From calm to crisis: 911 workers sprang into action
Hiding in a dark closet as a gunman sprayed bullets inside the Tree of Life synagogue, the frightened caller Saturday had no way of knowing whether the outside world was coming to help.
What he had working in his favor, though, was a 911 call taker in training, less than three months on the job. She answered the phone and in the pivotal moments that followed, kept him calm as she coaxed from him information needed to keep him and others alive.
The man complied with Michele Kalinsky as she went through a list of questions she’s trained to ask: His name — Barry Werber — the phone number he was calling from and the location and nature of his emergency.
She asked the location a second time per training so she could be sure.
“He couldn’t talk very loud,” Ms. Kalinsky, 51, of Green Tree, said Thursday. “He was fearful, and I wanted to reassure him that he was not alone because I was there — and I felt with him.”
He gave information that helped police coordinate a tactical response and didn’t ask for much other than reassurance. “He just wanted to know that he wasn’t alone,” she said.
Before the rest of the world even knew about Saturday’s mass shooting in Squirrel Hill that left 11 dead and six wounded, the Allegheny County 911 emergency operations center was deep into crisis mode,
shifting police and medical resources on a morning that had seemed so routine — parking complaints, calls about a neighbor’s leaves and dogs barking — until 9:54 a.m.
As soon as the words “active shooter” flashed onto computer screens, everything changed for the center’s employees. On Thursday, Allegheny County officials made some of them available to discuss what transpired.
Ms. Kalinsky said she was able to block out the emotion of the moment so she could do her job, making sure to keep Mr. Werber on the line and as safe as possible.
“Surprisingly at the time, I forgot that it was me. I forgot I was there, and I became his friend,” she said. “It was more important for me being there for him.” Mr. Werber survived the massacre.
At least 14 call takers and about 40 dispatchers — all telecommunications officers — are responsible on any given shift to keep calls flowing from the public to the necessary emergency services in Pittsburgh and 117 other municipalities for which the center is responsible.
For dispatcher Michael Steinmiller, the emergency description on his screen was quickly matched by sounds in the room. “I heard one of the call takers yell out that, ‘We have an active shooter,’” said Mr. Steinmiller, 30, of Shaler.
Multiple calls and reports of 20 to 30 gunshots followed. He and others began mobilizing police — a few units at first and then more, including from outside the city, as the scale of the incident became clear.
He said the first officers arrived and “within a few moments they started yelling out that an officer was shot,’’ Mr. Steinmiller said
“Probably the worst nightmare come true for dispatchers to hear that,” he said. “I heard it four times that day. It was hard.”
One call taker was on the phone with the rabbi. Others fielded frantic calls coming in from elsewhere about the shooter, while still others were responsible for making sure the rest of the city and county was covered for routine calls and unrelated emergencies.
For 56 minutes, 911 call taker Bruce Carlton, 48 of Westwood, kept a line open to Tree of Life Rabbi Jeffrey Myers, who had dialed the center and was hiding in a choir loft above the sanctuary.
On any day, 911 calls often start with screaming, Mr. Carlton said. But while he could sense the urgency in the rabbi’s voice, the rabbi was to the point, identifying himself clearly and describing the situation.
Mr. Carlton got him to speak more slowly and elicited everything he could about the rampage.
“I asked him, did he see the gunman. He did not. He only heard the shots. I asked him how many shots he heard. Twenty to 30, coming from the lobby.”
Mr. Carlton told the rabbi to find a more secure place, which he did, moving to a bathroom, Mr. Carlton said. “After that, there was really no talking, because we could hear movement in the hallway, movement coming up the stairs. I told him [it was] best to say silent.
“Occasionally, I would ask him if he was still with me,” Mr. Carlton recalled. “I would get a quiet whisper, ‘Yes.’
“He would tell me, ‘ I’m hearing additional shots.’ A volley here. A volley there, which I was documenting the whole time.”
As SWAT teams moved closer to apprehend the gunman and rescue those inside, the rabbi asked at several points whether he should emerge from hiding.
“I distinctly recall him asking me at least five or six times, ‘Should I open my door?’ I kept telling him, ‘No.’ Even when he heard the police, he asked me once or twice,” he said.
“I told him ‘ No. Police are in a heightened state. Guns are drawn. They’re looking for an active shooter,’” Mr. Carlton said.
He ended the call only after it was confirmed that the police had reached the rabbi and he was safe.
Those working in the center Saturday had a range of experience from just months to nearly three decades.
Don Sand, 56, of Stanton Heights, division chief of 911 operations, got a page at home and jumped into his car to head toward the center in Point Breeze.
His employees in some cases could make out sounds of gunfire in the background. “You could hear it over the radio, and you could also hear it from the phone calls coming into 911,’’ he said.
The tragedy hit home for him personally — he knew Cecil and David Rosenthal, both of Squirrel Hill, who were among those killed.
“It’s pretty disturbing,” he said. “You have to be able to separate your personal feelings from what goes on here, or you won’t last.”
Mr. Sand had to make sure there were enough resources to handle the emergency. He also had to ensure those sitting at computer consoles, fielding calls for help and dispatching police, were not overwhelmed by the stress of making split-second, life-ordeath decisions.
“I went position by position to personally ask them, ‘Are you OK? Do you need anything? Do you need a break?’”
Dispatchers are trained to expect the worst-case scenario, and in a center that handles 1.2 million calls a year, there is no shortage. But the emotion still visible on the faces of some call takers and dispatchers who spoke to reporters Thursday showed the magnitude of what they had encountered and are still processing. A number of them have sought counseling to help deal with what they experienced.
The accused gunman, Robert Bowers, 46, a high school dropout and truck driver from Baldwin Borough, was wounded by police and apprehended. He had espoused anti-Semitic views and is charged in the worst anti-Semitic killing in U.S. history.
The victims had come to the synagogue for a service Saturday morning. Officials said the carnage and death toll would’ve been far worse were if not for emergency responders in the field and those taking the calls from frightened, desperate people.
Joyce Walters, 64, of Wilkinsburg, who had been dispatching calls to emergency responders in Downtown, on the North Side and in the Hill District, had to scramble to make sure units were being re-routed to the synagogue, while also making sure non-related calls elsewhere were being handled.
In words echoed by others across Pittsburgh and the nation, Ms. Walters said she could not help but dwell afterward on what the victims who simply had gone to their house of worship had to endure.
“Who would think it? Who would expect it?” she said. “I mean, how normal is it to go to church or to synagogue?”