One strange thing about crime scenes is the immediate response of the passersby. On Madison Avenue, thousands of shoppers, tourists, workers, revelers and, of course, media are immediately on hand, hovering about the perimeter and practicing some form of rubbernecking. Every person who seems to belong -- mostly the cops and, to a lesser extent, the reporters -- is ceaselessly inundated with the question: "What happened?"
After they hear the answer, whether it's the short version ("There's been an incident," or "There was a shooting") or the long version ("A crazy man killed his ex-wife and shot her fiancee in front of hundreds of people."), the reactions are predictable and fairly annoying. The most sensible people say, "Oh, that's terrible," and drop it there. The somewhat too-nosy people say, "Oh, that's terrible. How did it happen? Why did he do it?" The sidewalk fatalists say, "Oh, that's terrible. This world is so crazy. Isn't anything sacred." The sidewalk moralists say, "Oh that's terrible. If only people would take the time out to work out their problems rather than resorting to violence. What a waste." The truly clueless say, "A shooting? Like a movie? What movie? Is there anyone famous in it?" (I personally fielded this one three or four times). And the truly idiotic say, "Wow, a shooting! Loraine, come over here! Did you hear? There was a shooting! Isn't that just so CSI! Was there a lot of blood and guts, officer?"
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Crime-Scene Log
I've seen more dead bodies lately on the job than I care to, but I have learned much about how my squeamishness works in the process.
Not all dead bodies are alike.
Worse than grisly, I think, is the unexpected dead body. I came upon a suicide jumper late at night during one shift. There was no one around and I believed that the body had already been removed. I was taken aback by the sight of the corpse and was distracted from my work for the rest of the night. It was something about how unnatural the man looked -- the position of his body, the lack of motion. He was a young man, cleanly dressed with a tucked-in collared shirt and khaki pants that had stayed pristinely in place during his fall. His stillness and apparent peace seemed to betray the inevitable vision of extreme violence that came directly before.
More dramatic but less disturbing were the bodies of gun-shot victims laying in a big, messy crime scene on Madison Avenue. The bodies laying there, covered or uncovered, are part of the
surreal landscape that is a crime scene and their gore hits you like a cliche. They're laying there in pools of blood and are horribly disfigured by their wounds, but of course they are! That's what happens in a murder. I think that process of immediate acceptance and distance is the only way one can sanely approach this kind of carnage. Doctors and nurses must have a very well-developed means of externalization.
All the same, it was still a bit shocking to focus in on the bodies and try to connect them with actual, living people. What is eerie to imagine is that the distance between the two states -- alive and morbidly dead -- is but a split second. It's an inexplicable moment we can't comprehend or perhaps even process existentially, so we just accept it after the fact.
Not all dead bodies are alike.
Worse than grisly, I think, is the unexpected dead body. I came upon a suicide jumper late at night during one shift. There was no one around and I believed that the body had already been removed. I was taken aback by the sight of the corpse and was distracted from my work for the rest of the night. It was something about how unnatural the man looked -- the position of his body, the lack of motion. He was a young man, cleanly dressed with a tucked-in collared shirt and khaki pants that had stayed pristinely in place during his fall. His stillness and apparent peace seemed to betray the inevitable vision of extreme violence that came directly before.
More dramatic but less disturbing were the bodies of gun-shot victims laying in a big, messy crime scene on Madison Avenue. The bodies laying there, covered or uncovered, are part of the
surreal landscape that is a crime scene and their gore hits you like a cliche. They're laying there in pools of blood and are horribly disfigured by their wounds, but of course they are! That's what happens in a murder. I think that process of immediate acceptance and distance is the only way one can sanely approach this kind of carnage. Doctors and nurses must have a very well-developed means of externalization.
All the same, it was still a bit shocking to focus in on the bodies and try to connect them with actual, living people. What is eerie to imagine is that the distance between the two states -- alive and morbidly dead -- is but a split second. It's an inexplicable moment we can't comprehend or perhaps even process existentially, so we just accept it after the fact.
Subway Log
Each train and station has its own regular characters -- panhandlers, performers, low-level merchants -- some depressing, some impressive. The F-train has a few memorable ones, including:
Duracel Man: A beat-down looking 30-ish black man with a clear, slow, emotionless, unfluctuating and slightly comical voice. He enters the train and slowly walks the aisle, reciting: "Good afternoon. I am a businessman. Businessman, businessman. I am selling Duracel alkaline batteries. $1 a pack. I have double-A and triple-A. Businessman, businessman, businessman." I've never once seen anyone buying from him.
Tracy Chapman Man: He's a tiny -- maybe 5-foot and skinny -- black man with thin dreads and raggedy clothes. He looks maybe 40 or 50 and has a gruff, smoke-damaged but effective voice which he uses for only two songs that I've ever observed: Tracy Chapman's "Sorry" and Bob Marley's "Redemption Song." He sings while playing guitar, with an amp on his back attached to a hand-less microphone placed too close to his mouth. The music is not bad -- pretty passionate and too-the-point stuff, particularly his version of "Sorry," but it's just a little too well amplified. Before and after songs, you can always hear him heavily breathing and gasping into the mic. He was once a fixture on the train but, lately, he's been regrettably MIA.
Duracel Man: A beat-down looking 30-ish black man with a clear, slow, emotionless, unfluctuating and slightly comical voice. He enters the train and slowly walks the aisle, reciting: "Good afternoon. I am a businessman. Businessman, businessman. I am selling Duracel alkaline batteries. $1 a pack. I have double-A and triple-A. Businessman, businessman, businessman." I've never once seen anyone buying from him.
Tracy Chapman Man: He's a tiny -- maybe 5-foot and skinny -- black man with thin dreads and raggedy clothes. He looks maybe 40 or 50 and has a gruff, smoke-damaged but effective voice which he uses for only two songs that I've ever observed: Tracy Chapman's "Sorry" and Bob Marley's "Redemption Song." He sings while playing guitar, with an amp on his back attached to a hand-less microphone placed too close to his mouth. The music is not bad -- pretty passionate and too-the-point stuff, particularly his version of "Sorry," but it's just a little too well amplified. Before and after songs, you can always hear him heavily breathing and gasping into the mic. He was once a fixture on the train but, lately, he's been regrettably MIA.
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