Swat episodes ucla8/10/2023 Next came his ammunition belt, a knife, and two more handguns. He unloaded dozens of rounds of ammunition from his pockets. I talked to the gunman about my little patients, many of whom have physical and mental disabilities, and he seemed to identify with them.Īt 4 pm, in response to a request from the police, he revealed his name-Damacio Torres. The Quaker tenet that “there is that of God in all people” kept running through my mind. We discussed the weather, politics, and travel. The afternoon wore on, and in between the police telephone calls we talked. He replied that it was “too late for that” and refused. I offered to examine him if he would release my fellow hostage. I felt that I had established enough of a rapport with the gunman to take the calculated risk of telling him that I was a doctor. It seemed pointless for both of us to face that possibility. The chances of being caught in the crossfire were high. There were few places in the emergency room where we could take cover. I thought they would try to overpower the gunman, using tear gas or smoke grenades for distraction. I had little idea of how a SWAT team handles a hostage incident. The police tried to obtain information by asking me questions requiring only a yes or no-I was surprised how rapidly they had discovered my identity and that of my fellow hostage. I asked the switchboard for calls to be restricted to the police, and his agitation decreased. At gunpoint, I had to hang up, but the incessant ringing of the telephones was irritating the gunman. News stations had already started to report the shooting and calls were coming from anxious relatives of emergency room personnel. He turned his attention to the telephones, which had been ringing constantly, and told me to answer and find out if it was the police. The gunman seemed pleased that the “big boys” (the LAPD SWAT team) had arrived. The gunman barricaded the doors, and with his gun at my back I had to provide a running commentary at gunpoint on the activity that I could see through the glass panels, where I glimpsed several men dressed in riot gear, with high power rifles, positioning themselves outside. Photographs lay scattered around the blood. Near the triage area a pool of blood indicated that at least one person had been seriously injured. I was doing what had become routine since I was at medical school-taking a history. He complained that doctors had infected him with AIDS. He felt he'd been experimented on during a physical examination for a job at the hospital. As we walked, the gunman rambled about his hatred of doctors. He screamed that he did not want to know names. You're a doctor.” I waited for the bullet. “You're a doctor, aren't you?” he shouted. I was dressed in scrubs-white coats upset my paediatric patients-and I threw my ID badge under the examination couch.įootsteps approached and the cubicle curtain was swept back to reveal a gun pointed at me by a tall, stocky man in combat gear with his other arm round the neck of a female file clerk. Then a man's voice: “I don't want nurses, I want doctors! I want white coats.” The patient and I crouched on the floor. “Get out! He's shooting doctors!” someone yelled. My fellowship training in paediatric neurology entailed seeing some adult patients, and I had been called to consult in the emergency room at University of Southern California Medical Center, the largest acute care hospital in the United States, at midday on 8 February 1993. Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like someone hitting a tea tray on a table, until I remembered that I was on the wrong side of the Atlantic for consultants to be served with tea and biscuits and screaming voices made me realise that the sounds were gunshots.
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