Code 2

Short Story

Officer Sekulovich made a left turn on James M. Wood and headed downtown. His partner of two months, Ruiz, was dozing off. Sekulovich didn’t mind. Let the baby sleep.

He reached over and took the coffee cup out of the rookie’s limp hand. The floor mat didn’t need another stain.

It was 2am, and the night was quiet for a change. He drove slowly enough to get a glimpse of each alley—more out of habit than purpose. No pattern. No big plan. Plans never worked on patrol. Deterrence? Yeah, right.

He turned right onto Berendo. Nice street. Full of trees. Real trees. Bushy and thick.

“Possible 10-56 at 901 Irolo, apartment 24b.”

“Ahh, fuck,” said Sekulovich and sped up. The jolt awakened Ruiz.

“What up?”

Sekulovich grabbed the mic.

“Unit 2-2, en route.”

“Copy Unit 2-2. Be advised, the victim is a white male. No signs of life reported by EMS. Code 2.”

“Copy. ETA one minute, Code 2.”

“Suicide?” asked Ruiz.

“Suicide.”

There was no need to turn on the siren. Let the people sleep.

“Gunshot?” asked Ruiz.

Sekulovich didn’t say anything. He was hoping it was not that. Or if it was, not in the mouth or temple. The heart is best. Cleanest.

“You think he shot himself?” pressed Ruiz.

“How the fuck would I know?”

“Maybe it’s a hanging. My cousin Roberto…”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Or an OD.” Ruiz inhaled deeply. “Well, at least he’s not a jumper. I hear that gets messy.” He smiled sheepishly.

Without pausing at the red light, Sekulovich took a sharp right onto Irolo, his jaw clenched. They were five seconds away.

“Maybe he gassed himself,” said Ruiz, bracing himself against the dashboard.

Gas went out of style—Sekulovich knew that. Not enough CO in today’s pipes. But the man could’ve put an exit bag over his head. Shit, I hope he didn’t, he thought, pulling in front of a red brick building.

*

It was an overdose of sleeping pills.

Sekulovich let Ruiz deal with the paramedics. They had already requested the coroner. It all looked simple enough—if ending one’s life could be simple. But at least this customer was neat.

The gentleman was lying on his bed, fully clothed. It looked like he had his Sunday’s best on. His face seemed peaceful. He was old. Old-ish. He looked a bit familiar to Sekulovich, but he couldn’t place it. He was sure he had never seen him before. It was a different type of familiarity.

The man’s arms were folded on his stomach. They were holding an object which looked like a metal claw.

There was a wallet on the nightstand. Sekulovich put his nitrile gloves on and picked it up.

There were no credit cards or cash in the wallet. Just the man’s ID. It wasn’t even a driver’s license—just a plain ID card. A Mr. Steven Smith. Date of birth: May 18, 1951. Shit, thought Sekulovich. Today is the eighteenth. He put the ID back in the wallet. Poor bastard.

He knew he wouldn’t find any signs of foul play. It wasn’t that kind of a scene. But what kind of a scene was it? A Happy-Fucking-Birthday scene, he mused to himself. Then he noticed a piece of paper leaning against the night lamp. He picked it up carefully. It was the suicide note. The simplest, most direct one he’s ever seen.

“GOOD BYE. PLEASE BURY ME WITH MY BACK SCRATCHER.”

“What the hell is that?” Sekulovich heard Ruiz ask. He turned. The rookie was leaning over the man’s body, studying the claw. He showed him the note.

“A back scratcher?”

“You’ve never seen a back scratcher?”

“You mean, it’s for scratching one’s back?” Ruiz shook his head. “That’s weird.”

“Not if you got nobody to scratch you, it ain’t.”

The coroner’s team arrived. Sekulovich briefed them in two minutes. His job here was done. Just a report at the station.

“Let’s split,” he said to Ruiz.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

*

Their shift was almost over and Sekulovich let Ruiz drive the car back to the station. He rolled the passenger window down and mindlessly stared at the empty strip malls on Olympic. He felt the warm air on his cheeks. It smelled of tar and jasmine.

“You know, that hombre back there—he kinda looked a bit like you,” said Ruiz, breaking the silence. “I mean, he looked a bit like your father, or something.” Ruiz brought the car to a stop at the lights. “Like an older you. In about twenty years, or something.”

“Thanks, kid. I needed that.”

“What a way to go,” Ruiz continued. “Everything packed nice and neat, things all boxed up and ready to haul.” He shook his head. “Even left the door unlocked. Like he didn’t want to cause nobody any fuss.”

The light turned green. Before they started moving, a garbage truck came out of the side street and got right in front of them. The air turned sour. Ruiz passed the truck and sped up. They turned right on Vermont.

“Adios, Koreatown,” said Ruiz. “In half an hour, señorita Maria Lopez Rodriguez will be scratching my back with her sweet, long nails.” He laughed. “How about you, señor?”

Sekulovich rolled up the window. They were already pulling into the station garage.

***