were
scattered on each side of the street. The limo broadsided itself eastbound
around the corner at University as Tom was closing the gap. I gave our
location. We looked ahead to see a cruiser across the street, attempting to
block the limo. The limo plowed into the back quarter of the patrol car sending
it spinning to the curb. The limo then turned north up Fifth Avenue. Tom and I
now had three patrol cars behind us, and I radioed our last turn as Tom was now
two car lengths behind. There were three patrol cars blocking the street at
Pike. The limo made another hard left and headed down the hill, west toward the
sound. We were barreling down the steep hill, and pedestrians were jumping to
the side at intersections as our siren, and all those behind us were giving our
warning. By now all main streets were blocked. The limo and we were on a course
for the front door of the Pike Street Market, one of the busiest areas of the
city.
We crossed over Second Avenue as a bullet
gouged its way into our windshield, but didn’t make it through the heavy glass.
Tom closed the gap as we sped closer to the turn at the bottom of Pike Street.
When we had turned onto Pike, I’d radioed to clear the streets at the market.
We had almost every patrol car in downtown Seattle in the chase or blocking
streets and keeping pedestrians out of the chase. First Avenue was a hundred
feet ahead as another bullet hit the windshield. The limo was fishtailing
wildly as it avoided cars, and delivery trucks that had been abandoned in the
street. Tom slowed slightly to have more control on the corner at the market.
It was now dead ahead of us as we watched the limo start its broadside turn
around the corner and onto Pike Place. The backend of the limo wiped out a
large stack of produce that had just been delivered. There was lettuce,
cabbage, and broccoli from one side of the street to the other. Tom’s tires lost
traction in the mush of squashed vegetables, and we took our own stack of
vegetables out as we jarred to a temporary halt. Tom floored it, and we shot
forward as our tires moved onto dry pavement. The limo was a half a block ahead,
but was having to slow because of all the parked cars. We were coming to
Stewart Street, and I saw a black and white swerve into the path of the
speeding limo. The patrolman leaped out and rolled away, on the ground, just
before the limo slammed into the side of the patrol car, and started its flight
over the hood of the patrol car. The limo had become airborne, and was
spiraling in the air like an NFL football on Sunday afternoon. Tom slowed and
stopped just as we crossed Stewart. We both jumped out, and started to run. The
limo continued its pirouette and slammed through a chain link fence. I slowed
my pace as I realized where we were, finally. The limo had just flown into the
construction site where Sharon Keller had been killed. Gino was involuntarily
returning to the scene of the crime. We both were trotting now, and heard the
crash of the limo as it struck the ground at the bottom of the muddy hole. Tom
and I skidded to the edge of the large hole, and looked down at the smoke and
fire that was just starting below us. Four patrolmen were already mired in the
muddy ground pulling at doors and hauling people out. As we watched, four
people were pulled out. Two looked like they hadn’t made it, but Gino and his
driver were moving and yelling for help.
Tom and I walked around to the top of the
ramp. Gino was favoring a nasty looking broken leg, and the driver’s arm was
hanging at an unnatural angle. Four medical units were at the curb. There would
be a long escort of police cars to take them to the hospital. Jamison’s car
came sliding to a stop as he jumped out and ran to where Tom and I were
standing.
“What’s going on? Did anyone survive?”
He
then noticed Gino and his driver being helped up the hill, and his face lit up
with a smile.
“Alright!” he said as his arm
scattered on each side of the street. The limo broadsided itself eastbound
around the corner at University as Tom was closing the gap. I gave our
location. We looked ahead to see a cruiser across the street, attempting to
block the limo. The limo plowed into the back quarter of the patrol car sending
it spinning to the curb. The limo then turned north up Fifth Avenue. Tom and I
now had three patrol cars behind us, and I radioed our last turn as Tom was now
two car lengths behind. There were three patrol cars blocking the street at
Pike. The limo made another hard left and headed down the hill, west toward the
sound. We were barreling down the steep hill, and pedestrians were jumping to
the side at intersections as our siren, and all those behind us were giving our
warning. By now all main streets were blocked. The limo and we were on a course
for the front door of the Pike Street Market, one of the busiest areas of the
city.
We crossed over Second Avenue as a bullet
gouged its way into our windshield, but didn’t make it through the heavy glass.
Tom closed the gap as we sped closer to the turn at the bottom of Pike Street.
When we had turned onto Pike, I’d radioed to clear the streets at the market.
We had almost every patrol car in downtown Seattle in the chase or blocking
streets and keeping pedestrians out of the chase. First Avenue was a hundred
feet ahead as another bullet hit the windshield. The limo was fishtailing
wildly as it avoided cars, and delivery trucks that had been abandoned in the
street. Tom slowed slightly to have more control on the corner at the market.
It was now dead ahead of us as we watched the limo start its broadside turn
around the corner and onto Pike Place. The backend of the limo wiped out a
large stack of produce that had just been delivered. There was lettuce,
cabbage, and broccoli from one side of the street to the other. Tom’s tires lost
traction in the mush of squashed vegetables, and we took our own stack of
vegetables out as we jarred to a temporary halt. Tom floored it, and we shot
forward as our tires moved onto dry pavement. The limo was a half a block ahead,
but was having to slow because of all the parked cars. We were coming to
Stewart Street, and I saw a black and white swerve into the path of the
speeding limo. The patrolman leaped out and rolled away, on the ground, just
before the limo slammed into the side of the patrol car, and started its flight
over the hood of the patrol car. The limo had become airborne, and was
spiraling in the air like an NFL football on Sunday afternoon. Tom slowed and
stopped just as we crossed Stewart. We both jumped out, and started to run. The
limo continued its pirouette and slammed through a chain link fence. I slowed
my pace as I realized where we were, finally. The limo had just flown into the
construction site where Sharon Keller had been killed. Gino was involuntarily
returning to the scene of the crime. We both were trotting now, and heard the
crash of the limo as it struck the ground at the bottom of the muddy hole. Tom
and I skidded to the edge of the large hole, and looked down at the smoke and
fire that was just starting below us. Four patrolmen were already mired in the
muddy ground pulling at doors and hauling people out. As we watched, four
people were pulled out. Two looked like they hadn’t made it, but Gino and his
driver were moving and yelling for help.
Tom and I walked around to the top of the
ramp. Gino was favoring a nasty looking broken leg, and the driver’s arm was
hanging at an unnatural angle. Four medical units were at the curb. There would
be a long escort of police cars to take them to the hospital. Jamison’s car
came sliding to a stop as he jumped out and ran to where Tom and I were
standing.
“What’s going on? Did anyone survive?”
He
then noticed Gino and his driver being helped up the hill, and his face lit up
with a smile.
“Alright!” he said as his arm
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