Chapter 7

I followed Mr. Whitlock into his back office. I'm having to fight the urge not to bring my fingers to my mouth and bite on my fingernails as my belly turns with nerves.

I have a terrible habit of nail-biting. I tried everything I read to stop that habit, but it was sometimes, most times, out of my control. My grandma used to put hot sauce on my nails, thinking I wouldn't appreciate the taste. But it didn't work.

As an adult, I constantly make sure my nails are painted because it helps a bit, I don't like the taste of nail polish, so I find myself not chewing on them as much as I once did.

“Take a seat, Avery.” Mr. Whitlock swung his right arm out and gestured to the small seat in front of his dark wooden desk.

I have the time to look him over. His once black hair is now thinning out and turning grey. His mustache has little grey hairs sticking out, but appears to be nicely kept. He is a middle-aged man that appears to keep him self in shape.

“How many years have you served with the 911 center?” He asked while taking a seat behind his desk before picking up a sheet of paper that I believe to be my resume.

It's short.

And that's not a bad thing. I'm twenty-four years old and have worked at the 911 center in my hometown since I was eighteen years old.

As I child I used to listen to crime podcasts and I realized I wished to work in crime. I just didn't know at the time what kind of job I had preferred until I checked into becoming a 911 operator. My old boss, Mrs. Joan, taught me everything she experienced. She took me under her wing and trained me.

I'm a true crime junkie. You would think hours a day of true crime would have me put off, but that's not the case.

At all.

I love putting on a crime documentary before bed. The ID Channel is a favorite of mine.

“I worked at the 911 center back in my old town from age eighteen, sir. I'm now twenty-four. Six years.” I answered, looking straight at him as I laid my hands in my lap.

“And why, after six years, did you leave?” He questioned me and tossed my paperwork on his desk.

I knew he would ask me this question. It's one of the fundamental questions they ask during an interview. What made you leave your last job? I'd rather not bring up what happened again, but I don't think I should be lying to a hopefully future boss.

I don't want him to assume I just got a wild hair, packed my shit up and left for no reason.

Therefore I explained the situation.

“I didn't wish to leave, sir. My boyfriend and best friend had an affair behind my back, and I just wanted a fresh start. I loved my coworkers and didn't wish to leave them, but I everywhere I went people would look at me with pity.” I ground out.

I really didn't want to tell him that. I don't need him to start pitying me, and I definitely do not want him to go gossiping around town about my past situation.

Therefore, I demanded that he not tell anyone.

“I would rather what I just said stayed between you and me sir.” I whispered.

It didn't sound like a demand like I had wanted it to, but that works all the same.

“Of course. I won't say a word, Avery.” Mr. Whitlock smiled a small smile before turning back serious once more. “What made you want to become a 911 operator?”

“I was always interested in true crime, sir. As a kid, I loved listening to podcast of older cases. I didn't know which field I preferred to get into until I went to visit the 911 center back in my hometown and met my old boss. She was one of the nicest women that I have met in a very long time, and she took her time with me. She let me go visit her there a few days a week. She wouldn't let me listen on calls like I wanted, but she would tell me about some of hers and explained how she helped the callers in those particular situations. We are the little guys. We don't get the glory of being the ones to catch them, but what we do here matters. Without us, sometimes those callers would not get the help they need-” I quickly shut up once I realized I just ranted on. He asked me one simple question, and I gave him a whole paragraph answer.

I bite my bottom lip nervously as I wait for him to speak.

“I see.” Mr. Whitlock says as he looks at me, but gives nothing away.

Oh, no.

Did I say too much?

I rattle about inside my head of everything I just said, and I can't find or notice something that could have upset him or made him think I was an unsuitable candidate for this job.

“I'm going to give you a few situations, and I want you to explain in detail how you would handle that situation and that particular caller.” He grunts out, keeping his dark brown eyes on me.

“I'm ready.” I said, my voice ringing confidence for the first time talking to this man.

Over the past week, I ran through some of my old calls to prepare myself for the test. Not even a little test. It's a big test. A massive test. This will be the break and make part of this interview.

“We will start easy. An older woman calls you. She is frantically crying because her husband is passed out on the kitchen floor. Go.” Mr. Whitlock leans back in his desk and crosses his arms, waiting for my answer.

I don't even think twice.

Don't even hesitate to answer.

“I'd first get her address. Her husband is passed out, so it's something that warrants an ambulance-” I started to answer, but he cuts me off.

“What if she is too worked up to acknowledge your question?” He asked.

“I would put the call on to be tracked while I question her about her husband. His health background. If the trace didn't come through, I would ask her to go to where they keep their mail and have her just read off her address.” I said instantly.

I had that happen before. A teenage girl was too worked up to remember her own address. Her father wasn't waking up.

“I would also ask her to please try to calm down, so I could better understand her and be able to bring her husband the help he needed,” I finished.

“Excellent. Next one. A teenage girl calls you and says someone's in her house, and she is home alone.” Mr. Whitlock said and raised one of his eyebrows.

“I would get her address straight away and send it over to the police station. I would then ask her where she is at in her home and urge her to hide. The closet hiding spot that she could safely get to. It may not be the best option, but it's better for her that the intruder doesn't see her and to give time for the cops to reach their home.”

"Good. Another one. An older man calls you. He is having chest pains and can't breathe.”

“I would immediately track his call and get the nearest ambulance to wherever he is before he passed out. I would also ask him about his health background to give the medics everything I could to help them.”

“Very good Avery. You answered all those correctly. I saw nothing wrong with how you dealt with those situations. Now tell me about one call that sticks with you. One call you can never get out of your mind, and tell me how you dealt with it.”

I slowly take a deep breath and start to think. Over the past few years, I have had several calls that have kept me up at night. Some where the police or ambulance didn't get there in time and although it was not my fault, I still felt it.

One call though, this one call has given me many sleepless nights.

“One night I had already been working for six hours, I still had four to work. A little girl called me. She couldn't find her mom or dad. She heard something loud. A loud bang that woke her up, and she was terrified. Her mom told her that if she was scared and couldn't find them, to just call 911. Made her daughter memorize the number. The little girl did as her mom told her to do and called. She was so panicked, she was crying, wondering where her parents and older siblings were. They were all at home that night, she said. Her mom tucked her in to bed and kissed her goodnight. It was a normal night for the family. The little girl didn't describe the loud bang she heard well enough for me to be able to know exactly what it was so while I was tracing the call, I heard it for myself. It was a gun shot. I heard a woman scream, and that had caused the little girl cry harder. Weeping for her mom. I made the little girl hide under her bed. Her name was Rosie. It was the only option I had with what limited information I had to go on.” I stopped for a few moments, swallowed hard before continuing.

“I told her, no matter what to just stay on the line, that I wouldn't leave her alone but just to stay silent. I forced her cover her mouth with her hand to keep her sobs muted. I finally got the address. It felt like it took hours when it was only three minutes. The police didn't make it in time, though. Her dad had come calling to her, and she was so frightened, I heard her little whines even while she was still doing what I asked her to do and covered her mouth. I then knew that her dad had just shot her siblings and mom. A few moments ticked by before I heard the little girl screech so loudly that it caused me jump. My heart felt like it was ripped out of my chest. The dad dragged her out from under her bed and she was begging me. Begging me to help her, but all I could do was listen to the sound of that gun pop twice. Once for her and then for the dad himself. He killed them all.” I whispered, while tears flowed down my cheeks. “I remained on that line as I promised her, stayed and listened to the silence until I heard the police enter her bedroom and pronounced her dead. She was no longer alone. Then and only then did I hang up.”

Mr. Whitlock didn't say anything for several minutes. Giving me the time I needed to gather myself and to stop the tears that were forcing themselves to fall from my eyes.

“This job is a hard one. People think of the low pay and the long hours and brush it off. The front line is where we are. We may not leave this building to serve people, but we are the reason that a lot of them get the support they need. Not only that, but we are the ones who have to also deal with the fall-out. We stay up late remembering certain calls of those that we couldn't help. It takes a toll.” He whispered, while digging through his desk and pulled out a tissue box and slid it across his desk.

I looked at him in shock. A tough sounding man like him didn't strike me as the type to keep little tissue boxes inside his desk, but I was just proven wrong.

“I'm sorry.” I murmured, quickly reaching out, grabbed a few tissue papers and whipped my eyes.

“No need to be sorry. Your human. I wouldn't want someone to work for me if they didn't shed a single tear from that call you just shared.” He mumbled, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Your hired”

“Thank you, sir.” I whispered and balled up the tissue paper, holding them tightly inside my hand.

“The salary is shit, as you know. Thirteen dollars an hour. Twelve-hour days, but you would only work 3–4 times a week.”

“That's fine, sir.” I assured him.

I was used to the low pay, but the long hours honestly make up for it and I didn't have to work five days a week like some people, so that in itself was a plus for me.

“Great. You will start next Monday. Enjoy your fresh start, Avery. Take your next days off and explore your new town.” Mr. Whitlock grinned and jerked to head towards his office door.

I was dismissed.

“Thank you, sir.” I beamed, grabbed my purse from the floor next to my chair and walked out of the room.

That wasn't so hard.