I got the call from dispatch at 2.56 a.m. Another murder case in the Commons area, close to the state line.
As I lifted my eyelids from beneath the warm comfort of slumber, seeing those numbers on the clock kicked my mental health and stability straight to the curb. I had only gone to sleep two hours ago, damn it.
Every muscle screamed in protest as I pulled myself closer toward a sitting position. As I did, a groaned whimper left my mouth, and an unexpected burst of gas escaped from underneath my back side. None of these physical conditions were foreign to me. I was getting old.
I don’t suppose playing tackle football earlier in the day with my fellow dicks helped matters much. Overburdened by the effort, my head fell swiftly backward, pounding the pillow with brute force and intention. I allowed five more minutes for my eyes to stay closed. I needed to rest. My body and my psyche were now demanding it.
Five minutes later I was up and as mentally awake as I could be considering the time of morning, and my current withered state of exhaustion. No time for a shower. Dressed and out the door in ten and on scene in twenty-five.
Every other cop stood outside the front entrance of the residence, which reminded me of the Bates house overlooking the motel in the movie “Psycho.” Three stories of dark, dank misery stood before me, every bit symbolic of the freak-show horror movie house on the hill that watched over that motel.
Isn’t this something? My curiosity piqued when as I approached the fence my crew remained standing outside the scene .
“Rosenberg, why the hell are you out here? The scene usually calls for you be inside?” My emphasis prompted him to shuffle on his feet. But he didn’t move.
“Chief, the scene…” he paused for a second and continued. “The scene is feculent , sir.”
“What the hell is feculent, Sergeant?” suddenly feeling ignorantly stupid. “Don’t answer that. Get your fat ass over here, you’re with me.”
Smacked upside the olfactory ten feet from the door, I hesitated before going in. Today was going to suck. Entering the house of a hoarder was bad enough. Entering a hoarder’s domain where a body lay rotting, that’s another story entirely. The stench was thick and laid heavy nearer the floor.
As I lumbered one leg over a massive heap, my other leg quickly met another, and another. This scene, covered in feces and reeking of ammonia , scattered soiled laundry, half-empty food containers, trash, cat shit. Yeah, today was going to suck.
Inside, past the eight piles of shit between the door and the kitchen lay the body of Ms. Samantha Weathersby, my sixteen year old niece.
©2013 – Patricia C. ShoffnerThis work by Patricia C. Shoffner is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.virtuallyselfemployed.wordpress.com. and http://www.pcshoffner71.wordpress.com.