I can still recall clearly some of my first days and years on the street after I graduated from the academy. I remember physically shaking on my first call at a domestic disturbance. Training, films, instructor warnings, and danger signals raced through my mind as we made our way up the dark, cold, urine-stained stairwell. A man was screaming, a woman sobbing, and neighbors pointing as glass showered down on us from the third floor.
The senior officer I was assigned to, Cleo Kelly, made it all look so easy. He appeared more interested in talking about the Celtics than concentrating on our task. I was thinking we were about to be killed. We ended up arresting the man after a brief struggle and counseling the bruised woman as she begged us not to take him away.
The scene at the booking room was just as disturbing. One man was rocking back and forth crying; another spitting and cursing at everyone; tough guys stared ahead and right through me; shouts and curses echoed down the hall from the “tanks” where violent offenders were placed. A man smashed his head against the wall. Metal doors slammed shut; electric buzzers rang out amidst the shouting and screaming. I thought this was what hell must be like.
After a while it all runs together and you forget most of what you are exposed to on the job. By the end of my first year, one of my colleagues was shot in the face, my partner had a breakdown and left the job, and a short while later another officer committed suicide. Yet, I couldn't leave. It was too interesting, too challenging, and a place where I could do good for the world. It was in my blood, as they say.
One day in the summer I had a fairly busy shift involving some routine and some disturbance calls. One call was for an infant in distress at an apartment. The baby was not breathing. Paramedics and I worked on the baby as the parents tugged and howled at us to help. The apartment was filthy. The man had broken bones from a fall and both legs were in casts. And the baby died in our arms. I distinctly remember that smell and how white the infant looked. After all the reports, I moved on to the next call for service, and the next, adjusting my emotions each time to meet the situation.
Later, taking a break at a Dunkin’ Donuts to get a large fruit punch, which I paid for, a man called over to me, “Hey, you guys have it made, doncha. Drive around all day and get free food.” I returned to my car, thinking about all I had seen that day alone, then drove behind a building to drink my drink, hoping not to be disturbed by another run, and started sobbing about the baby.
It's eighteen years later, I'm the lieutenant in charge of CID, the Criminal Investigations Division. I've been to hundreds of deaths and horrible crime scenes. It's easier now. Almost routine. Now I sit with other detectives in a hotel conference room, passing around photos with casual indifference, speculation, and study, like people passing around a report or stats at a board meeting. Different conversations float in the air. “Now, that's bullshit!” “She was dead before he tied her up.” “Look here, look at her hands, the lividity.”
I'm distracted by another detective, as he nudges and points to the Polaroid. God knows what happened to this poor girl. These are not ordinary photos; these are horrible death scenes involving torture and rape. One girl, her nostrils flared, mouth agape, sucking down her last breath in panic. Nice white teeth, lips curled back like an angry dog's. All sorts of emotions running through her last thoughts. Beautiful long brown hair. Yup, she fits the profile all right.
Different agencies are trying to match up the work of a serial killer we think worked in our area. As the meeting goes on, some are even bored with the routine of it. We've witnessed so much tragedy over the years we can view these victims without emotion. I pause and think, God, if “normal” people saw this stuff, they'd be asking for counseling and wouldn't sleep for weeks. Our “board meeting” continues as photos are tossed around like trading cards.
Ironically, we can often see through the horror. “Hey, look at this one,” somebody says. “She's good looking.” Early twenties, her pretty eyes rolled up with a panicked look. Amazed at what is happening to her. This girl is all tied up neatly by a monster with an eye for detail. Anger wells up toward the suspected perpetrator of these despicable acts, a killer who trained others to follow in his footsteps. Talk about the death penalty. Easy when you see this kind of stuff. What about the families, friends, children? Juries and citizens will never see these pictures. Never be exposed to the whole truth.
We discuss the details with words like positioning, stains, fibers, hair, DNA, petechia, ligature marks. Detectives Dumas and Krier are arguing. “Look, you moron, it's Investigation 101! You should know that.” “Hey, John, look at this. What's up with the red lividity? That's odd.” The voices merge together until they sound like one noise.
After the meeting, I stop on the way home for a steak dinner. I want to be alone, sitting at the bar enjoying a few beers. Mellow feelings wash over me as I wait for my food, dim voices blending with the music. I listen to simple talk and regular lives. People who aren't exposed to the extremes of life's underside. I hear someone talk about a “big problem,” something about her nails, and think, lady, you don't know what problems are.
This is what it's like for cops. Day and night. Night and day. Year after year, the unimaginable things pile up. At the academy and on the job, they teach us objectivity. Keep an emotional distance. Separate yourself. After a while, we can see things like today's crime-scene pictures without much emotional response. Mostly it works, but sometimes things get stuck in your head, haunting your dreams and interrupting your thoughts because they matter so goddamned much. A case involving a beautiful girl named Amy St. Laurent was one of those.