Isat in my patrol car, parked on the corner of 5th North and Elm Street. The poorer neighborhood had not aged gracefully, many homes showing a decay born of neglect: patchy, struggling lawns occasionally made uglier by random junk; flaking paint; weeds squirming up through multiple cracks in concrete driveways and sidewalks. I was alone tonight, waiting for a call from dispatch.

I glanced out my window, then down at an article on my phone. Reading was my attempt to relax during a moment of down time. I’d already chatted on the phone with Stacey and told my kids that when it was time, they’d better go to sleep for mommy or they’d be handcuffed and severely tickled.

At about 5:00 p.m., my radio chirped and a female dispatcher said, “Officer Moutsos, we had a 911 hang-up from a cell phone near you. Can you check on it?” She gave me the location. I flung my phone on the passenger seat and sighed. Time to waste some gas. Ninety-nine percent of 911 hang-ups were accidental dials, malfunctions, or a young kid playing on a phone. Still, you had to clear the call, just in case. Less than a minute later, I arrived at the location of the call. I frowned at the vacant lot. Apparently, a field of weeds had dialed 911. I double-checked my coordinates. Yep. I was at the epicenter of the 911 hang-up.

I squinted and scanned my surroundings. I saw nothing amiss. Not far to my left, a man smoked on his porch. A bit farther to my right, a teenage girl watched her dog pee in the front yard. I grabbed my door handle, about to exit my vehicle to investigate further, when a triple beep emergency crossed my radio. I jerked ramrod straight, froze, and held my breath.

Dispatch said, “Shots fired at 5th North and Elm Street.” I flinched and thought, Holy crap, I was just there.Dispatch continued, “Suspect is reported to have shot two people and is running north on Elm Street.”

I hit my lights and sirens and stomped the gas pedal. My tires screeched. I yanked a hard turn onto 5th North and barreled towards Elm Street. A man, in the road, ran in my direction. My lights and sirens were on. Why was he charging me? My eyes widened. He’s the guy. The suspect. Shooter. I stomped the brake and jerked to a stop, shoved my door open, and jumped out. The man was a little over thirty yards away. My gaze jerked to his hands. They appeared empty. But he shot two people. He had to be armed.

I yanked my gun up and took a shooter’s stance behind my open car door.“Stop!” I yelled. “Police! Stop!” The man kept coming. “Police! Get on the ground! Police!” My hand squeezed the grip of my gun. My index finger probed the trigger.The man twitched like a puppet yanked by a string tied to its left shoulder.

He slowed, then stopped about fifteen yards away. I could hear him panting. It sounded more like wheezing laughter. I gestured with my gun. “Get on the ground. Lay down on your stomach.” The man–he was young–just stared. He didn’t seem to blink. His eyes… There was something not right about him on a deeper level.

I swallowed. I tried to slow my breathing, tried to keep my gun steady. “Get on the ground. Do it. Now.” The man shivered. He made a bizarre noise, like someone imitating the sound of vomiting. “Get on the ground,” I said. “Get on your stomach.” The young man plopped down on the street. He rocked forward and lay on his belly.

Multiple sirens approached from different directions. My gun fixed on the suspect’s center mass, I crept around the door to get a little closer for a better shot if it came to that. His head was turned in my direction. Those eyes. What was wrong with his eyes? “The voices told me to do it,” he said, talking fast and way louder than necessary. “They told me to do it. To do it. I said I didn’t want to but I wanted to. You know? They told me to do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.”

A police car stopped behind me and a car door opened and slammed.“Hey.” A man’s voice. “Is that him? That’s the suspect?” I nodded, but kept my attention on the young man on the ground. “Yeah,” I said, surprised that my voice sounded so steady when inside, my heart pounded a wild, staccato beat against my ribs. A third car arrived. “I’ll cuff him,” the officer said. “Cover me.”

The officer, who I now recognized, approached the suspect at an angle. He holstered his weapon, grabbed the young man’s wrist and pulled the arm back, handcuffing one wrist, then the other. I glanced farther up the street. A handful of people gathered around a body sprawled on the grass in the front yard of a brick house.

“Hey,” I said, “someone’s hurt up there. You got him?” The officer nodded as he patted the suspect, searching for weapons. I holstered my gun and sprinted south on Grant Street. I approached the people in the yard. A middle-aged male in shorts, a t-shirt, and only one flip-flop slumped on his side, a hole in his head, the grass beneath sticky and dark with congealing blood. His eyes were open, but unfocused and glassy. Definitely dead.

More officers arrived. Farther ahead, more people. Another body? I ran, hoping the next victim was alive. CPR and first aid swirled through my thoughts. Three other officers reached the body before me. I slowed to a brisk walk, catching my breath. People backed away from the officers, making room, but huddling together, whispering and gesturing. The officers inspected the body of a young man in jeans and a baseball style shirt, maybe the same age as the suspect.

I blinked at my surroundings. No, I thought. No way. I took a step back.This was the corner where I’d been parked before the 911 hang-up. I’d been right over there just minutes ago. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself sitting in my car, reading, a figure with a gun creeping up behind and… I gave my head a shake. Don’t think about that. There’s work to do. I approached the nearest bystander, an elderly man in shorts and a white tank-top that displayed a prodigious amount of curly white chest hair.

“Do you know what happened?” I said. “That lunatic shot his friend here in the back. In the head.” A black lady, gripping the elderly man’s arm, peeked around his shoulder and said, “I knew something like this was bound to happen. All that kid ever did was play video games and sell drugs. You ask Anna Sanchez. She’ll tell you.” “Did you see the shooting?” I asked. The man shook his head. “Heard the shots and peeked out my window.”He pointed across the street. “I live over there. Anyway, saw him running that way, his friend here on his knees, then plopping on his face.”

Paramedics relieved the three officers who’d been performing CPR. The watch commander called me over and we discussed what I’d seen and done. Detectives arrived. Crime scene arrived. Photos taken. Evidence secured. A handgun was found. Casings by the bodies. More support staff arrived. News crews set up along the perimeter of the crime scene. Hours passed. Reports completed. Interviews.

My shift ended and it was time to go home. I opened my car door and bent to get in, but paused. I stared at the spot where I’d been parked before the murders began. The voices had told that young man to kill his friend. If I’d still been there, if there’d been no 911 hang-up, what would the voices have told him to do to an officer sitting alone in his car? I shivered, got in and drove.

Halfway home, tears blurred my vision and emotion burned my throat. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t fear or relief. It was undiluted gratitude. In my heart, I absolutely knew God had saved my life. The coincidence was just too great. I got dispatched to a 911 hang-up call – a nothing call, and it swept me away from a violent encounter that could have ended my life. I used to hate 911 hang up calls, they were so pointless. But I believe this one saved me. I owed God. I owed Him more than ever. I re-committed to serving Him, being a better father, a better husband, a better cop. Just…better.

I offered a prayer of thanks. I was so blessed. I parked in my driveway. I drew a deep breath, held it a moment, then exhaled and rubbed my face. “Thank you for my home,” I whispered to God. I crept upstairs to my bedroom. Stacey lay in bed. With my toes, I shoved one boot off, then the other. I always stripped my gear and changed out of my uniform as soon as I could, but this time, I just laid down alongside my wife and clung to her body. “Honey,” Stacey said. “What? You’re still dressed.”Voice cracking, I told her what happened.