Neal Pollack

His heart beating at an accelerated rate, Kimball seized the scanner with both hands and repositioned it on the table for better reception. He didn'’t want to miss a single thrilling exchange.

—Can I get an RD for a zero-four-six-zero?

—Your RD is Henry-King-four-zero-four-six-four-three, Henry-King-four-zero-four-six-four-three on event number zero-eight-six-two-five. Zero-eight-six-two-five.

—Ten-four. Thanks.

The old analog clock on his stove read 10:55. If it continued like this for another sixty-five minutes, until midnight, he would be a witness to Chicago history.

—I still can’t log on. Hold me down going in for a new PDT.

—One-three-three-five, please call me in the sergeant’s office.

The Holy Grail of the police scanner hobbyist.

—Can I get a female for a search?

A Zero-Zero Day.

—Twenty-one-ten.

—Twenty-one-ten, go ahead.

—Anyone know of a Dominick’s near Paulina and Ogden with a Western Union [unintelligible] currency exchange?

Last year there had been over 600 homicides and more than 3,000 “aggravated batteries by firearm” within the city limits. The last time Chicago had a Zero-Zero Day, a twenty-four-hour period, midnight to midnight, with no murders and no shootings, was 1999, and as far as Kimball knew there were no witnesses then. No ears listening in on the scanner with an appreciation of the event as it occurred. No one anticipating the countdown to midnight the way he and dozens like him were doing just now.

—Yeah, uh, we were following a youth on a bike that fits the description of a suspect [unintelligible]. We have him on the hood.

—Twenty-one-ten, is that a negative on the Dominick’s?

In the middle of the Formica-topped table, on the other side of Kimball’s oatmeal but still at arm’s length, was an approximation of a laptop Kimball had Frankensteined from computers so obsolete that cash-strapped schools wouldn'’t even accept them as donations. Scanning enthusiasts from across the country were instant messaging with Chicago hobbyists demanding the latest news on the lack of news, and the conversation scrolled up the screen with the speed of a stock ticker. Curiously, cops and dispatchers weren'’t even acknowledging the feat over their radios. Maybe they were afraid of jinxing it. Maybe the different shifts and the different districts had no way of comparing notes in real time. Maybe they wouldn'’t have any idea what had happened until the CPD command staff had their briefing in the morning. It was funny to think the scanning community shared real-time intelligence better than the Chicago PD. That notion made Kimball chuckle. He spat wet cinnamon and oatmeal onto a small auburn oval of mustache and goatee, then rubbed his face with a moistened washcloth he kept on hand for mealtime grooming.

—I just on-viewed a traffic accident at 95th and Pulaski.Hold me down over here and dispatch EMS for me, please, squad.

— [Unintelligible] medic [unintelligible] contact the station.

—Ten-four. Let me know if you need any more help over there.

His phone rang, a lovely clapper-and-drum trill. He allowed those awful digital tones neither in his home nor in his shop, where the synthetic tweeting might go on for minutes, unnoticed and unanswered under the din of labor, static, and police dispatcher conversation.

“Hullo?”

“Dent!” It was Jen Colino. In the background, her own scanner, an expensive Radio Shack Pro-96, belched in harmony with the homemade one in Kimball’s kitchen. “Amazing, huh? Amazing! Do you think it will hold up?”

“Dunno,” Kimball said, now wondering if the cops weren'’t right to observe a superstitious moratorium on discussion of the Zero-Zero in progress. “We’ll know in an hour.”

“Wanna come over for the finish? I'’ll open a bottle of champagne at midnight. Like New Year’s.”

Kimball sighed. He didn'’t have a girlfriend, hadn'’t for a long time, and Jen Colino was the only woman availing herself to him currently. They had plenty in common. She was a scannerhead. She was sweet and kind of pretty, maybe a little fleshy around the face and under the arms, but no more than he was. Jen was plenty attractive enough, was his point. But if they became a couple she would be over every night. She would make chicken and they’d track the scanner together but she would want to talk. Constantly. Over the dispatchers. Over the cops. Over the paramedics. Although nearly every one of his friends was, like Jen, a member of the All Chicago Scanner Club, Kimball believed his hobby was a solitary pursuit, and he wasn'’t ready to give up his bachelor benefits for a warm body on the couch just yet. “No, I don’t think so,” he said to Jen now. “I don’t want to miss anything.”