Skells

by F. P. Lione

  “You should have come out sooner—that’s gonna be a pretty expensive meal,” I said.

  “Officer, please!” he yelled.

  I didn’t feel sorry for him. He heard me whoop and had a chance to move the cab. If he was that worried, he should have come out and moved it. You’re in the middle of New York City, and a cab blocking the lane can slow down an ambulance or tie up traffic and cause accidents. Sometimes they have someone standing at the door of the restaurant to let them know a cop was there, but I guess they didn’t think of it tonight.

  There was no reason for him to double park there. After 7 p.m. he could park a block up on 8th between 38th and 39th streets.

  He was yelling and cursing in a mix of English and his own language. I was hoping he didn’t get hot with me. I didn’t feel like locking him up.

  “Next time, don’t park here,” I said—the last thing I was gonna say to him.

  He turned the cab off and yanked the keys out of the ignition and grabbed his food. I guess he figured he got the ticket, he might as well stay and eat his food in the restaurant.

  He slammed the door to let me know he wasn’t happy, and we heard the sound of glass breaking as the driver’s side window shattered into a million pieces. We were all quiet for a couple of seconds, then the driver stared at the pieces of glass twinkling on the street and let out a howl. “Aaahhhh!” He started pacing around the cab, still holding his Styrofoam tray.

  “Alright,” Romano said from the backseat. “I think our work is done here.”

  I choked on a laugh, and Fiore said, “They just don’t make ’em like they used to.”

  I left the cabbie pacing and yelling and drove Romano up to his post.

  We sat in the car, drinking our coffee, when we got a call from Central. “South David,” Central radioed.

  “South David,” Fiore responded.

  “We got an EDP at three-four and seven, walking in traffic.”

  “10-4.”

  “See you later, Nick,” Fiore said.

  “Don’t slam that door, Nick,” I said. “And watch those cabbies in the crosswalk.”

  “Yes, we’ll pick you up for your meal,” I said before he could ask me.

  I drove up to 44th Street and headed east toward 7th Avenue, when Central came back over.

  “South David, I’m getting numerous calls on this incident. It’s a female EDP, running naked on 34th Street.” I heard a choked laugh, and the transmission ended.

  “10-4.” Fiore looked at me and said, “Great.”

  Central came back again, composed this time, and said, “Let me know when you’re 84, David.”

  I threw the turret lights on, and as we passed 35th Street I could see someone in the intersection and cars slowing down as they passed.

  As we got closer, we could see that she was naked.

  “Whoa,” Fiore said.

  “That’s a big momma,” I said, not looking forward to wrestling with her.

  I whooped a little as I entered the intersection at 34th and 7th. She had run to the southwest corner and was standing next to the telephone pole. Her knees were moving up and down, and she was frantically brushing her hands on her body like she was trying to get something off her.

  I parked the RMP in the intersection and hit the yellow button to pop the trunk. I wanted to make sure the cars going south on 7th Avenue would see the flashing lights in the trunk and slow down coming into the intersection. I didn’t want any of us getting hit by a car.

  Fiore radioed Central with a “David 84,” and we both grabbed a pair of latex gloves out of our memo books and threw the books on the dashboard.

  As we approached her at the corner, she threw her hands in the air and started running into the street toward the southeast corner, screaming, “Get ’em off me! Get ’em off me!”

  “Hey, get over here!” I called to her. She looked at Joe and me and ran toward us, screaming “Eewww!” and “Aaahhhh! Get ’em off me—there’s snakes on me!”

  “Listen, there’s nothing on you,” Joe said. “It’s okay, calm down.”

  She stopped as if to see if he was right and started jumping up and down, throwing the imaginary snakes off her.

  Maybe it’s me, but seeing an EDP running naked head-on into traffic, trying to get snakes off her because she got high and it freaked her out, is enough to keep me from doing drugs. Forget the egg “this is your brain on drugs” commercials. They should film this stuff and use it as a public service announcement, let the kids know what they’re in for.

  Cars were stopping to look at her do her dance. Even the cabbies were slowing down with their faces pressed against the driver’s side windows of the cabs.

  She took off again, past us to the back of the RMP.

  “We better grab her before she gets hit by a car,” I said, not looking forward to it.

  Fiore got on the radio. “South David to Central, we’re gonna need a bus at three-four and seven.”

  We followed her to the back of the RMP, and I grabbed one wrist and Fiore grabbed the other.

  She was heavy, with wild, gnarled, brown curly hair. She looked maybe late thirties, early forties. She was sweating profusely, and her hair was matted to her head and sticking to her neck and face. The smell of sweat was strong on her, a sour mix of sweat and unwashed body.

  She was hysterical now, scared, not violent, and we were talking to her to calm her down. I had no idea what she was on—if it was crack, it wasn’t affecting her weight. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it.

  Our gloves were slipping as we leaned her forward toward the trunk and tried to cuff her. I wanted to get a blanket or something around her to cover her, but we had to get the cuffs on her or she was gonna take off again.

  As we cuffed her, she fell forward. We could feel the weight of the car go down, and she bucked up to move herself out. Joe held her down so she wouldn’t run away, and I started going through the trunk to look for a blanket. I saw a box of gloves, some flares, but no blanket. The sergeants’ cars have the blankets to put over the dead bodies, but the RMPs don’t have them.

  I could hear the clicking of the lights in the trunk as they alternated left to right. I felt the car move forward and Joe yelled, “Hey!”

  I turned around and saw she had fallen into the trunk. On her way down, she wrapped her legs around Fiore in a scissors hold and locked her ankles. She was frantic, crying and screaming, while Fiore tried to wiggle himself out of it.

  “Hey! Stop!” he yelled, looking down at himself. “NO—what are you doing?”

  I didn’t know why he was yelling until I saw the wet stain on his pants and the urine dribbling onto the bumper of the car, his shoes, and then finally the street.

  I grabbed her ankles and started wrestling to unlock her legs from around him.

  “Get ’em off! Get ’em off!” she screamed.

  “Oh, come on,” Joe said.

  “What a friggin’ fiasco,” I said, watching a small crowd gather around us to watch the whole thing.

  I got her legs unlocked, and Joe stepped out from behind her, keeping one arm on her back. He held himself away from her and put his other hand out, looking down at his pants.

  “Not a word!” he snapped as he pointed at me, dead serious.

  I started to smirk.

  “I mean it!” he said, but then he smirked.

  “I’m not saying anything,” I choked.

  I heard laughter from the crowd that was watching us.

  “Let’s go,” I ordered as I stomped toward them, waving them along. “Show’s over.” I half laughed, saying, “Nothing to see here,” then couldn’t hold it anymore. I cracked up.

  The ambulance pulled up. It was the male and female who handled the stabbing by Port Authority with us. When the female saw the EDP was naked, she went back to get a blanket.

  The female was good with her, saying, “We’ll get the snakes off you. Come with us, honey, we’ll take care of it.” I liked her; she was always sweet t
o the drunks and EDPs.

  Her partner grabbed the stretcher, and they lowered it down to get the EDP on it. The female smelled the urine on the EDP and saw it on the street and on Fiore. Even though our pants are dark blue, you could still see the stain. The female EMS looked up at Joe, and he held up his hand. “Don’t say anything.”

  She pressed her lips together and went back to helping the EDP.

  I threw Joe the keys to the RMP. “Why don’t you go back to the house and change? I’ll ride with her to Bellevue.”

  He nodded as he closed the trunk. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  I sat on the bench in the ambulance across from the EDP on the ride to Bellevue. I held on to a metal handle as we bumped and swayed, watching the EDP cower from the snakes.

  “Get ’em off me,” she whimpered, pleading.

  The EMT was pretending to pick them up and toss them off her. “Okay, I got ’em,” she’d say. The EDP was strapped in now so she couldn’t flail all over. She was still trying to move; her eyes were wide and scared.

  Neither me or the EMT were bothered by her blubbering. After a while you accept the fact that that’s how they are, and they don’t scare you anymore. EDPs are different than skells—not that they aren’t skells, but they’re a whole other dimension.

  My first job as a rookie was an EDP. I was working my field training unit right out of the Academy. It was a multistory apartment building in Coney Island. I was on a foot post, and I was excited about handling my first job as a cop.

  Central had put over that there was an aided case at an address that was two buildings over from where I was. She also said that the person might be cut, so I pictured someone stabbed or cut in some kind of accident. I was excited, picturing myself going in there, applying direct pressure to the wound, and saving a life.

  I told Central I would take the job. I didn’t even have all the cop talk down back then. I wasn’t used to the radio, but I wanted to practice. I also wanted to tell the other rookies I worked with that I handled an aided by myself, hopefully doing something to come out the hero.

  My father had never told me what to expect with the job. Other guys who came on with brothers or fathers on the job knew what to expect, but I didn’t even know what a complaint report was. I was the son of a cop and knew nothing about it.

  The building that I went into wasn’t bad, not like the projects in the area. As I got off the elevator, I heard someone screaming rhythmically, “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” over and over.

  It was a female under a gray blanket down at the end of the hallway. I never saw her face, and when I got within ten feet of her, I saw the blanket was covered in something that looked like blood.

  I was frozen to the spot where I was standing, and everything seemed to fade around me. I didn’t know what to do, so I stood there and stared at her. I didn’t want to see what was under that blanket. I was vaguely aware that the people out in the hallway were talking about me.

  “Look at him—he’s not doing anything.”

  “Is he just gonna stand there?”

  “He looks scared.”

  “White as a ghost.”

  I stood there for what felt like an eternity. I thought if I picked up the blanket, she might be stabbing herself, might stab me.

  EMS got off the elevator, and a female came over to me and said, “What’s going on?”

  I didn’t answer her. I guess she realized I froze, and she seemed aggravated as she pushed past me. She walked over and pulled the blanket off.

  “It’s nail polish,” I heard her tell her partner.

  The female under the blanket was curled up in a ball, hands clenched, knees to chest, shaking.

  I stood there while EMS worked on her and was still rooted to the spot when a sergeant and three cops got off the elevator.

  “What’s going on?” the sergeant asked me. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Are you okay?”

  I heard someone say, “Tony! Boss, I know this guy. I went to school with him. He’s a great guy.”

  To this day I still don’t know who it was.

  The sergeant was looking at me. “He looks like he’s gonna get sick,” he said, then said to me, “Officer, why don’t you go outside and get some air?” He might have said, “We’ll take care of this,” but I’m not sure.

  “You’ll be okay, Tony,” the guy who knew me said. “Just get some fresh air.”

  My skin was clammy, and there was a roaring in my head. I felt like I was gonna throw up as I went in the elevator, and I felt claustrophobic on the way down.

  It wasn’t what I expected—nothing about this job was. I was mortified; I didn’t even call Central back. I lit a cigarette and left, feeling like a moron.

  After that I became hard toward the EDPs. I no longer answered jobs expecting them to be hurt, just nuts or high.

  As time went on, I got cynical. Looking back, I was probably scared of them, at whatever madness was in their heads. I overcompensated by provoking them, and I’m sure I made things worse for some of them.

  This one time I had to take an EDP over to Roosevelt Hospital. They put her in a room, and I waited there with her for the doctor. They hadn’t shot her up with anything, and she was still wrapped up in the mesh blanket to keep her from hurting herself or anyone else.

  She was loony, yelling and screaming that I was doing all these things to her mother. I stood right outside the door so I didn’t have to hear her anymore, and she started screaming, “Get off me! Don’t touch me!” People in the hallway were looking at me. They could see I wasn’t doing anything to her, but they were still looking.

  I’d had enough of hearing her, so I leaned into the room and flipped the light switch on and off. I started singing lala-la-la-la-la to the tune of “Ring around the Rosy,” clicking the lights in sync.

  Since she was wrapped in the mesh blanket and was big to begin with, she couldn’t see over the top of herself. She looked like she was in a cocoon with only her head sticking out. She was trying to pick her head up to see what was going on.

  “Who’s doing that? Hey! Hey! Stop it!”

  “La-la-la-la-la-la,” I sang and flicked.

  Okay, I bugged her out. I know it was mean, but she was getting on my nerves. I finally said, “If you don’t shut up, I’m gonna keep doing this.” When she didn’t answer, I said, “Are you gonna shut your mouth?”

  “Okay,” she said, sounding like a scared little kid. “I’ll stop.”

  She was quiet up until the doc came in. She asked him if he was singing to her and turning the lights on and off, but I was whistling in the hallway by then.

  I was still thinking about this when we got to Bellevue and got the EDP in a room.

  After some time on, I got to the point where I accepted the fact that EDPs were a part of the job and I’d have to deal with them. Ironically, I could see Romano was about there now—the place where you don’t care about them and they don’t bother you anymore.

  Now I’m starting to see it different altogether. Joe says these EDPs are tormented. Whether it’s drugs or mental illness, they have no peace. When Fiore deals with them he always prays for them, even this one who urinated all over him. If he had a chance, he would have prayed for her right there. I was reminded of that, and I prayed right there and asked Jesus, the Prince of Peace, to soothe her mind and get the snakes off her.

  Surprisingly, she seemed calmer after that. I realized I shouldn’t be surprised that God answered me. He wants her at peace more than I do.

  I was sitting in a chair in one of the cubicles in the emergency room when Fiore came in. I had taken the cuffs off her, one arm at a time, while they tied her to the bed. She was quiet now, peaceful in her drug-induced sleep.

  “How you doing, Joe?” I held back a smirk.

  “I’m fine. How’s she doing?” he said, nodding toward the EDP.

  “They shot her up with something. She’s in the zone.”

  “What are they doing with her?” Fiore asked.r />
  “They said they were gonna have the doc see her, then decide if they were gonna hold on to her.”

  “Did you get any of her information?”

  “Some,” I said. “She lives in Brooklyn. She’s been getting high up in Times Square, living on the street. I got her name.” I looked at my memo book. “Patricia Gannon.”

  We sat there for about an hour before they brought her up to the tenth-floor psych unit. Fiore and I went with her and had to check in with the hospital police and unload our weapons.

  The guard was an out-of-shape male black around forty years old, in a blue uniform. He nodded toward the firearm station, a metal box that reminds me of a laundry chute. It has a square opening that elbows down, stationed to the floor. We use it so in case the gun goes off, the bullet is contained.

  Joe stayed with the EDP as I placed my gun inside the shaft and popped the clip, putting it in my pocket. I put my hand over the top of my Glock to catch the bullet as I ejected it from the pipe. I kept it cocked back to show it was empty and put it back in my holster.

  I stayed with the EDP while Joe unloaded his gun, and the guard buzzed us in. We signed the psych log and took her into the waiting room.

  It was a small room with two rows of connected chairs that were bolted to the floor, I guess so no one could throw them around in the midst of a psychotic episode. Off the waiting room was a hallway with a couple of examining rooms where the doc can talk to the patients.

  The EDP was waking up a little now, lifting her head up to look around and going out again. There were people in the waiting room with us. A man and a woman with a female in her twenties. The female was crying and looking despondent. I’m guessing depression here.

  They weren’t talking to each other, just staring into space. The doc came out to call them in, and I almost laughed out loud. He looked insane, like Albert Einstein on acid. He had white hair sticking straight up, a thick crooked mustache, and black bushy eyebrows. His white lab coat was full of stains, and I could see his shirt was half tucked in.

  Our EDP opened her eyes and looked at him, then looked at us. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was one of them and the real doc was tied and gagged in a closet somewhere.