A Bridge Too Near

by Gary Clifton

“Thirty-one?” the dispatcher droned.

“Thirty-one.”

“Thirty-one: kids are on the Platte River Bridge again.”

“Show Thirty-One responding.” It was Dunnigan’s second call to the location on this beautiful Sunday morning in May.

For 26 years, Highway Patrolman Wilbur Dunnigan had patrolled the district between Metrolia and Mudville, which included U.S. Highway 169 over the Platte River, a main route in the pre-freeway days of the late fifties. About nine miles south of Mudville, the old truss bridge, with a slight curve, was too narrow for the load it carried.

Through a long-standing custom, youngsters rode bikes or drove old jalopies to the bridge’s end, parked off road, then fished illegally — and dangerously — off the bridge. Standing at the rails or climbing in the framework of the span, the presence of a kid fishing often caused motorists or truckers to swerve, resulting in accidents.

Freddy Shapiro and Dave O’Brian had wrangled Dave’s grandmother out of her beat-up, fifteen-year old Chevrolet pickup truck. At seventeen, both were marginally “troubled youths” with a history of mouthing to the law, fighting and belligerent behavior. Dave had a driver’s license.

By ten a.m., they parked Grandma’s pick-up on a wide spot at the north end of the bridge and mounted the old structure. Freddy climbed, carrying a bucket for general fishing use and a milk jug of water. Dave brought the fishing poles.

Trooper Dunnigan rolled up at 11:02 a.m., red lights flashing. Parking on the south end of the bridge, he walked to near the center, where the miscreant fishermen were planted on top. Traffic whizzed by at about elbow distance. Blow-by from trucks actually pushed him toward the guard rail.

“Dammit, it’s you two again,” he roared upward. “Under the law, I’m obligated to seize your gear and give you a forty-dollar summons. Now climb down off’a there.” Dunnigan had dealt with the two boys several times before and knew them to be from the slum up at Mudville. Despite being prone to fistfights and a little rowdyism, they were no threat.

They enjoyed needling the veteran cop. Dave grinned down and said, “Trooper Dunnigan, Freddy says you ain’t takin’ him alive. He’s gonna jump.”

Irritated, Dunnigan replied, “Guys, I could get squashed by a truck while you clown around. Get down from there, now!”

As the boys climbed down, Dunnigan walked back to the south end of the bridge and pulled his cruiser, red lights flashing, back to load both boys and their gear into his back seat. He pulled the cruiser to the north end of the bridge and ordered both out.

“Does either one of you have a fishing license?” Downcast eyes answered his question. “Guys, I’m s’posed to seize your stuff, write you a ticket, then lock you both of up for the rest of the weekend. Getting’ that old pickup outa the pound would cost a hundred.”

The boys looked at each other apprehensively.

But Dunnigan was only making talk, with no intention of walking the walk. Nonetheless, he chewed out the two now-attentive youths at length, concluding with: “And one more damned time, understand?”

After ten minutes of “We’ll never do it again-isms,” Dunnigan spun his cruiser to the north and disappeared over the next hill.

Dave, unwilling to chance a U-turn in the heavy traffic, drove south a half mile to turn around in the parking lot of a country store. Freddy ran in and bought a large Pepsi, and they started back north.

* * *

Dunnigan, still slightly aggravated at the time he’d wasted with the boys, was five or six miles north of the bridge when a Corvette passed him at high speed.

From the rear, his radar showed ninety-nine. He hit his red lights and pursued. Dunnigan’s assigned cruiser was equipped with a latest model Hemi V-8 engine. Despite the speed and power of the sports car, Dunnigan caught the Corvette.

The driver initially ignored Dunnigan, then swerved onto the shoulder and skidded into the ditch. Dunnigan called the dispatcher with the license number and requested backup. He bailed out of his cruiser before he heard dispatch report that no help was available and the driver was wanted for armed robbery.

The motorist, big and visibly intoxicated, struck Dunnigan a glancing head blow with a tire iron. Dunnigan fell face down, the assailant clawing at the officer’s revolver. Dunnigan lay pinned by the larger man, stunned from the head blow and knowing the consequences of losing control of his firearm.

Then, dispatch seemed to have responded. The feet of the two backups kicked around in the dust. Dazed, he could see one strike the man in the head with what appeared to be a glass bottle, eliciting profanity and a cry of pain.

The second rescuer had a grip on Dunnigan’s pistol. Dave managed to pry the assailant’s hand sufficiently loose to allow Dunnigan to gain the superior grip. “Stand clear, men, I think I can put one in his leg.”

The sharp report of the .38 was lost in the noise of passing traffic. The attacker shrieked. Dunnigan lost consciousness.

* * *

Dunnigan awoke while being lifted into an ambulance. His head was throbbing, and he was covered with sticky liquid. The attacker lay handcuffed in the ditch, bleeding from scalp and leg wounds, screaming profanity.

“Sarge, let the bad-ass wait for the next ambulance. Put Freddie in here with Dunnigan. He’s shot in his foot.”

“Ain’t shot, sir. I hit that sucker with our Pepsi. Stepped on busted glass.”

Dunnigan foggily realized his saviors had not been sent by the dispatcher.

Dave leaned into the ambulance. “Trooper Dunnigan, ol’ weeny Freddy cut his foot, but he’ll prolly be healed up enough to climb that bridge by next weekend.”

“I catch you clowns on that bridge again, by God, I’ll—” The ambulance door slammed shut.

“Thought that might blow his skirt,” Dave chuckled. “Officer, if you’re through with me, I’ll follow y’all to the hospital.”