EXCERPT FROM FORSAKEN At 23:35 hours, the dispatcher raised me for another assignment. I was to respond to investigate the trouble inside of apartment #404 of the Hillcrest Commons apartment complex, located in the 1800 block of Columbia Road. I acknowledged the assignment. Again, Scout 87 advised the dispatcher that he would respond to assist. I arrived at the Hillcrest Commons apartment complex at 23:38 hours and advised the dispatcher that I was on the scene. I popped my hand-held radio out of the charger, exited my scout car and proceeded toward the entrance of the apartment building. Before I could reach the door, an infant landed at my feet, its head exploding like a water balloon. Blood, bone and brain matter splattered onto my spit-shined combat boots and my razor-creased trousers. Im not sure, but I think that the mess this murder had made of my uniform outraged me almost as much as the heinous act committed by the murderer, who, I suspected, was the source of the trouble I was assigned to investigate inside of apartment number 404. I advised the dispatcher of the situation and requested that homicide detectives and additional units to secure the crime scene and assist me be dispatched to my location A.S.A.P. I further advised her that I was responding to apartment number 404 to assess the situation. I then placed my radio into the holder on my Sam Browne belt, drew my service handgun, a Glock 17 semiautomatic with an 18-round capacity, and ran into the building. Once inside, I didnt bother with the elevator, but proceeded to run up the stairs. In about one minute, I was standing outside of apartment number 404, breathing heavily and swearing to myself, as I had done on numerous occasions before, to give up cigarettes. My heart pounding, adrenalin coursing through my system, I tried the doorknob and discovered that the door was unlocked. I shoved open the door and burst into the unkempt apartment, aiming my service weapon wherever my gaze fell, as I had been trained to. I was ready for anything. At least, I thought I was. On one side of the room, a boy, who appeared to be about five years old, was cowering and whimpering in a corner. On the other side of the room, a Hispanic woman armed with a butcher knife, which I later learned was their mother, was stabbing repeatedly a six or seven-year-old girl. The girl was obviously dead, but Mom continued stabbing the corpse. I ordered the crazed woman to stop and drop the knife. I dont know if she was ignoring me or didnt hear me. I repeated my order and this time, she looked at me. Looking into those eyes was like looking through the windows of a vacant house: I knew instantly that nobody was home. I continued to order her to drop the knife, but she didnt respond, she just stared at me. Finally, she responded. Still brandishing the butcher knife, she jumped to her feet and, screaming like a banshee, charged me like a rhino. I shot her right between the eyes. The impact of the bullet knocked her off her feet and propelled her backwards as blood, bone and brain matter sprayed the wall some ten feet behind her. She hit the floor like a sack of concrete and, knife still in hand, lay there motionless, her dead eyes staring at the ceiling. I stood there for what seemed like an hour, gun in hand, looking at the Mother of the Year. Finally, I looked at the boy and, doubting that he could understand me, asked him if he was hurt. He didnt answer, but I could detect no injuries from where I stood. I took a step toward him, but stopped when I saw the hatred in his eyes. Then, it hit me: It didnt matter that the lunatic had killed his siblings and would have killed him had I not interceded. What mattered was that I had blown his mothers brains out. He had to hate me. Slowly, the hatred in the boys eyes was replaced with the thousand-yard-stare. I could see he was going into shock. I remembered reading somewhere that shock victims should be kept warm, so I took the dingy cover off the sofa and covered the boy with it, tucking it under his neck. Just then, Officer Smith entered the apartment and said, Damn! Are you okay, man? I nodded. I advised the dispatcher of the situation and requested an ambulance. I then checked the apartment for other victims. I found a man, her husband or at least the father of the children I presumed, lying on the blood soaked bed next to a huge pile of dirty clothes. He had more holes in him than a piece of Swiss cheese, but he was still breathing. Just barely, but he was still breathing. If, by some miracle, the man survived, he, too, would hate me. He would have no other choice. Everybody hates the police anyway, no legitimate excuse necessary. Just think how much more easy it is to hate the police when you have reason to, as the survivors of this madness now had. I knew what the survivors would have to say about it: I hate the police. The damn police killed my mama!! I hate the police. The damn police killed my woman!! The fact that I had saved their lives was irrelevant. To them, I would not be a hero, but a murderer with a badge. * * * The following morning at about 6:30 am I turned on the Fox Morning News and discovered that a riot was raging in the Adams Morgan neighborhood. Airing scenes of carnage there, police vehicles burning; police officers running and stumbling while being pummeled by all manner of missiles; looters smashing out store windows and making off with all types of merchandise, Lark McCarthy reported that the riot (which made the one in Mount Pleasant a few years ago look like a Mardi Gras celebration) had been sparked by the murder of an unarmed Latino woman, identified as 33-year-old Rosa Osorio, who was shot to death inside her home last night by D.C. Police Officer Clifton Pearson. Thus far, one officer has died (he was burned to death inside of his scout car when someone tossed a Molotov cocktail into his lap) and some fifty officers have been injured. No doubt about it: This is a Memorial Day that wont soon be forgotten. Sgt. Jim Gilmore, every mixed-gray hair in place, LIVE from police headquarters, conducted an interview with Ms. McCarthy. After greeting each other, Lark prompted Jim to tell the tale. As no other Metropolitan Police official can, Jim Gilmore gave Larks viewers the lowdown: At approximately 11:30 last night, police responded to investigate the trouble at the Hillcrest Commons apartment complex, located in the 1800 block of Columbia Road, N.W. Upon arrival, an officer observed a baby crash to the pavement in front of him. Subsequently, he ran to apartment number 404, the reported location of the disturbance. When the officer reached that apartment, he observed a woman stabbing a young girl and a boy cowering in a corner. The woman ignored repeated orders by the officer to drop her weapon and lunged at him. At that time, he was forced to fire his service handgun, fatally wounding the suspect. At that point, Lark interrupted and said, We understand the officer shot her in the head. Is that consistent with your departments training? Is it the departments policy to shoot people in the head? Sgt. Gilmore, not batting an eye or missing a beat, replied, Lark, its the departments policy that our officers shoot to stop when lives are endangered, including their own. The woman, who was armed with a butcher knife and had already killed two of her own children, as well as attempted to kill her husband. Make no mistake, if the officer had not fired, more lives would have probably been lost, quite possibly even his own. That Jim Gilmore is slick as snot! Nobody does it better. After a bit more banter with the master, Lark thanked Jim and the Fox Morning News went LIVE to Jackie Bensen reporting from the war zone known as Adams Morgan. Blaring in the background was a tune by a local Latino hip-hop group El Loco Negro, with which I was very familiar. Undoubtedly, We Run the Streets by Night, rapped in Spanish and then in English, would become the theme for this fiasco and make it a bestseller for D.C.’s homegrown La Vida Loca Records: I walk the streets by day When wives, lazy lovers & welfare mothers Are watching soaps, When the workers are working, I am seeking work going from one to another Of those whose work it is to tell me there is no Work for me I walk the streets to the score of passing cars And the laughter of workers as they pass me by At lunchtime on their way to bars I walk the streets by night When the workers are sleeping And the insomniacs among them are watching Arsenio Hall & Johnny Carson & the Late Show & the commercials in-between I walk the streets to the score of passing cars And the joyless chatter of the people who walk The streets like me We see each other by Edison given Intercity Light We walk the streets We see the vault doors through Intercity Bank windows & the clothes on show in Intercity Department Stores & the tape decks in Stereo Heaven and in parked cars Outside the Discos where the rich folks go Seven nights a week We see the hookers on the corners in the cold & the homeless on heater vents in the sidewalks & the frozen ones in the alleyways, dead because Their fried heads told them that the warmth of dollar Ten gin would be enough to last them through the night We walk the streets by night To the score of the sounds of sirens and halting cars & breaking glass & screams & gunshots & screams & barking dogs Then the lights go out in the office buildings, on The streets & in the stores BLACKOUT & the windows of stores & autos begin to break & the clothes & stereos leave the stores; the food Leaves the markets; the tape decks leave the cars & The wallets & jewelry leave the rich as they flee The discos To the score of sirens, halting cars & breaking glass & screams & gunshots & screams & barking dogs We run the streets by night A looter then took time from his shopping to do a one-on-one live interview with Ms. Bensen. In broken English, the Latino gentleman conveyed that the police officer had gone crazy, attacked the poor womans family and threw her baby out the window. When Ms. Osorio tried to protect her family, the black officer shot her because black police hate Latinos. Black police always harassin us, the looter concluded, then smiled, showing off his shiny gold front tooth. At that moment, the image of a sweaty, redneck sheriff wearing mirrored-sunglasses flashed across my mind. You in a heap-o-trouble, boy. _______________ _______________ FORSAKEN: amazon/Forsaken-Quintin-Peterson-ebook/dp/B003QHZLFS/ref=sr_1_20?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418141618&sr=1-20&keywords=quintin+peterson Forsaken Copyright © 2007, 2014 Quintin Peterson All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales are entirely coincidental. Except for use in any review, the production or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author and publisher. Cover Design by Quintin Peterson Publisher: Amazon Shorts (September 13, 2007) Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.
Posted on: Wed, 10 Dec 2014 16:29:57 +0000
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