Over

            The Christmas season is difficult in my business.  The juxtaposition of festive arrangements and bodies do not mix together well.  After eight years on this job, if I retire tomorrow, I will never miss seeing another murder next to a Christmas tree.

            Over the years, I have photographed an assault, a murder, a natural, and a suicide during the holidays:  A young man survived being stabbed many times about the head and chest; A young mother was shot at contact range while laying on her couch; An old man died in his living room after finally losing his battle with cancer; Another old man jumped from a bridge over the Harbor Freeway.  And to think, that was just during the week leading up to Christmas.

            Lately, I have been coming home to a decorated tree that fills my living room with the fresh scent of pine I remember as a child.  I am lucky to be able to have one and so very grateful for the talent that decorated it.

            This year will soon be over.  I am grateful to be alive, healthy, and happy surrounded by love.

A future

            I am buoyed quite often by my dreams of what lies ahead.  Like many are apt to do when thinking about their future, I focus beyond the scene in front of me.  For most of you, it is retirement; for me, it is my writing.  

            I became engrossed with this blog knowing it was read by so many around the world.  (Hello Finland!)  It never would have continued if it were not for one, adorable ankle-biter who has helped me mature as a writer.

            The other day I was working a long FTC.  (Fatal Traffic Collision.)  Two young people died.  The excitement of a new, powerful car took over the driver’s sensibilities; he lost control, killing himself and the passenger.

            Many on the scene had become quite grouchy.  It may have been the combination of the tension caused by City budget problems or the overwhelming media presence.  Perhaps the scene was somehow gnawing on their insides; sometimes, the job just gets to you.  In this case, it was truly an unnecessary loss of young lives. I felt blessed to have my writing to think about.

            This blog has been a wonderful safety valve for me and a saving grace; I have enjoyed writing every word of it.

            My future has already begun with the completion of my first novel, which is currently in the hands of beta readers.  It took more than nine intense months of rewrites and revisions to complete.  I am a changed man because of the experience, which has proved to be humbling, heartbreaking, and challenging to say the least.  I am so grateful the ‘whirlwind of a process’ did not ruin my loving relationship.

            Although my posts may not be updated as often, this blog will continue.  An expanded version will be published in an E-book format very soon.  Many of the questions I have been asked throughout my career will be properly answered, and I intend to announce the title here first.

            Allow yourselves to dream about the future you desire.  Better yet, dream with somebody else.  Like me, the future you imagine today could very well become the life you live tomorrow. 

Green Light

Just like the traffic signal, this sigil of a saying has one purpose:  To let someone know it’s okay to proceed.

When I worked in Hollywood, ‘green light’ was the ultimate phrase anyone anxious to begin a project wanted to hear.  It was final approval.  Few in the industry are allowed the privilege to confirm whether something is green lit or not.  You either had the money to green light a project or you were the spokesperson delivering the message.  No matter where you were in the hierarchy of the industry, you anticipated hearing the phrase, ‘green light’.

Some in my business never want to hear it.  I know I don’t.  In my line of work, it means someone in the hierarchy of the gang structure has given the okay to commit murder.  I recently learned that members of the southern California gangs operating outside of California were given an automatic green light to get shanked.  

A shank is a makeshift stabbing weapon.  Prisoners make shanks out of anything that’ll maintain its shape long enough to be shoved into someone else.  An inmate will use a glass shard to work off a piece of furniture, sink, toilet, or whatever else over a period of weeks, even months.  They’ve been discovered in every hiding place you can possibly imagine, including rectums.  For people who do not read, this craft is one they spend their time perfecting.

I’d been working an OIS (Officer Involved Shooting) in an area just north of Dodger Stadium when I witnessed a sudden shift in the attitude of the officers around me.  Since I was the only civilian, I questioned the nearest person in uniform.  He proceeded to tell me that the Mexican Mafia had just given the green light to kill a police officer.  I was suddenly relieved and comforted by the fact I would not be mistaken for one from any angle or distance.  

Although the order was never carried out, we were forced to wear our bulletproof vests before traveling into that particular area for months after the incident.

Over the years, I’ve learned that everything good can easily be twisted into something bad.  I now know what a simple, innocent catchphrase means in the minds of those hell-bent on wielding power over life and death.  I am, however, keenly aware that I too wield power over my own life; the only one with any real authority to green light a positive attitude. 

Unrequited

When what you do for others is not returned in kind or reciprocated, it is considered unrequited.  Not a day goes by nor a crime scene worked where this does not apply to what I see.

Occasionally, I’ve had to listen to a few suspects.  If an investigation goes to trial, a suspect becomes known as the perpetrator or “perp”.  Somewhere between drivel and well thought-out scenario is a thread of unrequited emotions and actions that I just can’t seem to understand.

Some time ago, I began to excise toxic people from my life.  Most people understand this as keeping their boundaries intact.  Many children are never taught that it’s okay to say “no” to those who violate their sense of security or body.  They grow up, not mature, into someone who figures it’s their turn to violate the boundaries of others.  In the midst of their quest to grow up, they falsely latch on to the idea of gaining respect no matter who pays.

In the deeper section of the southern-most division of LAPD, I took a call for a 187.  That’s code for murder.  A 664 / 187 is attempted murder.  It can get a little weird when an “ADW” gets thrown in.  That would be code for assault with a deadly weapon.  

Keep your sharpened pencil to paper my fellow psychotic writers.  Sorry for the flourish and divergence, but according to a study conducted by the Karolinska Institute in Sweden, writers are highly likely to become unhinged.  And here I thought I was immersed in beneficial therapy.

Gangs are organized in somewhat of a military fashion.  They have a command structure that tapers down in rank, ending with foot soldiers.  Two of these foot soldiers were having an argument about whose gang was better.  Both gangs were designated by the street numbers they were formed on.  Only a few numbers separated them; their blocks of origin within walking distance.

I took overalls in a small apartment with some close-ups of a blood soaked couch on one end.  After I had completed the ‘hurry up’ aspect, it was now time for me to wait.  In this job, I spend a lot of time waiting.  Gang detectives arrived from another division and soon began to discuss, at length, the birth, relationships, and now death of the gang member who sat on the shabby couch and verbally violated the boundaries of another.  

If reputation is life and death, then it had been considered justice in the eyes of the shooter.  I’ve learned to let a lot of things go in my life, including excoriation later exonerated.  Yes, I allow a person who lies about me to get their comeuppance when their time is due.  This young man could not.  Barely in his early teens, he shot dead his teen cousin for something he said.

I try to place things into perspective when it comes to wants.  I’ve seen enough people in their last weeks and days of life to know one thing.  When you are lying at death’s doorstep, the thought of that fast car you never bought or the big house you could never afford isn’t one you contemplate.

Life is much shorter than we think.  I know that much.  If I am fortunate enough to go gently into that dark night, I will be grateful for holding on to the same thoughts and values that were as important in my life as they were in my death.  Needless to say, I do my best to let ‘unrequited’ go.

Angel In The Alley

Days of triple digit temperatures are no time to put on a bulletproof vest, but that’s exactly what I was instructed to do by the detective.

The detective was wearing a windbreaker and slacks in weather not even being completely naked would make comfortable.  Not only was he sweating from the heat, but also from a strange nervousness.  I’ve worked with this detective before, so I could tell something was off.  The heat combined with the task at hand was not making me happy.  A few minutes after putting on my vest, sweat ran down my back and soon it appeared as though I had lost control over my bowels.  Now, I’m cranky.

The job was to photograph a body in an alley located in the heart of East Los Angeles. This is the part of town where no one raves about living in the City of the Angels.  At the time, the population of Southern California had quickly grown with migrant workers who lived in overcrowded conditions.  So many of the homeless were a product of a lack of floor space anywhere.  There had been quite a number of people dying where they slept.  

It was obvious that this particular body had been moved.  The detective informed me the body had come from a nearby building packed with vagrants, and that they would have to secure it before we could proceed.  Now I understood why he appeared nervous.  Police presence was growing rapidly and squad cars were coming in from neighboring areas to secure the scene and make it safe.

Two hours passed before I was finally able to begin.  I left my vest in the truck, which had become relatively comfortable with the AC running at full blast.  The coroner had been called and we started in the building.  I only took photographs of the lower floor.  The building was located on a corner and the body was placed in an alley behind a parking lot.  

The lower floor was decorated with over-used furniture and a makeshift chapel that could be quickly folded away to allow shoulder-to-shoulder sleeping along the concrete floor.  The smell of disinfectant and old urine was nearly strong enough for me to use my mask.  The kitchen contained three refrigerators and a stove that I assumed to be in some working condition.  I had to admit, my garage was cleaner.  

The occupants were asked to line up against a wall under the bright sunlight.  They were going to be photographed for ID purposes.  From the looks of discomfort on their faces, it appeared as though the sunlight was killing them.  There was only one woman amongst the handful of men.  I allowed her a moment to smooth out her hair and work up the best smile she could.  I could feel the tension slowly melting around me.

The coroner arrived and I completed my overalls.  I took shots up to a partially rolled-up carpet in an upright position against a chain link fence and utility pole.  A thin man with no shirt had been wrapped inside of it.  I could see that his body was malnourished.  Sometimes with alcohol as the main source of calories, the body will rob muscle and bone tissue for nutrients.  His head rested peacefully against his clasped hands.  He looked as though he were in the middle of prayer when suddenly he was called home to heaven.

Along with the carpet, his story began to unfold.  He had been a drug counselor who made the decision to stay and work in the place that saved his own life.  Rescuing similarly situated individuals became somewhat of a calling for him.  When he died, the residents became nervous and took him outside.  With as much dignity and respect as they could muster, they placed him in such a way that forever memorialized him as the angel in the alley.