Too Powerful

            I have worked a recent string of lethal car accidents involving expensive exotic cars.  It got me thinking about having too much power. The car as in 0-60 in three-ish seconds with an engine of five hundred hoarse power or more. The driver as in someone who ignores the law because his or her shirts are tailor made.

            We don’t let ten year olds drive. They are too small in so many ways. Its one thing not to be able to reach the controls, another not to be able to reach for the wisdom needed to navigate traffic.  Some people turn ten when they get into a sports car. I so often see privileged people getting into accidents for no other reason they feel the laws of mankind don’t apply to them. Physics has something to say about this. So does Darwin.  I have never known of an Ferrari winning and argument with a trash truck or abutment. I’m not picking on Ferrari, Maserati or McLaren will do. Okay fine you’re a GT freak or perhaps you will only allow a Bugatti into your dreams. Just pick a super car and stick with me. Gads I can hear the snidely voices of the read about it type, cant even afford the floor mats, snot nosed wussburger getting all flabbergasted at me. Blow the aghast out your nose, wipe up and lets move on.

            A special investigative team will sometimes come out to an accident and record every piece of evidence. The position of vehicles and strewn parts is meticulously recorded with the help of a laser based robotic Total Station. One can also see these amazing machines on construction sites. This device will give the nearly exact position with elevation of every bit they decide to record. Later all the rocket science of weight and velocity is computed by someone that knows what they are doing. Glad it’s not me because a five-hour on scene time turns into three days or so of calculating and weeks of interviews. Photos taken at the scene are included into a remodeling of the accident.

            I photograph things important to the investigator, every side of the vehicles and details of some parts. I am sometimes amazed at what blood will be found on. Pieces of front bumper or headlight with some human matter painted on says body contact even too an amateur like me. It’s the ability to play the scene backward that starts the narrowing of the investigators concentration. They are tested and exhaustively reviewed in continuing education. Glad I just take the photos mostly done on manual. Program is only used for close ups with flash set to TTL. I go back and forth between the settings.

            No million-dollar car is safe with defective parts like say a loose nut behind the wheel. Before you admire someone in a tailored shirt without a tie wreaking perfume, imagine him in an expensive go-cart becoming road coating. That will take the shine off the rims.

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. 

Let The Boy Dream

I dream when I can.  

I convert the worst part of my job into the best part by allowing myself to daydream or write in my head.  I was doing that very thing when someone crept inside and killed it for me, as well as for someone else.

South Central Los Angeles has its green patches.  The neighborhood stands out, but not with extravagance like Beverly Hills or uber charm like West LA.  It stands out because it is clean, free of graffiti, and not littered by trash.

I drove through the gang-infested, trash-strewn sprawl and arrived at a green patch with clean lawns and fresh paint on the houses.  I reached the perimeter marked with police tape and an officer directed me to a great place to park.  I checked in and began talking to a detective about the scene.  I was informed there would be a delay since the investigators were not ready to lay out numbers or letters, so I waited across the street and got ready to shoot some overalls.

I was standing, facing the crime scene, when I heard a young voice behind me.  The voice seemed excited.  I turned enough to catch a glimpse of a boy resting his head on crossed forearms that were draped over the top of a short chain link fence.  

He talked about the lake his dad was taking him to.  He was excited with anticipation of the kinds of fish they would catch and the kind of place it would be.  He looked past the scene across the street and well into the next day.  

A young, adult male also overheard the boy.  He was on the same side of the fence.  He began to dispute and shoot down everything the boy imagined, stating he’d been to that same lake and it was a dump with no fish to boot.  It was nothing but verbal poison.  In that moment, I wished I could have said something.

It was time to work.  There was a black SUV parked on a sharply sloped driveway at a corner lot home.  It was, save for the dead man in the truck, a really nice place.  The driver had fled from someone who caught up to him.  The murderer shot him through the driver’s side window, opened the door, and shot him several times more in the face and chest.  Although disturbing, it truly is an act of intimacy watching someone die up close.

Across the street where the boy lived, houses showed less care.  Whole neighborhoods can go from safe and nice to dangerous and run-down in just a few blocks.  I noticed the boy’s eyes had lost some of their life.  They stopped dreaming of the future, his hopes for catching some fish and being in a nice place with his dad gone.  His eyes had been affixed on the trash blown in from a few blocks away and the spray painted gang signs on the sidewalk.  The days of anticipation disappeared from his expression.  I noticed it the moment I finished my shot and moved down the sidewalk to another position.  He was forced to retreat into the oasis of his mind.  It was better to dream by yourself than allow others a glimpse only to have them rip it apart and drag you down.  I hope that is what he thought.

If I were able to say at least one thing to that embittered man who scoffed at the boy’s wistfulness, I would have urged him to just let the boy dream.