Lincoln Place

This contains violence by Police officers, a result of a civilian action. Vengeance, gore, sadness, inhumanity.

Nicky was hitting the woman with his open hand across her face. Big loud smacks. She didn’t cover or try to protect herself, no reaction to the pain. Open full-pitch slaps across her face. Her eyes snapped back and forth, trying to find purchase on this reality, this time.

She screamed in street Creole about fear, the denial of God, pointing at the baby. Jabbing her finger towards the table, screaming. Her eyes would bulge, then roll back, showing only white. Every time she raised a hand to point, it enraged Nick more. I could hear the whistling of his hand.

She’d spit blood, and Nick answered with another backhand. Both eyes swelling closed, blood from her mouth making a crimson goatee.

Nick hit her, and she’d yell Satan and a curse. She screamed through split lips, then in Spanish, “El Diablo, Diablo...”

I’d never seen such rage in Nicky until that day. Rage, like only a father can have for someone who hurts a child, unbridled hatred.

Blood on her face, neck, and shoulders. Nick’s fists and uniform stained red.

My darkness confirmed the punishment.

I don’t think he meant to kill her, just some payback, some vengeance.

Neither got the message that day.

Today

I opened my locker. I couldn’t escape it. The small rolled out heavily like a dark cloud, hitting me full in my face, a crippling punch of memory.

Instantly, I was right back in that apartment.

The smell hung on my duty jacket like the plague, memories inside my head assaulting my nose. A sweet sticky pallor branded my sinus, my throat, and my mouth.

The mortal sins in that place. I sit in the precinct basement beside my locker, head in hands, saying over and over, “This isn't what I signed up for.” I’ll never get this out of my head. Ever.

This morning, before work, in that small, tight space, after you wake, everything is right. Normal aches and pains are expected with age. I sit up, turn, and look at the clock beside the bed, feet on the cold floor. At peace and calm.

And then, the reality falls, blanketing everything except sadness, that weight of remembering.

Was there no mercy?

I long for that space between awake and memory.

I wonder why. What snapped in the mother? A shattered glass vase enters my mind as an image, trying to draw a parallel. Countless little pieces with razor-sharp edges. Slicing over and over, unending.

Could I have gotten there faster? Things that we do every day, waiting for our own end of the world. Is this all my fault?

Could I have heard the cries, the screams? Could I have stopped it?

This little girl, this miracle, this baby.

Yesterday

One O’clock, the Central radio dispatcher barked: “Seven four Charley. “Unknown calls for help, 1281 Lincoln Place, second floor, right side. Unknown condition, male caller. No callback, check and advise.”

“Any unit available to back Charley?” “Seven four Adam-Boy, we’ll go, but we're coming from downtown. Have Charley stand by…static…”

We park three doors away in front of a hydrant.

A breeze kicked up the urban dandruff. Empty coffee cups, cigarette butts, plastic takeout food bags. Trash eddies in this brick-and-mortar forest.

We walked through the broken aluminum doors, listening. The overwhelming smell of urine made me stop and squint. Hot, sunbaked piss. The odor stung my nose like ammonia. I compiled the amount of urine in the hallway for years. Each piss is drying in place, then the new piss activates the old smell and increases the power. Piss smell to the nth degree. The ripe aroma stuck to the windows, a filthy yellow and brown glaze inside of the glass. The flies perished, their dead lying on the painted shut windowsills.

It was too quiet. The hair on the back of my neck stood.

Take deep breaths and get oxygen into the blood. Push out the carbon dioxide. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Stop and listen.

On the second floor, the right-side door was painted brown, with a rusted “R” hanging by a nail, and scrapes and dents all around the lock. The frame had been reinforced, then broken again.

The left side door was unmarked and intact, confirming that the opposite side was the right place.

Jesus’ stickers, a bent crucifix, and successful damage to whoever wanted inside, hanging open an inch.

Nick looked at me, and I nodded. We both moved behind the doorframe for protection. Tactics.

Then, Nick opened the door to hell.

He touched it with his finger, and it swung open as if someone were pulling it behind it. We lean back, our hands unlocking the pistols on our hips.

The hinges screamed, alerting anyone to our arrival. My heart jumped; my blood pressure slammed to the top.

But no, there it was for us to see.

A short hallway past a beat-up bathroom on the right. An obscenely rusted porcelain sink, holes in the tiles, and a broken cast-iron tub detached from the wall. Garbage piled all along the floor, inside everything.

A diseased, roach-infested apartment. Busted furniture and empty food containers. Trash, and that decaying smell.

My eyes swept the room for danger, for traps. I inhaled through my nose again. I extended my senses to feel the danger.

Just steps into the apartment, something from the corner caught my eye. At first, I saw only movement, but then I saw that it was a naked baby girl lying there, writhing around on the table. Her eyes fluttered but stayed open; she grimaced, her baby teeth showing a painful grimace. Without any sounds, it looked like she was screaming at the top of her lungs. I thought her intense pain made it so high-pitched that I couldn’t hear the sound.

It was a little black baby girl. Burned everywhere, her skin chalky now. Her skin stuck to the table. A sickly-sweet smell lingered.

The bile rose in the back of my throat. What happened to her?

It looked like every pain receptor in her tiny body was firing.

This can’t be. This didn’t happen, I tell myself. Please no. Please let me be wrong.

Looking around, trash everywhere, broken furniture, peeling paint, and falling plaster exposed the floor joists. Carpet shredded, with a legion of flies in formation. Pots on the stove, two steaming with boiling water. The burners are on full, with blue and yellow flames shooting around the base.

The woman sat in the only upright chair, mumbling to herself in Creole French. Her speech repeated like a rusty sign creaking in the wind; it sounded trance-like: “Dat da devil. Death himself come up inside a me. Dat da devil child. take dat baby demon, an take ere’ back to him arms.”

The woman, an old-looking thirty, in a filthy ankle-length brown skirt and a mildewed dark blouse buttoned up to the throat. A red sweat-stained dew rag wrapped around her head, covering the hair. Crusty braids poked out the sides. Worn-out hospital slippers, rocking in the chair, back and forth, mumbling.

I saw and understood that she burned the baby with boiling water to get the devil out. My mind searched for another answer. It can’t be. What is this baby, 14 or 15 months old?

I must be wrong.

The table creaked on one shorter leg when her little arms moved in slow circles, to push away the agony.

Water stains, peeled paint, and crumbs, her naked skin sliding off where the steam tortured her little body.

I'm frozen in place. How can I pick up this baby without hurting her more?

My rage mounts and drifts to Nick, he sees it in my eyes. He sees hatred.

“How does she live like this?” Nick screams in anger, “Let me take care of this fucking pig now, Biz!” “Nick,” I yell, “please don’t.” He shouts, look at what she did!” I try to reason with him, “Don’t kill her. Please, Nick. Please, don’t.”

“Holster your gun, Nick. Stop hitting her. She’s bleeding everywhere. Her teeth are broken.”

If I could pick the baby up, we could drive her to the hospital. Have the dispatcher tell the emergency room they have a seriously burned infant coming in. For God’s sake, how is she still conscious? How is she alive? I shout.

“Come on, come on, what do I do? Think.”

Nicky’s slaps have become rhythmic.

I scream, “Christ Almighty, Nicky! Stop hitting her!” I yell into the portable radio, “Central: where’s that fucking ambulance? Make it forthwith, got an infant with a serious burn.

She’s projecting the pain. I can feel it now. All over. Burning, it’s hot, everywhere, it stinks. My vision clouds, hazy; my body is covered with burning. Prickly heat, a rash of fire.

I fight the urge to vomit.

My god, eyes are scalded, like her eyelids are melted, stuck to the white part.

The smell is in me now. Eating. The heat, the sweat. Burning. “Dear God. Please help this baby. Send me a sign. Please help me.”

I’m in a full panic now, trying to think.

This poor baby. “What did she ever do to anyone? Did she cry out loud? Was she hungry? Was she wet, or alone? Was she scared? I’m crying, through the tears.”

It’s so hot here.

“What in hell is wrong with you, I scream at the woman. “Nicky, keep me away. I’ll kill her right now!”

An eye for an eye, a life for a life.

I’ve become two people here and now. One burning. The other is rage at the beast in the dew rag.

Nicky is yelling something, but my ears are ringing so loud I can’t hear. He’s screaming so loud I see the fillings in his back teeth. His eyes showed red and blue veins.

Wobbly, swaying back and forth, I spread out my feet to keep from falling. Nick punches my shoulder.

The training kicks, the practice.

Reality bitch slaps me. He grabs the sleeve of my jacket and is shaking me. “Pay attention, Biz what the fuck, where are you?”

I push him away, look and at the woman sitting there. Confusion swamps me.

Then the smell hits me in the face. Head spinning, time check. One hand on the table, and I’m holding on to Nick with the other. Again, I force the vomit back down. My throat burns and my eyes water, and that fucking smell.

I fall backward on one knee. Shaking my head.

He reaches down and pulls me up by the arm. “The baby. Biz. The baby”

Without warning, lunch leaps out of my mouth, projectile vomiting. It burns in my throat. It squirts out through both nostrils. Chunky bile-infused lunch: roasted ham, rice, and beans.

My hands, shoes, shirt, my chin.

I finish emptying my stomach, as the dry heaves rack my body. One two, four, five. Coughing, retching.

I know in the half of me that is still here I’ve got to save the baby.

It’s why we were sent here. The baby

I try to think; I know that at some point I’ll need her name. I ask Nick, find out her name? Where was she born? How old is she? How much does she weigh?

Nicky is back on the other side of the room. He’s picked the woman up by the throat, searching her with his bare hand. I know, looking for weapons, drugs, and identification. Anything to help?

She doesn’t try to fight; She struggles to breathe, twisting her head to the left and right with her hands at her sides. He’s holding her up out of the chair by the front of her neck, like a rag doll.

I hear heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. Two friends in Sector Adam- Boy, run in. In seconds, they have the woman face down and handcuffed. They yell in unison, “Go now, take her to the hospital. Forthwith, Go, Go!”

I scoop up the baby with my bare hands, and we run out the door. Nicky is holding my arm while I cradle her.

Her eyes are trying to focus on me as I hold her in my arms; she looks small and insignificant. She searches for me with blind, burned eyes. I try to soothe her by talking. My tears drip on her face as I watch her struggling to stay alive.

I sing to her through my tears. Her head turns slowly from side to side, trying to focus on my voice.

How could anybody hurt her?

She grew limp in my arms, “I called out to her, baby girl, baby, I plead. Wake up, sweetheart, stay with me. We’re at the hospital. We’re here.” I stared at her, trying to will her to live. I could see her life leaving her like wisps of smoke.

Blind eyes scanning back and forth, wincing in pain with the movement.

A nurse with a gurney met us in the emergency room driveway. A doctor in a white lab coat, his tie blowing over his shoulder, stood at the doors behind her. She took the baby from my arms without a word.

Our eyes locked for a moment. Every thought, every bit of humanity, was transferred in that second.

A minute later, there was a storm of activity around the baby. Sterile bandages, saline, tubes, and injections appeared. Heart and breathing monitors attached. Conferences by experts. Decisions made, course plotted, action after action. A practiced dance at the doorway of death.

The staff asked me questions for which I had no answers. “How old is she? What’s her name? Where is the mother? Who is responsible? What was she burned with? Was this a car accident, a chemical burn? How long ago? Who did this?”

My mind stopped registering the questions. I didn't look at the people who were asking. I was invisible.

Her skin was stuck to my duty jacket, sweet, sickly. I’ll know that smell forever.

Where's Nick? I look through the doors to see him vomiting beside the patrol car, and turn back to watch the orchestra of hope.

I try to wipe the skin off my jacket. The more I rub, the deeper it goes. The smell enveloped me, coating my sinuses.

Nick takes my arm and pulls me out of the emergency room back to our patrol car. It’s parked with the right front tire up on the curb, blocking two ambulance spots.

I look over my shoulder as I’m walking out. The flurry around the baby’s bed, the anger, the unanswered questions for that precious little baby. I stumble while I’m watching. Nicky guides me past the vomit towards the car.

He opens and points at the seat. My mind is numb—everything is numb. My ears are ringing. I remember thinking, "What is wrong with me?" This can’t be reality. Everything is foggy, like walking underwater.

My brain is trying to sort this out. I try to remember what we saw and did. Stop the violence, save the life. Witness and report.

What did I see? Surely this can’t be real. I’ll wake up from this nightmare soon, and second now.

Witness, like a flashing neon sign inside my mind.

The lingering question is, what caused that woman to do that to the baby?

Was there a reason for the infant's life?

Come, the questions and reports, the paperwork. Try to put it in words.

There are no answers. I want to put it in my locker and go home. To decompress, to forget this day.

At the precinct, detectives walk to us in pairs. They are veterans of misery and hate. One opens his mouth to ask a question, but stops. He stares at me and stands there for a full minute, eye to eye. He recognizes the vulgarity of reality. Without speaking, he turns to look at his partner. He shakes his head and walks out the door on the way to the crime scene.

I feel nothing. I’m used up, flatline.

I don’t have the courage to call the hospital to ask about her condition.

I try to rationalize what happened, but I find I have no point of reference for something so violent. So vulgar.

A Prayer for the dead, a prayer for the dying….

The next tour is from 4 PM to midnight. We’re robots in uniform. Some of our squadmates come to speak to us without humor. To a man, they walk away without answers, looking back over their shoulders, wondering if the world has stopped turning.

We get our assignment, get the car keys and radio, and resume patrol. I don’t answer the radio when called, zombie-like. I recognize the other sectors picking up our jobs, as if they know we're away from our post, covering for us. Yet I sit there and stare out the windshield.

In the thought, I’m back in the police car, we’ve left the hospital, and Nick is driving us back to the station. The car slows to a stop a hundred feet from a traffic light. I look across the car, and Nicky has stopped talking right in mid-sentence. He has that vacant look in his eyes, the thousand-yard stare.

His knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel; I know he’s barely holding on. Right on the precipice, on the edge.

His eyes swim in and out of focus as he stares through the windshield. A ridge of sweat beads appears as if by magic on his brow. The light glitters through the sweat. Dancing beams reflected on his forehead.

A halo of light sparkles around his head.

I relive it along with Nick, back in the apartment.

Less than fourteen minutes. From the assignment to the hospital.

Fourteen minutes.

A visit to Hell.

We witness and report