Raindogblue

High

 

Grumpy and I were dispatched to a disturbance

at the no-tell motel off the state highway.

 

A woman told the call-taker she'd been jumped

by shape-shifting gangsters with military hardware.

 

At her room, I asked her if this was true?

 

She said, "Yes,

they're into image mutation

and black arts and the KKK.

 

She said she's trying

to ween herself off crank. 

 

It's not working.

 

 

 

Incomplete

 

 

It’s the witching hour, quarter past. ‘Kato and I catch a late call, an incomplete 911: open line, voice mail on re-ring.

On scene, a block away, ‘kato sits blacked out in his prowler, grumblin’.  The Night car’s disappeared. He needs to be off on time. His brother’s arriving at the airport on a late flight.

Dutch’ll show. He’s either pickin’ up his partner or he’s having car problems.

We walk in.

The street’s dark. The only light is from the target house.

Creepin’ up, we can hear shouting.

The front door’s open. The screen door’s shut.

We sneak up the stairs, peek in from the porch. 

I see an older woman holding a knife to her bloody wrist. She starts to cut, bouncing the blade against her skin.

Her adult son, sleeved in prison tatts, lunges for her hands.

Enough looking. Time to act.

I open the screen door, step inside, announce my presence with a loud, Howdy! 

Then, I spot the dog, head taller than my belt, charging me. I have ten feet. I’m about to be bit.

“Don’t Shoot!” Yells an old man, rising from a couch, farther back in the room.

The tail’s out, not up. It’s not growling. I wait a half beat. 

The dog’s a crotch hound. He likes me.  

Relieved, I look for the next threat: the woman. She’s tossed the knife. It’s on the floor next to the fireplace.

Everyone in the room’s drunk. The odor is palatable. 

We separate them. ‘Kato takes the son outside. I talk to mom and step-dad.

Mom’s erratic and energetic  She says her son and step-dad have been beefing all night. Step-Dad wants the son out. He’s thirty, old enough to live on his own. 

Mom says, “I can’t live without the men I love, so I went into my room with the rifle.”

My eyes search her face, the room. There’s a 30.06 round on the floor.

Where’s the rifle now?

“It’s upstairs. locked up.”

What did you do with the rifle?

“I put the barrel to the back of my head and fired.”

You were trying to kill yourself?

“Yes. There’s a hole in the middle of the bedroom ceiling. Go look.”

Her husband’s nodding.

Her bedroom’s the next in the house. The door’s open. The light’s on. There’s a fresh bullet hole in the center of the ceiling.

Her husband yells, “I want my step-son arrested!”

For?

“Assault! He hit me in the face with the butt of the rifle!”

He’s bleeding from his face and fingers. 

His wife shouts him down, “It was an accident! My husband and my son were trying to take the gun from me. My son accidentally struck my husband in the face wrenching the gun away!”

The old man yells, “That’s a damned lie!”

‘Kato walks back into the house.

“The sons says they’re all drunk and beefing, other than that nothing happened.”

Did he tell you the about the part with the rifle?

“What rifle?”

The one they fought over after she tried to shoot herself in the head.

“You’re kidding me?”

Nope. Come look.

He looks.

“What the.....

I feel movement, turn, and see the woman running to the stairs where the rifles are kept.

She’s going for the guns!

We run, intercepting her on the stairs to the second floor.

‘Kato barks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

She says. “I’m getting the rifle!”

“We’re not letting you anywhere near the guns.”

I nod.

We need to hook her up. She’s a danger to herself and everybody else.  

‘Kato says, “Agreed.”

He handcuffs her. I help as the woman starts to struggle and scream. 

‘Kato take her to his car.

Out front, the son is waiting with the sergeant. Dutch, from nights, has just arrived.

The sons begs, “Arrest me! It’s my fault! I’m the one on parole. I did the assault. I fired the rifle!”

In what room?

“I don’t know. I’m too drunk to tell.”

He’s lying.

 

Hey Dutch, I’m going to go talk to the step-dad, will you watch the son?

“Sure.”

Sir, did  your wife try to shoot herself with the rifle?

“Yes!”

What happened to your face?

“I told ya. He hit me. I cut my fingers taking away the rifle from my wife. I was holding her down when  my step-son picked up the rifle and butt stroked me in the face.”

And the mark on your face?

“Is where he hit me from the rifle.”

Where’s the rifle now?

“He ran and hid it upstairs.”

 

I update Dutch.

He arrests the son for DV. The son’s on supervision for four armed robberies. He’s an ex-con in possession. He’s violated his parole. 

The step-dad gives us permission to search the premises and property.

I find the rifle in the back yard, the spent casing still in the bolt. The barrel is filled with dirt. The son threw it out the second story window.

‘Kato takes the woman to the hospital on a hold.

Dutch takes the son to jail.

I help Forensics photo the scene and spend hours with the other two officers writing.

 

 

Numbers: Mental Health

 

Per the Chief, the department handles 28,000 mental health crisis calls each year.

 

 

 

Intent

 

Tonight, as Grumpy interviewed

 a domestic violence victim, the suspect, 

handcuffed and sitting on the curb,

 stared into my eyes and said to me,

 “I like you, but if two didn’t have guns.

I’d fight you handcuffed, 

and I’d lose cuz’ you are big.”

 

 

 

1234 in District Six.

 

Tonight, I met an elf.

He was from District Six,

the land between

Canada and California,

where the water comes from.

He lived in an apartment

without lights or furniture.

He wanted to put

a gun in his mouth.

He went to the hospital

on a hold instead.

In my Pond

If you believe there is spyware 

in your clothing allowing others

to control your thoughts, 

if you are not eating and have lost

sixty pounds in six months,

as long as you don’t threaten yourself or others,

by State Law, County Mental Health

cannot put you on a psychiatric hold.

The Powers of Math

I took a vandalism call tonight.

On scene, the complainant told me 
skateboarders damage his Pontiac every night.

Although the car is locked, and the alarm never sounds,
they enter his vehicle and re-arrange the pillows inside.

Last night, they turned on his dome light.

It's all retaliation for the time they rode by on bikes
and he chanted in Old English at them.

They're jealous of his powers as a great mathematician. 

I didn't write any vandalism reports tonight.  

Steve

"7David4."

7David4.

"Disturbance. 24th and Breakers. Man screaming."

7David4. Copy.

Dispatch sends Stewie as cover.

On scene, the screamer spots us, runs. He hits the Breakers and hides.

Stewie rolls up, "I'll look south."

I bet he's in the blackberries.

I nod to the thickets in front of us. I take two steps and the man emerges, disheveled and soaked.

"I'm coming out! I know'll just come in!

I'm not doing anything. I'm lost! I'm lost! I can't find my way home. I tried calling on my phone, but it doesn't work! It doesn't work!"

He spikes his cell to the street. It shatters on the cement.

"And now you're going to hurt me."

We're not going to hurt anybody.

"You're not, but he is."

He points to Stewie.

"He's a bad man! He hurts people. I can see it in his eyes!"

He's not going to hurt anybody. 

"He's going to grab me and break my arms."

No, he's not.

Stewie take two steps back.

Stewie drops back.

See? Now have a seat.

Are you going to hurt me?

No.

"Why are you here?"

You were screaming. There was a call.

"Why is he here?"

He points to Stewie.

Dispatch sends us in pairs. He's my cover.

Have a seat.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

No.

"Look in my eyes."

I lock eyes. 

He drops to the curb.

"I know what you want!"

What's that?

"You want my ID to check for wants."

Do have a warrant?

"NO! I'm lost. I have OCD and PTSD. I can't find my way home. My phone doesn't work. I can't call my girlfriend. Nobody will help me. I don't know what to do."

Let me see your ID?

"To check if I have warrants?"

No, to see your name and to see where you live.

He whips out his wallet, opens it, and offers his ID.

Steve, you still live on 72nd? Off King?

"Yes!"

I'll take you home.

Stewie looks at me in disbelief.

"Are you going to take me to jail?"

No.

"Are you going to beat me?"

No.

"Is he going to beat me?"

He points to Stewie.

No.

"Is he going to come?"

No.

I'll have to pat you down first. Then, I'll take you home.

"Promise."

Yes.

"You won't hurt me."

No.

"Look at my eyes."

I stare.

"Deal! 

But he has to leave."

I look at Stewie.

Mind sitting in your car?

He nods, returns to his prowler.

I turn to Steve. 

Put your hands on the hood. I'm going to pat you down. That's all I'm going to do.

Steve removes his coat, hands it to me, then stands, put his hands on his hood, spreads his feet.

He has nothing. 

I open the door to the cage.

Jump in. 

"I'm not on drugs."

I know you're not.

He hops in, sets the seatbelt. 

I thank Stewie.

"How did you do that?"

I shrug.

"It's better to get him home, then to have to deal with all night. Besides he lives in East, he'll be their problem."

Stewie agrees. 

I step in the prowler.

Let's get you home.

I tell Steve the route. 

He nods.

You seeing a counselor?

"Yesterday."

You taking your meds?

"I am when I have them. I don't have them. You have have insurance to have them and no one will cover me.

Should I go to the hospital?"

Do you want to go to the hospital?

"No!

Will you call my girlfriend for me?"

Sure.

He rattles of her name and the number.

"That officer is following us."

No. He's not. He's heading back to his district.

"Is somebody following us? I am worried."

No one is following us. It's bad luck to follow a cop. You know that.

"You're right."

I call his girlfriend.

I have Steve in the back of my car.

Is it okay if I bring him home?

She says, "I have been looking for him all night. He panics. He called and said he was lost. He said he was by some railroad tracks, and then, his phone stopped working working."

That's where I found him, off the Breakers.

"Will you bring him home?"

Yes.

"He'll be fine when he's with me."

She's waiting in her driveway for me.

I stop, open the door, and step back.

Steve, I ain't going to touch ya.

"But, I want to shake your hand!"

I look him in the eye, take his hand, and leave.

 

Deer Bite and Gore

I broke away from covering

a non-injury accident

to take a priority call holding

in the other half of the district.

Park Rangers needed help

in 86ing a 1234

from the East Village Golf Course.

In the club house parking lot,

I spoke to the man,

How long have you been here today?

"I'm here because the deer bit my foot."

Today?

"Yes! My shoe was filled with blood!"

When did this happen?

"Forty-five minutes ago!"

Can I see the injury?

"It's already healed!"

In forty-five minutes?

"I had to tell them I'd beat them bad!"

The people at the golf course?

"Yes!"

What did they do to you?

"I couldn't buy the candy I wanted!"

I see.

"Do you want to be gored.... by a deer?"

What does that mean?

"Gored: By a deer or an elk.

It happens all the time."

I made a call.

I invited County Mental Health

to come out and play. 

They spent half an hour talking to him,

but in the end, he was a keeper.

Satan

My first ride in an ambulance

was back when I was a pup;

boots still black, barely broken in.

Multiple burgs in progress

blasted out of the radio.

All caused by the same man,

smashing his way into houses, 

destroying what lay at hand,

only to race out the back door

through the back yard into the next house

repeating his intrusion and havoc

in a line of destruction ten blocks long.

The calls all coming out of sequence.

My old coach said,

"Head five blocks ahead of the last call.

We'll find him there."

We did. 

Half naked, stripped shirtless, screaming,

"I'm Satan! You'll all burn!"

he charged the patrol car.

My coach coated Satan in a stream of pepper spray.

"I'm melting! I'm melting," screamed Satan 

as he threw his hands in front of his face.

Without thinking, without pause,

I lowered my shoulder and charged.

Satan collapsed  as I hit him

square in the stomach

and tackled him to the ground.

A blue tide of arriving officers followed

forming a pig pile of hands and feet and heavy officers.

When Satan was cuffed, 

my coached looked for me, 

but couldn't find me. 

Relieved to find me at the bottom of the pile,

he said, "You'll do alright. 

Now, get in the ambulance and guard Satan. 

I'll follow you in the patrol car."

The ride was unremarkable.

Satan kept his eyes shut

insisting he was dead.