the upstairs landing. He initially reported that Kilgore was "901H," the police code for dead. It was an honest mistake, but one that still angers Kilgore's SAU buddies when they tell the story.

Kliewer took a shot to the back. The bullet traveled up and came to rest in his neck; the scar now "blends in with the wrinkles," he jokes. He couldn't move his left arm.

"I thought, Oh, man, don't die right here in this crummy little place.' I got about 10 feet and went to my knees," Kliewer says. "I thought, Get back in the game, do something.' And then I saw Jerry lying there."

It was Kliewer who radioed in that the officers had been involved in a shooting and needed help. He sounds remarkably calm onthe tape of that call. But the dispatch sent his squad mates, who'd been spread out on other assignments, into shock.

As soon as he got off the radio, he heard the sirens headed his way. By then he'd crawled over to Kilgore, who was bleeding from his ear. The woman who lived in the apartment brought him a towel.

"Jerry was out of it," Kliewer says. "His eyes were like a cuckoo clock, like a Tweety bird thing, you know, where those stars are spinning around. But I could see him breathing."

Two months to the day later, Kilgore and Kliewer walked back into the SAU squad room and returned to full duty with the Special Assignments Unit.

You've got to wonder why.

"What else?" Kliewer, now 48, shrugs. "I had every