By Nadine Moedt (The Cascade) – Email
Print Edition: February 6, 2013
We’ve all been tempted to dial 9-1-1. As children, forced to memorize the number with religious intensity, it’s something everyone secretly wondered about. What happens when you press those three ominous buttons?
I found out the hard way. It was a mistake, made at three in the morning while pulling an all-nighter with my sister, Sasha and her boyfriend. Someone had lost their phone, so I thought I’d call it.
I fumbled with my Blackberry for a moment—it froze so I pressed buttons at random—finally unlocking it. Soon after the lost phone was fished out from the couch cushions, my Blackberry rang. It was the police, returning my call.
The operator questioned me vigorously, “Where are you? Who is with you? Why are you up so late? Where do you go to school? What do you study? What does your sister study? And the boyfriend? What does he study?” And, most importantly, “Answer simply yes or no – do you need help?” Then she asked to speak with my sister, who had to answer the same questions.
At last she let us go. Exhausted, we finally went to bed.
An hour later the phone rang again. It was my parents. My mother was shrill; she just received a call from the Abbotsford police asking if she’s related to Nadine and Sasha Moedt and could she please confirm their address? As I am on the phone, assuring her that everything is all right, that it was just a mistake – the door is kicked in. Not actually. But close enough.
They pounded on the door. “This is the Abbotsford Police! Could you please open the door?” We were all in bed at this point. I jumped up and answered the door in the fuzzy fleece housecoat my Oma made me for Christmas. Three men stood in the hallway: two of them in plain-clothes, one in uniform. I let them in. Our two cats wove in and out of the hallway and adjoining kitchen, looping around ankles with high expectations of being fed.
“How many cats do you have?” the first officer asked incredulously. He scanned the apartment nervously.
The second officer walked into the bedroom and questioned the boyfriend, who was still in bed, half-asleep.
Officer three pulled me aside. “Is there anything you want to tell me here in private?” he asked softly. This must be procedure: separate the occupants so as to ask questions without an audience. He looks concerned and kind. At that moment I felt reassured; had there been any trouble I don’t doubt that he would’ve helped me out.
Apparently, our answers to the 9-1-1 dispatcher didn’t match up and the officers were sent to make sure everything was okay. After a thorough inspection of the premises, being confident that everyone was safe, the officers left, apologizing for the intrusion.
They were very tenacious. We assured both the operator and the police at the door numerous times that all was well, but that didn’t stop them from investigating until there was no doubt we were safe. It was a bit of a nuisance, and we certainly didn’t get much sleep that night, but it was a job well done.
The Abbotsford police, thanks to their experience dealing with a turf dispute between two territorial gangs, know what they’re doing. Rest assured, if you need help, you’re going to get it.
It feels pretty safe living in the former murder capital of Canada.
