White Death by Philip C. Baridon Read Free Book Online Page A

2:00 a.m., and the drunks are home by 3:00 a.m., either nothing or everything happens. No calls are routine until the city begins to awaken about 5:30 a.m. It was 3:30 a.m., and I slumped against the window trying hard to stay awake.
    “Scouts 65 and 66, a shooting at 4921 Georgia Avenue, complainant refused; respond code one, 0332.”
    Sitting only a block away, I acknowledged, turned the corner and looked at one of the most infamous slum buildings in the city. As I hurried around to the trunk for the first-aid kit, past images of visits here darted across my mind. There was no elevator; just an empty shaft filled with rotting garbage overrun by well-fed rats. Many rooms had no doors to the hallways, where junkies dozed and men gambled. I raced past the debris and stench, carrying a gun in one hand and a kit to save lives in the other.
    Screaming from two women told me where to go. My appearance in the hallway intensified their hysteria. The victim lay on his back in front of me. He had been shot in the chest, head, left shoulder, and arm. I could get no information from the women. Working feverishly, I ripped open his shirt to close off the air gurgling through a large caliber entry wound in his chest. A request to apply pressure to slow the arterial bleeding in his left arm produced more hysteria and no help. The wailing of Scout 66 was still in the distance. I had to control that bleeding. Sweat poured down my face as I improvised a tourniquet from his torn shirt and a broken curtain rod. His pupils were ofunequal size; blood flowed from one ear.
    I was losing him, and I knew it.
    “Who wasted you, man?”
    His breathing changed along with a slight body movement; he heard the question.
    “Come on; you got to tell me who wasted you.”
    Down on my knees just off his right side, I bent forward to hear any sound or word he might utter. Nothing, but another slight change in his breathing. He couldn’t talk. It was all over.
    As I rocked back on my heels, the fingers of his right hand tugged at my right hand. Instinctively, I held his hand for about a minute and watched him die. His last friend was a cop who hated midnights.
    The sounds of sirens and footsteps began to fill the air as I wiped a tear from my eyes. Cops don’t cry about bums wasted on a contract. I vowed to check his criminal history, just to verify he was a menace to society. Then I thought better of it and accepted the humanity of his dying. The record didn’t matter.
    Johnny Yates arrived from Homicide, a friend from other such encounters and a good country boy. We sometimes frequented the same watering holes after work.
    “Johnny,” I said. “You must love fresh stiffs. Good to see you, I guess. I don’t have any witness information or anything other than what you’re looking at. He pissed off somebody. Do you know him?”
    “No,” he replied. “Did you notice the track marks on his arms? You could run Amtrak service on them.”
    I smiled at the well-worn joke.
    “Hey, you seem a little down,” said Johnny. “I’ve got just the right medicine to cheer you up. After you get some rest in the morning, can you meet me at the morgue at 6:00 p.m. sharp? Go into the side entrance on Eighteenth Street, off Massachusetts Avenue. I’ll wait for you there.”
    “And how is the morgue going to cheer me up?”
    “Let’s just say we’re having a special event for a new Homicide detective.”
    I looked at my friend who was wearing a smug grin.
    “Okay, Johnny. I’ll meet you at 6:00 p.m. for your event.”
    The next afternoon I arrived a little early, parked, and saw Johnny smoking a cigarette by the entrance.
    “Here’s the deal,” he began. “A few other Homicide dicks will be inside pretending to review cases, looking for something, and so on. We just walk in and do the same, ask the Medical Examiner something about this case. He’ll be lecturing the new detective on how the morgue functions, as well as some pointers about on-scene