Sucess
He'd laid out towels. Filled the cat food bowl to the brim and put out a few extra bowls filled with water. The heavy duty bottle of bleach was still in its CostCo bag as was the bucket and sponges. Old threadbare sheets, the kind his wife was probably about to throw out, were drapped over the airconditioner. The hose was right next to him so that those who had to clean it up afterwards wouldn't have to go searching for it.
"ALS 3, Engine 8 respond to XXXX for a Gunshot wound. Stage for PD. Operate TAC 3."
The ride takes about 4 minutes. We park around the corner with the engine, and wait for the all clear from PD. When we get word that the scene is safe we pull around the corner and stop infront of the correct house. Its a nice little hamlet at the other end of town from where I live. Bright sunshine streams through the trees that make the street a dead end. Residents in shorts and flip flops mill about.
The Lt from the engine calls over to us. "Guys, leave your first in in the bus." Telling us we don't need our first in bag, the big blue bag stuffed with medical gear.
"Ten?" I ask, meaning Code Ten, the Manchester Fire designation for a dead on arrival.
"Not officially yet, go do your thing." The Lt. tells me.
I walk into the backyard and notice that a neighbor is watching us from his porch next door. Two or three cops are standing around and I find the patient leaning against the airconditioning unit, a rifle with a scope in his lap and things that should be inside of him sprayed all over the place, caught mostly by the towels and blankets. A quarter size hole is right between his eyes, the rifle with its stock down by his feet, one shoe off. The blood and grey mater have dried forming a film over him, his eyes half open.
"I gotta check his pulse for paperwork." I tell one of the cops and he motions that its okay if I do.
"Just don't touch the rifle, might still be a round in the chamber."
"Okay, " I say and press my fingers to the man's neck. Nothing
I see a cat move among the bushes in the backyard and tell the cop. "Hey, not to be a freak or anything but if no one claims that cat, call Fire Alarm and they'll get a hold of me. I'll take him."
The cop laughes and I smile. "No reason for the cat to suffer."
As we're leaving I hear the nextdoor neighbor tell one of the cops. "I thought it was a balloon popping, just a litle 'pop' and I didn't think anything of it. Then I took the dog out to pee, I don't like to leave him out in the heat, and I saw him lying there. That was like forty five minutes ago or so. You don't think if I came out right away...." His voice trails off and the cop tells him that there was nothing anyone could have done.
I wonder if there is something wrong with me as I climb into the truck, punching in the number of a sandwich place so that my order will be ready by the time we get there.
"ALS 3, Engine 8 respond to XXXX for a Gunshot wound. Stage for PD. Operate TAC 3."
The ride takes about 4 minutes. We park around the corner with the engine, and wait for the all clear from PD. When we get word that the scene is safe we pull around the corner and stop infront of the correct house. Its a nice little hamlet at the other end of town from where I live. Bright sunshine streams through the trees that make the street a dead end. Residents in shorts and flip flops mill about.
The Lt from the engine calls over to us. "Guys, leave your first in in the bus." Telling us we don't need our first in bag, the big blue bag stuffed with medical gear.
"Ten?" I ask, meaning Code Ten, the Manchester Fire designation for a dead on arrival.
"Not officially yet, go do your thing." The Lt. tells me.
I walk into the backyard and notice that a neighbor is watching us from his porch next door. Two or three cops are standing around and I find the patient leaning against the airconditioning unit, a rifle with a scope in his lap and things that should be inside of him sprayed all over the place, caught mostly by the towels and blankets. A quarter size hole is right between his eyes, the rifle with its stock down by his feet, one shoe off. The blood and grey mater have dried forming a film over him, his eyes half open.
"I gotta check his pulse for paperwork." I tell one of the cops and he motions that its okay if I do.
"Just don't touch the rifle, might still be a round in the chamber."
"Okay, " I say and press my fingers to the man's neck. Nothing
I see a cat move among the bushes in the backyard and tell the cop. "Hey, not to be a freak or anything but if no one claims that cat, call Fire Alarm and they'll get a hold of me. I'll take him."
The cop laughes and I smile. "No reason for the cat to suffer."
As we're leaving I hear the nextdoor neighbor tell one of the cops. "I thought it was a balloon popping, just a litle 'pop' and I didn't think anything of it. Then I took the dog out to pee, I don't like to leave him out in the heat, and I saw him lying there. That was like forty five minutes ago or so. You don't think if I came out right away...." His voice trails off and the cop tells him that there was nothing anyone could have done.
I wonder if there is something wrong with me as I climb into the truck, punching in the number of a sandwich place so that my order will be ready by the time we get there.
posted by Nick Stabile at 1:03 PM
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