Chapter One
Code 245 Assault with a Deadly Weapon
The portable radio on my belt crackled to life at 9:22 AM on March 5, 2001. Code 245 shots fired at Santana High School. Repeat code245 Santana High School. All units respond. Break for ET. When the dispatchers declare ET, emergency traffic, no one talks on the radio until the emergency is over. My partner and I looked at one another in stunned disbelief. The unthinkable had happened. A school shooting had occurred in our peaceful little town.
After a quiet morning, Arnie Hanson, my partner for the day and I had stopped for morning coffee during our patrol of Lakeside, California, the town adjacent to Santee. We try to carry on the traditions of law enforcement whenever possible by eating our share of doughnuts.
Arnie stood listening to the radio with a doughnut suspended half way to his mouth. I felt my coffee slosh over the side of its paper cup onto my hand as I trembled.
“I’m 97, 10-97 is the code that tells the dispatcher the officer has arrived on scene, Officer Al Parris shouted into the microphone. “I see injured but am pinned down by crossfire. Send EMS (Emergency Medical Services.)” The sound of gunfire in the background sent chills down my spine.
Within seconds, officers from all over the area, Sheriffs’ deputies, California Highway Patrol Officers (CHP) and San Diego Police Department began calling in, advising they were en route.
“EMS units en route,” the dispatcher replied to Officer Parris. “What’s your 20, location?”
“I’m in the main quad area near the boy’s bathroom. I’m with one of the injured and I have a pulse,” Officer Parris said.
I tossed my coffee cup into the trash container and cursed my vivid imagination as pictures of bloody teenagers flashed through my mind. “Come on Arnie, let’s go. They’ll need our help.”
I jumped into the passenger seat of our patrol car. By now I could hear sirens wailing all over the area. We fastened our seatbelts and Arnie squealed out of the parking lot, heading for Santana. Within two blocks we saw a California Highway Patrol officer speed by code three, lights blazing and siren wailing. Arnie fell in to the rear of the squad car and followed behind it, through red lights and around traffic while I kept my fingers crossed that no one would get in our way on the busy two-lane streets.
Too soon I heard Officer Parris’ voice on the car’s radio. “I’ve lost the pulse.” I choked back tears knowing a child had just died.
We arrived at the northern parameter at 9:40 AM. Arnie turned on our overhead flashing yellow light, and we jumped out of the car to help the patrol officer who was directing traffic. He had already set up barriers and had things pretty well under control.
“Thanks for coming so fast, guys; we can really use your help. Would you mind going up to the street north of Second Avenue and blocking it off so no one can get to the student parking?”
“Sure, no problem,” I told him. I looked toward the school. The scene a block away in front of Santana High was like something out of a nightmare. Squad cars, fire trucks and EMS units had parked at odd angles all over the place. Red and blue bubble lights flashed, sirens blared and uniformed officers swarmed all over the area.
We hurried back to our car and drove up to the corner of Carreta Drive and Trigal Way north of the crime scene. Arnie pulled the car across the street to block it, and not a minute to soon. A stream of distraught parents rushed down Carreta Drive trying to get to their children.
“All units, students are being sent to the Round Table Pizza across from the school,” the dispatcher advised.
“Please let me through.” a woman with tears running down her face screamed. “My daughter is there.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, no one is allowed into the area. All the students are massing at the Round Table Pizza in the Albertson’s shopping center. Go over there.”
“What’s happening at the school?” a man asked. “Is anyone dead?” He had grass stains on his plaid Bermuda shorts and streaks of dirt on his T-shirt. “I’ve gotta find my son.”
“I’m sorry sir; I have no information at this time. Please go to the shopping center, I’m sure there will be officers to help you.” As I spoke I knew that at least one youngster was dead. I looked into those agonized faces and couldn’t help but wonder, was it your child?
By 9:50 we heard on the radio the perpetrator was in custody, a mere half-hour from when the first shots were fired. Great work by the Sheriff’s Department deputies.
Several reporters and other members of the media tried to get by us to the crime scene. “I have to get in there to do my job,” one man yelled at me while waving his press credentials in my face.
“Then you’ll understand we’re doing our job too. I can’t let you through. Everyone is across the street from the school, and I’m sure they’ll set up a media area.” I waved him away and went on to the next person.
While the noise of the sirens had abated, now we had eight helicopters overhead. ASTREA, (Aerial Support to Regional Enforcement Agencies), the Sheriff Department’s helicopter, Medevac and six choppers from news stations. The Medevac chopper landed in the football field in preparation of taking the wounded to local hospitals.
At ten o’clock K-9 units were sent in to make sure there were no more shooters hiding on the premises and, more importantly, that all the injured had been found.
“All Ida units go to the real estate office on Magnolia for a briefing.” In the phonetic alphabet the Sheriff’s Department uses, I is for Ida, meaning investigative.
“What do you suppose they’ll have to do first, Arnie?” Even though it was early March, the day was warm and getting warmer. A gentle breeze lifted my hair and dried some of the sweat pooled on my forehead. I knew we were in for a long haul so I got two bottles of water out of the trunk of the car. Because members of the patrol are often stuck on long assignments, we made sure to have some of the necessities. Among the emergency supplies we keep in the trunk are flares, a medical kit, traffic cones, and toys for kids, we always carry bottles of water. It may be warm, but it’s wet. Too many times we’re stuck outside on a hot day doing traffic control or searching for a lost child. The bottled water comes in handy and prevents dehydration.
“They’ll have to interview all those kids,” Arnie told me. Before retirement, Arnie, a quiet bear of a man who wears short pants year-round, was a school custodian. He always worries about the children. When I go on patrol with Arnie, I know we are going to drive through every school parking lot in our territory, making sure the kids are safe.
Things had started to calm down at our location so we could concentrate on the radio traffic. A dispatcher came on the air and said there were a dozen two-year-olds in a trailer at the back of the school property. The children were terrified by all the noise and confusion. Several officers escorted the group across the street, to a gas station at the corner of Mast Boulevard and Magnolia Avenue to keep them safe until their parents could pick them up. They walked in a line, the little ones holding hands, the officers huge in comparison, protecting them from harm.
We heard deputies report on the radio, as one by one, the classrooms in Santana were cleared. At 10:20 I glanced over the top of our patrol car and saw armed SWAT officers with guns drawn walking across the roof of the school. At the same time I heard a car and turned to see a woman trying to drive down the street in spite of the fact there was a car blocking her way.
“I’m sorry ma’am, you can’t go down there.” I told her.
“Why,” she asked, “I have to go shopping.”
“I can’t let you down this street, ma’am, it’s a crime scene. Now please turn around.”
“But, I have to go shopping,” she said again. “What’s happening down there?”
Unbelievable. Now I know why they don’t let us carry guns. “Maybe you should turn on your radio. Now please turn around and go back the way you came.” To this day I can’t imagine why the woman didn’t have a clue. The helicopters were circling above us, sirens wailed and the sound of voices carried to me from the mass of people across from the school. Both Arnie and I were relieved when she finally gave up and left.
“All evidence techs and criminalists meet at the real estate office on Magnolia,” the dispatcher said. It was 10:50 and I knew it would be a long time before any of them would go home. The entire school was a crime scene, and they’d have to go over the whole place searching for clues.
By now Arnie and I were able to sit on a low concrete wall while watching the street. Eventually, the area was quiet. The sun was getting hotter by the minute, so we both put on our hats and tried to stay in the shade as much as possible. Neither of us knew how long we’d be here and I was glad once again that I always carry an extra protein bar with me. With water and food, we’d be okay for a while.
An officer’s voice blasted on the radio at 10:55. “A friend of the shooter’s is talking to the media over by the Del Taco. Someone grab that kid and put him in the back of a patrol car.” He didn’t sound happy and I couldn’t blame him. Any information leaked to the press at this time could prejudice a future criminal trial.
By 11:05 we had little to do, but knew we had to maintain our post until relieved. The bomb squad had gone into the school to x-ray a locker and backpack belonging to the perpetrator. Thank goodness they didn’t find anything. One of the neighbor ladies walked over and asked if we needed a soft drink or water. She also thanked us for helping out during the difficult day.
We heard Jim Lyons, our administrator at the time, call Chuck Farmer and his partner Jake Cary off the main channel, asking if they needed relief. I realized he didn’t know if we were at the crime scene or still in Lakeside.
The radio chatter had calmed considerably, and by 12:30 and I started to hear people calling in with their locations. The Communications Center always has to know where the Senior Patrol members are in case they need help. I keyed my microphone, identified myself and advised the dispatcher that we’d been 10-97, at the scene, since 9:30 AM.
Jim called and asked if we needed relief and I said, “Soon, Jim, soon.” Three hours in the sun drinking water was beginning to take its toll. My leg muscles were sore, my eyes gritty and I’d have to find a bathroom before long.
About one o’clock, the Communications Center called asking for help in directing traffic at West Hill High School at the other end of town. The school had been in lockdown, students confined to their classes, since the shooting. Now authorities thought it was okay to release the kids. We hadn’t seen anyone at our location for an hour or so and were ready to move in to help, but before I could radio in, the dispatcher advised that they had enough people.
I walked down the hill and talked to a deputy stationed outside the crime scene tape by the student parking lot. He told me it was okay to take off as most of the kids had gone home and the officers could handle traffic control from then on.
Arnie and I headed back to Station 50, the Santee substation, and were amazed when we pulled up. People from the media lined the locked gates both in front and in back of the building. Arnie put in the secret code to open the gate … and nothing happened. After the third try, the gate rolled open. We found out later that someone inside deactivated the code and was monitoring the gates on a video screen inside the station. He didn’t want anyone unauthorized in the building because they were interrogating the shooter inside. We tiptoed into our volunteer office and saw the door to the interview room was closed. My stomach curled in a knot. The alleged teenaged killer was right on the other side of that door.
Jim Lyons was in the office and when I asked if I could help with anything, he suggested I go to the front counter and assist Jeff Parker who’d been working there all day. I went to the front desk but, after chatting with Jeff for a half-hour, I realized he had things under control so I went home.
When my husband arrived and saw me glued to the front of the television he asked, “Did you have an exciting day?”
“Boy, did I. I joined the patrol to have some excitement, but this wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Even though we were only doing our duty, the Commander of Station 50 in Santee gave several members of the SVP, including myself, a special Certificate of Appreciation, signed by the Sheriff for working the day of the Santana shooting. I have mine hanging in a prominent place on the wall of my office.
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