5:03 p.m.
I am currently blogging from a grassy knoll on the side of a road in a very, very ritzy part of San Diego. Across the street there are a bunch of trailers lined up, several cop cars, and a particular trailer that reminds me of a chuck wagon-type kitchen because people keep going over there and getting food.
Which reminds me, I’m hungry.
I'm surprised how easy it was to sneak into the staging area for Veronica Mars with LHM. After we parked LHM's car a van came up and loaded three or four of us in. Nobody asked me who I was playing or anything. Probably because I am a private detective who is used to slipping seamlessly into any given situation without notice. Uh, yeah. That must be it.
There are a bunch of fake cops wandering around and a pretty young woman with short dark hair in a pair of pink silk pajamas and slippers just came over to me and asked what internet service provider I use on my laptop because she can’t get service out here. She’s either one of the main characters of the show or a complete nut job. I’ll have to ask LHM later.
LHM just got out of the dressing room. He’s wearing a brown cop uniform. Reow! I’m a sucker for a man in uniform. Unfortunately, he’s pretending not to notice me so that I don’t get kicked out.
Oh, dear. LHM is talking to the stage manager guy and pointing to me. This cannot be good. LHM walks over and I half expect him to tell me I’m going to have to leave, but instead he says that the stage manager is going to let me hang around in the staging area but that I can’t go to the set (the set is a huge mansion a block away). Cool!
So, I walk across the street and join a bunch of extras that are dressed like bomb squad and cops and firemen. They seem like a pretty nice bunch of guys. One is woman who is, I guess, what you would call a professional extra. She does at least one show a week. LHM and all the other cops are bussed over to the props truck and I am left with the bomb squad. There is an Hispanic guy who is between jobs right now but used to work for the county. He asks me if I'm an actor. I laugh and tell him what I really do. He asks me for a job. Another guy is Special Ops with the Marine Corp and does the acting thing for fun. He is a black guy and we had a good laugh when he told me that next week he gets to play an Iraqi insurgent on another show. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’m happy for the job but I’ve never seen a black Iraqi before.”
"It's okay," I say. "Maybe they're planning on making you a woman and you'll be in a burka."
LHM comes back with fake gun, radios, leather holster, etc... Then the stage manager comes over and tells the guys that it’s time for them to get in the truck and head to the mansion. Bummer. This is going to be a boring couple of hours. But, to my surprise, he comes to me and says, “I’ll probably get fired for this, but you can come along to the house.” Hooray!
So now I am in an enormous mansion full of strapping men in uniform. Can life get any better, I ask you? There are fire trucks and cop cars all positioned outside in the driveway. LHM disappeared. He's exploring the mansion. I got depressed and stopped looking around after I peaked in the master bathroom and saw that it's bigger than my house.
After about an hour, I heard someone yell loudly from the other room, "Break for lunch!" Lunch? It's 8:00 p.m.! But then again, who am I to turn down free food? So me and the boys are bussed back down to the staging area and I am walking through a lovely buffet when an assistant director comes up to me and says, "We were wondering if you would do an “eye shot” when we get back to the house. Just come find me and I'll show you were to go."
I look at LHM. He shrugs. “Sure,” I say.
The assistant director walks away I lean in and whisper to LHM, “What the hell’s an eye shot?”
LHM shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Great. A lot of good you are. I ask the professional extra and she tells me that an eye shot is just where I stand there so that they can get camera angles and lighting in place for when the real actor comes in. I sigh in relief. Cool! I can do that! A monkey could do that!
So, they just called us back to the van and we are headed back to the house when the stage manager says, “You know, you’re very lucky to be here. We’ve had other people bring friends and I have had to tell them to go home. But you seem like a very nice girl.” LHM leans in and whispers, "Yeah. And that little tank top and skirt can't hurt, either."
We get back to the house again and everything has moved outdoors in the driveway. Now that it's gotten dark, the cops and firemen get to play. It is very cold and I am seriously regretting the little tank top. The stage manage comes over and hands me his jacket. He's dressed like a bomb squad guy because one of the extras didn't show up. "Here. You can use this. You look cold." Aw. Gee, thanks.
I sit on the steps of the house and watch in fascination. Turns out the girl in the pajamas wasn't a crazy after all. Hey! Is that Steve Guttenberg out there in that bathrobe? I loved him in Three Men and A Baby!
It's now 10:00 p.m. They just wrapped up the outside scenes and everybody is moving inside. We finally get to go back. I have to walk through the house to get back to my stuff. Steve Guttenberg is in the living room and they are getting set up to rehearse a scene. He sees me coming and smiles and says, "Aren't you cold?" I think to myself, Why, yes, Mr. Guttenberg. I'm freezing my ass off! But instead, I just say, "It was a lot warmer when I got dressed this morning."
Then the director yells for everybody who isn't in the scene to clear out. I scurry off to the back room and gather my things before walking outside with the rest of the boys.
Anyway, I’ve got to wrap this up because LHM just told me he's going to have to frisk me.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
3/23/06
1:20 p.m.,
Well, I'm sitting in LHM's car waiting for him to get out of the electronics store. See, he bought this computer game and found that his video card wasn't allowing all the graphics so decided to go buy a new card. But the new card wouldn't work. So he took it back because he figured it was defective. But then the replacement wouldn't work either. So now he's going to buy a more expensive card because, hell, if it's more expensive it's got to work, right? If the expensive card doesn't work then he's going to get more power supply... Which will be even more expensive.
And all to play a computer game.
Men are funny.
Anyway, tonight LHM is going to be playing an extra on Veronica Mars. He gets to be a cop. I'm going to be his groupie. I'll be blogging live from the set this evening.
P.S. MAN, it's hot in SoCal right now. :-P
Well, I'm sitting in LHM's car waiting for him to get out of the electronics store. See, he bought this computer game and found that his video card wasn't allowing all the graphics so decided to go buy a new card. But the new card wouldn't work. So he took it back because he figured it was defective. But then the replacement wouldn't work either. So now he's going to buy a more expensive card because, hell, if it's more expensive it's got to work, right? If the expensive card doesn't work then he's going to get more power supply... Which will be even more expensive.
And all to play a computer game.
Men are funny.
Anyway, tonight LHM is going to be playing an extra on Veronica Mars. He gets to be a cop. I'm going to be his groupie. I'll be blogging live from the set this evening.
P.S. MAN, it's hot in SoCal right now. :-P
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
3/20/06
9:11 p.m.
Right now LHM is looking over my shoulder as I write. Stop it! Go back to dreaming about past episodes of “Lost”. He keeps telling me that when we crash he wants me to call him John Locke. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about but he keeps laughing to himself every time he says it. I’m going to have to watch that show sometime.
I’m in a plane over the Rocky Mountains right now. As we were taking off about an hour ago the flight attendants performed a field experiment. The hypothesis was that the bag of peanuts would sail down the aisle faster than the pretzels. Pretzels won. LHM owes me 10 bucks. I love Southwest.
All right, here’s my latest ME story. It’s Saturday morning. I am just returning from releasing a body to a funeral home when my pager goes off in my pocket….again. Perfect timing, guys. You couldn’t hit me ten minutes earlier while I was still at the morgue.
I call dispatch and am directed to respond to a residence out in the county. A young woman, about 15-years-old, was found dead by her mother this morning. Dispatch can’t give me any details, but I’m assuming that it’s a drug or alcohol OD since it was St. Patrick’s Day yesterday.
I pick up the van at the MEO and head out. There are miles and miles of farmland once you cross to the west side of I-94. Stubborn patches of snow lay in patches on the fallow fields and a thin fog hovers over the trees. It’s really a beautiful morning and my mind registers this, though I am not able to fully appreciate it. I’m too distracted going over what needs to be done when I arrive at the residence. I am tense because I know that this will be a difficult scene. The girl was so young and her death was unexpected. Her family will be shocked and highly emotional. I need to be prepared.
I arrive at the home 20 minutes later. There are several men out in the yard. I note the stark faces as I pull in and get out of the van. A man about 40-years-old walks over. I introduce myself and tell him I’m from the Medical Examiner’s office. I tell him I’m sorry.
“I need to talk to you about this,” he says with barely controlled anger. “My daughter will not be taken away in that truck. You need to tell them to bring an ambulance. I’ve done that once and I won’t do it again.”
I’m not sure what he’s talking about so I sidestep the issue by telling him that I will need to go inside to speak to the officer in charge.
I walk through the front door and the situation is no better. Women are gathered in the living room, sobbing and holding each other. I hate walking in on scenes like this. I feel very acutely that I am an intruder at a very personal, horrible time. I give another general introduction, explain to the people in the room who I represent and what I’ll be doing before moving quickly to the side of the waiting detective. Det. Brown and I exchange a few words in hushed tones before he takes me to a small bedroom off the kitchen.
“So, what’s the story?” I ask. “Dispatch didn’t tell me anything but that it was a 15-year-old girl.”
Det. Brown opens the door and steps in with me. The room is sweltering hot, at least 90 degrees, and there is a small television on in the corner. I scan the room as Brown speaks. A teenage romance novel on a nightstand. A formal gown in the closet. My heart aches for this girl who will never see her first prom.
“Seems that the girl suffers from migraine headaches. She’s had problems with it for a couple of years. Her mother took her to the ER on Wednesday night because the pain was so bad and she was throwing up. She was given a couple of prescriptions and sent home. Over the next two days she just kept throwing up. Couldn’t keep anything down. There’s a bag of vomit there on the floor next to the bed.”
I look into the corner at the bag. “I’m taking the puke and the prescriptions with me.” I say as I bend down and mark the bag with a date.
“They’re all yours,” Brown says. “There’s another bag of vomit from the day before outside by the front stoop.”
I’m not sure why these people would save barf, but I am grateful. It will be analyzed for any clues as to what happened to the girl.
“Did she drink alcohol, do drugs…anything like that?” I asked.
“She had a tox screen back last year and tested positive for barbs, opiates, all sorts of shit.”
My mind starts going over the possibilities. Maybe she got a bad batch of drugs.
“Did they run tox at the ER?”
“Yes. She was clean.”
Hmmm. Okay. So she wasn’t hyped up on goofballs…at least none that your average, everyday drug screen will test for. She wasn’t out partying over the past few days. She’s got a history of migraine headaches but has been otherwise healthy.
“What did she drink or eat over the past few days?”
“She had water and tea on Thursday, but didn’t keep it down. On Friday she had water, a spoonful of warm jello and a cracker.”
“How many times did she vomit?”
“On Thursday, about 10 times. On Friday, 8 times.”
Nothing the girl ate or drank over the past couple of days contained any electrolytes. Meanwhile, she was throwing up everything she consumed and becoming more and more dehydrated.
“Do you know what her labs were like at the ER? How were her electrolyte levels?”
Detective Brown looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “How the hell should I know? Do I look like a doctor?”
I sigh. No. You look like a horse’s ass.
I make a mental note to call the ER as soon as I get out of here. Right now I need to examine the body.
I turn my attention to the small figure on the bed. She’s petite, maybe 105 lbs. Her hair is long and dark and tangled around her head. She’s got dark circles under her eyes. Her head is drawn back and her eyelids are partially open. She is wearing a tank top and pajama bottoms. There are three EKG leads on her chest and abdomen where Rescue checked her vitals.
“Did Rescue move her at all?” I need to know if this was the position she’d been found in.
“No. They were careful not to move her. They made no attempt at resuscitation.”
And I can see why. I pull on a pair of latex gloves and place my palm on her torso. Cool. I move my hand to her arm. Cooler. I try unsuccessfully to open one of her hands. They are closed tightly and won’t budge. I move to her elbow joint. Same thing. Her jaw is also tightly clenched. Rigor mortis is full. She’s been dead for at least 10 hours.
“When was she last seen alive?”
“Mom was staying up with her, rubbing her back and talking to her. She left the room at 0200 hours. She came in to check on her again at 0400 hours. And she found her in the same position at 0830 hours.”
Huh. It’s now 1030 hours. Even if she died at 0200 that’s only 8 hours…too soon for rigor to be full. I consider. The room is so hot, though. Heat accelerates the decomposition process and can cause rigor to present more quickly than normal.
I work my way down her body…documenting scars, tattoos, cuts, bruises. When I get to her feet I stop. Her toes are pointed straight out. I’ve never seen that before. I take photographs and bag up the meds and the puke. I pull out a syringe and pop the cap off the needle. I look back at Det. Brown. “How’s your stomach?” He turns away when he sees the needle puncture the left eyeball and draw out vitreous fluid. I deposit the milky thick fluid into a vial and label it. Vitreous is an excellent measure of electrolyte levels at the time of death but it must be drawn as soon as possible to give an accurate reading.
Before I leave the room I close the girls eyes and cover her with a blanket.
Det. Brown meets me outside the door and brings me to a separate room where he has the mother waiting to be interviewed. We’ve barely finished the first sentence when the girl’s father walked in. “Carl,” the woman says quietly in a warning voice. “Carl, just be calm. Please, Carl.” The man’s eyes are a little wild and I remember our conversation outside about the van.
“I want to see my daughter,” he says almost as a challenge. My heart sinks. I know that people need that closure, but it is so traumatic and I hate witnessing it.
I glance over to Det. Brown who is standing in the doorway and nod.
“That’s fine. Take all the time you need.”
I lead the man and his wife to the back bedroom. They walk past me and I close the door so they can have a private moment. A few seconds later I hear the man yell, “Angel! Oh, angel, no!” I hear the woman sobbing. I watch the faces of the other officers. I can see the same bleak countenance on all of them that I am sure is reflected in my own. It’s a feeling of complete impotence.
Several minutes later I am sitting with the mother again. She is alone this time and as she speaks to me I can’t help but admire her strength. I can see how shocked she is. She tells me her story. I listen carefully and take notes. After we have finished, I am about to get up to leave when she touches my sleeve.
“What do you think happened? Was it her heart?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure yet. We’re going to have to perform an autopsy and run some other tests before I can give you a definitive answer, but it seems that her chemistry might have been off because of her illness.”
“You mean that she was dehydrated? You mean that if I’d brought her back to the hospital she would have been okay?” The woman’s face has paled and her hands begin shaking.
I touch her arm and look her in the eye before saying, “No. You did everything right. You brought her to the ER the day before and they sent you home. You gave her the medicine prescribed and did your best to keep food and water inside of her. Don’t you worry about that.”
She visibly calms and I squeeze her arm as I stand up to leave.
I am lying, of course. It’s a lie I’ve had to tell several times over the years. And it’s one I’ll probably tell again.
Right now LHM is looking over my shoulder as I write. Stop it! Go back to dreaming about past episodes of “Lost”. He keeps telling me that when we crash he wants me to call him John Locke. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about but he keeps laughing to himself every time he says it. I’m going to have to watch that show sometime.
I’m in a plane over the Rocky Mountains right now. As we were taking off about an hour ago the flight attendants performed a field experiment. The hypothesis was that the bag of peanuts would sail down the aisle faster than the pretzels. Pretzels won. LHM owes me 10 bucks. I love Southwest.
All right, here’s my latest ME story. It’s Saturday morning. I am just returning from releasing a body to a funeral home when my pager goes off in my pocket….again. Perfect timing, guys. You couldn’t hit me ten minutes earlier while I was still at the morgue.
I call dispatch and am directed to respond to a residence out in the county. A young woman, about 15-years-old, was found dead by her mother this morning. Dispatch can’t give me any details, but I’m assuming that it’s a drug or alcohol OD since it was St. Patrick’s Day yesterday.
I pick up the van at the MEO and head out. There are miles and miles of farmland once you cross to the west side of I-94. Stubborn patches of snow lay in patches on the fallow fields and a thin fog hovers over the trees. It’s really a beautiful morning and my mind registers this, though I am not able to fully appreciate it. I’m too distracted going over what needs to be done when I arrive at the residence. I am tense because I know that this will be a difficult scene. The girl was so young and her death was unexpected. Her family will be shocked and highly emotional. I need to be prepared.
I arrive at the home 20 minutes later. There are several men out in the yard. I note the stark faces as I pull in and get out of the van. A man about 40-years-old walks over. I introduce myself and tell him I’m from the Medical Examiner’s office. I tell him I’m sorry.
“I need to talk to you about this,” he says with barely controlled anger. “My daughter will not be taken away in that truck. You need to tell them to bring an ambulance. I’ve done that once and I won’t do it again.”
I’m not sure what he’s talking about so I sidestep the issue by telling him that I will need to go inside to speak to the officer in charge.
I walk through the front door and the situation is no better. Women are gathered in the living room, sobbing and holding each other. I hate walking in on scenes like this. I feel very acutely that I am an intruder at a very personal, horrible time. I give another general introduction, explain to the people in the room who I represent and what I’ll be doing before moving quickly to the side of the waiting detective. Det. Brown and I exchange a few words in hushed tones before he takes me to a small bedroom off the kitchen.
“So, what’s the story?” I ask. “Dispatch didn’t tell me anything but that it was a 15-year-old girl.”
Det. Brown opens the door and steps in with me. The room is sweltering hot, at least 90 degrees, and there is a small television on in the corner. I scan the room as Brown speaks. A teenage romance novel on a nightstand. A formal gown in the closet. My heart aches for this girl who will never see her first prom.
“Seems that the girl suffers from migraine headaches. She’s had problems with it for a couple of years. Her mother took her to the ER on Wednesday night because the pain was so bad and she was throwing up. She was given a couple of prescriptions and sent home. Over the next two days she just kept throwing up. Couldn’t keep anything down. There’s a bag of vomit there on the floor next to the bed.”
I look into the corner at the bag. “I’m taking the puke and the prescriptions with me.” I say as I bend down and mark the bag with a date.
“They’re all yours,” Brown says. “There’s another bag of vomit from the day before outside by the front stoop.”
I’m not sure why these people would save barf, but I am grateful. It will be analyzed for any clues as to what happened to the girl.
“Did she drink alcohol, do drugs…anything like that?” I asked.
“She had a tox screen back last year and tested positive for barbs, opiates, all sorts of shit.”
My mind starts going over the possibilities. Maybe she got a bad batch of drugs.
“Did they run tox at the ER?”
“Yes. She was clean.”
Hmmm. Okay. So she wasn’t hyped up on goofballs…at least none that your average, everyday drug screen will test for. She wasn’t out partying over the past few days. She’s got a history of migraine headaches but has been otherwise healthy.
“What did she drink or eat over the past few days?”
“She had water and tea on Thursday, but didn’t keep it down. On Friday she had water, a spoonful of warm jello and a cracker.”
“How many times did she vomit?”
“On Thursday, about 10 times. On Friday, 8 times.”
Nothing the girl ate or drank over the past couple of days contained any electrolytes. Meanwhile, she was throwing up everything she consumed and becoming more and more dehydrated.
“Do you know what her labs were like at the ER? How were her electrolyte levels?”
Detective Brown looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “How the hell should I know? Do I look like a doctor?”
I sigh. No. You look like a horse’s ass.
I make a mental note to call the ER as soon as I get out of here. Right now I need to examine the body.
I turn my attention to the small figure on the bed. She’s petite, maybe 105 lbs. Her hair is long and dark and tangled around her head. She’s got dark circles under her eyes. Her head is drawn back and her eyelids are partially open. She is wearing a tank top and pajama bottoms. There are three EKG leads on her chest and abdomen where Rescue checked her vitals.
“Did Rescue move her at all?” I need to know if this was the position she’d been found in.
“No. They were careful not to move her. They made no attempt at resuscitation.”
And I can see why. I pull on a pair of latex gloves and place my palm on her torso. Cool. I move my hand to her arm. Cooler. I try unsuccessfully to open one of her hands. They are closed tightly and won’t budge. I move to her elbow joint. Same thing. Her jaw is also tightly clenched. Rigor mortis is full. She’s been dead for at least 10 hours.
“When was she last seen alive?”
“Mom was staying up with her, rubbing her back and talking to her. She left the room at 0200 hours. She came in to check on her again at 0400 hours. And she found her in the same position at 0830 hours.”
Huh. It’s now 1030 hours. Even if she died at 0200 that’s only 8 hours…too soon for rigor to be full. I consider. The room is so hot, though. Heat accelerates the decomposition process and can cause rigor to present more quickly than normal.
I work my way down her body…documenting scars, tattoos, cuts, bruises. When I get to her feet I stop. Her toes are pointed straight out. I’ve never seen that before. I take photographs and bag up the meds and the puke. I pull out a syringe and pop the cap off the needle. I look back at Det. Brown. “How’s your stomach?” He turns away when he sees the needle puncture the left eyeball and draw out vitreous fluid. I deposit the milky thick fluid into a vial and label it. Vitreous is an excellent measure of electrolyte levels at the time of death but it must be drawn as soon as possible to give an accurate reading.
Before I leave the room I close the girls eyes and cover her with a blanket.
Det. Brown meets me outside the door and brings me to a separate room where he has the mother waiting to be interviewed. We’ve barely finished the first sentence when the girl’s father walked in. “Carl,” the woman says quietly in a warning voice. “Carl, just be calm. Please, Carl.” The man’s eyes are a little wild and I remember our conversation outside about the van.
“I want to see my daughter,” he says almost as a challenge. My heart sinks. I know that people need that closure, but it is so traumatic and I hate witnessing it.
I glance over to Det. Brown who is standing in the doorway and nod.
“That’s fine. Take all the time you need.”
I lead the man and his wife to the back bedroom. They walk past me and I close the door so they can have a private moment. A few seconds later I hear the man yell, “Angel! Oh, angel, no!” I hear the woman sobbing. I watch the faces of the other officers. I can see the same bleak countenance on all of them that I am sure is reflected in my own. It’s a feeling of complete impotence.
Several minutes later I am sitting with the mother again. She is alone this time and as she speaks to me I can’t help but admire her strength. I can see how shocked she is. She tells me her story. I listen carefully and take notes. After we have finished, I am about to get up to leave when she touches my sleeve.
“What do you think happened? Was it her heart?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure yet. We’re going to have to perform an autopsy and run some other tests before I can give you a definitive answer, but it seems that her chemistry might have been off because of her illness.”
“You mean that she was dehydrated? You mean that if I’d brought her back to the hospital she would have been okay?” The woman’s face has paled and her hands begin shaking.
I touch her arm and look her in the eye before saying, “No. You did everything right. You brought her to the ER the day before and they sent you home. You gave her the medicine prescribed and did your best to keep food and water inside of her. Don’t you worry about that.”
She visibly calms and I squeeze her arm as I stand up to leave.
I am lying, of course. It’s a lie I’ve had to tell several times over the years. And it’s one I’ll probably tell again.
Monday, March 20, 2006
3/20/06
1:04pm
Long time no blog!!
For those of you who didn't know, I've had some pretty serious personal issues come up over the past couple of months that have made it difficult for me to blog.
To say the least. Ahem.
But I'm back and I have a pretty interesting dead guy story for you all that I plan on punching out this evening while I'm on a plane.
Just as a side note...I was riding in a car with some random five-year-old when a guy pulled out in front of me. Now, believe it or not, I've been known to swear like a sailor in the past and for some reason when I get behind the wheel of a car that tendency is raised to the level of a Quentin Tarantino movie.
Anyway, this guy pulls out in front of me and I shake my fist and yell, "Screw you, buddy!" (Which I thought was pretty tame considering I had a random five-year-old with me.)
So the random five-year-old sits there a second and says, "That guy was a jerk. You SHOULD screw him!"
All right. Thanks for your patience, my friends.
More later...
Long time no blog!!
For those of you who didn't know, I've had some pretty serious personal issues come up over the past couple of months that have made it difficult for me to blog.
To say the least. Ahem.
But I'm back and I have a pretty interesting dead guy story for you all that I plan on punching out this evening while I'm on a plane.
Just as a side note...I was riding in a car with some random five-year-old when a guy pulled out in front of me. Now, believe it or not, I've been known to swear like a sailor in the past and for some reason when I get behind the wheel of a car that tendency is raised to the level of a Quentin Tarantino movie.
Anyway, this guy pulls out in front of me and I shake my fist and yell, "Screw you, buddy!" (Which I thought was pretty tame considering I had a random five-year-old with me.)
So the random five-year-old sits there a second and says, "That guy was a jerk. You SHOULD screw him!"
All right. Thanks for your patience, my friends.
More later...
Monday, February 20, 2006
2/20/06
12:21 p.m.
Hey there, bloglit! Just a quick note to let you know I'm still alive. I know I've been neglecting you. I just sent LHM back home to Cali. He's jsut a really big distraction.
Ahem.
Anyway, I'm on call at the ME's office every night this week, so I should have some pretty good stories for you.
One funny thing:
I sent Pippie up to do an interview on Monday and she ended up getting caught in a blizzard. She was on the freeway and traffic was at a stand-still for hours. I got a call from her at about noon informing me she wasn't there yet and she had to pee really bad.
"Do you have a bucket?"
"No."
"Sheesh, girl! Have I taught you nothing? What about a Burger King cup or something?"
"Hey! I DO have a Burger King cup!" She said excitedly.
"Just be careful not to spill. Trust me on this."
I hung up the phone feeling a little jealous that I wasn't stuck in a blizzard peeing in a cup among voyeuristic truckers.
I'm weird that way.
Hey there, bloglit! Just a quick note to let you know I'm still alive. I know I've been neglecting you. I just sent LHM back home to Cali. He's jsut a really big distraction.
Ahem.
Anyway, I'm on call at the ME's office every night this week, so I should have some pretty good stories for you.
One funny thing:
I sent Pippie up to do an interview on Monday and she ended up getting caught in a blizzard. She was on the freeway and traffic was at a stand-still for hours. I got a call from her at about noon informing me she wasn't there yet and she had to pee really bad.
"Do you have a bucket?"
"No."
"Sheesh, girl! Have I taught you nothing? What about a Burger King cup or something?"
"Hey! I DO have a Burger King cup!" She said excitedly.
"Just be careful not to spill. Trust me on this."
I hung up the phone feeling a little jealous that I wasn't stuck in a blizzard peeing in a cup among voyeuristic truckers.
I'm weird that way.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
2/15/06
9:28 a.m.
This morning I got a call from Pippie. As I'd mentioned before, she's working cases for me on occasion as well as being a coworker at the MEO. She's currently on a surveillance north of here and was checking in.
"So, Polly, I found your blog this morning."
Silence. Oh, fudge.
"That picture of you is hot."
More silence. "I...how did you find my blog?"
"Well, hell, girl. I'm a detective!"
Damn. That's true, you are. "Um...you understand... Please don't tell anybody at the office!"
"Aw, don't worry about it. Your secret's safe with me...for now. But you better go in quick and change all the mean things you said about me or I might change my mind."
"I never said anything mean about you! I just talked about when you stuck the giant Hershey's Kiss in your sweater and pretended it was an accessory nipple."
"Huh. You realize that you're mine, now. I own you. Which reminds me...there's this really nice watch I found at the Outlet Mall the other day. It would be a great gift for Pippie Day."
"You're birthday is coming up?"
"No. Pippie Day."
"Oh."
So, bloglit. I am now Pippie's slave...cabana boy...French maid...
I'm sure she won't take advantage.
This morning I got a call from Pippie. As I'd mentioned before, she's working cases for me on occasion as well as being a coworker at the MEO. She's currently on a surveillance north of here and was checking in.
"So, Polly, I found your blog this morning."
Silence. Oh, fudge.
"That picture of you is hot."
More silence. "I...how did you find my blog?"
"Well, hell, girl. I'm a detective!"
Damn. That's true, you are. "Um...you understand... Please don't tell anybody at the office!"
"Aw, don't worry about it. Your secret's safe with me...for now. But you better go in quick and change all the mean things you said about me or I might change my mind."
"I never said anything mean about you! I just talked about when you stuck the giant Hershey's Kiss in your sweater and pretended it was an accessory nipple."
"Huh. You realize that you're mine, now. I own you. Which reminds me...there's this really nice watch I found at the Outlet Mall the other day. It would be a great gift for Pippie Day."
"You're birthday is coming up?"
"No. Pippie Day."
"Oh."
So, bloglit. I am now Pippie's slave...cabana boy...French maid...
I'm sure she won't take advantage.
Monday, February 06, 2006
TESTING...
Hi, Bloglit.
I've been informed by many sources that y'all haven't been able to post comments since Friday. (And here I thought you didn't love me anymore.) I lost a couple of entries I tried to post in that time, too.
So, this morning I smacked the side of the monitor a few times and I'm hoping the problem is fixed. Please comment if you can. If not, email me and I'll try yelling expletives at the rotten thing. I'm sure that will work.
Polly
I've been informed by many sources that y'all haven't been able to post comments since Friday. (And here I thought you didn't love me anymore.) I lost a couple of entries I tried to post in that time, too.
So, this morning I smacked the side of the monitor a few times and I'm hoping the problem is fixed. Please comment if you can. If not, email me and I'll try yelling expletives at the rotten thing. I'm sure that will work.
Polly
Sunday, January 22, 2006
1/23/06
11:23 p.m.
Well, I'm packing again. I don't know why I bother UNpacking, really...I travel so much. I am heading out to California tomorrow on yet another visit to see LHM. I am especially looking forward to this visit because his parents will be there.
Apparently, LHM's mother has been reading my blog for some time now. And despite the frequent cussing, general irreverence, and the occasional photograph of myself dressed like a dominatrix or a high priced whore (Vegas), she still wants to meet me! How about that?!
I told my father and the first thing he said was, "Uh-oh. Well, maybe they'll like you anyway." Hehe. When I told my mother her immediate reaction was, "Oh, Polly. You've got to stop swearing so much on that blog! I thought you made a New Year's resolution?"
"Yeah, Mom," I answer. "I made a New Year's resolution that everytime I swore I would give a quarter to the Salvation Army...to be collected next Christmas."
"So... How are you doing?"
"Well," I say, "so far I owe them a full car payment and part of a month's worth of groceries. I feel good about it, though, Mom. This way I get to swear and some kid gets shoes and a warm meal. I mean, if I stop swearing now, it's like I'm taking the food right out of that kid's mouth! Really...what kind of cold-hearted jerk would I be? See! Right there! I could have called myself an 'ass' instead of a 'jerk' and that kid might be able to afford those braces he's always wanted. I feel so guilty..."
Well, I'm packing again. I don't know why I bother UNpacking, really...I travel so much. I am heading out to California tomorrow on yet another visit to see LHM. I am especially looking forward to this visit because his parents will be there.
Apparently, LHM's mother has been reading my blog for some time now. And despite the frequent cussing, general irreverence, and the occasional photograph of myself dressed like a dominatrix or a high priced whore (Vegas), she still wants to meet me! How about that?!
I told my father and the first thing he said was, "Uh-oh. Well, maybe they'll like you anyway." Hehe. When I told my mother her immediate reaction was, "Oh, Polly. You've got to stop swearing so much on that blog! I thought you made a New Year's resolution?"
"Yeah, Mom," I answer. "I made a New Year's resolution that everytime I swore I would give a quarter to the Salvation Army...to be collected next Christmas."
"So... How are you doing?"
"Well," I say, "so far I owe them a full car payment and part of a month's worth of groceries. I feel good about it, though, Mom. This way I get to swear and some kid gets shoes and a warm meal. I mean, if I stop swearing now, it's like I'm taking the food right out of that kid's mouth! Really...what kind of cold-hearted jerk would I be? See! Right there! I could have called myself an 'ass' instead of a 'jerk' and that kid might be able to afford those braces he's always wanted. I feel so guilty..."
Saturday, January 21, 2006
1/21/06
11:41 a.m.
Dearest Bloglit,
From this point forward, I am going to start moderating comments on my blog. This means that your comments may not show up immediately after you post them because I will have to review and approve their content before allowing them for public viewing.
Please don't let that discourage you from posting, my friends. I love to hear from all of you and would be very sad not to get your feedback.
I only take this course of action because there have been a few harassing, threatening comments of late that have served no purpose other than to piss me off. So for those choosing to make such comments, I have a brief message that I think makes my point quite well...
YOU SUCK! And you will NOT have a voice on my blog. Why? Because my blog is not a democracy.
Have a nice day!
Polly PI...princess of the blog.
Dearest Bloglit,
From this point forward, I am going to start moderating comments on my blog. This means that your comments may not show up immediately after you post them because I will have to review and approve their content before allowing them for public viewing.
Please don't let that discourage you from posting, my friends. I love to hear from all of you and would be very sad not to get your feedback.
I only take this course of action because there have been a few harassing, threatening comments of late that have served no purpose other than to piss me off. So for those choosing to make such comments, I have a brief message that I think makes my point quite well...
YOU SUCK! And you will NOT have a voice on my blog. Why? Because my blog is not a democracy.
Have a nice day!
Polly PI...princess of the blog.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
1/19/06a
10:01 a.m.
SUPPLEMENT UPDATE
I have added a few more pills to my daily supplement regimen. (Not that 13 wasn't enough already)
In addition to the:
Alpha lipoic Acid
CLA
Fish Oil
Potassium
5-HTP
Multi-vitamin/mineral
CoQ10
Lycopene
Green tea extract
Grape seed extract
Ester C
And Calcium
I have now added:
Chromium
B-12
Vitamin D
and Acetyl L-Carnitine
I need all of these supplements because I can no longer afford to buy food.
SUPPLEMENT UPDATE
I have added a few more pills to my daily supplement regimen. (Not that 13 wasn't enough already)
In addition to the:
Alpha lipoic Acid
CLA
Fish Oil
Potassium
5-HTP
Multi-vitamin/mineral
CoQ10
Lycopene
Green tea extract
Grape seed extract
Ester C
And Calcium
I have now added:
Chromium
B-12
Vitamin D
and Acetyl L-Carnitine
I need all of these supplements because I can no longer afford to buy food.
1/19/06
8:17 a.m.
I wake up when my alarm goes off at 6am this morning. I kick my feet over the edge of the bed and step down on something strange that is definitely not the floor. I look down. My dumbbells. What are they doing out here? Was I exercising in my sleep? "Hmph." I kick them back under the bed where they belong. Along with an old banana peel and an empty cake box.
I throw on my robe and slippers and shuffle out toward the kitchen, passing by Baby Jesus and his pals in the nativity scene that I still haven't put away since Christmas. I wave.
I glance over at the Christmas tree...needles scattered in a pretty round carpet around the base. I consider (briefly) getting my act together and throwing it away before I start a fire from the friction of my shuffling slippers one morning. Instead, I yawn and turn away. I do not see the Christmas decorations. Reality is what I make of it. Mind over matter.
I wake up when my alarm goes off at 6am this morning. I kick my feet over the edge of the bed and step down on something strange that is definitely not the floor. I look down. My dumbbells. What are they doing out here? Was I exercising in my sleep? "Hmph." I kick them back under the bed where they belong. Along with an old banana peel and an empty cake box.
I throw on my robe and slippers and shuffle out toward the kitchen, passing by Baby Jesus and his pals in the nativity scene that I still haven't put away since Christmas. I wave.
I glance over at the Christmas tree...needles scattered in a pretty round carpet around the base. I consider (briefly) getting my act together and throwing it away before I start a fire from the friction of my shuffling slippers one morning. Instead, I yawn and turn away. I do not see the Christmas decorations. Reality is what I make of it. Mind over matter.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
HATE MAIL #2
This one is from Ms. Muffett. She started as a supervisor when I did and met me at the training in Boston. Ms. Muffett was demoted back to a regular investigator a few months later. Recently, she ran a case for me (for one of my supervisors, JD) down in Florida. As you'll note in the following transcript from her report, she was picked up by the Subject and for some mysterious reason, continued on her surveillance. Again, stuff in brackets is what I'm thinking.
Enjoy.
______________________
AT 1:00 p.m.; Investigator notes that Krenshaw County Police came out. Someone in the complex had called and reported a suspicious vehicle in the complex. The officer then went to Subject’s apartment and spoke with Subject. [YOU JUST GOT PICKED UP!!]
AT 1:40 p.m.; Investigator observed Subject getting into his vehicle and leaving the complex. Investigator initiated mobile surveillance. [WHAT THE HELL? DIDN'T YOU USED TO BE A SUPERVISOR? WHY ARE YOU STILL THERE?!]
______________________
JD,
It appears that Ms. Muffett was picked up by the Subject...that the Subject was the one that called the cops on her. If that is the case then she should have bagged out immediately and called the office. Please call me.
__________________________
To make a long story short, I made Ms. Muffett close out the case effective immediately. She was not happy about this. JD was asked by Ms. Muffett to forward the below message to me. JD felt very uncomfortable because he thought it would hurt my feelings.
RE: 687654B, Concha, GG................I do not feel that I was picked up by the Subject on this case yesterday. I feel that your Regional Supervisor made an incorrect decision on this case by not having me go back today. I was a Supervisor for a long time, and have enough sense to make a decision as to whether my cover was blown or not. [THERE IS A REASON YOU WERE DEMOTED, HONEY.] In my opinion, your Regional Supervisor made a very bad decision. Had I thought otherwise, I would have called the office immediately!!!!! I resent your Regional Supervisor implying that I did not know how to make the correct decision. Please pass this along to her as "I WANT HER TO READ THIS". She became a Supervisor about the same time that I did, and I don't feel that she has anymore experience in this field than do I.
_________________________
Hi, JD.
How does it feel to be the messenger boy? Could you please pass the below paragraph on to your investigator? And don't worry...it takes a lot more than that to ruffle my feathers. I understand that she's upset and I don't mind being the target. That's what I get paid the big bucks for. ;-)
In this line of work we are constantly making judgement calls. It's part of the job. But as an investigator, Ms. Muffett is not authorized to make the decision whether to stay on cases when there is even a small possibility of compromise. That burden goes to the Regional Supervisor and the Office Case Manager. In this case, a police officer approached her vehicle. He told her that somebody had called him about a stranger in the area. Then he immediately went to Subject's residence to speak with him. I don't think it's too far of a stretch to say that the Subject probably made the phone call and so was aware of the investigator's presence. At that point, Ms. Muffett should have departed the area and called the office, per company policy.
__________________________
Nicely said!!!
Now go kick the garbage can....and have a good night....I'll talk to ya in the morning sometime....I promise not to call early unless the sky falls in......all's quiet here. I think everybody's gone to bed.
JD
Enjoy.
______________________
AT 1:00 p.m.; Investigator notes that Krenshaw County Police came out. Someone in the complex had called and reported a suspicious vehicle in the complex. The officer then went to Subject’s apartment and spoke with Subject. [YOU JUST GOT PICKED UP!!]
AT 1:40 p.m.; Investigator observed Subject getting into his vehicle and leaving the complex. Investigator initiated mobile surveillance. [WHAT THE HELL? DIDN'T YOU USED TO BE A SUPERVISOR? WHY ARE YOU STILL THERE?!]
______________________
JD,
It appears that Ms. Muffett was picked up by the Subject...that the Subject was the one that called the cops on her. If that is the case then she should have bagged out immediately and called the office. Please call me.
__________________________
To make a long story short, I made Ms. Muffett close out the case effective immediately. She was not happy about this. JD was asked by Ms. Muffett to forward the below message to me. JD felt very uncomfortable because he thought it would hurt my feelings.
RE: 687654B, Concha, GG................I do not feel that I was picked up by the Subject on this case yesterday. I feel that your Regional Supervisor made an incorrect decision on this case by not having me go back today. I was a Supervisor for a long time, and have enough sense to make a decision as to whether my cover was blown or not. [THERE IS A REASON YOU WERE DEMOTED, HONEY.] In my opinion, your Regional Supervisor made a very bad decision. Had I thought otherwise, I would have called the office immediately!!!!! I resent your Regional Supervisor implying that I did not know how to make the correct decision. Please pass this along to her as "I WANT HER TO READ THIS". She became a Supervisor about the same time that I did, and I don't feel that she has anymore experience in this field than do I.
_________________________
Hi, JD.
How does it feel to be the messenger boy? Could you please pass the below paragraph on to your investigator? And don't worry...it takes a lot more than that to ruffle my feathers. I understand that she's upset and I don't mind being the target. That's what I get paid the big bucks for. ;-)
In this line of work we are constantly making judgement calls. It's part of the job. But as an investigator, Ms. Muffett is not authorized to make the decision whether to stay on cases when there is even a small possibility of compromise. That burden goes to the Regional Supervisor and the Office Case Manager. In this case, a police officer approached her vehicle. He told her that somebody had called him about a stranger in the area. Then he immediately went to Subject's residence to speak with him. I don't think it's too far of a stretch to say that the Subject probably made the phone call and so was aware of the investigator's presence. At that point, Ms. Muffett should have departed the area and called the office, per company policy.
__________________________
Nicely said!!!
Now go kick the garbage can....and have a good night....I'll talk to ya in the morning sometime....I promise not to call early unless the sky falls in......all's quiet here. I think everybody's gone to bed.
JD
HATE MAIL #1
Good morning, bloglit!
I thought it would be fun to go over a couple of pieces of hate mail I've gotten from investigators recently. This first one is from Butch. He's been with the company for about a month. Butch ran a three day case and I had to send each of his reports back to him 4 or 5 times. This was beginning to get on my nerves a bit, so I sent him the below email. Little did I know he was such a sensitive man. (Please note that the comments in brackets reflect what I was thinking, not what I wrote.)
Enjoy.
__________________________
Butch,
I need you to fix the neighborhood canvass. Again, I need a separate entry for each person that you approached. I need a description of the person, the residence, and what you asked them as well as their response. Please get this back to me before noon. [YOU WON'T] I should not have to ask you so many times. All you need to do is read the emails I send you and follow the instruction I give. [A MONKEY COULD DO THAT.]
Also, I think that you should reword the following report entry. It may be construed wrong.
"At 8:14 a.m., Investigator returns to residence and notes that Subject has a community driveway and the green Dodge Truck was most likely from the neighbors behind."
[THAT'S GOTTA HURT.]
___________________________
Butch,
And again, I need you to include both the report AND the expense sheet in the email. [YOU WON'T.]
___________________________
Polly,
I am learning, I can't read a manual and magically know how to write a perfect report. I think that it's pretty ridicoulous to expect a person to know how to do everything prefect.
Had I known that addresses and descriptions were necessary when no answers were forthcoming, I would have gotten them. [YES, IF ONLY I'D TOLD YOU 3 or 4 TIMES... OH, WAIT! I DID!]
I would understand you criticism if I had been doing this for a while and was consistently not getting things right. [IT'S BEEN A MONTH.] But frankly if this is the way I'm going to be treated I don't think I need to continue. [TIME TO REQUEST A NEW INVESTIGATOR IN COLORADO.]
I am very frustrated with being maligned. [BABY.] You may get new investigators that know everything when they first start but I'm not one of them. Your criticizing me for not knowing something I have never learned is a bit much.
What's frustrating is that I just started to feel like I was getting some of these things down, starting to get the feel of how to do things the best way, and then I get the email from you saying I basically suck.
[I MAY HAVE THOUGHT IT BUT I NEVER SAID IT.]
I thought it would be fun to go over a couple of pieces of hate mail I've gotten from investigators recently. This first one is from Butch. He's been with the company for about a month. Butch ran a three day case and I had to send each of his reports back to him 4 or 5 times. This was beginning to get on my nerves a bit, so I sent him the below email. Little did I know he was such a sensitive man. (Please note that the comments in brackets reflect what I was thinking, not what I wrote.)
Enjoy.
__________________________
Butch,
I need you to fix the neighborhood canvass. Again, I need a separate entry for each person that you approached. I need a description of the person, the residence, and what you asked them as well as their response. Please get this back to me before noon. [YOU WON'T] I should not have to ask you so many times. All you need to do is read the emails I send you and follow the instruction I give. [A MONKEY COULD DO THAT.]
Also, I think that you should reword the following report entry. It may be construed wrong.
"At 8:14 a.m., Investigator returns to residence and notes that Subject has a community driveway and the green Dodge Truck was most likely from the neighbors behind."
[THAT'S GOTTA HURT.]
___________________________
Butch,
And again, I need you to include both the report AND the expense sheet in the email. [YOU WON'T.]
___________________________
Polly,
I am learning, I can't read a manual and magically know how to write a perfect report. I think that it's pretty ridicoulous to expect a person to know how to do everything prefect.
Had I known that addresses and descriptions were necessary when no answers were forthcoming, I would have gotten them. [YES, IF ONLY I'D TOLD YOU 3 or 4 TIMES... OH, WAIT! I DID!]
I would understand you criticism if I had been doing this for a while and was consistently not getting things right. [IT'S BEEN A MONTH.] But frankly if this is the way I'm going to be treated I don't think I need to continue. [TIME TO REQUEST A NEW INVESTIGATOR IN COLORADO.]
I am very frustrated with being maligned. [BABY.] You may get new investigators that know everything when they first start but I'm not one of them. Your criticizing me for not knowing something I have never learned is a bit much.
What's frustrating is that I just started to feel like I was getting some of these things down, starting to get the feel of how to do things the best way, and then I get the email from you saying I basically suck.
[I MAY HAVE THOUGHT IT BUT I NEVER SAID IT.]
Friday, January 13, 2006
1/13/06
7:17 a.m.
"You should see this!" I say into the reciever. "There's a t-shirt for sale here that says, 'Tell Your Boobs To Stop Staring At My Eyes'." I giggle.
"Why would anybody buy a shirt like that?" LHM asks in disgust. "How tacky."
"Yeah!" I say, "What kind of a person, indeed!" I place the t-shirt on the checkout counter and wink at the cashier. (Sorry, Dad. If you're reading this then Father's Day won't be much of a surprise this year.)
I gather my purchases and head back to my room to go over reports for the night. I am especially anxious to read Fish's. He called me on the radio early this afternoon all in a tissy. "Polly! This Subject I'm following... His car is on fire! He's speeding down the road toward his house! I'll call you back!"
Well, there's something you don't see everyday.
A half hour later Fish radios me again. "Man, I've been doing this for 11 years and I've never seen anything like that before. It's almost as good as when the old homeless guy threw poo at my car." I consider asking him about the homeless poo experience, but think better of it.
"Anyway, the guy rushed home, ran at top speed into the house, and came back with a bucket of water. His limp miraculously disappeared, too, by the way."
Now, what are the chances of that? Of all the days that the guy would be under surveillance, it would be the day that he was required to test his supposed disability under extreme circumstances. Karma? I'd like to think so.
Anyway, I'm set up on a rural road here in Almost Canada. It's nearly 8am and still dark. The area is flat and barren with a few pine trees dotting the landscape. This is crazy. Why would anybody live out here voluntarily?
And I have no place to hide. There are no trees tall enough and thick enough to provide significant cover on the tundra.
I suppose I could dress up like a moose. Blend in. Go casually graze on the bushes under the Subject's bedroom window...
"You should see this!" I say into the reciever. "There's a t-shirt for sale here that says, 'Tell Your Boobs To Stop Staring At My Eyes'." I giggle.
"Why would anybody buy a shirt like that?" LHM asks in disgust. "How tacky."
"Yeah!" I say, "What kind of a person, indeed!" I place the t-shirt on the checkout counter and wink at the cashier. (Sorry, Dad. If you're reading this then Father's Day won't be much of a surprise this year.)
I gather my purchases and head back to my room to go over reports for the night. I am especially anxious to read Fish's. He called me on the radio early this afternoon all in a tissy. "Polly! This Subject I'm following... His car is on fire! He's speeding down the road toward his house! I'll call you back!"
Well, there's something you don't see everyday.
A half hour later Fish radios me again. "Man, I've been doing this for 11 years and I've never seen anything like that before. It's almost as good as when the old homeless guy threw poo at my car." I consider asking him about the homeless poo experience, but think better of it.
"Anyway, the guy rushed home, ran at top speed into the house, and came back with a bucket of water. His limp miraculously disappeared, too, by the way."
Now, what are the chances of that? Of all the days that the guy would be under surveillance, it would be the day that he was required to test his supposed disability under extreme circumstances. Karma? I'd like to think so.
Anyway, I'm set up on a rural road here in Almost Canada. It's nearly 8am and still dark. The area is flat and barren with a few pine trees dotting the landscape. This is crazy. Why would anybody live out here voluntarily?
And I have no place to hide. There are no trees tall enough and thick enough to provide significant cover on the tundra.
I suppose I could dress up like a moose. Blend in. Go casually graze on the bushes under the Subject's bedroom window...
I FORGOT TO PACK MY MUKLUKS
It's 7am. Still pitch dark outside. The moose (meese? mooses?) are looking at me funny.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Stuck in Chicago traffic
It's times like these when I wish I'd gone for that on-board rocket launcher option.
1/12/06
1:17 a.m.
Tomorrow morning I leave for a glorious adventure in northern Michigan! In the middle of January!
Hooray!
What? Don't look at me like that. I've been itching for a road trip for ages. Too many months cooped up in front of my PC.
I've got my digital camera, my guitar in the trunk, my bucket, and my laptop revved up and ready to go.
It's going to be a long drive and I'll be sure to take lots of pics and blog along the way. Right now I'm going to download some music for the road.
I bet those people at the BP station missed me...
Tomorrow morning I leave for a glorious adventure in northern Michigan! In the middle of January!
Hooray!
What? Don't look at me like that. I've been itching for a road trip for ages. Too many months cooped up in front of my PC.
I've got my digital camera, my guitar in the trunk, my bucket, and my laptop revved up and ready to go.
It's going to be a long drive and I'll be sure to take lots of pics and blog along the way. Right now I'm going to download some music for the road.
I bet those people at the BP station missed me...
Monday, January 09, 2006
01/09/06
8:18 a.m.
After I get home from releasing the suicide, I tackle some PI work that has started to pile up when I was gone. Several hours of travel requests, investigator phone calls, and case reviews later, I'm eating my cat curry when my beeper goes off again. I look at the display. It says: "Please call Droi..." That's it.
Errg. I hate it when they try to text messages to me. They never come through all the way. I've told them 400 times to just send the phone number and I'll call them back. I call dispatch.
"Dispatch, Rollins."
"Yes, this is Polly from the ME's office. Did you guys paged me? I couldn't tell because the text didn't come thr..." She cuts me off.
"Oh. Yeah. Hold on."
Several cuss words and a short conversation with the supervisor later, I am calling the emergency room at one of the local hospitals. The ER nurse tells me she's got a 65-year-old male who collapsed after going for a jog this afternoon. The nurse said the decedent was in the garage and fell on the corner of a set of concrete stairs. The fall was not witnessed. "Polly, I've never seen a face split open like this. It looks like somebody took an axe to this guy's face... Right down the midline. I can't imagine anybody sustaining an injury like this from a simple fall."
Oh, great. Now I have images of the wife taking a frying pan to his face. But I'll come back to that later. First thing's first.
"Does he have a medical history?"
"Not recent. The last time he saw his doctor was 2 years ago. He was diagnosed with hypertension, but he refused to take medication for it. I already talked to Doctor Morris and he refuses to sign the death certificate."
I sigh. Doesn't look like I'm getting out of bringing this one in. Besides, I want to check out that facial laceration. It's got my spidey sense tingling.
"Is the family still there?"
"Yes. The wife is here and a son."
"Okay. Please ask them to stay. I want to question the wife. Oh...and how big is this guy?"
"Big. Maybe 6'5" and 375 lbs."
Ooftah.
I pick up the van at the ME's office and drive around to the back of the hospital...where the morgue is located. I am concerned enough about the facial injuries that I shove several paper sacks in my satchel...just in case I'm suspicious enough of foul play that I need to bag the hands for trace. I hop out of the truck and two security guards are waiting for me in black dress pants and red blazers with gold embroidered lettering on the breast pocket. I love this hospital that way. They are so accommodating. I feel like the bellhop just met me at the door of a fancy hotel. One of them takes the cot to the morgue while the other escorts me to the ER.
There are several nurses and doctors gathered around the nurses station when I get there. They are listening intently to a cop who is telling them a story in hushed tones. I wait for a moment, but when it becomes clear that nobody is going to help me, I walk closer to get the nearest nurse's attention. The cop who is talking looks at me just then and stops his story. He gives me a big smile. "Polly! I haven't seen you since we moved that decomp the other day!" It's Officer Wink. I greet him and we chat for a few minutes while the nurses and doctors dispurse... Story time is over, I guess.
One of Wink's partners comes over and chats with us. After the introductions he says, "Yeah. Wink told me how you caught him trying to take a picture of your butt at that decomp scene." They giggle like a couple of 12-year-olds. I roll my eyes. Cops. We are interrupted by Charles, the nurse assigned to my Dead Guy's case. He tells me that the body is in Room 5 and the family has all had a chance to see him.
I ask Charles to take me to the body first. I want to examine that wound before talking to the wife.
I walk into the room. Dead Guy is covered in a sheet from head to toe. A small wooden cross has been laid on his chest. The chaplain must have been here. I glove up, remove the cross, and pull back the sheet. Oh, for crying out loud. The way that nurse was talking, I was expecting the man's face to have been practically cloven in two. This is a nasty laceration, but it certainly is within the realm of possiblity if he hit a concrete stair at just the right angle. I can feel myself relax. No spousal homicide today. That's good.
More later...
After I get home from releasing the suicide, I tackle some PI work that has started to pile up when I was gone. Several hours of travel requests, investigator phone calls, and case reviews later, I'm eating my cat curry when my beeper goes off again. I look at the display. It says: "Please call Droi..." That's it.
Errg. I hate it when they try to text messages to me. They never come through all the way. I've told them 400 times to just send the phone number and I'll call them back. I call dispatch.
"Dispatch, Rollins."
"Yes, this is Polly from the ME's office. Did you guys paged me? I couldn't tell because the text didn't come thr..." She cuts me off.
"Oh. Yeah. Hold on."
Several cuss words and a short conversation with the supervisor later, I am calling the emergency room at one of the local hospitals. The ER nurse tells me she's got a 65-year-old male who collapsed after going for a jog this afternoon. The nurse said the decedent was in the garage and fell on the corner of a set of concrete stairs. The fall was not witnessed. "Polly, I've never seen a face split open like this. It looks like somebody took an axe to this guy's face... Right down the midline. I can't imagine anybody sustaining an injury like this from a simple fall."
Oh, great. Now I have images of the wife taking a frying pan to his face. But I'll come back to that later. First thing's first.
"Does he have a medical history?"
"Not recent. The last time he saw his doctor was 2 years ago. He was diagnosed with hypertension, but he refused to take medication for it. I already talked to Doctor Morris and he refuses to sign the death certificate."
I sigh. Doesn't look like I'm getting out of bringing this one in. Besides, I want to check out that facial laceration. It's got my spidey sense tingling.
"Is the family still there?"
"Yes. The wife is here and a son."
"Okay. Please ask them to stay. I want to question the wife. Oh...and how big is this guy?"
"Big. Maybe 6'5" and 375 lbs."
Ooftah.
I pick up the van at the ME's office and drive around to the back of the hospital...where the morgue is located. I am concerned enough about the facial injuries that I shove several paper sacks in my satchel...just in case I'm suspicious enough of foul play that I need to bag the hands for trace. I hop out of the truck and two security guards are waiting for me in black dress pants and red blazers with gold embroidered lettering on the breast pocket. I love this hospital that way. They are so accommodating. I feel like the bellhop just met me at the door of a fancy hotel. One of them takes the cot to the morgue while the other escorts me to the ER.
There are several nurses and doctors gathered around the nurses station when I get there. They are listening intently to a cop who is telling them a story in hushed tones. I wait for a moment, but when it becomes clear that nobody is going to help me, I walk closer to get the nearest nurse's attention. The cop who is talking looks at me just then and stops his story. He gives me a big smile. "Polly! I haven't seen you since we moved that decomp the other day!" It's Officer Wink. I greet him and we chat for a few minutes while the nurses and doctors dispurse... Story time is over, I guess.
One of Wink's partners comes over and chats with us. After the introductions he says, "Yeah. Wink told me how you caught him trying to take a picture of your butt at that decomp scene." They giggle like a couple of 12-year-olds. I roll my eyes. Cops. We are interrupted by Charles, the nurse assigned to my Dead Guy's case. He tells me that the body is in Room 5 and the family has all had a chance to see him.
I ask Charles to take me to the body first. I want to examine that wound before talking to the wife.
I walk into the room. Dead Guy is covered in a sheet from head to toe. A small wooden cross has been laid on his chest. The chaplain must have been here. I glove up, remove the cross, and pull back the sheet. Oh, for crying out loud. The way that nurse was talking, I was expecting the man's face to have been practically cloven in two. This is a nasty laceration, but it certainly is within the realm of possiblity if he hit a concrete stair at just the right angle. I can feel myself relax. No spousal homicide today. That's good.
More later...
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