Using Blogs for EM

Would this type of blog be of any assistance during an event like this?

From the cousin of my father in law:
The writer is an employee of the FBI in Glendale, CA.


Date: Saturday, September 13, 2008, 1:28 PM

Before I arrived at Westmont College (Santa Barbara) I heard the news on the radio--a Union Pacific freight train had collided with a Metrolink passenger train at rush hour in what was described as a "horrific" collision near Chatsworth. At the time, details were scarce and I thought of my friend, Bureau of Prisons Warden Michael Benov, who would have been commuting by train from Los Angeles to Moorpark at about that time. I hoped he was not on the train and thought to reach out to him. I spent a short time with my daughter at her dorm, handing off some 'knick-knacks" for her semester and briefly chatting. We hugged and said good-bye--I told her I would see her the following week at her Lolo's birthday party. I managed to find the dirt track at the bottom of the campus and with the light fading jogged a few laps in the cool damp air.

On the way home, I sought out the news and it had become worse. The mayor, Antonio Villaragosa, now forming a "Reunification Center" at Chatsworth High School, not far from the crash site, was asking for volunteers. I thought about Warden Benov. My ride home would have to wait as I continued in the darkness on the 101 until I reached the 126 (Route 126). Strangely enough, the night seemed to have become "inky black" until I realized that the dark night was actually black smoke emanating from a fiercely burning tanker truck across the median.

It must have just occured as there were no firefighters, no police and one or two vehciles pulled off the side of the road. I got off the next exit, crossed the bridge and merged westbound. Arriving simultaneously with a "black and white," I exited the car and Identified myself. The young officer laughed, "Bring any water?" In a more serious vein, he said that there were two firetrucks enroute....but there was no sign of the driver. The air was thick with grey-black smoke which was starting to choke us. Then what sounded like gun shots exploded from within the burning hulk. The officer urged me to go back to my car, that there might be ammunition in this truck. I didn't need any persuading. Soon the firetrucks arrived and within ten minutes the fiery ocean of flame was reduced to acrid smoke.

I exited the road on the shoulder and headed back on the 101 to the San Fernando Valley. It seemed like forever before I arrived at the DeSoto exit which I followed down to Devonshire. Black and whites, TV camera crews and eery artificial lights lit up the scene.
I parked the car on quiet residential side street and waded into the swirling confusion. "Badging" the perimeter officers, I asked for a sergeant and was directed to Sgt. Riggs, an attractive blue-eyed woman who challenged me on the spot.

"I just happened to be in the area....do you need any help?" Her response was all business, "As a matter of fact, I will need your help a little later. Can you work with some of these volunteers for now?' I looked out across a crowd of diverse groups--Red Cross, somber looking Metro Link officials, chaplains, health officials, city and county, anxious families waiting for words of loved ones, police officers...

The Asst. Manager at a nearby VONS had rallied his employees and so began an unending caravan of food and drinks to the Reunification Center. These people were incredible--they kept bringing everything they had. But it was not just them--other small store owners brought goods and, indivdually, people were turning up to provide any type of assistance--a pyschologist, a doctor, two teenage boys who begged to help (they were underaged and were turned down) I began serving pizza and coffee to the families, the officers, anybody that needed it. We were soon inundated by hundreds of bagged lunches (peanut butter and jelly sandwiches).

As I made the rounds, I talked to some of the families. Their concern, their worry and their fear was heart-breaking. Most of them asked for news which was scarce--there was a list of 79 people who had been treated at local hospitals. That left about 140 people still unaccounted for. We knew up to that point that there had been 10 fatalities. As the night dragged on, I got pulled in to the stories of the parents, the children and the friends. There was a quiet Vietnamese family huddling together. The mother wrapped in a blanket with a black Chihuaha poking his head out, was sobbing as the father explained that they were waiting for their 19 year old daughter, a student, who had taken this train. In broken English, the father said that they had received a phone call from her on the train at 4:20 pm; the collision had taken place three minutes later. An Indian man walked around in a daze, I pulled him over to the refreshment table and tried focusing him--he explained that his daughter's 20 year old boyfriend, Jacob, was on the train and they had received no word from him. A good natured fellow named Tim was waiting for news about his 46 year old brother--a bachelor who worked for the city. He confided in me that it didn't look good. He kept talking about his brother in the past tense--"he loved kids...he loved kids."

Sgt. Riggs finally caught up with me and assigned me to the Command Post where I began logging in visitors, volunteers and LAPD. Capt. Maureen Ryan swung by and asked for a Diet Coke. Oddly enough, there were crates of water, gatorade and coffee from Starbuck's but no soda. Somehow we managed to find her one...she would need it--the mayor, the fire chief and mayor's staff had arrived. In the meantime, Sgt. Riggs was staggered by bad news--the officer who had died in the collision, another policewoman named Shea, was her close friend. Riggs braved on as she wiped tears from her eyes and continued to conduct operations. But she did not last long and I last saw her seeking comfort on the shoulder of Lt. Moreno. I did not see her again that night and so ended up detailed to Sgt. Bixler, oddly enough a Westmont College alum.

During the night, Sheriff Baca approached me and a member of one of the families and offered his support. I deflected the comments to the family member. The mayor and the fire chief spoke. The mayor, clad in a firemen's bright yellow jacket, offered the little he could. Fire Chief Rueda spoke from his heart and was moved by what he was telling the families. When they exhausted the dearth of information, the tough questioning commenced. Most of the session was cordial but there was also some anger coupled with an emotional outburst or two. One woman awaiting news of her sister upbraided the officials for not having seat belts on the train. A teenage girl began a question to the mayor but was overwhelmed emotionally and could not finish...

The mayor laid it out--the families could wait in the "Center" for further news (there would be cots and food), but he recommended that they go home and rest and continue calling some of the hotline phone numbers. Aides scrambled from family to family to comfort, assure and take information. Then he was gone...as the Fire Chief walked past me, I told him,"Chief, you did a good job in there." He nodded and with his deputies returned to the crash site.

By one a.m., there were fewer people remaining, we were no longer logging people in to the CP, and so Sgt. Bixler relieved me of my post and transferred me to the West Valley group of young officers. I was approached by a handsome, young corporal who asked me if I attended Blessed Kateri Church and had twin daughters. He informed me that he, his wife and family go to the church and he had recognized me.

Cpl. Mike Ornelas of the West Valley Station would be my companion for the next hour or so....he told me that he couldn't wait to leave as there was little they could do for the families and it was hard to contain their emotions. We had run out of things to do. The Red Cross was now the busy component. I would wait for the Devonshire Station officers to relieve us at 2 am.

Finally, there was one young family with a precocious little girl clutching her stuffed bear. Her father worked what was left of our crowd desperately seeking any information about his sister-in-law. The wife, who was from Michoacan, Mexico, told me that she was happy when the mayor talked to her in Spanish. She was waiting to hear about the fate of her sister. She mentioned a few things about her sister but I can't remember--the details from this night, from all their stories seemed to merge together-- "a sister, a friend, a father, an uncle, a student.. they don't answer their cell phone,...the phone is dead...we only get a message when we call."

The green-eyed Mexican woman stared down at the floor and lost in her own thoughts said,
"My sister Magdalena was such a good person."
Ken