rrrrrajah on the call."
Then he released the-button, turned to Whaddayamean Dean and said, "That'll make her wet her pants."
And the radio operator, who was a fat, fifty-nine year old housewife with six children older than Roscoe Rules, turned to the operator on her left and said, "That guy on. Seven-A-Eighty-five sounds like an insufferable prick."
A janitor named Homer Tilden had placed the jumper call when a twenty-two year old receptionist named Melissa Monroe returned to the office some three hours after the building closed and demanded to be let in on the pretext of having left an important document there.
"I never shoulda let her in, it's my fault, all my fault," the plump black janitor later sobbed to detectives.
Then the janitor pictured the pert smiling girl with the jazz age bob, who always yelled "Night, Mr. Tilden!" when she left at night, and he burst into tears like a child.
When Roscoe Rules and Dean Pratt arrived, red lights flashing and siren screaming, there was already a small group of morbid onlookers who had come across from the Ambassador Hotel. Homer Tilden led the two policemen to the elevator and up to the twenty-first floor where the young woman sat on the window ledge, of her own office, feet dangling, looking down curiously at the crowd gathering. In the distance the wail of a fire department emergency vehicle trapped by Wilshire Boulevard night traffic three blocks west.
"Don't come near me," the girl said calmly, her hair blowing wispily around her tiny ears as the two policemen ran from the elevator and burst into the office.
"Go downstairs," Roscoe said to Homer Tilden who was holding his chest and panting as though he had run the twenty-one stories instead of taking the elevator.
"Maybe I."
"Go downstairs!" Roscoe repeated. "There's gonna be other people coming."
And as the janitor obeyed, Roscoe Rules began to imagine a picture and write-up in tomorrow's Los Angeles Times if he could save the beautiful jumper. She was a fox and would surely rate an inside front page photo, along with her savior.
"Look, miss," Roscoe said and stepped forward. But the girl moved inches closer to her destiny, and Roscoe froze in his tracks.
"Maybe we better back off, partner," Dean whispered, looking for the moment far younger than his twenty-five years, his freckles swimming in streams of sweat.
"We don't back off nothing," Roscoe whispered back. "She's a dingaling, and there's ways to handle them." Then to the girl Roscoe said, "Nothing's as bad as that. Come on in. Let's jaw about it."
He said it fliply with a grin and stepped forward, stopping when the girl moved forward another two inches and now teetered on the very edge, framed against the faded smoggy night sky of the Miracle Mile.
"Oh no!" Dean said. "No, miss! Don't go any closer! Come on, partner, let's go downstairs and give this lady a chance to think!"
But as Roscoe Rules saw a Times write-up and perhaps a police department medal of valor slipping through his fingers, he decided to try a different approach. He had seen Charles Laughton or someone do it successfully on an old TV movie. You could shame a jumper into surrendering.
"All right then, goddamnit!" Roscoe shouted to the girl. "You got your audience. It's your life. If it ain't worth a shit to you, it ain't worth a shit to us. Go ahead, girl. We can't stay here all night babying you. We got other things to do. Go ahead, girl! Jump!"
And she did. Without a word or a tear she looked at Roscoe Rules and Dean Pratt and in fact never took her large violet eyes off them as she let herself slip from the ledge and fell at thirty-two feet per second squared, legs first, with a scream that was lost in a woosh of air and rustling skirt which had blown up over her face.
What was left of Melissa Monroe was being covered by a sheet when Dean Pratt stumbled by on his way to the radio car.
"Let me make the reports, partner," Roscoe Rules said, and for the very first time Dean heard
Then he released the-button, turned to Whaddayamean Dean and said, "That'll make her wet her pants."
And the radio operator, who was a fat, fifty-nine year old housewife with six children older than Roscoe Rules, turned to the operator on her left and said, "That guy on. Seven-A-Eighty-five sounds like an insufferable prick."
A janitor named Homer Tilden had placed the jumper call when a twenty-two year old receptionist named Melissa Monroe returned to the office some three hours after the building closed and demanded to be let in on the pretext of having left an important document there.
"I never shoulda let her in, it's my fault, all my fault," the plump black janitor later sobbed to detectives.
Then the janitor pictured the pert smiling girl with the jazz age bob, who always yelled "Night, Mr. Tilden!" when she left at night, and he burst into tears like a child.
When Roscoe Rules and Dean Pratt arrived, red lights flashing and siren screaming, there was already a small group of morbid onlookers who had come across from the Ambassador Hotel. Homer Tilden led the two policemen to the elevator and up to the twenty-first floor where the young woman sat on the window ledge, of her own office, feet dangling, looking down curiously at the crowd gathering. In the distance the wail of a fire department emergency vehicle trapped by Wilshire Boulevard night traffic three blocks west.
"Don't come near me," the girl said calmly, her hair blowing wispily around her tiny ears as the two policemen ran from the elevator and burst into the office.
"Go downstairs," Roscoe said to Homer Tilden who was holding his chest and panting as though he had run the twenty-one stories instead of taking the elevator.
"Maybe I."
"Go downstairs!" Roscoe repeated. "There's gonna be other people coming."
And as the janitor obeyed, Roscoe Rules began to imagine a picture and write-up in tomorrow's Los Angeles Times if he could save the beautiful jumper. She was a fox and would surely rate an inside front page photo, along with her savior.
"Look, miss," Roscoe said and stepped forward. But the girl moved inches closer to her destiny, and Roscoe froze in his tracks.
"Maybe we better back off, partner," Dean whispered, looking for the moment far younger than his twenty-five years, his freckles swimming in streams of sweat.
"We don't back off nothing," Roscoe whispered back. "She's a dingaling, and there's ways to handle them." Then to the girl Roscoe said, "Nothing's as bad as that. Come on in. Let's jaw about it."
He said it fliply with a grin and stepped forward, stopping when the girl moved forward another two inches and now teetered on the very edge, framed against the faded smoggy night sky of the Miracle Mile.
"Oh no!" Dean said. "No, miss! Don't go any closer! Come on, partner, let's go downstairs and give this lady a chance to think!"
But as Roscoe Rules saw a Times write-up and perhaps a police department medal of valor slipping through his fingers, he decided to try a different approach. He had seen Charles Laughton or someone do it successfully on an old TV movie. You could shame a jumper into surrendering.
"All right then, goddamnit!" Roscoe shouted to the girl. "You got your audience. It's your life. If it ain't worth a shit to you, it ain't worth a shit to us. Go ahead, girl. We can't stay here all night babying you. We got other things to do. Go ahead, girl! Jump!"
And she did. Without a word or a tear she looked at Roscoe Rules and Dean Pratt and in fact never took her large violet eyes off them as she let herself slip from the ledge and fell at thirty-two feet per second squared, legs first, with a scream that was lost in a woosh of air and rustling skirt which had blown up over her face.
What was left of Melissa Monroe was being covered by a sheet when Dean Pratt stumbled by on his way to the radio car.
"Let me make the reports, partner," Roscoe Rules said, and for the very first time Dean heard
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