Greg hung up the phone shaking his head.
“We got maggots and a strong odor, 816 Mercy Ave., multiple dwelling, Apartment 5-B.”
“A D.O.A. to start the day,” Mike said cheerfully.
In fact, the day had started some time ago for everyone but Mike who usually sauntered in an hour later than shift time and schmoozed with the sergeant so no one could say anything to him.
Hawk had already been out in the field and back by the time Mike came in. He was frustrated because he still hadn’t found Taniqua Moreland even though he’d knocked on her mother’s door at 5:30 a.m. for perhaps the twelfth time. He had been looking for Taniqua for the past two months for slashing her ex-boyfriend’s pregnant girlfriend in the stomach. The injuries hadn’t been life-threatening, but Taniqua was getting more and more out of control and it was time they got her off the street for a while.
Now, back at the precinct, Hawk was trying to close out some of his cases. He liked this part of his job least, not only because of the extensive paperwork – a cop’s worst nightmare – but because he hated to leave cases unsolved. The problem wasn’t that the cases were unsolvable. It was that the detectives didn’t have enough time to work on each one properly. Homicides, robberies, shootings, rapes, stabbings and, of course, missings were the top priorities and there were so many of those, with more piling up each day, that the non-violent cases or those requiring more intricate investigation often got placed on the back burner. Six weeks went by without an opportunity to work on those kinds of cases and then the pressure began from above: unsolveds had to be closed. He looked up just as Greg’s eyes lit on him.
“You up for it?”
Like all real cops, Hawk preferred action to paperwork. “Yeah,” he said, logging out of the computer, closing the folder. What was one more day on this open Identity Theft? Maybe he’d get lucky and get a hit on the case. It wasn’t likely, but anything was possible.
“It’s maggots,” Greg said.
Hawk shrugged. “What are you gonna do?”
Nick was on vacation this week, which meant that they were stuck with Mike on their team. On the way over to Mercy Ave., he sat in the back cracking jokes. Neither Hawk nor Greg bothered to laugh. They were sick of Mike, but there was nothing they could do about him, so they tolerated him as best they could and went about police business as if he weren’t there.
Hawk drove up to the building entrance, automatically scanning the area for prospective witnesses. No one was about, which was unusual. He wondered what was going on. He glanced over at Greg and saw that he was noticing the same thing.
Greg was a decent enough cop, though the ADAs didn’t like him. He had a reputation among the prosecutors for being lazy and sloppy, which wasn’t wholly wrong, but it wasn’t wholly right, either. Greg just didn’t like to go to ‘court’ (which, in police jargon, included the D.A.’s office). He felt it was a waste of his time and he didn’t see why he had to go down to their office to discuss a case when he could do that perfectly well over the phone and then just show up to testify if it became necessary later on. The attorneys resented Greg’s arrogance and considered him a mediocre detective who suffered from unwarranted conceit. They were relieved that he made so few arrests and that practically none of his cases went to trial.
Conversely, they adored Hawk, though of course they didn’t know him by the street name he had earned long ago, when he first became a detective. Most detectives and police officers in neighboring precincts knew about the nickname and were secretly jealous of Hawk’s popularity among the residents of the communities they patrolled every day. However, he harbored no misconceptions, himself: it was not popularity, it was notoriety, and there were a lot of people out there who wouldn’t mind it one little bit if he got himself killed, nickname or no.
One of the reasons the ADAs all loved Hawk was that he always came to court when he was notified and often when he wasn’t. Sometimes he would come in with Nick or one of the other detectives even when he didn’t have a case on, just to visit, see which prosecutors were working what cases. He was familiar with the facts of all the arrests and ongoing investigations coming out of his squad, and the ADAs loved to get updates on what the detectives were up to and what new cases were coming down the pike. Additionally, Hawk testified well, both in the Grand Jury and on trial. He never threw in the gratuitous comments and qualifiers that drove the prosecutors crazy and gave defense attorneys opportunities to poke holes in the People’s case on cross-examination. He was naturally taciturn and didn’t feel compelled to add heretofore undisclosed but suddenly recollected details while on the stand as most cops did. His arrest paperwork could be counted upon to be thorough and consistent, with few of the typos that always turned out to be volcanic – sometimes fatal – by the time a case got to trial. On top of all that, they liked him because he was a superior detective and seemed like a decent guy. They knew nothing about his private life, but it was apparent to everyone that he cared about his cases and took his job seriously.
Actually, many of his colleagues thought he took the job too seriously, calling him The Man, accusing him of acting like a brainwashed government soldier who believed blindly in The Cause. But that was too simplistic for a man like Hawk. Perhaps it was because his father had been stabbed to death when Hawk was just seven years old, and he, the only son, was helpless to protect or console his mother and sisters, but, in fact, Hawk was driven by a desire for justice. He abhorred violence, though often his job required him to use force and, prior to becoming a police officer, the sports he’d played were notoriously brutal. He felt sorry for people who were powerless to avoid or defend themselves against the circumstances of their lives that exposed them to criminal activity. He believed that most people generally desired to live in peace. He didn’t dwell on good versus evil, believing there was good and bad in everyone; though he recognized that some people listed more heavily in one direction than the other. Mostly, he believed that a person could always choose not to sell drugs, shoot the gun, rob the store, stab his neighbor; so that if one chose incorrectly, he or she deserved to be caught and locked up and he had no compunction about being the one to do it. It was no secret, Hawk loved his job.
Of course, the life of a cop took its toll. Hawk never discussed his personal life, but to some of his colleagues, that in itself seemed a sure sign of trouble. All the guys complained about their wives. Many had girlfriends on the side, whom they saw even more infrequently than their wives and children. Half of the phonecalls and text messages they received each day were plaintive or angry missives from the women in their lives, demanding to know when and if they planned to come home.
But Hawk kept his private life to himself. A rare comment to Nick about having to go home to take care of something, or ducking outside to take a call coming in on his cellphone were the only indications that he had a life outside of work. He divulged nothing and, of course, no one – not even Mike – was stupid enough to ask. Everyone agreed that Hawk was one of the nicest people around, but he had an aloof, inviolable quality that even the least sensitive of his colleagues instinctively respected.
* * * * *
The moment they walked through the metal door into the tiny front vestibule of 816 Mercy Ave., they were assailed by a stench so powerful and repulsive they had to stagger out immediately to get some air. Mike was gagging, bent over with his hands on his knees.
“What the fuck is that?!” he cried.
“That, my friend, is the smell of decomposing human matter,” Greg choked out. “In other words, your DOA.” Despite the fact that he was panting like a dog in order to avoid retching, Greg had a twinkle in his eyes when he saw Mike shudder. Mike was so irritatingly confident and brash that the squad enjoyed embarrassing him whenever they could; it was an added pleasure when he was made to look foolish on the job – a feat he accomplished on his own with some frequency.
But now, Greg was a little shaken, himself. Though he would never openly admit it, the smell was so bad, he was afraid of what he would find. He looked over at Hawk. The only sign he was perturbed was the slight watering of his slate gray eyes. Seeing Hawk remain so composed gave Greg the necessary incentive to get control of himself, but he couldn’t entirely quell the panic that arose when he realized that this was only the first floor – the entrance – and they hadn’t even encountered the maggots yet.
“Well, we might as well get it over with,” he said.
Mike was green. “I can’t. I’ll throw up. It’s too disgusting. You guys take this one. I’ll get the next one. I’ll just wait near the car.” Mike walked away.
“Yeah. He’ll take the next one.” Greg gave Mike’s back a hard look and then shrugged. Hawk just ignored him and turned to go back into the building, saying, “The faster we go in, the faster we get out.”
By the time they reached the fifth floor, they were both sweating with exertion: it was difficult to run up stairs when you were concentrating on breathing only through your mouth.
They passed a short, balding guy on the third floor landing, who asked if they were here about the smell, but Greg had been too nauseous to try to talk to him. Hawk had looked at the guy as if he had two heads.
“How long has it been like this?” Hawk was apparently able to talk without vomiting, Greg noticed a little enviously.
“Don’t know. ‘Bout a week or two. Give or take, you know?”
“A week or two and nobody called before today? Have you noticed maybe that it stinks a little in here?”
“You kinda get used to it, you know? I just figured the sewer line was broke or someone forgot to take out the garbage. You know how it is. It wasn’t till I saw them maggots that I thought anything strange.”
Hawk was amazed. The odor of decomposition was so distinct – a uniquely sour, putrid smell – he didn’t understand how anyone could mistake it for a sewage leak. But, even if they did, how could they have waited so long to do anything about it? Well, actually, that he did understand. Mere yards from the projects, the tyrannical landlords who owned these properties were notorious for refusing the most basic repairs as their buildings fell apart and they waited for them to burn down so they could collect on the insurance. To whom could residents direct their complaints?
As they reached the fifth floor, even Hawk was struggling not to gag. He was very glad he had not gone with the guys from the night squad this morning for a breakfast calzone because he had no doubt he’d be puking it up right now. It was hard enough to keep last night’s Chinese food down. A swarming pile of maggots oozed from underneath the front door of apartment 5-B. He could hear Greg starting to gag and he knew that if he looked at him, he was finished. So, he stepped up to the door, squishing the yellowy maggots under his size 11 & 1/2 shoes and tested its strength. Good, no metal fortifications. He stepped back and gave such a forceful kick he almost slipped and fell into the convulsing pile of worms. The door flew open. Hawk regained his balance and rushed face first into the invisible, terrible fumes. His eyes were burning and his stomach flipped – he was going to lose it. He ran to a window, ignoring the mass of maggots moving like a live carpet beneath his feet, threw it open and leaned out, gulping for air. Greg appeared beside him instantly and the two of them tried to inhale the sky outside of this one window. Hawk thought, if there is a Hell, this is what it smells like.
Fortified with two lungs full of quasi-fresh oxygen, he turned around and surveyed the apartment. Maggots everywhere. His tearing eyes followed their trail into the bedroom. He stepped forward to look inside the room and saw the deceased, a white male, lying face-up on the floor. The lower half of the body was hidden under the bed which lay on top of the chest. The arms were stretched out to each side. What had once been a face was now only a squirming puddle of rotten flesh and slimy worms.
Hawk walked gingerly around the bedroom, crushing maggots with each step, trying to piece together what had happened. The unnatural position of the body and the fact that he was lying on his back seemed to indicate that he hadn’t just been crawling under the bed to get something when he got pinned. This was now looking like a homicide investigation. They would have to call in the Medical Examiner and now Crime Scene, as well, to collect the evidence. Hawk did not think they would enjoy this one. Looking around the room, there didn’t seem to be any physical evidence that hadn’t been contaminated by what could only be termed maggot infestation, but then again, he was no scientist. He revised his earlier conviction: they would probably love the challenge of a half-digested crime scene.
He motioned to Greg, who’d only gotten as far as the bedroom door before having to run back to the window, and they took the stairs down three at a time. Even as they were scrambling to get the hell out of there, however, Hawk had to admit that he had gotten used to the smell.
Mike was leaning against the hood of the car, talking into his cell-phone like one of the lazy, entitled sergeants and lieutenants he sucked up to so much, but at least he wasn’t sitting inside. If he had been, Greg would probably have lost his temper and dragged him out of the car. When he saw them emerge, Mike closed his phone quickly and tried to look grave.
“What’s it like? Sorry I couldn’t make it. I can stand just about anything but that smell made me nauseous. Don’t know how you guys stood it.”
Greg very deliberately turned his back on Mike. Hawk just gave him one of his steely, unreadable stares until Mike looked away, becoming very interested in the front tire all of a sudden. Hawk pulled out his phone and speed-dialed the sergeant, who called the detectives back several minutes later to say that it would take the M.E. about forty-five minutes to get there and the Crime Scene guys about a half hour after that. Greg suggested they go get a cup of coffee. He really wanted a stiff drink, but it was not yet 10:00 in the morning and he was never able to stop at just one. Maybe he would have suggested it if Hawk had been a drinker, but other than an occasional beer on a slow turnaround, when they dipped out or the shift ended with the guys still wired and needing to unwind, Hawk didn’t drink. Greg privately speculated that Hawk drank more heavily at home since he was so closed-mouthed about his personal life and people who were like that usually had something to hide.
Mike was eager to get out of there and bounced around like a golden retriever. Greg and Hawk would have been happy to dump him back at the precinct but they were the designated babysitters today, so they took him with them, however reluctantly, to the diner.
“Detectives, nice to see you,” said Barbara, the head waitress behind the counter. It was impossible to tell Barbara’s age. She could be anywhere from thirty to sixty depending on how hard her life had actually been, which was one of those eternally unknowable mysteries. Barbara was an icon: whenever anyone from the 8-2 squad came to the diner, no matter what time, how busy the place was or whose section they sat in, Barbara always served them personally. She knew all their names and had memorized each one’s preferences down to the minute details, including how many sugars and for whom to hold the mayo from the first time she served them. She was particularly fond of Nick and if ever Hawk came in without him, she always asked if he was alright. Hawk was one of her favorites, too, though from her friendly demeanor – even with the grumpier detectives like Patrick and Gerald – she made everyone feel equally adored and cared for.
She immediately brought a Coke for Hawk and a cup of coffee, black and sweet, for Greg. She looked politely at Mike and asked, “What’ll it be for you, dear?”
And that was how everyone knew Barbara didn’t like Mike.
Mike didn’t seem to notice the slight. Yet another demonstration of how imperceptive he was. This, and a thousand other flaws, plainly proved his lack of even the most basic skills necessary to be a good detective. His presence among them was pure politics.
“Coffee, as usual,” Mike said with a wink as if they were old friends. Barbara gave a nod and looked at Hawk.
“How’s Nickie?” The anxious look in her eyes was indiscernible to the casual observer, but Hawk knew her well.
“He’s fine. Not to worry. He’s on vacation this week, probably getting beauty treatments and manicures.” Hawk smiled at her. The contented look returned to her kind brown eyes and she went to get Mike’s coffee.
Hawk didn’t eat. He had thought they should stay and wait for the M.E. while they were somewhat inured to the smell, but he had allowed Greg to persuade him to come to the diner. Nevertheless, he was fully aware of what awaited them back at apartment 5-B, and he knew he couldn’t manage the next part on a full stomach. Greg had a bagel to quiet the roiling in his gut – some of it a remainder of last night’s bender – and to chase away the taste of bile. Mike had three eggs, sausage, home fries, toast and a cinnamon danish. Obviously, he had no plans to work this D.O.A.
Forty-five minutes later, as they were standing by the car near the building entrance, the M.E. arrived. When Michelle Perez stepped out of the car, the three men automatically made small, unconscious physical adjustments to their clothes and posture: Hawk stood taller, Greg squared his shoulders and Mike ran a hand through his hair. She was about twenty-seven years old, with thick, black hair pulled back in a ponytail and black-framed glasses outlining beautiful almond-shaped brown eyes fringed with lustrous black lashes, resting on a small, upturned nose. She wore no makeup on her flawless, olive skin. She was a normal height, about 5’4” – which, to Hawk, who was a full foot taller, seemed petite – dressed in a black, straight skirt and white silky blouse, her shapely legs enhanced by impractical, shiny black heels about three inches high. She carried a white, lab coat and black doctor’s bag, but she still looked like a T.V. version of a medical examiner rather than the real thing.
She approached the detectives with a smile and introduced herself, directing her main comments at Hawk. That always happened. Maybe it was because of his commanding height or perhaps it was his serious countenance, but people always assumed he was the one in charge.
“Hi guys, what’ve we got?” Her teeth were like little white pearls.
Just as Mike opened his mouth to speak, Hawk replied, “Deceased, male. Lots of maggots.”
She seemed delighted. “Let’s go!”
She turned toward the building entrance and Greg, watching her plump, round, Hispanic derriere sway slightly from side to side, smiled wickedly at Hawk. The day had taken a decidedly brighter turn.
“Uh, I’m sure you don’t need all of us,” Mike stated. The girl might be totally hot, but he wasn’t going in there again just to impress a pretty face. “I’ll wait out here for Crime Scene.”
She half turned and looked at Mike appraisingly. “Yes,” she said. “That’s probably best.” She looked at Greg and Hawk, raising one black eyebrow inquiringly. Neither of them backed down. With a shrug, she turned toward the entrance again. Hawk reached a long arm out to open the door for her.
This time the men were better prepared to withstand the stench. They breathed carefully through their mouths. The M.E. was chattering away like she was at a picnic, her high heels clicking merrily up the stairs. Silently, the men marveled that she was so unaffected by the odor that made them want to retch their guts out and cry like children.
She briefly glanced at the maggots squirming outside the front door. Then she opened the door and, stepping almost daintily on the carpet of worms, walked directly toward the bedroom. Greg was dying to run to the window again, but Hawk followed her without hesitation. It was simple: if this very attractive girl could handle the putrid smell, much less the grisly scene itself, there was no way he was going to give in to any amateur reactions. He was a seasoned cop, a detective now for years; he’d seen worse than this. Well, he’d seen at least as bad as this, he convinced himself. It was simply an exercise of mind over matter, however decomposed.
He noticed she had stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly.
“What?” he said.
“We’re going to have to pull him out from under the bed,” she answered.
He was momentarily startled. He’d somehow thought he wouldn’t have to touch the body himself once it became the province of the M.E.’s office. He recovered quickly and began putting on his latex gloves. He searched around for Greg and subtly motioned for him to do the same.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Greg muttered. But, he also put on his latex gloves.
Looking at Greg, the M.E. said, “You, Detective, help me lift the bed.” To Hawk she said, “You grab his arms and pull him out.”
With some effort, they lifted the wooden bed frame that had lain atop the man’s chest for nearly two weeks. Hawk bent down over the body by the head and tried to get a grip underneath the shoulders. He tamped down the thought of maggots crawling up his jacket sleeves and unfocused his eyes so that he would not have to register the vision of quivering pulp that had once been a face.
He began to pull. Though he was very strong from years of playing sports and working out, it was like trying to move the slippery carcass of a gelatinous, beached whale. He could not get a firm grip. His gloved hands moved to the armpits and then to the mushy part of the arms that had once been triceps.
He had managed to pull the body horizontally along the floor about eight inches so that the feet had just cleared the bed frame when the right arm tore off at the shoulder. Greg dropped his corner of the bed and bolted from the room. In the shocked silence that ensued, Hawk could hear Greg retching in the front room. At least he had had sense enough not to taint the crime scene, Hawk thought.
The M.E. blinked behind her glasses. No doubt she was expecting Hawk to follow suit.
He laughed.
Whatever she had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. She smiled broadly. “You need a hand with that?” she asked, indicating the limb dangling in the air.
“Nope. I’m trained to disarm people,” he replied, and the two of them burst into boisterous laughter.
Greg returned, bleary-eyed. He looked through the doorway at the two of them laughing and felt a little defensive, thinking they were poking fun at him. But Hawk grinned at him and, waving the arm over the body, said, “Come on, Greg, give us a hand, will ya?”
Greg laughed shakily, uncertain of the political correctness of laughing at such a scene in front of the M.E. But she seemed to be amused as well. For the next forty minutes, the three of them processed the bedroom and the body, making tasteless jokes until the Crime Scene guys arrived to do their thing.
* * * * *
Back at the precinct, Hawk took a twenty-minute shower. He set the water as hot as he could stand it, and washed his hair with two of the different types of shampoos people had left in there. He scrubbed his body vigorously with the strongest scented bar of soap he found and then just stood there, replaying the day’s horror show in his mind.
There, in the privacy of the shower, he finally admitted to himself that that was the worst D.O.A. he had ever processed. The human body was sometimes an awful, ugly thing. Before he could re-route this train of thought, Hawk wondered, not for the first time, how he was going to die and what his body would look like at death. Images of the countless corpses he had seen over the years – homicides, suicides, accidents – raced behind his eyes as the hot water pounded his skin. There were so many experiences of death to choose from.
He forced his eyes open to dispel the pictures that flashed unbidden in his head. They could only lead toward despair, that terrible emotion he refused to acknowledge.
Today. He would concentrate only on today.
Today, he was proud of himself for not disgracing himself by getting sick. Still, he knew it would take a very long time for the memory to fade.