Eight Shots in the Dark: Bullets don't wait for dawn
Don't go outside
"Did you investigate to see if anyone was shot and needs medical attention?"
My immediate answer, "Normally, I do, but I'm not doing it this time. The shots are closer than normal --"
Pop. Pop. Pop.
"Three more shots fired just now!"
The 911 operator continued, "Can you hear people screaming or yelling? Did you hear a car speed off?"
"No. The dogs are barking." I couldn't count how many, but many were barking. The shots were close.
"How many shots have you heard total?"
"Eight. Five, then I immediately called you, then three while I've been on the phone with you. Eight. Normally, I call dispatch when I can pinpoint better where the shots are coming from, but not now. They are much closer."
I waited. It was quiet—too quiet.
"Hello?" Nothing.
"Hello?" Silence.
"Hello?"
The phone clicked, and the connection went dead.
Counting bullets in the dark
I sat in bed, catching my breath. I realized I didn't remember the end of the Quran track playing. I must have fallen asleep before it finished. My breath was faster than usual. Adrenaline.
Maverick growled, low and quiet beneath his blankets.
The time indicated that I'd only been asleep for around five minutes.
I rehearsed the scene: Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. I was fully alert on the second Pop. Several things registered in 1.5 seconds: Close. Rapid. Semi-automatic. Four. Five.
My thoughts turned to my son. He'd gone out with his friends that day, or had he made it home already? The fire was not in his direction if he was home; if he was still out with the boys, he was far away.
Would 911 call me back? Back in the day, they did.
Scanning the shadows
I walked out into the living room, toes on the cold floor in the dark, and climbed carefully into my sofa. I moved the slats in my window blinds slightly and silently, which I've perfected since living here. Darkness, stillness, and quiet.
I went back to bed, phone in hand.
My fingers swiped and pressed the non-emergency dispatch number. When the officer answered, I explained I'd been disconnected from 911 but wasn't sure if it was all right. The officer explained the call was complete and no further action was needed. He also explained that at least six squad cars were in my neighborhood, concentrated at one location. "That's weird, actually. Something must be going on." We hung up.
I needed sleep, but adrenaline refused.
Accepting the unacceptable
It wasn't until the tension crept up the back of my neck that I realized what I'd said: "Normally, I do..."
My eyes flung up.
"Normally..."?
Yes, normally. Normally, I do. I've spoken about this before, and I've also spoken about reducing the amount I do.
I answered the operator immediately, as though there was nothing wrong with citizens investigating on their own, as though it was commonplace and expected. I realized as I replied that I was trying to explain a little, as though I would get into trouble for not having done so.
But we are not supposed always to investigate. At all.
Has it become so normal now that 911 expects citizens to investigate when they hear gunfire?
Has it become so normal that I expect myself to fling open my front door and half glide across the courtyard in hopes of witnessing a firefight, capturing all the details of the parties involved, and that I feel bad if I do not?
Bullets do not discriminate.
Criminals are not smart people. They are thugs and cowards. Entitled sons of you know what.
Criminals don't rehearse their fights before pulling the trigger to avoid property, bystanders, or people sleeping behind the frail drywall separating them from the chaos.
Normally..., I had said. Normally. The syllables stayed.
I normally investigate.
Reading the bullets
Sometimes, there is a pause between the firings. Other times, there is a string of gunfire, one after the other, semi-automatic, like tonight.
In the first scenario, someone controls the gentle squeeze of the trigger each time they pull. I know because I've fired guns the same way.
Controlling it, slowly squeezing the trigger rather than hard pressing it, shows restraint, training, and intent. You're aiming, concentrating, and firing on purpose.
Doing it openly, in public, and illegally ramps up the stakes and the pressure. Remaining controlled in that environment shows calculation.
My body felt only one word: Murder.
In the second scenario, rapid-fire pelted away without the rhythmic pause indicates anger, intent, chaos, and an attempt to scare, send a message, or warn.
To the criminal, killing is a bonus.
But a bonus to who? There's only one answer: the gang they serve.
Do they feel this behavior increases their rank among them?
Do they not know that Allah has carefully measured ranks of His own for both paradise and hell?
Lullabies of urban warfare
I sat in the dark, my shoulders chilled, and the dog returned to his relaxed, deep breathing. I wondered if deducing all these things in the dark by hearing alone was normal.
Eight shots
Five at first, three later. Retaliatory?
Semi-automatic
Gang-related, possibly, probably, involving drugs
The phone rang shortly after. It was dispatch letting me know the officers were on the scene, investigating but not finding anything, but that they would keep patrolling.
I thanked the officer and hung up.
I knew they wouldn't find anything. It had been 15 minutes since the bullets rang out. The criminals are long gone already. I knew it, the criminals knew it, and the police knew it.
I closed my eyes, purposely relaxed my body, and fell asleep way past my bedtime.
How were you fine? 😥 I hope stuff like this doesn't happen again.