COLUMN ONE : Tragedy Before Dawn : From a little girl who loved cookies to a cop who loved his job, these were the victims of Monday’s quake.

The numbers kept climbing as first the hours, then the days, slipped by.

The names of the dead.

The young, the old. Businessmen and homemakers. An ex-con on Skid Row. A 4-year-old girl who loved frilly skirts and pink cowboy boots. More than 50 in all.

Roughly a third were in a single apartment complex whose upper two floors collapsed. One couple died when their vast collection of books and model trains fell on them as they slept. An electrician died when he picked up a high voltage wire draped across a car, an act of heroism turned to tragedy.

A woman may have literally died of fright as she rushed to check on her infant son. In the dark, a motorcycle policeman did not see where the temblor had opened a gash in an overpass.

Most of the victims were still in bed when Monday’s quake shook the earth at 4:31 a.m. with unrelenting anger. Others risked danger to help someone else. Together, they were the grimmest statistics in this, one of the costliest disasters in U.S. history.

Here are some of their stories.

AMY TYRE-VIGIL: Youngest Victim Had a Last Beautiful Weekend

It had been, in Anastacio Vigil’s words, “a beautiful weekend.” His wife, Nancy Tyre, and 4-year-old daughter, Amy, had gone to a concert. He had taken Amy on a bike ride. The whole family had gone to the zoo. And Amy had sampled her first meatball Sunday night.

Vigil and Tyre, both 40, had chatted happily about the future, about the second baby, a boy, on the way, about the new house they were going to buy once their Sherman Oaks home sold. Tyre, who like her husband is a family-practice doctor, told a friend she looked forward to having a bigger place when the baby came.

All of that, gone in an instant. Amy was buried Friday afternoon, the youngest victim of the temblor. More than 200 mourners said goodby to the dark-haired girl who loved her artwork, her nursery school, and chocolate chip cookies without nuts.

Her mother was not among those present. Instead, a rabbi went to Valley Presbyterian Hospital to join Tyre, seven months pregnant and bedridden with a broken pelvis, in reciting Yizkor, the Jewish prayer for the dead.

Amy was crushed when the earthquake sent her home hurtling down its hillside, collapsing it into a flattened wreck of wood and stucco, tile and glass. Her father does not remember much about what happened.

“It felt like somebody picked up the house and just violently shook it. Nancy said, ‘Get Amy!’ As I was getting up there was a big flash of light and a terrible crashing sound. The next thing I remember, I was trapped.”

In the darkness, pinned under boards, able only to wiggle his right foot, Vigil heard his wife moaning that she could not breathe. He listened for his daughter, but heard nothing. The silence worried him. He concentrated on trying to calm his wife. “Breathe slowly,” he told her. “Breathe slowly. We’re going to be OK.”

The couple lay there for at least an hour on the ground amid the ruins, too far away to touch one another, talking as they shivered in the cold. Finally, they heard voices. It was the neighbors, venturing outside for the first time.

It took an hour for the rescue workers to pick their way through the rubble. They freed Vigil first. “I felt a human hand on my leg,” he said, “and it was just the most beautiful feeling.”

He suffered a broken rib, and injuries to his leg and jaw, but he told the doctor who treated him at Sherman Oaks Hospital that he could not stay, that he needed a taxi. He had to find his wife and daughter. Sit down, the doctor told him. He would make some calls.

The emergency physician learned that Tyre and Amy had been taken to Valley Presbyterian. He also learned what had happened to Amy. Gently, he told Vigil that his daughter had been killed. Though the crisis was mounting at his own hospital, the doctor drove Vigil to see his injured wife.

Tyre looked better than he expected. And the baby would be fine.

He grabbed her, held her close, and whispered the wrenching words: “We lost her.”

ELIZABETH BRACE: ‘And Her Son Will Really Not Have Known Her at All’

Earthquakes terrified Elizabeth Brace.

As a young girl, her family’s home had been heavily damaged by the Sylmar quake in 1971. Her husband, Thomas, said there was a certain way she acted when the earth rumbled, a kind of tenseness until the shaking stopped and the danger passed.

At the time of their marriage, he was 43, she 31. They had set about quickly to begin a family. Elizabeth had quit her job when Michelle was born five years ago, followed by Christopher 3 1/2 years later.

Three years ago, the Braces moved to Rancho Cucamonga in San Bernardino County. They wanted a bigger house and a decent school district. Elizabeth had become a Scout leader when Michelle was old enough to be a Daisy. She volunteered as a room mother a couple of days a week when Michelle started kindergarten this year.

It was the good life in a quiet, suburban way.

There was little to mark Sunday evening apart from others. Elizabeth had an appointment Monday morning. She was trying to earn some extra money while working at home and was thinking of doing the billing for a local doctor.

And then, before dawn, the quake hit.

The couple held each other in those first frightening moments. They did it instinctively because of Elizabeth’s fears. Then, a few seconds later, she got up and raced for Christopher’s room. Thomas went to Michelle’s.

What Thomas remembers next was a loud noise in the next room. Not a cry. More like something falling.

“She was just lying on the floor,” said Thomas, a computer programmer. “She was unconscious and bleeding from the nose and mouth. I tried CPR but I don’t think I did a good job of it. I’m not trained for that kind of thing.

“I called 911 and when I came back she was still,” Thomas said. “I couldn’t feel a pulse.”

Paramedics arrived in minutes, but could not revive her.

In the early going, there was speculation that Elizabeth, 37, may have died when she tripped on a toy.

The San Bernardino coroner’s office said it would take at least six weeks for the test results. Deputy Coroner Gabriel Morales said fright as a cause of death, perhaps in the form of a huge adrenal rush, is not being ruled out.

That’s what Thomas suspects: “If I were to speculate, I would guess she died of fright and panic.”

Thomas, sitting on his living room couch a few days after the earthquake, worked hard to hold back his tears as he talked about his wife and how good their life had been.

“She was such a terrific mother and had gotten the job of raising the children started so well,” he said. “And her son will really not have known her at all.”

HOWARD and JAMES LEE: Son Wrote His Epitaph: ‘If It Weren’t for Fate . . .’

Just weeks before his death, Howard Lee wrote his epitaph.

“If it weren’t for fate, I might be somewhere else,” the 14-year-old boy wrote in an autobiography for school entitled “My Life.”

The sentence proved as cruelly ironic as anything connected with the quake. Howard was killed in his bed, a Golf Digest he had been reading close at hand.

Rescuers who arrived at the Northridge Meadows apartments could still hear Howard--a tall, always-smiling boy who was thinking of becoming a priest--calling out from the ruins of Apartment 101. Around him in the darkness, 15 other people died in the building collapse. Among them was his father, Pil, 46, trapped in the bathroom where he had been brushing his teeth before heading off to work as an RTD mechanic.

“Help me! Help me!” Howard shouted.

Rescuers kept telling the voice to hold on, just a little longer. But the building had shifted 10 feet to the north when it collapsed and they could not locate them, even with the help of Howard’s mother, who had been pulled from the wreckage earlier, along with her other son, 12-year-old Jason. Finally, they found a pillow and showed it to Hyun Lee, who said, yes, that belonged to Howard, whom she affectionately called her “big son.”

Then they found him.

“This son is dead, ma’am,” said the firefighter. “He is dead.”

Hyun Soon Lee, a deeply religious woman with a cascade of rich black hair, burst into tears, letting go of the thin thread of hope she had held onto for four hours. “Can I see him?” she asked. Hours later, her husband’s body was brought out, the last recovered from the ruins.

JOSE LOUIS HERNANDEZ: Ex-Con Had a Temper, but He Was a ‘Fun-Loving Guy’

The initial news reports were sketchy: A mentally ill ex-convict had either jumped or fallen from a Skid Row flophouse during the quake. Good Samaritan Hospital called him John Doe No. 17 and said he died of head injuries caused by a very long fall.

The police report provided a bit more information: He lived in Room 610 of the Frontier Hotel. His window had been open. He was found by police lying on his back on the sidewalk, wearing only blue boxer shorts.

A down-and-out drifter when he died, Jose Louis Hernandez had a hearty laugh, a violent temper and a long criminal record. He also had four sons, a daughter and a granddaughter, although he had been out of touch with his family for two years.

“He had a temper but he was a good man,” said his niece, Eileen Moreno. “He was a fun-loving guy.”

Just out of state prison, the 49-year-old Hernandez settled into a studio at the Frontier, a once-grand hotel at Main and 5th streets that had fallen victim to the grittiness around it. Across the street from two porn theaters and a liquor store, the Frontier charges $11.99 a night.

A childhood friend, John Seanez, used to joke with Hernandez about his short, pudgy build. Growing up on the Eastside in the 1950s, Seanez and Hernandez were homeboys, partying together and once getting thrown off a city bus for guzzling beers.

“He was a pretty good guy when we were young,” said Seanez, who also lives at the Frontier.

But Hernandez drifted from his friends and drifted from his family. He also drifted in and out of jail. Since 1962, he served time for resisting arrest, petty theft, possession of heroin and cocaine, driving while intoxicated, assault with a deadly weapon and hit and run.

He once threatened a hotel employee’s life when his toilet got clogged. But he also said “Thank you” after picking up his mail. He sometimes heard voices and was taking psychotropic drugs for his condition.

His parole officer, Robert Humphrey, had no problems with Hernandez. Since leaving prison on Thanksgiving, Hernandez had reported regularly, found a place to live and applied for government aid.

Said Humphrey: “He was doing pretty good on parole, up until his recent demise.”

CLARENCE WAYNE DEAN: Officer ‘Was Quick to Help and That Never Changed’

Minutes after the earthquake hit, Clarence Dean was putting on his uniform. He was a motorcycle cop.

He had spent more than half his life with the Los Angeles Police Department, graduating from the academy in 1968 after four years in the Marines. He had worked the streets--first as a patrol officer and later as a motorcycle cop--for nearly 25 years.

A colleague said his blond hair “always looked like he had just taken his helmet off.”

On the morning of the earthquake, Dean was not scheduled to start work until 7 a.m., but the temblor apparently jolted him out of bed. The 46-year-old officer left his Lancaster home and headed for work on his motorcycle, blue lights flashing in the night.

As he drove south in the darkness, he rounded a bend on an Antelope Valley Freeway interchange. Dean and his motorcycle plunged 30 feet from the roadway, which had been severed in the quake. As he fell, the lights of the motorcycle continued to flash.

“No one called him, no one made him come in that morning,” said Danny Staggs, president of the Los Angeles Police Protective League, who knew Dean. “He was doing this to help people.”

Dean, the divorced father of two children, was remembered as a gregarious man who was quick with a joke or a story.

“He was quick to work and quick to help and that never changed,” Sgt. Rod Grahek said. “You wonder what was going through his mind those last few seconds.”

KEVIN C. MAHER: ‘If Anyone Needed Help, Kevin Was the First to Offer’

A grim reminder of one quake tragedy is burned into the ground.

On a grassy patch at Murietta Avenue and Valleyheart Drive in Sherman Oaks, two charred footprints show exactly where a downed power line electrocuted Kevin C. Maher.

The line was dangling over a car with a young child inside; the distraught mother stood nearby. Maher, a 25-year-old electrician who grew up in Ireland, ran back to his apartment for tools. He ignored the warnings of others at the scene.

“People were yelling at him, ‘No! Don’t touch it!’ ” said James Pianezzola, 30, who saw the whole thing. “He turned around and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m an electrician.’ But as soon as he touched the line, his body went stiff as a board.” (The child was snatched from the car by another onlooker.)

Maher, who was from Carrick-on-Shannon and never lost his brogue after 10 years in the U.S., was hailed as a hero in Ireland, his death making the front pages of the dailies back home. In the San Fernando Valley, his friends recalled him as a generous man who died doing what he always did.

“If anyone needed help, Kevin was the first to offer,” said Paula Shields, a friend who lived in the same apartment complex.

Maher’s social life revolved around Ireland’s 32, a gathering spot for Irish expatriates in the Valley. The Van Nuys pub is where his friends gather now to mourn his death.

“The Irish community always comes together when something like this happens,” said Kathleen Harney, Maher’s sister. “We’re all far away from home so we stick close together out here.”

MARC YOBS and KAREN OSTERHOLT: Couple Labored Hard to Earn Their House on the Hillside

Marc Yobs was going places. Just ask anyone who knew him.

He was 32 and on top of his game. Good-looking, with a caring way and easy grin, he had accomplished the nearly impossible early in his career, getting a foot in the door into Hollywood with nary a connection. Now, he was handling some of the industry’s biggest accounts for The Post Group, which does sound and special effects for film. His bosses had recently promoted him.

“There’s a lot of phoniness and glad-handing in Hollywood,” said Kristen Ralph, the company president. “Marc never had that kind of self-opinion. He was confident, and very bright, and quite sure of his own abilities. But he was not one of the let’s-do-lunch types.”

He liked fine things--especially cars--and he was able to afford them. He owned a Porsche, and he drove it too fast, often joking that he was going to die young.

Two years ago, Yobs bought the house of his dreams: a $400,000 hillside home in Sherman Oaks, with a sweeping view of the San Fernando Valley, where he grew up. He shared it with Karen Osterholt, 30, his girlfriend of nine years.

His older brother, Dave, was the real estate agent.

“I said, ‘I’m just going to show you a hillside home, just so you can compare,’ ” Dave Yobs recalled. “They walked in and they absolutely fell in love with that house.”

The place was a showpiece. Yobs was meticulous about maintaining it, as he was about everything else in his life. Osterholt had a flair for decorating, and she filled it with antiques. If he was the go-getter, she was the quiet power behind him. She was with him when he had nothing, supporting him with her earnings as a waitress while he struggled to climb the Hollywood ladder. He hated shopping, but Osterholt--who had recently taken a job as a receptionist at Mark Goodson Productions--made sure he was dressed for success. They never set a wedding date, but might as well have been married.

“They balanced each other out,” said her mother, Eileen Waldrop. “They loved their home, and they liked being together by themselves.”

The house made Waldrop nervous, no matter how many times her daughter assured her it was safe. It was 30 years old and had survived both the Sylmar and the Whittier Narrows quakes. But fears of a temblor must have passed through Yobs’ mind, because a year ago he bought earthquake insurance.

In 10 seconds, it came crashing down, taking them with it. They were to be buried side by side.

There is nothing left of the Sherwood Place house. It is a pile of twisted metal and wood. The homes to the right and left, built at the same time, by the same builder, according to Dave Yobs, are still standing. Uninhabitable, but standing. “Why his house?” Dave Yobs said tearfully. “With all those homes, why his?”

ROBERT PAULINE and JUDITH NG: ‘If There Is a Bright Spot . . . It’s That They Went Together’

When they met at Riverside City College in the early 1970s, Robert (Sarge) Pauline had just retired from a 20-year career with the Chula Vista Police Department. Judith Ng, 30 years younger, was just out of high school.

The couple married, beginning an eccentric life together.

“In the beginning the whole family was against the situation,” said one of Ng’s brothers, Kenneth. “We thought: ‘What was this old guy doing with our sister?’ But over the years, we’ve come to love him like family. It was unique but it was right for them.”

The couple squirreled themselves away in their Van Nuys home, inviting neither friends nor family inside. In this neat suburban neighborhood, they had shrubs and vines shielding their house from the street. Inside, their living quarters were unconventional as well.

They were avid collectors. Everywhere, there were stacks of old letters, out-of-date calendars, model trains, stereo equipment and cameras. A narrow pathway allowed them to move around the ceiling-high clutter, said a relative who went in after the disaster struck.

When the earthquake hit, neighbors and relatives became concerned about the mysterious pair. Their house survived but there was no word from Ng, 42, or Pauline, 72. The next day, authorities entered their Kittridge Street home and discovered the couple in bed, crushed by hundreds of pounds of their own collectibles.

“If there is a bright spot to this,” said Ng’s sister, Kathy Ng Norwood, “it’s that they went together.”

David Colker, Abigail Goldman and Miguel Bustillo contributed to this story.