people on-site, just enough to lock down the door.
There was one rescue in Pittsburgh back in the late eighties that really pushed the envelope, a great scene. A Friday morning, and as usual the group gathered before dawn, about 20 of them. Jim loved the early morning, would say little at times like this. He was a planner, not the vocal leader. He let others do the talking.
He was smarter than the others. He had a knowledge of science, politics and religion that the others could not approach. He was apologetic about his intelligence, made a point of trying not to talk down to others, although his attempts not to condescend to them sometimes came off as condescension anyway. “Sorry about that. If I sound like I’m talking down to you, please, please, just say, ‘Jim, shut up, OK?’” He certainly didn’t look the part of a genius, not in clothes that looked like soup kitchen rejects, an appearance that belied his upper-middle-class upbringing. He dressed down to be like the rest, people who led simple lifestyles, regular folks who were devoted to the cause, a couple of whom came down from Canada to join in the rescues. Jim Kopp made sure he looked like he belonged. But he was not one of them.
“The Dog!” Jim would smile at the sound of his nickname, and the tone that suggested his—what, celebrity?—among the activists. He wondered who started the Atomic Dog business. Was it from the 1983 George Clinton song? Why must I feel like that/ Why must I chase the cat/ Just the dog in me/ Nothin’ but the dog in me/ Just walkin’ the dog. Oh, atomic dog.
The group drove to the clinic in a van and he followed behind in the car, a junker they got for 75 bucks. The day’s appointments would soon begin to arrive. The van parked first. The doors flew open, two people got out with the ramps and carried them to the clinic steps. Jim’s car followed right behind, bounced up over the ramps, right in front of the door, stopped, then Jim and another man jumped out of the junker with his custom-made locks to pin themselves to the axle underneath the car, right in front of the door. It was imperative for Jim to be locked down before police arrived. Other protesters duct-taped themselves together in a semicircle around the perimeter—that’s what the rescuers called it, the perimeter—to delay the cops further.
They thought of everything. Don’t put too much gas in the car. If the police use blowtorches to try and break the locks the whole thing will blow up. The clinic workers, the cops, so angry, it was amazing. Shut the place down the entire day. Beautiful stuff. There he was, pinned under the car, fire from the police torches laboring to destroy what he, Jim Kopp, had created, heat thrown against his face as preborn babies slumbered in the warmth of their mothers’ wombs, safe, for one more day.
This police officer looking him in the eye, was he RCMP? Like the Mountie on that TV show. What was it called again? Later Jim Kopp tried to jog his memory. Saw the show on TV in Chicago once. Due North? Due South? Yes, Due South. Tall handsome actor, very Canadian. Paul—Gross. Yes. Perfect for the part, by the way, he reflected. Not exactly a cultural icon, not like Joni, but who is?
Dwayne Frook studied the I.D. Kopp, James Charles/1977 Dodge Aspen/green/BFN595/Residence St. Albans, Vermont. When no charge is laid from a routine traffic check, an officer often thinks nothing more of the encounter, writes nothing down. But Frook made a note of the stop. It’s simply a good habit. Down the road, you never know when information might come in handy. He took down the plate and the name of James Charles Kopp, then punched it into his computer, added it to thousands of others in the database. Frook let him go. There was no reason not to. The driver had done nothing wrong. Routine check. It took maybe all of five minutes. Jim Kopp rolled up the window and escaped into the darkness.
One week later, on the evening of Friday, November 10, Dr. Hugh Short and his wife, Katherine, returned to their home on Sulphur Springs. It had started to rain. Drops peppered the roof of the backyard shed, where the sniper had lurked, waiting, preparing. In the military, infantry prepack rifle rounds in strip clips for quick and easy reloading. But the sniper would likely have opportunity for one, maybe two shots. Rapid reloading was not required. Load the rounds, one at a time, into the slot at the top of the assault rifle. Feel the smooth, cold metal surface of each, blunt round noses, each lodging in place with a click. One down. Click. The next parallel beside it. Click. Pull on the round metal bolt, feel the stiffness of the spring, pull it all the way back, hear the faint chick of the retraction, allowing the first round to slide into the chamber, then ease the bolt back, making a harder, more violent clack, like a bone snapping. Out of the shed, on the grassy slope behind the house, the secondfloor den window lighted.
A sniper must have a steady heartrate, measured breathing, a clarity of thought and conscience that translates directly to the firearm, making the shot a mathematical certainty. If anything is off, it’s a miss. In the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan in 1981, the shot out of John Hinckley’s short-barreled gun ricocheted off the armor plating of Reagan’s limousine, flattened out like a dime, went through the half-inch space between the open door and the car and sliced into the president, hitting under the armpit. The bullet tumbled onward, then turned, tearing through muscles into his lung, and finally stopped one inch from his heart. That’s how tenuous it all is.
At 9:25 p.m. Katherine Short sat on a couch in the den. Her husband was there watching TV, in his favorite chair up against the window, a stationary target, his right elbow visible on the armrest.
Wind gusting, temperature plunging, rain pounding in sheets on the windshield of Hamilton police constable Mike Senchyshak’s parked cruiser. Terrible night. He was one of two uniform cops on patrol in the Ancaster area. Senchyshak covered area 311, was out on Trinity Church Road near Highway 53. The call came over the radio at 9:30 p.m. “Dispatch to three-eleven, over.”
“Three-eleven, go ahead.”
“Possible shooting. Sulphur Springs Road.”
Senchyshak didn’t hit the flashers. Sometimes they just slow you down. Motorists act strange when you light up the streets like that. He’d make better time without them. And he did not know if anyone had actually been hit. People hear a rifle shot and sometimes make a call. Often it’s just a pellet gun going off. But he was there in minutes, turned on Sulphur Springs and missed the house. Then he drove past it again. He had been up and down that road many times, but it was pitch black and the large home was set back from the road, no house numbers visible. Finally he pulled up in front. He looked at his watch. It was 9:37 p.m. The dispatcher relayed more information.
“Confirmed shots fired. Repeat. Shots fired.” Those words would bring patrol cars from all over the area. But at that moment, there was only one: Senchyshak. He pulled up the long driveway, right close to the house. A decision: stay put in the cruiser or go inside? Stay in the cruiser. Go by the book. If you’re alone at a shooting scene that might be still hot, wait at a safe distance for backup. You make your own rules, go Lone Ranger and stick your head in without knowing what’s there, you might be handed your brain in pieces. No. Someone could be hurt, the shooter could be inside, might fire again. Senchyshak opened the door of his cruiser, stepped into the cold rain, towards the scene, alone. He spoke quietly and evenly into his radio. “This is three-eleven. I’m approaching the premises.”
Senchyshak, who stood six feet and weighed nearly 200 pounds, felt the even weight of the Glock hanging at his hip. It had been just a few months since cops had switched from the .38 revolvers to the automatic Glocks, after a couple of shootouts in Ontario where the criminals had the upper hand in firepower. He stood on the front step of the large home. Could be a domestic, he reflected. Husband could have a gun, waiting to blow a hole in the next person to come inside. He knocked on the door, his senses on high alert. A woman answered the door. It was Katherine Short. A male voice yelling frantically from upstairs.
“Help! Help!”
Katherine rushed up the stairs and Senchyshak followed cautiously behind. He knew nothing about the Shorts, didn’t know who else was in the house, who had taken a shot, and he had no backup. He made quick mental notes of the layout on the main floor as he climbed, planning an escape route in case he needed one. He spoke quietly into his radio again, offering a live play-by-play of the consequences of his decision. “Three-eleven going upstairs.” He entered the den and saw Katherine’s husband on the floor, his clothes soaked with blood. He was alive.
“Three-eleven. Three-eleven with the victim. Victim conscious. Arm wound. Bleeding. Tell the ambulance to step on it.”
The bullet had blown through Dr. Hugh Short’s elbow. The doctor and his wife were hysterical now, yelling. Not in pain so much as fear, terror. Short would have felt unworldly pain when the shot hit but then the adrenaline blasted through his system, shock, fear—survival. Stop the bleeding. Stop it, or you’re dead in minutes. Wrap the wound, wrap it now, or bleed out. He had one belt tied in a tourniquet just above the wound on the right elbow, and
