There's a strangely soothing rhythm to traffic stops. They tend to be very formulaic, following the same steps in roughly the same order every time.
As soon as my officer has flashed his blues, before he even gets out of his cruiser, he calls me over the radio and advises me of his location and the vehicle's plates, and usually the reason for the stop.
From my desk, I run the plate out in the state it's registered in. My software will check it against DMV records to find vehicle information, including its R.O. (registered owner), whose information it will then run through the DMV and CJIS. I'll be shown results for their information, criminal history, and any open warrants they may have in the system. All of this I can backfill to the call in my CAD.
A few moments later, the officer might tell me, "Operator is the R.O." (registered owner), which I can also backfill through this page. If another person is driving, the officer will give me their license number. Run that out in their state and I'll get much of the same: criminal record, driving history, past traffic violations. I can then attach this to the call as well.
Whether the officer writes a ticket, issues a written warning, or lets them off with a verbal warning, it will be assigned a "CN," or citation number. This too gets attached to the call before I clear the officer and close it out.
Some officers do a lot of stops. Some will often be out with another before I've finished clearing the last, again and again until you wonder why anybody speeds in this town anymore. Others will avoid them at all costs, going so long without writing a ticket that they forget how. (True story-- she'd been going 45 in a 25 school zone, and had been so rude to the Lieutenant that I can't imagine she'd have gotten away with it under any other circumstances.)
But whether they do a hundred stops a day or barely one a year, every officer follows the same general pattern. Each stop is the same, with very few exceptions, and I always know what to expect next.
Alarm calls, the kinds we get from security monitoring centers or as a response to medical pendant activations, are like this too. Pick up the phone. It's coming in through the 9-1-1 phone, but through the 7-digit number, which means it's likely from a call center. They tell me they've got a medical pendant activation, or a commercial burg alarm, or a telematics notification from a vehicle that may have been in an accident.
From there, I collect the following data, in this order:
- Address
- Nature of the alert
- PTN (person to notify) or patient's name and date of birth
- Case number or the caller's company-assigned operator ID
It's the same conversation, every time. It's formulaic. Routine.
I like routine. I like it when things go according to plan. It's not exactly a secret that I'm autistic, and when I do refer to my diagnosis by name in front of my coworkers for the first time, most of them seem less than surprised.
"You're autistic?" they'll ask, their faces thoughtful. Then they'll nod as if thinking, Yeah, that tracks.
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| Why not a puzzle piece? Tori Morales, autistic writer and advocate, eloquently explains in this article. If you like my design, you can buy it here! |
But while many parts of this job-- traffic stops, arrest packets, filling in timestamps, paperwork-- are methodical and routine, the job itself is anything but predictable.
Some nights, the 9-1-1 phone won't ring once. Occasionally, a big event, like a bad crash on the highway or an involved structure fire, will flood the PSAP with calls, all trying to report the same thing. Sometimes the calls will flood in all at once, despite each reporting a different emergency.
The following contains a brief description of a suicide attempt. Discretion advised.
When I was working on a study guide for Reg, I made cards with important questions for different call natures. The hardest one to write by far was the one for a suicidal caller. I started with the basics: location, presence of weapons, best access to the home. After that, I was stumped. This is one of those call natures when you'd want to keep them talking as long as possible. If they're talking, they're breathing, and if they're breathing, they're not dead, and there's still hope.
But what do you say in that situation? A complete stranger calls you and tells you that they want to take their own life. Once you've started help, what's next?
"What makes you want to--"
"What's going on that you feel like--"
"How did you get to this--"
I kept starting the next question over again, unable to get the words right. Finally, I decided to just move on to another card.
A few days later, I still hadn't gotten around to finishing that study guide when I got a call that finally taught me what my study guide had been missing.
"I just cut my wrists," the caller told me after the pre-recorded greeting ended.
"Okay, sir, where are you?"
He told me the address placidly.
"And the best access is through the front door?"
"Yes, it's unlocked."
Here, I deviated from the script. "What's your name?"
"Eli."
"What did you use to cut your wrists, Eli?"
"A kitchen knife."
"Okay, and where is that now?"
"Next to me, on the floor."
I swallowed. "Okay, Eli. Here's what I need you to do. Can you put that knife somewhere safe for me?"
"Like where?"
After some back and forth, we agreed on the kitchen sink. I knew I was losing time, but getting that knife secured was my first priority. Before he settled back down on the floor, I instructed Eli to get some clean towels.
"Do they have to be paper, or will-- will my bath towel work?"
"A bath towel will work fine, just as long as it's clean and dry," I assured him. "Now I want you to press down on the cuts with the towel, applying pressure."
"Hm-- hey, miss? How am I supposed to push down on both at the same time?"
Thinking fast, I asked him, "Can you press your wrists together around the towel, and then put them between your knees?"
"Ah, yes, I think I can do that."
There was a bit of scuffling as Eli assumed his position. In the few moments it took him to get back on the line, I had a sudden and important revelation.
When I'd shown my trainer the study guide, she'd reminded me of something that is said a lot during training: "There is no script," she said. "Every call is different, and you can't rely on a checklist for every call you're going to get."
I'd assured her that I understood this, that the cards were just a study guide for what information is most pertinent in different types of situation.
But now, listening to Eli's tranquility lapse into dawning panic, I realized just how right she had been. This wasn't a test, and there was no right answer.
Eli's voice was small and timid, like a small child's when he told me, "I don't want to die."
My heart ached. "I know, Eli." I wanted to tell him he was going to be okay, that it didn't sound like he was on the brink of bleeding out. But you can't make promises in this line of work. Certainly I am nobody to be making promises on behalf of God.
"My guys are gonna take care of you," I said instead. "They're gonna do their best to help you."
Once the police were on scene, I told Eli that he was in good hands before disconnecting. The trainer, who had been silent monitoring the call, looked over at me with a look of approval.
I looked back at him and allowed myself a deep breath. "There's no script."
He shook his head. "No. There isn't." He searched my face. "You okay?"
"I think so," I told him. "It's just... strange. It came so naturally. I think I forgot for a minute what I was doing on the phone with him in the first place.
That night, I was finally able to finish my study guide card:
There really is no 'average' call. And really, even the most routine parts of this job can turn over in seconds. Any call could be the one that changes everything. Any traffic stop could be the one where someone gets hurt, or killed. At the end of the day, there's no such thing as a routine stop.
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