Inside the radio room: What it’s like to be a 9-1-1 operator in Riverhead

For eight hours a day, the three women share a small office illuminated by a dozen or so computer screens and the backlit dials of radio equipment. Transmissions from cops in the field come over the speakers, punctuated with bursts of crackling static, humming and beeps. Much of the spoken language is numerical. They tap their computer keyboards, punching in the officers’ locations, statuses and activities. The passage of time can be slow and tedious.

Until all hell breaks loose.

And it invariably does. That’s life inside the radio room at Riverhead Police headquarters, especially on a weekend night.

A phone line lights up on the console. One of the dispatchers picks up the receiver. “Hello… 9-1-1…Yes. OK. What is the location? Sound Avenue? Do you know the nearest cross street?” Her fingers are working the keyboard and a map pops up on one of the four screens on the corner desk in front of her.

Two more lines light up simultaneously. The other two dispatchers answer the incoming calls as the original relays the information to the patrol car: “Headquarters 603,” she speaks into the microphone on her desk.” A male voice responds: “603.” She tells him, “Report of a 10,” she says, using the police code for motor vehicle accident. “Pickup truck in a field off —north of Sound, west of Roanoke, one injury.”

She flips a switch and a loud tone goes out on the airwaves, a signal to Riverhead ambulance. She speaks into the microphone again. “EMTs MVA Sound Avenue, west of Roanoke, one injury.”

One of the other dispatchers has a second caller about the same incident. “Elderly male, 72, nonresponsive. Possible stroke,” she says. “I have the man’s daughter-in-law on the phone.”

The first dispatcher gets back on the radio to inform Riverhead Volunteer Ambulance of the new information, as the 603 car checks in to say he’s arrived on scene. His presence is recorded, with the time. “Tell rescue to step it up,” he says, indicating the victim’s condition is serious.

Meanwhile, the third dispatcher is talking to someone who called 9-1-1 to report a highly intoxicated man threatening to hurt himself. She dispatches a sector car to the location.

Another call comes in right after that, an elderly woman, difficulty breathing. The dispatcher calls 605 on the radio and dispatches RVAC.

All of five minutes have passed since the first 9-1-1 call came in.

They function together like a well-oiled machine, unflustered and seemingly unfazed. Candee, Kate and Nancy work the same shifts, together with the same squad of cops. They know each other so well, they can tell when something serious is taking place just from the tone in an officer’s voice over the radio.

“There’s a bond, we’re like a family, brothers and sisters,” Kate says. “You worry about each other and watch out for each other.”

The calls always seem to come in clumps, the dispatchers say. It will be quiet and then the phone starts ringing. When it does, they never know what they’ll hear on the other end — but experience tells them to be prepared for the worst.

“There’s nothing worse than a mother screaming in your ear, ‘My son is dead! He’s hanging!’ Those are the calls you never forget,” says Nancy, who’s been a Riverhead dispatcher for three years but worked for the county police department for three years before that.

The three women were on duty when the calls came in for the two Riverhead police officers who died last October. Det. Bobby Boden was 54; he suffered a pulmonary embolism. Officer Ben Goodale was only 42 when he suffered a fatal heart attack a week after Boden’s death.

“So many people had anxiety after that,” Candee says.

The cops “sometimes come back really shook up,” Candee says, “…the things they see… It affects them.” She’s been in the Riverhead radio room in for 25 years.

“When you do save somebody it offsets the bad,” she says.

She recalls mothers giving birth while she gave the dad or some other party instructions over the phone. How many births has she talked someone through? “Seven,” she says without a moment’s hesitation.

The dispatchers have an emergency dispatch protocol book that covers every imaginable medical emergency with step-by-step instructions. They are also required to take numerous annual training courses in a variety of topics, including CPR.

The phone rings again. Within seconds Candee is dispatching a car to the scene of a domestic dispute. As she does, another call comes in: another “aided case,” a call for an ambulance.

Tension in room ticks up as the phone lines come alive. Callers are calmed down, information taken and relayed to police and EMS crews. There is a lull in the action.

The desk officer, stationed on the other side of a windowed wall inside headquarters, enters the radio room with a bag of takeout from Diggers — supper for the dispatchers. If they’re lucky, the quiet time will last long enough for them to eat their food while it’s still hot.

As they eat, they chat about their years in the radio room, recalling how much quieter things used to be once upon a time.

“Years ago, if we took 17 calls in one night, it was ‘wow — that’s a lot.’ Now if we do 17 calls it’s like a paid vacation,” Candee says.

By 7:20, a little more than a third of their shift behind them, they’d already had 20 calls. And it was a pretty quiet night, they said.

“It’s busier, but things overall were rougher back then,” says Kate, a Riverhead dispatcher for 15 years. “There was more violence then.”

But the memories are not all difficult and bad. Some are heartwarming, and some are downright funny.

“Like the time a bank robber’s wife called in and said ‘I think I just saw my husband on RiverheadLOCAL,'” she said. The photo released by police and published on the website prompted the call — and the man’s speedy arrest.

“We all have our stories,” Candee says. “I wish I would have written everything down from day one.”

They begin to share anecdotes about some of the “regulars” over the years.

“One lady swears someone comes in her house and moves her shower curtain every day.”

“Another guy says his neighbor’s house has cameras on it and they’re recording him to spy on him.”

“One old woman called all the time about aliens. And another had Phil, Bill and Lil living inside her walls.”

Candee says another elderly woman called her every day to ask for pancakes and sausage. They all share a laugh.

“Sometimes, especially the old people, they’re just lonely,” she says.

Years back, Candee used to go to one elderly caller’s house and help with chores, like raking leaves.

“Then one day she had a heart attack and crashed her car into a telephone pole on 25A,” Candee recalls, a wistful tone in her voice.

As the holidays approach, the dispatchers see more calls for depression and possibly suicidal subjects.

“I’ve talked a few people off the ledge,” Candee says.

There’s also an rise in domestic dispute calls and larcenies around the holidays.

Things also get busier around the time of a full moon, they say. And a new moon can be just as bad.

The dispatchers take it all in stride. They have to. Remaining calm and collected no matter what’s happening is an absolute necessity. That and making sure your bladder isn’t full.

“As soon as you get the slightest sensation, you’d better go. Because if you wait, you never know if you’ll be able to get away,” Candee says in a deadpan voice.

There are 10 public safety dispatchers in Riverhead — to cover three eight-hour shifts seven days a week. There’s very little leeway for sick time or vacation.

“It’s a stressful job,” Kate says. “You have to make sure you handle the stress the right way, in a healthy way. It would be very easy to go home and drink wine every night to unwind and escape. But that’s dangerous.”

“It can be very difficult,” Nancy agrees, “especially in a small town where you often know the people making that 9-1-1 call.”

Most of the time, the good outweighs the bad, they agree.

“You’re performing a valuable service. You’re helping people in distress, people in need,” Candee says. “That’s what it’s all about.”

Editor’s note: At the request of one of the interview subjects, RiverheadLOCAL agreed to use only the first names of the public safety dispatchers for this story.