School shooting’s 911 transcript a tale of grief, horror, dismay
TAMPA, FLA.—“Shot! Shot! Shot! Mom! God!”
A boy at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, on the phone with his mother, who’s relaying the call to a 911 dispatcher.
Because, petrified and hiding and trying to make themselves very small, the kids called home, most of them, in whispered and panicked conversations. They wanted Mom. They wanted Dad. They wanted to be comforted, as if Mom and Dad could make everything OK, even when there’s an active shooter roaming the hallways.
Only one from among the 10 calls to 911 that have been released, in excerpts, by the Broward County Sheriff’s Office — and kudos to them because media in Canada would have to jump through hoops to get a law enforcement agency to disclose such evidence without a court order — was from a student at the school directly to 911.
That boy gasps for breath, choking on sobs.
“Someone’s shooting up the school at Stoneman Douglas.”
But the dispatcher can’t make out what he’s saying. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. What’s happening?”
“Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School is being shot up.” “Are you at the school?” The line goes ominously dead. Imagine the horror as parents receive calls and messages from their kids and try to relay that information to authorities, the chaos and heartbreaking dread, as one parent stays on the line and another, or a friend, makes contact with 911, triangulating conversations, reading texts aloud, trying their damnedest to calm and reassure even as their own hearts are pounding and their worst fears seeming to be realized.
“Be advised, we have possible, could be firecrackers, I think we got shots fired.”
That alert from Scot Peterson, the school resource officer at Marjory Stoneman Douglas who didn’t go inside the school, didn’t confront the shooter, didn’t attempt to lead any of the students to safety. In fact, in one of the excerpts, Peterson advises police to stay away.
“Do not approach the 12 or 1300 building, stay at least 500 feet away at this point.” That was at 2:25 p.m.
Dispatcher, to police responding: “Stay away from 12 and 1300 building.”
At first — after the Valentine’s Day massacre of 17 people, including 14 students — officials had claimed the school resource officer believed the shooter was outside the building. But in a detailed timeline released last week by the sheriff’s office, Peterson clearly states he thinks the shooter is inside.
Many, including the sheriff, are furious about Peterson’s failure to act and the lag which subsequently occurred. Initial calls about the shooting came in to 911 at 2:22 p.m. It would be 11 minutes before any officers entered the school — five minutes after the shooting had stopped. Five minutes after the suspect, 19-year-old Nikolas Cruz, had left the building.
“What I saw was a deputy arrive at the west side of building 13,” Sheriff Scott Israel told reporters on Thursday, “take up a position and he never went in.”
At least 81 calls came in to 911 during, as the shooter stalked the hallways, shooting randomly into classrooms, and afterwards, when police finally entered and began ushering the students outside.
“There’s no place to hide … they’re crouched (under) the window.”
From a friend, relaying to 911 what a mother is being told by her daughter, who’s inside a room with another student. The door window to the classroom has been shot out. There are no closed-sided desks, no closets. The girls hear someone moving in the corridor.
The mother can be heard in the background: “Can you play dead? If he shoots, you need to play dead. If he shoots, play dead. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
This mother’s other daughter, she discovers, is hiding in the auditorium.
Another mother, it seems (although this is unclear), to 911: “My daughter just texted me from the school, she’s at Stoneman Douglas … and she says there’s an active shooter … She says she’s behind the desk right now but the shots were close.”
The dispatcher wants all the information the girl can pro- vide. But she needs the girl to remain quiet, text only, make no noise that could attract the shooter. “Tell the mother to keep her on the friend,” the dispatcher instructs through a go-between. “If she hears anything, she needs to tell her.”
Friend, from the mother’s received text: “She hears people walking in the hallways.”
Dispatcher: “Keep that phone line open. Tell her to be quiet, be quiet.” In the background, furious typing by dispatchers as the calls, pleas for help from parents, come pouring in, emergency responders directed to the scene. “Don’t do nothing. I need everybody quiet in that room. Put the phone on silent. Don’t move. Stay hidden.” It’s the girl’s birthday. The chaos and the confusion are palpable. Sheriff’s officers and the Coral Gables Police Department are on separate 911 systems. They can’t communicate with each other.
A heavily panting police officer gives a description of the spotted shooter: white male with ROTC uniform, burgundy shirt. Last seen in the threestorey building (12) north parking lot.” Yet a minute later, another officer is asking if anyone has a description of the suspect or a possible whereabouts.
Multiple agencies descending on the scene in a muddle of information. The governor has ordered an inquiry into the police response.
A mother, on the phone, hyperventilating. Her son has called about a shooter at the Parkland school.
Dispatcher: “Ma’am, where is your son inside the school? What room is he in?”
Mom: “He said he’s in one of the math classes … he said he’s locked in a math class.”
Names are exchanged of the kids but deleted from the tapes. It’s unknown if any of them were among the murdered.
A man reports he’s heard two separate bursts of gunfire. Another man says he’s just got a text from his fiancée’s little sister. “She’s upstairs (at the school), scared.”
At one of the classrooms, there’s somebody at the door, a girl texts her mom. Somebody is coming inside. Everybody holds their breath. Thank heavens, it’s the police.
They’re taking some of the injured out.
Mom: “Tell everybody to be calm.” Mom disconnects from 911. Dispatcher: “Oh my God.”