Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Carson headed up to the door. A middle-aged man opened the door as she approached. Worry lines etched his face.

“Straight back,” he said, pointing with a trembling hand.

Carson entered the house, her heart pounding with adrenaline. The smell of body odor and dirty cat boxes filled her nostrils. She heard Battaglia’s footsteps and creaking leather right behind her. The sounds comforted her. Directly inside the doorway was a large, messy living room. On the other side of that she could see the bright light of the bathroom. The bathroom door stood half open.

Drawing her weapon, Carson approached the door cautiously. The man at the door gasped at the action, but Carson ignored him. The woman in the bathroom might still be alive. She might still want to commit suicide. And she might want to make Carson do it for her. She’d learned in the academy that suicide by cop was getting more and more popular.

Battaglia moved to the opposite side of the doorway, his gun drawn and at the ready. Carson tried to peek through the crack at the hinges. She saw a body seated on the closed toilet. There was no movement. She glanced up at Battaglia and shook her head.

Battaglia shrugged. “Ma’am?” he said. “Ma’am, are you all right in there?”

The man who had let them in approached them. “Help her, please!”

“Sir, just go to the door,” Carson said as firmly as she could muster. She knew her voice had to cut through the man’s worry and impending grief. “Medics are on the way. You’ll need to let them in.”

The man reluctantly obeyed.

Carson looked over at Battaglia. “I’ll check,” she whispered.

“My number came first, my call,” Battaglia whispered back. “I’ll get it.”

Just be a good cop.

Carson shook her head. “I got it.” Before Battaglia could move, Carson stepped around the door, her gun extended.

The woman sat on the toilet, her empty hands hanging limply at her sides. Her legs were splayed out and her head had fallen onto the sink. A bright red stream of blood trickled slowly from her nose and mouth into the drain. Her wide and staring eyes bore into Carson, the last vestiges of life in them seeping away.

“Gun on the floor,” Battaglia said from behind her.

Carson looked at the woman, who she guessed had pulled the trigger less than three minutes ago. An odd thought occurred to her-the woman’s soul was probably still leaving her body.

Carson looked away.

“Semi-auto.22,” Battaglia said. He didn’t touch the gun. Carson knew that a detective would have to respond and investigate the suicide to ensure it wasn’t a homicide. It was standard procedure. Their job now was to allow medics in to either work to save the woman or declare her deceased. After the medics were finished, their duty became protecting the integrity of the crime scene.

“You see a casing anywhere?” Battaglia asked.

Carson looked around. “No.”

Battaglia peered at the woman. “Looks like she shot right through the roof of her mouth. I don’t see an exit wound or any spray on the wall behind her. The bullet probably just bounced around inside her head. Pureed her brains, I bet.”

Carson glanced out the door. The man still stood at the front door of the house. Carson hoped he wasn’t hearing this.

“Awful nice of her to bleed out into the sink, I guess,” Battaglia continued quietly, leaning forward to examine her more closely.

Carson swallowed hard and felt a rush of nausea. The stench of human and cat box odor didn’t help her queasy stomach. She focused on taking tiny breaths through her mouth.

“She’s probably right-handed, so she would have to hold the gun just so”-he made a gun with his thumb and forefinger-“which would eject the casing over there.” He shined his flashlight into the bathtub. It was dirty but empty.

Carson followed his flashlight beam, then glanced up at Battaglia’s face. His hard expression was covered by a sheen of intensity. Carson wondered at his callous attitude toward this poor woman. Was this the same man who had comforted her after the Russian traffic stop? Who joked over beers at the Happy Time?

She heard the fire truck arrive, its loud diesel engine rattling, its air brakes hissing.

“Or,” Battaglia said, turning his hand over, “she could hold it so, which would eject the casing right here.” He moved the light to shine on Carson’s boots, then looked up at her quizzically.

No. Please don’t tell me I screwed up the crime scene.

She lifted her right foot carefully. Nothing underneath. She checked the tread. Nothing.

“Now the left,” Battaglia said. His tone was even, but she imagined a hint of dread in it.

Carson lifted the left boot. Nothing underneath it. She turned her foot over. A small gold.22 caliber casing was wedged in the tread.

“Damn,” she muttered. So much for being a good cop. She couldn’t even handle a straightforward suicide scene without mucking it up.

Battaglia chuckled slightly. “Don’t worry about it. Put it back where you stepped. The detective will never know the difference.”

“Damn,” Carson repeated. She picked the casing out of her boot tread and put it down where her foot had been. Then they both backed out of the bathroom.

“Case solved,” Battaglia told her. “Now we wait for an hour for the detective to get here and another two hours for him to reach the same conclusion and give it his blessing.” The resentment in his voice sounded more contrived than bitter.

Fire Station Paramedics, Squad Three, came barreling through the door. Battaglia shook his head at the lieutenant of the squad and they all slowed down.

“I just need one man to come in and verify she’s DOA,” Battaglia told the lieutenant.

The fire lieutenant nodded. He motioned to one of the three men behind him. “Dean?”

A short fireman with what looked like a large tackle box in his hand stepped forward. Battaglia led him to the bathroom.

“What happened?” the lieutenant asked Carson while they waited.

“Suicide.Gunshot.” She looked to see if the man who had let them in was watching. She spotted him out on the porch, smoking a cigarette. Carson put her finger in her mouth and simulated a gun. The lieutenant nodded.

Carson stood by with the firemen. She cringed when she overheard Battaglia warn Dean not to step on the bullet casing.

After a few minutes, Dean returned. “Nothing, El-Tee.”

“All right. You need anything?” the lieutenant asked Carson and Battaglia.

“Nope,” said Battaglia. “Just your run sheet.”

The lieutenant jotted down the names of his crew and their response time on his paperwork, then tore off the pink copy. He handed it to Battaglia.

“Thanks, threes,” Battaglia said. The firemen filed out the door and back to their truck. Once they were out of earshot he turned to Carson. “Back to bed for them guys. Must be tough.”

Carson was usually grateful for Battaglia’s humor, but it didn’t seem right at the moment. “Do you want to call for a supervisor and a detective? I can inform the complainant that she’s DOA and then get his story for you.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Battaglia said. “Thanks, B.J.” He turned and went into the kitchen, looking for a phone.

Carson walked back into the bathroom. The fireman hadn’t moved the woman. A rubber contact remained on her upper chest where the paramedic had hooked her up to the heart monitor. The blood and mucous that hung from her mouth had thickened into a gel-like substance. Her glazed-over eyes held no life in them, no expression. Less than four minutes had passed since Carson had seen her last.

Death is instantaneous, she thought, but it must also be a process. This woman’s life-her soul, if she had one-was clearly gone.