Crimes and How to Stop Them

That’s the thing about this city: turning the corner is forever a mystery. You never know if you’ll find scavenging raccoons, off-the-clock clowns, or a dead body. Unfortunately, I’ve seen all three.

    The Manhattan School of Arts has never been my dream. Unfortunately, when your father runs the school, it’s kind of hard not to get in. My grades have always been good though, and the private school and personal tutor didn’t hurt. Neither did any of the hundred lectures given to me, “Preston, you need to start taking this seriously. Your future is now, and you need to…” That was the point where I always zoned out. By the fifth one, I hadn’t even reminded him to call me Toney. Preston was about as pretentious of a name as I could have gotten.

    But back to the city. And the dead body I found.   

I like to keep up with the news. Crime statistics, the Most Wanted list, NCIS Miami. There’s something about it all that is weirdly fascinating, that makes me wonder if I would be a good cop. Or FBI. Preferably FBI. I was going through the details of the latest serial-killer-on-the-rise, The Alley Cat on my walk home from school that day. Supposedly, the cops around here had been looking for him forever, and even brought in the FBI. The coolest thing about it was his signature: in every alley where he had murdered someone, he left a black cat. For the past month, if you saw a black cat wandering around without an owner, you run. You run far away.

I took a wrong turn into an alley, staring at my phone all the while. I looked up briefly in annoyance when it died. That’s when I saw him. It was nothing like on TV, where the dun du dun music would start playing and the cool detective would saunter up and drop a line like, “Well, someone’s not having a good day.” But at that moment, I couldn’t think of anything. No music played, just the cold wind rustling the body’s clothes and freezing my neck. A scream was lodging in my throat as I fought the urge to throw up. Blood was pouring out of his chest, less like a zombie than a living person whose life was brutally cut short, there and then gone. This was not TV, not glamorized and mysterious. A wash of hopelessness came over me. Unexpected tears pooled in my eyes.

That’s when I realized that it- he- was still alive.

He was a little older than me, maybe thirty. He had blond hair like my sister’s fiancé. I wondered if there was anyone waiting for him at home. He was tall and wore plaid clothes like my science teacher. And he spoke like the words were being tortured out of him. “Missed- he missed. He missed it’s not…. please.” 

I had imagined myself in a cop show every night before I went to bed. I imagined myself identifying the kind of slash wound, discovering a clue on the body, remaining perfectly calm, or maybe even distraught at the life lost, the sadness driving me to solve the case through late nights and coffee shortages. But I couldn’t do anything but stand there, gaping down at it. Then I came to my wits and grappled for my phone, groaning when I remembered that it was dead. I started to yell. “Hey! Hey, over here, there’s a murder! Murder, someone help, please!” It became hopeless. It was the middle of the day and everyone was at work. I thought about going for help, but the thought of leaving this stranger to die alone was too much for my conscience. 

The dying man spoke again. “You have to help… I’m a nurse. I can tell you what to do….” That seemed like all he could get out before he rested his head back onto the floor. I shook myself, feeling awful. Here I was just standing there, while he was bleeding out. I forced myself to remember every way-too-dramatic episode of Grey’s Anatomy my sister had forced me to watch. What did they do for bullet wounds? Wait no, knife slashes. The Alley Cat. Right.

“OK, ok. I’m sorry, I-I’m gonna have to turn you over. To check for the exit wound.” I paused, reeling back slightly at all the blood. “I’m Toney, by the way. In case you… yeah. Turning you over now.” He was heavier than I thought, but I only had to lift him halfway. There wasn’t any blood on the other side, but the coppery smell of being too close to him was enough to make me gag. Ok, no exit wound, so that means I have to stop the blood. “Hey kid, hey T-toney. Put pressure on the… I have tequila in my bag. It’s dusty out here.”

That part confused me. Was he telling me to give him one more shot for the road? A slightly hysterical laugh burst out of me. But then I remembered that one episode of Grey’s. I needed to clean the wound in case of infection, and I could do that with the alcohol. I dumped his bag onto the ground and picked out the small bottle. I took off my jacket and wiped off the blood, cringing. I turned away, gagging again. I wouldn’t be able to do this if I kept this up. I took a deep breath and turned back to the guy, trying to imagine myself as one of those steady detectives on the shows, the ones that were always objective, even in the face of death. I forced myself to remain as calm as them, letting the annoying feeling part of me retreat into a corner. When I looked at the body again, it was with new eyes. I squared my shoulders and refused to be grossed out. I wiped up the blood and poured the tequila onto the torn skin. The wall I had built around my emotions shuddered a little as the guy cried out. Still, I refused to acknowledge them. I accepted my new role, disassociated. I was there, but it still felt like it was happening in a dream.

I used the scarf I found in his bag to put pressure on the wound, pushing down on his chest. His breathing became a little less ragged, but still not great. I remembered suddenly to check his pulse. I remembered what they did on Criminal Minds, and felt for the trachea. In the middle, to the side, was his pulse. I pressed two fingers against my own pulse to compare, because I had no idea what a normal pulse was supposed to be. It didn’t take a genius to realize that he was still dying, although his breathing was steadier than it was when I arrived. 

That’s when the FBI and SWAT came through. Their black boots pounded on the pavement and I was wondering how they found us when I saw a small cat in one of the FBI’s arms. The scene was so hilarious that a giant grin broke out onto my face. Two agents clad in their gear sauntered up to me while the others went ahead. I could hear the click of safeties being switched off. The first agent was a woman my mom’s age, with a fierce look in her eyes that screamed “Don’t cross me, because I will kill you.” The second was a guy a little younger than her that seemed a little kinder, probably because he was still petting the cat. He stopped when she glared at him, then cleared his throat, taking off his matrix-esque sunglasses. “Well, I owe Labinski twenty bucks. Someone found this cat a few streets over and called us. Lucky we got here in time. Lucky you were here, too.” 

That was the kind of line I had expected to drop, but I guess it was too late. The woman went over to check the guy’s pulse and nodded diplomatically. “He’ll live. Cotren, wait here for the meds. It’s a shame though, I wouldn't mind another guy on the search.”

My ears perked up. This was my chance. I could ask to volunteer. I mean I wasn’t a minor, and got a gun license for hunting years ago. I could seriously help the FBI. “It’s alright Mr, uh, Agent Coltren. I’ll stay with him for the ambulance. I’ll make sure he gets there in time. You guys go catch Alley Cat.”

The agents exchanged looks. The man shrugged. “I don’t see the harm. Should I radio it in?” The woman nodded, then took off down the alley. “I guess so.”

Three minutes later, the paramedics arrived. They wasted no time putting the man on a stretcher and rushing him into the ambulance. A flurry of news vans pulled up and spotted me, shouting their questions. Their cameras flashed into my eyes and they thrusted microphones into my face. I took a deep breath, and bolted. I ran around all the vans and climbed into the ambulance with the dying man. Yeah, I know that was stupid. I got caught up in the moment. Some snobby paramedics seemed to think I had screwed up somehow, and drilled me on what I had done to him. I answered the questions as best as I could, and before I knew it, we were at the hospital and the receptionist gave me a phone to call my mom with.

Despite everything, I did end up being on the news. I was bloody and my voice was horse as I swore at the reporters, looking like a deer in headlights. It was totally badass. At least, I think it was. I watched about a second of it before I got a pounding headache and had to turn it off. I went to visit the man at the hospital, whose name, as I later found out, was Martin. Martin was going to make an almost-total recovery, but was prevented from doing hard manual labor and had to quit his job as a basketball coach. At least he was alive.

As for me, I still have no idea what I’ll do for college. I do know that I can’t be a doctor. When I got back from the hospital, I tried to watch an old episode of Grey’s Anatomy with my sister to calm me down, but ended up losing my lunch. It happened every time I tried to watch a medical show. I couldn’t even watch Scrubs without my mind wandering to Martin lying in the alley and the blood under my nails. It was awful. Every paper cut I got, every mention of an injury at the dinner table had my mind rattling and my chair screeching on the floor as I all but ran upstairs. 

15 years later, I joined the FBI.