children were in good hands.
But Diane was insisting there was still a man out there with a gun ...
There was so much more to be done. Judy called the Springfield Police Department. She wasn't sure just where the shooting had taken place; the city limits were not that far from the hospital. The gunman might even be on his way here.
"I figured that it had to be some kind of domestic dispute," she later recalled. "If a man had been crazy enough and cruel enough to shoot three children, I thought he might follow them into the ER and shoot everybody here. I wanted to get the police here. I don't mind saying I was scared."
"I want to call my parents," Diane murmured. "I need to call them."
Judy nodded and covered the phone. "I'm talking to the police. Just a moment. Could you tell me what happened again, so i that I can tell them?"
"Somebody shot my kids ..."
, ^"dy repeated information as Diane related it to her. Diane aidn t know just where the shooting had occurred, but she nought she could find it again. She mentioned "Mohawk" and Marcola-" Mohawk Boulevard ran directly in front of the hospifiefri
then there was old Mohawk Readjust outside of Spring^ 'd. Marcola was a crossroads town northeast of Springfield.
abo^ dlfficult to te11 exactly which area Diane was talking restr^ Judy talked to the dispatcher, Diane went into the small JudvmJust behind her desk area. The door remained open;
> could hear running water.
24 ANN RULE
IAs she hung up the phone, she saw Diane head again toward the trauma room. She hurried after her to stop her. Judy glanced into the trauma room. Someone had drawn the drapes around the bed where Cheryl's body rested; there was a gap in the cloth, though, and one chalky arm was partially visible.
Judy quickly tugged Diane away, into the minor surgery
room. In the bright light, Judy saw that Diane had apparently been injured too. Beneath the plaid shirt, her left arm was wrapped from elbow to wrist in a brightly colored beach towel. Unwrapping the towel, Judy found an ovoid, nasty-looking wound on the outer surface of Diane's arm, almost exactly halfway between her wrist and her elbow. There were two smaller wounds.
Judy wasn't a nurse, but she was the only one available. She put Betadine on the three bloody lesions to disinfect them, wiping away the black particles around the first hole. Then she bandaged the arm. The wounds weren't life threatening, although they looked painful.
"What happened?" Judy asked Diane again. "Where were you when he shot the children?" |
"We went out toward Marcola to see a friend. We were headed back, driving along Old Mohawk Road. My kids were laughing and talking. I was laughing at something Danny said, _ and talking to Christie. . . . There was this man, standing there ^ in the middle of the road. He looked like he needed help. I stopped the car, and got out. He wanted my keys. He just reached in through the window and shot my kids. It's a terrible thing to be laughing one minute, and then have something like this happen to you."
Judy touched Diane's good arm. There were no words to say. "You can call your father now. Come on back to the desk."
Wordlessly, Diane followed her. Her face was a mask. She dialed a number, waited for someone to answer, and then blurted into the phone, "He shot the kids. He shot me too." |
She hung up and turned to Judy. "They're on their way." ^H
Wes and Willadene Frederickson, Diane's parents, the grandparents of Christie, Cheryl, and Danny Downs, had retired for the night in the white ranch house where they lived, less than two miles from McKenzie-Willamette Hospital. Elizabeth Diane was the oldest of their five grown children. She had moved from |
Arizona to be near them only weeks before. Now, just when their
SMALL SACRIFICES 25
,yes seemed to be moving along with some serenity, a ringing nhone in the night had signaled disaster.
Willadene was particularly afraid of hospitals; she could not imagine that anything good
But Diane was insisting there was still a man out there with a gun ...
There was so much more to be done. Judy called the Springfield Police Department. She wasn't sure just where the shooting had taken place; the city limits were not that far from the hospital. The gunman might even be on his way here.
"I figured that it had to be some kind of domestic dispute," she later recalled. "If a man had been crazy enough and cruel enough to shoot three children, I thought he might follow them into the ER and shoot everybody here. I wanted to get the police here. I don't mind saying I was scared."
"I want to call my parents," Diane murmured. "I need to call them."
Judy nodded and covered the phone. "I'm talking to the police. Just a moment. Could you tell me what happened again, so i that I can tell them?"
"Somebody shot my kids ..."
, ^"dy repeated information as Diane related it to her. Diane aidn t know just where the shooting had occurred, but she nought she could find it again. She mentioned "Mohawk" and Marcola-" Mohawk Boulevard ran directly in front of the hospifiefri
then there was old Mohawk Readjust outside of Spring^ 'd. Marcola was a crossroads town northeast of Springfield.
abo^ dlfficult to te11 exactly which area Diane was talking restr^ Judy talked to the dispatcher, Diane went into the small JudvmJust behind her desk area. The door remained open;
> could hear running water.
24 ANN RULE
IAs she hung up the phone, she saw Diane head again toward the trauma room. She hurried after her to stop her. Judy glanced into the trauma room. Someone had drawn the drapes around the bed where Cheryl's body rested; there was a gap in the cloth, though, and one chalky arm was partially visible.
Judy quickly tugged Diane away, into the minor surgery
room. In the bright light, Judy saw that Diane had apparently been injured too. Beneath the plaid shirt, her left arm was wrapped from elbow to wrist in a brightly colored beach towel. Unwrapping the towel, Judy found an ovoid, nasty-looking wound on the outer surface of Diane's arm, almost exactly halfway between her wrist and her elbow. There were two smaller wounds.
Judy wasn't a nurse, but she was the only one available. She put Betadine on the three bloody lesions to disinfect them, wiping away the black particles around the first hole. Then she bandaged the arm. The wounds weren't life threatening, although they looked painful.
"What happened?" Judy asked Diane again. "Where were you when he shot the children?" |
"We went out toward Marcola to see a friend. We were headed back, driving along Old Mohawk Road. My kids were laughing and talking. I was laughing at something Danny said, _ and talking to Christie. . . . There was this man, standing there ^ in the middle of the road. He looked like he needed help. I stopped the car, and got out. He wanted my keys. He just reached in through the window and shot my kids. It's a terrible thing to be laughing one minute, and then have something like this happen to you."
Judy touched Diane's good arm. There were no words to say. "You can call your father now. Come on back to the desk."
Wordlessly, Diane followed her. Her face was a mask. She dialed a number, waited for someone to answer, and then blurted into the phone, "He shot the kids. He shot me too." |
She hung up and turned to Judy. "They're on their way." ^H
Wes and Willadene Frederickson, Diane's parents, the grandparents of Christie, Cheryl, and Danny Downs, had retired for the night in the white ranch house where they lived, less than two miles from McKenzie-Willamette Hospital. Elizabeth Diane was the oldest of their five grown children. She had moved from |
Arizona to be near them only weeks before. Now, just when their
SMALL SACRIFICES 25
,yes seemed to be moving along with some serenity, a ringing nhone in the night had signaled disaster.
Willadene was particularly afraid of hospitals; she could not imagine that anything good
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