I managed to dig through my personal belongings and found my phone. Quarter charge. One of the orderlies must have been nice enough to shut it off before putting it in the bag. That was nice of Detroit at least. My first call was to the Holiday Inn of all people. All of my shit was still in my room and I’d rather not have them throw it away.
The second was to my voicemail. The usual stuff. Few calls from Josh looking for my status, one from Sargent Blount asking me to come in for an interview. One from mom. For a second I was wondered why he wanted to speak to me. Usually I didnt converse with law enforcement after evictions. That’s when reality started to catch up.
I had totally forgotten that I killed someone the other day.
That’s the sort of thing that your brain often times has problems processing. To me, it was more of a dream, but the encroaching pain in my shoulder said otherwise. I asked the nurse if I was healthy enough to be discharged. After a quick consult with an over-worked doctor, I was given as many Percocet as I could legally have at once and shown the door. I sent the bill to HUD.
The funny thing about coming through the ER is that you leave with the same set of clothes you arrived with. One wallet (mysteriously missing cash but otherwise intact), one HUD badge, one pair of battered dusty jeans, one button up shirt (bloodied and dusty, but otherwise intact), one set of Type IV ballistic plate, shoes, and socks.
I popped a ‘cet on the curb outside and examined the Kevlar. Ballistic plate was gone, but the hole was pretty apparent. I could fit my one good thumb into it. Kevlar took the rest of the projectile. I sat for a long while on that curb, enjoying the rare Detroit sunshine. I wasn’t sure if it was the Percocet, but I felt good to be alive. Colors were brighter, sounds crisper, smells stronger. It was about that time that I remembered I did indeed piss myself earlier.
I got a cab back to the Holiday Inn. Thankfully they had no decided to throw away all my stuff. I took a good long hot shower for the first time in days. By that time the drugs had really started to take effect. I could feel the warmth of the water, but none of the wetness if that makes sense to anyone. I took the time to test out the left shoulder. Even under the influence, nothing cooperated. It was just a grinding sound coming from that general area and I smartly decided not to push it further.
The interview with Sargent Blount the next day was at best awkward. The precinct was like most government facilities: dusty, dented and in dire need of updating. Desks were early 70s vintage. CRT monitors abound. Here and there pieces of technology my tax dollars probably paid for pierced the ugly government facade my father’s tax dollars paid for decades earlier.
The moment I stepped through the door, every step felt heavier and heavier. Earlier that morning I brushed off the incident. “Self defense” I told myself. Cut and dry. The further into the police station I got, the less confident I felt about my case. By the time I got to the interview room I was sure I’d get at least 10 years in prison.
Blount was there, along with an investigator who’s name I cant be bothered to remember. It was either the pain killers or the fact I had a hard time looking him in the eyes that made him rather forgettable. He and Blount could have been interchangeable. Same pasty skin, same balding head, same well-worn uniform. Probably 10 years Blount’s junior.
“We’ll keep this short,” Blount Jr. said as I tried not to shit my pants with anxiety.
In the end they were pretty glib about the whole thing. To them, I was just another file to be locked away. The deceased had a wrap sheet over a decade long. Buying and selling crack, battery, grand theft, robbery. Nothing warranting a death sentence, but still no angel. Shit happens in Detroit, and I was lucky to be walking out of both feet they said. They handed me a copy of the report to look over and said four of the happiest words I’ve heard in my life.
“You’re free to go.”
townhouseofcards 