What is your emergency?” “I think someone’s in my house. My dog’s barking like crazy.” “What is your address?” “928 Senter Street, with an ‘S.’ Hurry!” “We’ll send a car right away.” (Loud bang.) “Was that a gunshot, ma’am?” (Long pause.) “Ma’am?” “Yeah, it was a gun.” “Are you all right?” “I’m not the one hit. It’s a man and I think he’s - oh, my God - it’s my husband!” The 911 call played over and over again on the Cincinnati television stations in the week after the shooting of Tim Crutcher. When I first heard it on our kitchen TV, I was fixing myself a yogurt salad for dinner and bemoaning my lonely - albeit temporary - bachelor existence. Lynda was out of town on a business trip for a few days, visiting the Grier Ohio NewsGroup’s chain of newspapers upstate in the suburban Cleveland area.
