The Fleeing Felon

6. 911

6 911 TEMPE, ARIZONA

Same Morning

3:00 am

“DPS 911. What’s your emergency?” The female dispatcher spoke in an even-keeled voice while typing into the computer system.

“Hello?” a male voice said.

“This is 911. What’s your emergency?”

The gentlemen’s voice choked from anxiety but he nervously continued. “I...I just witnessed a guy riding a motorcycle about eighty-five miles per hour right into the side of a construction vehicle at the Scottsdale exit on the Sixty going westbound.”

“West on the US Sixty—” As she keyed the information into the system, an error became apparent. “Is it on the 202 westbound? Scottsdale and the Sixty don’t meet.”

“Yes, it’s the 202. I’m sorry. It’s the 202...”

“Okay, westbound...”

“Yes, westbound...”

“Which exit, sir?”

“At the Scottsdale exit. I think they’re doing construction. They had all the yellow lights on the trucks and stuff and he was going down the off-ramp and he never slowed down. He went right into the side of the truck. I’m...I’m sure it probably killed him.”

The gentleman breathed deeply several times in an attempt to control his emotions and compose himself.

“Okay. Was he wearing a helmet?”

He closed his eyes so that he could visualize the gruesome event again.

“I-I couldn’t see it.”

“Okay. But you did see him hit the truck?”

“It’s... it’s dark out. Oh yeah, he hit the truck. I couldn’t believe it. I was right next to him when he took off like a bat out of hell.”

The occasional sound of rushing vehicles on the freeway could be heard during the call because the caller was parked on the freeway shoulder. The caller looked around ensuring that he was parked in a safe spot and wasn’t putting his self in peril. That was the last thing he needed.

“Is it on the on-ramp of Scottsdale or is he completely on Scottsdale Road? Or on the highway?”

“It’s right at the intersection where the off-ramp and the freeway meet ‘cause they...they had the yellow vehicles, and I don’t know what he was doing because he didn’t slow down and there were all these yellow lights on. They’re still there.”

The caller looked straight and could see the accident scene ahead and the flashing lights. Several men on Kirby’s crew were frantically figuring out what went wrong and were rushing towards the crash truck. Carlos was inside the truck panicking from what he had just observed.

“Okay,” the operator calmly continued as if this was just another call on any other day.

“He just plowed right into the side of it.”

“Can I get your name?”

“Keith. Keith Connors.”

“And Keith, is your phone number ending in 5992?” the operator asked.

“Yeah.”

“Hold on. I just heard that we have another caller on the line advising that it’s a possible 963.”

Keith pondered what “963” was. He was unaware that it was the police department’s radio code for an accident resulting in a fatality.

Several spent Lapua cartridges laid just outside of the sniper’s nest on a building overlooking the Loop 202 freeway. The sniper lifted his head as he realized that despite missing his target, the outcome was better than he had expected. Now it looked like an accident rather than an execution. This pleased him. However, he wondered if the target died as a result of the collision. His client wouldn’t appreciate it if his mission was a complete failure. Besides, he wanted to be paid for his efforts.

As the ambulance sirens could be heard faintly in the distance, he started packing up and disappeared into the night.