NOW I understand the full mental trauma that can stem from working with your significant other. NOW I understand why they put us on seperate shifts. NOW I understand why co-workers-turned-lovers is a bad idea and NOW I understand why everyone begged us to work for seperate agencies.
Brody and I both worked on New Year's Eve. He was scheduled for it, I volunteered (You know by now I'm a freak like that).
We're no longer afforded the luxury of changing zones every 2 months. Once you're there, you stay there. For some unGodly reason, I was assigned to a pretty quiet zone aside from the ocassional crackhead meandering through the darkness in search of Great Aunt Betty's buried diamonds. With Monique and Pickett and a couple other freaks-of-nature as my bedmates, we've started to refer to our side of the county as "The Zones of Misfit Toys".
Brody was assigned to one of the most hellacious districts you could come across. He's slap in the middle of the tourist district, which also houses 3 for 1 drinks for college students. Drunk frat boys and half naked girls from Brazil... What a combination.
Since I was an idiot volunteer for one of the busiest and most dangerous nights of the year, I wasn't put in my respective Hell hole of boredom. I was placed in the next zone over from Brody.
Let me take a moment here to explain the differences between myself and Brody.
I will start or join a pursuit with a shit-kicking grin thinking "YEEEEEEEHAAAWWWW!" Brody will start or join a pursuit with a stern face thinking "If we go by the book, everything will turn out right."
I will draw my weapon thinking "Trust me fucker, if I shoot you I'm not going to feel bad about it."
Brody will draw his weapon thinking "Dear God, don't make me shoot this poor bastard."
If there's something particularly dangerous or crazy going on, I want to be the first to get there. We could blame this on control issues, but whatever. Let's not psycho-analyze.
If that same thing is going on, Brody will wait for proper back up and go by agency protocol to guarantee the smoothest conclusion possible.
Imagine my surprise when a call goes out for a gang fight, with weapons, and Brody is one of the first to arrive. I still don't know exactly what happened. I heard the tone go out, but as soon as the address was spouted I stopped paying full attention. I got the gist of it, which was as I told you. I then heard responses barking back from solitary units, then from the gang unit, then from Brody, who mentioned that he was right around the corner. UGH.
I remember tilting my head and standing there with my ear cocked, wondering exactly what kind of strange bug had bitten his ass and made him want to jump in the middle of that without waiting for the gang unit. At least they had riot gear.
Four cars arrived simultaniously and he was one of them. I turned my radio up, plopped my Pepsi on the counter and asked the cashier for a pack of cigarettes. My first since October.
I payed, listening to the calls shrieking across the radio between dispatch and the guys on scene. It was cool for a minute, sounded like they were getting everything under control, and just as I lit my first cigarette, my life began to end. Temporarily anyway.
"We have shots fired! Shots fired and a man down! Get us an ambulance NOW! OFFICER DOWN!"
My heart jumped into my throat and I don't think words can actually really describe the terror that gripped my stomach. I remember feeling that way once before, when my daughter was about 7 months old and had trouble breathing because of a nasty cold. Still, the rational part of my brain said "You don't know anything yet, stay calm."
I walked to my cruiser, trying to be cool about it, but obviously my hackles were up. Everything sort of went into slow motion. It was like walking into a movie. Pulling air into my lungs suddenly seemed to take a lot of concentration. Just as I sat down, my worst fears were confirmed.
"County Twenty Two Nineteen... I'm down. <random shouting here> Suspect in custody."
I sat there for a minute as my head processed that it was indeed Brody's call number, and that was indeed his voice though a bit strained.
I wasn't entirely sure what to do. Do I run over there, lights and sirens blazing? Do I stay in my zone and let everyone else take care of it? Do I wait and meet him at the hospital? Ms. Rational, the annoying voice in my head that I very often choose to ignore, said "Wait. Just wait... Give it a minute..."
But then another voice came and gave me the answer over the car to car. "Twenty Two Fifteen, are you busy?"
The usually gruff voice of Brody's higher-up sounded strangely gentle to me. "Negative, Sir."
"You may want to code to Twenty Two Nineteen's local for clean-up."
I knew exactly what he meant, and so I did, lights and sirens screaming through the night. As I backed out my car, my cell phone rang. It was Brody.
"Hey. I'm sure you heard. I'm okay. It's a shoulder hit."
"You're sure you're okay?"
"Yeah."
"I'm on my way."
He managed a laugh. "So I hear. Am I really worth the screamers?"
"Absolutely."
I pulled up at the same time the ambulance did and I followed them to the hospital.
It wasn't too bad. Into the left shoulder and got stuck. It didn't require any surgery. It felt pretty old school to watch the doctor give him some local anesthetic and pull it out with those tweezers on steroids. Some inner sutures and outer stitches and he was good to go. He took it like a man.
He's okay, and the 16 year old banger that shot him with a .22 didn't run far before he was tackled and cuffed. Somehow the Deputy transporting him had to make "a quick brake for a pedestrian, and the suspect went forward and hit his face on the cage and must have broken his nose that way. The bruises MUST have come from the gang fight. That's the only explanation for the shape he was in when he reached the hospital." Yep. That's the only explanation. Funny how things like that happen.
I think in the end I was slightly more traumatized than Brody. Look at your shoulder and then look at how close to your head that is. That's what really fucks with me.
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