My First Time

My back hurts. A lot. They told me “the belt adds fourteen pounds” and yet looking at it I would never think so. A few items add up quick though. When we go to the jail we have to take it all off before they will let us in the main holding area. (Can’t have a hostage situation every other day) Tossing it all into an organized heap in the secure area I feel better already. I look at my beloved toys. My gatt (glock handgun) attitude adjuster (baton) 2 spare mags(don’t call them clips, clips are what little girls put in their hair) Mrs. Dash (pepper spray) Zapper(taser) and my shank( folding knife). Not to mention the hobble, notebook, puncture proof gloves and compression bandage I have in my cargo pants. My back starts to untense itself. They told me “even guys on the road less than five years can develop major back issues from that belt. Get yourself the suspenders.” I take some Advil and suck it up.

So far it’s been a slow day. On the way out of the jail I try and take a discrete gander at a pretty young woman jogging on the street. She turns almost exactly at that moment and makes eye contact. Waves. Busted. She knew I was admiring. I forget sometimes that the car is an eye magnet. Even off duty when another city’s patrol car drives by I stare. Twisting more in the seat trying to outmaneuver the dull ache rising on my right side I make a shocking discovery; Automated Lumbar Adjustment. With all the lights, sirens, radios, bells and whistles the car is taxed on power already. I can almost feel the car slow down when I engage the little electric motor that pushes the seat into my lower back. As I am making this adjustment and in a brief state of euphoria I blow a stop sign. My mentor officer sighs. “Dude. Not cool” Busted. “Good thing no one is around” I offer weakly. I am just getting all settled in and looking for some thing to pull over when dispatch crackles over my earpiece. “Lincoln 6 copy a welfare check” Slowly dispatch tells me the details. I practically have to demand the important details. New dispatchers are always like this. They think you are a mind reader . Of course, they don’t blow stop signs like new cops so they got that going for them. The info comes in bits. Neighbors concerned. Haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Cars still parked out front. Newspapers stacking up. Dog barking all day and night. By now you probably see where this is going. Me? Young, new and over analytical I am ruminating on the barricaded Rambo inside. House is booby-trapped. It’s a trap. A trick. We’re going to get ambushed. My mentor explains, with the patience of a saint, that more likely than not if there is any one in there chances are they are not going to be alive. I find myself morbidly relived by that idea.

When we arrive it’s raining. Not hard, just those big drops that fall a foot or so apart. We chat with the neighbors. Nice folks. Nosey but concerned. They have a spare key give them a second to find it. Thank god. Nothing says community policing like booting in a door while you are watching TV like a shut in hermit. It’s not a crime. We pace around the house. Windows peeked into. Doors checked ect. “Police! Hello? You okay?” We’d rather not make entry The cour ts have given us a long and strict set of rules for entering your home. Warrants, reason able suspicion and other boring details. However, if you are screaming bloody murder from the window lik e a 20’s film actress then we don’t need to get any pesky paper work. W e crash in and save the day . What we have today is “community caretaking” as our reason for being. If you’ve fallen and you cant get up at some point the cops have to come in. Hopefully you are still alive, just emaciated and confused. There are literally hundreds of examples of this happening. We are on the porch now. Knocking…… knocking. Nothing. Showtime. Stand back folks, kids don’t try this at home.

My mentor and I pull our gatts. Eerily synchronized. Like our hands nodded to one another. The spare key makes its appearance and enters the doorknob. I settle the gun more. Low and tight into the the web of my finger and thumb. I cough involuntarily. Stealth shatters. Busted. The door opens. Instantly I am slammed in the face with a hot and inescapable smell. Poop. Lots of it. Something else now too. Some kind of rot. Death. From our positions we make entry . From solid hard cover to the open emptiness of no defense. Just offense. Brought to you by Gaston Glock of Austria. “Good gun. Krauts know how to mak e ‘em.” I remember an old armorer telling me. Chances are there is a body somewhere in the house. Still, we have to treat the house as hostile for our own safety , that’s why the artillery. I can’t tell if the floor is carpeted or hardwood. It’s ankle deep layer of trash, filth and empty beer cans. Every step is a rattle of aluminum and then a squish of god knows what. We slowly make our way along the wall towards the stairs. Ascending. I pass an open bathroom door and take a quick peek. An unspeakable mess. The water has been turned off but the toilet is “overflowing”. Figure out what that means. We round the corner . It’s basically a dump. Clothes mixed with food lay everywhere. A smear of refried beans across a stack of unopened mail. Objects of every type lay on the counter, floor and desktops. A sock stretched over a can of cooking spray. Feices covered phone book pages lay crumpled in a little heaps around the room. The cabinets and drawers have all turned themselves inside out. Back down stairs now . The front door has been open so it’s cooler inside now. The stink has just gotten colder, it’s gone nowhere. That dog we heard about chimes in. My mentor is about a foot in front of me on point. I lock down our rear. Slow and tight pan of my front sights across the room.

“He’s down” sighs my mentor. “Kick his foot. Make sure.” I say; still guarding our backs. My mentor humor’s me and doles out a weak nudge of the mans foot. He doesn’t move. The jury has reached a verdict. And the Oscar goes to….. expired male! My mentor holsters up. Calls for more units and a medical examiner . I peek around his right shoulder. What used to be a living breathing man is laying face down on the kitchen floor. One shoe on and wearing denim pants badly stained and an open denim jacket with no undershirt. He is the color of cement. I stare at him for what feels like a long time. I can see him in front of me but I can’t feel him. Like when someone stands behind you and you can sense them. You can’t see them but you “know” they are there. I see this man. But cant sense him. That’s what bothers me the most. More cops come and go. Comments and observations. I pace around the house. about the house. My mentor sees me looking a little too Colonel Kurtz for his liking and gives me a task to busy my mind. “Hey, grab the Vapo Rub.” I retrieve it from the car and return.

Cops start smearing it under their noses on their upper lips. Someone tells me to do the same. “It’s the Tony Montana look” he jokes, referring to the coke smeared upper lip of Pacino in SCARFACE. What feels like hours pass. I go outside for more air every few moments. I retreat non chalantly to the side of the house and try to vomit. Three attempts with two fingers and only one good dry heave. I manage to gag myself into worse nausea. Another neighbor catches me and looks disappointed. Busted. The Medical Examiner shows up. In the movies the ME is always a smoking hot chick. Angelina Jolie, Sandra Bullock or my favorite Ashley Judd. Ms. Judd does not come in and ask me if I can handle my Big Gun. Instead a giant of a man with a huge chest and stomach perched on skinny legs bound in tight jeans approaches me lik e some Rohl Dahl hero. A cowboy hat and easy smile sets me at ease. He’s going to mak e it all better. He pulls out a tape recorder from a leather holster that looks lik e it saw the Civil War from the hip of a Union general. He makes observations about the shape, position and location of the body. He bends over the body and tells the recorder that he died of acute alcohol poisoning. Looking around its hard to argue foul play. He bends over again and with a grunt flips the body. I gag. Not from the sight of him.

It looks like a giant piece of invisible glass is pressing down on him. He’s taken the shape of the floor. Like when kids hit the sliding glass patio door. That’s not why I gag though. His head is like a half-inflated bask etball. One side is normal. The other is flat as a pancake. That’s still not why I gag. My throat spasms because when the ME flipped him he lost his hold and the dead man’s head hit the floor with a hard and heavy thunk. Like a cantaloupe hitting linoleum. Hollow with a slight echo. Heavy enough so I feel the impact in the floor through my feet. The ME looks up at me and smiles. “Think I hurt him?” Har Har.

Someone turns the barking dog loose. It’s a huge, good-looking golden retriever. A yellow crazed big belly and wagging tail launches out of the garage door. It streaks right over Dead Master and heads outside to relive itself. Animal Control shows up and contains it. Licking hands all the while. Its raining hard now as I go outside for more air The neighbors who gave us a key are standing on the porch. I look at the wife. I must have looked like a hung over Peter Lorrie because she puts her hand over her mouth and disappears back inside with a yelp. I’m pissed off that someone didn’t tell them he was dead. I guess I figured a chaplain would go door to door and console everyone. Maybe stop passing cars and let them down easy . The enormity of the situation dissipates the further I walk away from the front door. If I get to the mailbox maybe it will be like it never even happened. It’s like radiation. The closer I get to the house the more intense the situation feels. The husband comes over with a bottle of water looking friendly. I tell him rather frankly “I don’t think I could keep it down.” He looks offended at first, then softens. He gets it. Details about the man’s life and history start to unfold as wallets are checked and papers inspected. It’s too depressing to repeat. We finally clear the call. Lots of paper work and a v ery quiet lunch break await us. I will later find that I have a voracious appetite despite the episode. On the way back to the station my back already feels better . My stomach settles. I blow another stop sign unwittingly. My mentor sighs. “Dude, so not cool.” Busted.