foolish fate, marrying a loser,
then having no other skills than scrubbing toilets and floors on bended
knees. She read stories to Lenona at night, helped her with homework
and spoke openly about sex, drugs and violence and the rigors of life.
She often left Lenona home alone during late afternoons while she
worked beyond rush hour. She covered those bases also. “If you’re ever
real sick or you’re hurt, or you’re afraid, be sure and call 9-1-1,” she
said. “They will be at the house in seconds. And whenever you talk to
the police, try and be real calm and speak clearly so they can
understand you.”
“Okay, Mama.”
One bright Thursday afternoon, while Lenona was working on her
algebra homework, she heard a rap at the window. There was Darryl
Ray Stiles, a 15 year-old boy she knew from school, a boy who had often
made advances for her attention to no avail, a boy who had failed the
seventh grade and then the eighth. Lenona waved him off. “Go away!”
But Darryl was persistent. He beat on the window, then went to the
front door. “Let me in,” he shouted.
“Go away! Please.” Lenona scampered from door to door making sure
bolts and latches were in place. Then she peered out the windows
following his motion as he circled the house. She could see that he was
wired, intense, determined.
As he pounded on the door, she was afraid he’d break the locks.
Petrified, she lifted the phone and called 9-1-1. Her mother’s words
echoed through her brain. “When you talk to the police, try to be real
calm….”
Lenona: “Hello, my name is Lenona Suggs. I’m thirteen, and I’m alone,
and there is a boy trying to break into my house. He’s outside right
now, please send someone.”
Officer: “I see. Give me your address young lady.”
Lenona: “It’s 3640 Northwest 77th street. Please, he trying to get
inside.”
Officer: “I see. Do you know this boy?”
Lenona: “Yes, his name is Darryl. I know him.”
Officer: “Uh huh. And how do you know this boy, Miss Suggs?”
Lenona: “He be after me all the time in school. Please, could you send
someone out here. He’s trying to get into my house.”
Officer: “Sure. Just stay right there, and we’ll get someone out there as
soon as we can.”
And so it went. Judging by her quiet and deliberate manner, the
complaint officer logged the call as a domestic dispute between
schoolmates and lay it in the “non-emergency” stack. Police would be
dispatched only after other more pressing calls were answered.
A two-man cruiser arrived thirty-five minutes later where they found
the rear kitchen door ajar and windows broken with shards of glass
strewn about the floor. Inside, Lenona Suggs lay on the bedroom carpet
agaze at the ceiling in a pool of crimson blood, her clothes ripped from
her body and a screwdriver impaled into her heart. Lenona’s dream of
becoming a lawyer was forever terminated by a young lunatic and his
rock of crack cocaine.
No one will ever know, for certain, if Lenona’s life would have been
saved had the police rushed there in emergency mode. But we do know
that these split-second decisions are often guided by the emotional pitch
of the moment. In this case, Mama’s good advice backfired.
Sure, Darryl Ray Stiles was arrested, tried as an adult, and sentenced to
life in prison. But so what? Nothing could bring Lenona back.
Unconsoled by good detective work and a fine prosecution, Mama went
into depression and ultimately disappeared from the face of the earth,
just like Lenona’s father.
The Complaint Officer? Handicapped and wheelchair bound, this
congenial old man simply thought it was a domestic squabble and no
emergency, because the girl didn’t sound like she was in peril. He
wished the caller had been more hysterical.
No discipline was administered to the gentleman, but it didn’t matter.
He’ll live with it for a lifetime.
Yes, this is a true story…from the annals of Miami-Dade P.D. It could
happen anywhere.