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〃Of course he doesn't；〃 she assured him； humming absently along with the tune。
Downtown； County Control was a maze of glass…walled cubicles deep in the pale green cinder…blocked bowels of the Courthouse Building。 County Control was the emergency services nerve center； linking seventy…three fire departments； forty…two ambulance panies； and fifty…five different police departments； most of them two…to…five…man borough forces。
Half the counties in Pennsylvania didn't even have 911 service； and wouldn't for years to e； which put Paradise somewhat ahead of the pack。 Still； Paradise County was a monument to bureaucratic provincialism： there was no county sheriff； no standardized training； no guarantee that any of its workers even talked to each other； no less shared vital job skills。
A crew of eight ran the plex web of telephone； puter； and radio munications。 It was a hodgepodge of state…of…the…art and prehistoric technology； the crazy…quilt survivor of a dozen pitched budget battles。 It ran twenty…four hours a day； every day of the year。
At the moment； it was dead silent。
That suited Dottie Hamm just fine。
She'd just e on shift at eight： manning the Metro dispatch desk； a Spenser novel in one hand and a box of Dunkin' Munchkins within easy reach of the other。 A thirty…two…ounce Big Gulp of Diet Coke sat by the wayside； ready to soothe the inevitable parched throat。
And Dottie was ready for action。
Three other civilian police dispatchers were on duty； covering city； county； and rural zones。 Across from the quad； Jerry and Jean worked the EMS and fire department lines。 Carol ran warrant searches and APBs from her post near the supervisor's office。 Overstaffed file cabinets stood near an IBM mainframe； and the whole plex burbled with the quiet nattering of crosstalk； punctuated by beeps and the squelched bark of static。
It was all music to Dottie's ears。 Sundays were like that。 EMS would doubtless see a little action 'round eleven。 When area services finished； there was always some oldster seizing up with the spirit out at the Church of the Nazarene； or slipping on the stairs at Zion's Gate and needing to be medevacced to glory。 But generally； folks just hibernated； generally； it was just too damn cold to excite the criminal element。
Warm snap days； on the other hand； were wild cards。 Anything could happen。
Days like today； for instance。
Dottie had worked the second shift weekends for going on eight years。 She was a sweet…faced； potato…shaped woman with a cool head； a balming manner； and almost infinite patience。
Until Bernie Kleigel called。
His name came up on her video monitor seconds after Kelly routed it。 The monitor was a part of the enhanced 911 system； instantly displaying origin information； special stats； and call history for any number。
Dottie saw KLEIGEL； and her molars ground together。
Some wiseass had typed 〃10…96〃 under it。 10…96 was code…slang for nutcase。 The wiseass was her。 And the call…history list confirmed the diagnosis。 Every couple of days； regular as clockwork： Kids in woods。 Dogs barking。 More kids。 Noisy trucks。 Kids； kids； kids 。。。
Dottie closed her eyes and saw the list extending clear back to infinity。 They'd never seen his face； but his nasty nasal voice was woefully familiar。 Taking a call from Bernie was like lancing a boil with your teeth。
She picked up the phone； brushed a fleck of powdered sugar from her blouse。 〃Metro dispatch 。。。 〃 she sighed； resigned to her fate。
〃Dammit； there's a WAR going on down here！〃
Dottie rolled her eyes。 Dave Dell looked up from his desk on the other side of the glass； then caromed back in his swivel chair and froze： red face grimacing horribly； hands locked in a throttling deathgrip around his throat。 She recognized the symptoms at once。 He was having a Kleigel attack。
〃Now； Mr。 Kleigel 。。。 〃 she began； stifling her laughter with professional aplomb。 She had to be strong： Kleigelitis was a terribly contagious disease。
〃Don't 'now Mr。 Kleigel' ME！〃 he barked； his voice a razor of rusty tin。 〃They're having some kind of shooting match down there。 It sounds like a drug…related gang war to me！ I coulda been KILLED； fercrissake！〃
Dave gave the notion a vigorous thumbs…up。 〃Well； we certainly wouldn't want that；〃 Dottie said。
〃Yeah； well； you better get somebody out here before someone DOES get hurt！〃
〃I'll send someone out right away。〃
〃You goddam well better！〃 Bernie groused； still chewing the bone。 〃I pay my taxes and I …〃
〃Someone will be right out。 Just sit tight；〃 Dottie concluded； yanking Bernie's plug。
〃You fucking dickhead；〃 Dave appended； busting Dottie up。
〃Your mouth！〃 she gasped； Dottie didn't take to cussing。 〃Oh my；〃 she sighed。 〃It's too early for that guy！〃
〃You got that right！〃 Dave nodded； throwing his pencil up to stick in the ceiling tile。 He flipped his shoulder…length blond hair back and assumed a more contemplative pose： arms behind his head； feet up on the low bookshelf that held the code manuals。 〃So who gets the honors this time？〃
〃Bernie's on RD 23；〃 Dottie said。 〃Hellam Township。〃
〃Oooh； Adam…sixty；〃 Dave checked the roster sheet gleefully to see who was on duty。 〃That's Hal。 Oh； he's gonna love this。〃 Dave loved to give Hal shit。
Dottie time…stamped the call card。 〃Nine thirty…six。 He's probably out on rounds by now。〃
〃Yeah； sure。〃 Dave smirked and reached through the sliding glass partition that separated their desks。 He filched another donut hole。 〃Hal's rounds are glazed； with sprinkles。〃
〃Now； don't start。〃 Dottie glanced balefully at her own diminishing snack supply as she keyed the mike transmit button。 〃Metro to Adam…sixty 。。。 Metro to Adam…sixty； do you copy？ e in； please 。。。 〃
Dave leaned back in his chair； gazing up at his still…embedded pencil。 His lines were quiet。 Later on things would likely liven up： some drunk and disorderlies； a fight maybe。 Probably an accident or two。
With any luck； the day would not portend much worse than a morning rant from Bernie the crank。 Dave reached through the partition to steal another doughball。 Dottie slapped him playfully； kept on paging till she got through。
〃Adam…sixty here；〃 a voice came over the radio。 〃What's up； dispatch？〃
〃Uh； yeah；〃 she began。 〃We've got a plaint on shots fired in the Black Bridge area 。。。 〃
Nine
WPAL was the area's NBC affiliate； located downtown in a two…story brick building on south Beeker Street。 It was a medium…market station； with a staff of thirty and a fifteen…hundred…foot tower on nearby Mt。 Hope； to better serve the tri…county broadcast area。
Most weekdays； it was a bustling little pressure point。
Weekends were another story。
It was 10：12 a。m。 At the moment； the Studio A control room was a ghost town。 John Bizzano； the day shift engineer； slumped in the control chair； half…dozing under the funny papers as he kept things nominally on the air。 Sunday Today with Maria Shriver played silently on Monitor One。 CBS Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt was on Monitor Three。 Jerry Falwell preened in the center on Monitor Two； tumescent an