If I Be Still

If I Be Still

          Officer Callahan put her back to the apartment building wall, gun drawn. Her partner, Andrew Blake, banged on the door to announce their presence. “Police open up!” There was the sound of locks rattling and fleeing footsteps, as the door swung open. The smell of stale spilled beer, burning candles and cigarettes permeated the air.

          The officers caught a glimpse of someone rounding the corner into the hallway. The victim lay on the sofa, head bloodied, face purple and swollen, eyes glued together slits, not looking human. On the floor near the sofa lay a tire iron with bits of scalp and hair stuck to the nearly dried blood coating the bottom half of it.

          Officer Callahan fought back nausea, grabbed the mike on her shirtsleeve and yelled into it: “Radio we need a med unit at 215 Duncan code three and start the evidence recovery unit as well. It’s a bad one.”

          Officer Blake moved to the hallway in search of the perpetrator. He pulled his flashlight from his belt but it would not work. In the dim, flickering light from candles in holders on the hallway wall, he could make out a bare foot sticking out from behind a hamper at the far end of the hallway.

          “Come out, lay on the floor face down and put your hands behind your back.” Without a word, the perp crawled out and complied. Officer Blake slapped on the handcuffs, stood the prisoner up, and with a firm hold on the cuffs, pushed the prisoner ahead of him and out the door to the squad car and the trip downtown. As they walked he said: “You are under arrest for domestic violence first degree. You have the right to remain silent…”

          A med unit, sirens blaring and lights flashing, turned the corner and half slid to a stop in front of the apartment building. Two emergency medical technicians, first aid kits in hand, exploded from the doors and bounded across the sparse grass lawn, for the door.

          E.M.T Tina Buford was the first to reach the victim. Despite her twelve years on the job, what she saw on the sofa sickened her. There was not much they could do but immobilize the victim, start IV’s, treat for shock and transport to the trauma unit at nearby Mercy Hospital.

          Officer Callahan remained at the scene to secure it until the evidence unit arrived. Callhan needing to answer a nature call, walked through the hall being careful not to touch anything. As she passed the middle bedroom she heard something. drew her gun and froze. There it was again, coming from under the bed. She crouched down and looked under it. A little boy not more than six years old was lying there face up, eyes wide open and motionless. Her mind raced as she thought: “Oh my god not another victim…” She holstered her gun, reached out and put her little finger under the child's nostrils and was relieved to feel a slight rush of air. He was alive!

          "Hello what is your name?" she asked the child. There was no response. "Can you hear me?” The boy’s eyes moved briefly and his body began to tremble. Callhan said “Oh baby you don't need to be afraid any more, you're safe now.” She pulled his rigid body from under the bed, picked him up and cradled him against her. It wasn't long before the little boy warmed to her touch, put his arms around her neck, snuggled his cheek against her shoulder, looked up at her with tear stained, baby blue eyes and asked her:

          “I be still. Are you da angel?”

          “Officer Callahan fought back her tears as she answered him. "No baby I am not an angel. I am a policewoman.”

          “Daddy says I gotta be still or I get hit too an go live wiff da angels. I want my mommy…”

          “Baby Mommy had to go away but you're ok, I got you.” She hugged him tighter. Officer Callahan hit her mike’s talk button again:“Radio this is Callahan, send someone from social services out here. I found a small boy hiding under a bed here at the DV crime scene...what’s your name little fella?” “Me name Bobby” was the reply. “Radio we need someone to take care of Bobby.”

          Officer Blake pulled the squad car into the basement parking garage of the jail. He removed the prisoner from the back seat and they walked a few short steps and into the booking room.

          Officer Tim Kern took charge of the prisoner. As Officer Blake turned to leave, Kern asked him: "I heard on the radio it was a bad one, how’s the victim?” “We don't know yet, took a beating with a tire iron. Still alive when we got there, but barely.”

          Officer Kern took finger prints, a mug shot and put the prisoner in a holding cell to await the move to the main cell block. As he did he had to fight back the urge to give the prisoner some of their own medicine, but his better judgment told him not to. The department had been warned against any further brutality, having just lost a lawsuit to a prisoner kicked in the stomach after he abused a four year old.

          In operating room seven at Mercy Hospital, the fight was under way to save the life of Pat Murphy, the city's latest domestic violence victim.

          Pat’s family gathered in a small, uncomfortable waiting room just down the hall from operating room seven and prayed. This was not the first time that Pat’s mate had turned violent, but it was by far the worst beating yet.

          Pat’s skull was fractured, three cervical disks were ruptured and swelling was putting pressure on the spinal cord; unless the doctors could relieve the pressure fast, there was little hope of Pat ever having any feeling below the neck; that is if Pat survived the surgery.

          Pat’s mother, Evelyn, paced the hallway leading to the operating room, hoping each time as she approached the double swinging doors someone would exit and she would get a glimpse of what was going on inside, but the doors never opened.

          Legs worn out, Evelyn stopped at the coffee station and poured herself a cup-black, no sugar. It was going to be a long night. Back in the waiting room, she pulled several chairs together to form a makeshift bed then slouched down in them trying to watch the overhead television. It was difficult to mentally tune it in and her nightmare out. Within minutes her eyes became too heavy and she slid down snoring, asleep on the chair bottoms. No one had the heart to wake her and it was daylight by the time she awoke. The left side of her face was stuck to the plastic chair seat and her back ached from six hours of broken sleep, stretched out across the uneven chair bottoms. By now the hospital staff had changed shifts and a new clerk was working the patient information booth. Evelyn half walked, half stumbled to the booth, her left leg prickly tingling, asleep. The clerk anticipated her first question, “I’m sorry Mrs. Murphy but Pat is still in surgery, we will let you know as soon as there is any word.”

          Evelyn went back and took a seat in the waiting room. Bobby’s other grandmother Jackie, stepped off the elevator. Evelyn confronted her immediately. “You know what your demon has done this time? Pat has been in surgery all night and may never walk again, I just thank God little Bobby was at your place last night and did not have to see it all.” “What do you mean at my place, they never brought him over” Jackie said. In a moment of sheer horror both grandmothers realized their grandson Bobby was missing!

          “Oh Jackie little Bobby…he must be terrified! Go see if he is still there
in the apartment. He told me last week he hides under his bed every time they fight. Oh that poor baby…”

          As Jackie ran for the elevator, she looked back and shouted: “I’ll call you soon as I know anything about Bobby. ” She headed to the apartment in a mad rush.

          Judge Bentley was presiding at arraignments when they brought in the prisoners for arraignment. Pat’s spouse's case was last on the docket but before the judge had a chance to call the case, a deputy came in and whispered in his ear. The judge raised his eyebrows, then frowned. He cleared his throat, looked sternly at the prisoner and said: “The court calls the case of Commonwealth of Kentucky vs Murphy. The prisoner walked to the defendant's table and sat down.

          The judge asked: "Are you Pat Murphy?" "Yes I am Mrs. Pat Murphy" the five foot, auburn haired, green eyed charmer cooed in her perfect, sultry, southern accent. The same one she had used so successfully in the past to convince the officers responding to neighbor complaints of fighting in their house, that Pat was the aggresor and of course they believed her. It was easy to do because Pat was too embarassed to admit that he was the victim.

          The judge adjusted his black robe's collar and continued: "I have just been advised that your husband Pat died on the operating table at Mercy Hospital. I am postponing this arraignment to give you time to hire an attorney and to give the prosecuting attorney time to upgrade the charges against you from domestic violence to murder. Deputy take her away!

          At Pat's funeral grandma Murphy told Bobby if he was still in church he could have a balloon after the service. Bobby was unusually well behaved as the priest conducted the funeral mass for Bobby's dad. Bobby took the yellow helium filled balloon from the day care room and went outside in the church yard. He taped on the note he had scribbled in crayon it read:

         "Daddy say helwo to da angels for me. I Luv U. Bobby."

          That was 1968 and I can still hear dad saying hello to the angels for me after all these years, that is...if I be still.

          *This is a fictional piece and bears no intentional resemblance to persons living or deceased. It is intended to show men are also victims of domestic violence---they just don't tell!


© 2001 R. L.K.