regard we gave each of our patients.
It was a Sunday night when we got the call. Charles Scott Ghanet lived near Schmitz Park in an area of dry yards and treeless avenues, in a house that was small and nondescript. When we rolled up, I got off and collected the aid and vent kits while Tronstad grabbed the Lifepak. On the sidewalk, Lieutenant Sears spoke to a Latino man in jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt, then filled us in as we marched up to Ghanet’s front door. “Neighbor said he’s worried. He hasn’t seen any lights for a couple of days.”
“Charles Scott didn’t call this in himself?” Tronstad asked.
“The neighbor.”
“Don’t you think this asshole might have called at noon instead of three in the morning?” Tronstad muttered. “Is this whole neighborhood retarded?”
“Settle down,” said Sears.
We banged on the barred door, and Lieutenant Sears called out loudly, “Charles Scott? Fire department! You okay? Charles?”
“Maybe he had a stroke,” said Johnson, who had a theory about everything. “My aunt had a stroke.”
Tronstad headed around the house with a flashlight, attempting to peer through the windows. Lieutenant Sears looked at Johnson and said, “Why don’t you go with him?”
“A black man peeking in windows at three in the morning? I don’t think so.”
I left Sears and Johnson glaring at each other. Together, Tronstad and I circled the house, pushing through knee-deep weeds. The blinds and drapes were pulled tight on the other side of the barred windows. Behind the house Ghanet’s fifteen-year-old pickup truck sat in the garage.
“Fuckin’ Fort Knox,” said Tronstad. “I always wondered what he’s hiding in there.”
“He got burgled once.”
“
I
got burgled once, but I don’t live in a fuckin’ vault.”
When we returned to the front door, Sears gave us a grim look.
“What?” said Tronstad.
Johnson said, “Take a peek through the mail slot.”
Switching on my medical flashlight, I propped open the mail slot with two fingers and swept the beam across familiar stacks of old newspapers six feet tall and the backside of a piano half buried by storage. A distinctive odor wafted out the slot. Without waiting to be told, I went back to the rig and retrieved the Halligan tool and flathead ax we carried for forcible entry. It took a minute to get the heavy steel door open. Inside, the smell was worse—a lot worse.
“Hey, yo,” Sears said. “Charles Scott? You in here?”
Ghanet was a pack rat, one of those old-timers who hoarded every newspaper, article of clothing, coupon, magazine, book, car battery, camera instruction booklet, and canceled check he’d ever touched.
Tronstad forged ahead, plowing through the piles of garbage as if on an Easter egg hunt, while I jumped in front of Lieutenant Sears. After the Arch Place fire Sears had treated me gingerly, thinking I’d been shaken because of the deaths. This would be my chance to prove corpses didn’t bother me.
“Jesus. I wonder where the cats are?” Tronstad said as something dark and furry shot between my legs and out into the yard. A second feline shadow followed.
It was a three-bedroom house, and if there hadn’t been garbage piled higher than our heads everywhere, we might have searched it in thirty seconds. As it was, it took our little train over a minute to reach the nook in front of the flickering television, where we usually met Ghanet. He was nowhere in sight.
Like hamsters burrowing into tall grass, we continued our search. Tronstad went into the bathroom, while Sears made his way into the master bedroom. I explored the kitchen. A minute or two later, we met in the cramped pathway Ghanet had carved in the litter between the kitchen and the living room. “He’s not in there,” I said.
“Not on the shitter,” Tronstad said.
“Back East they lost a body in a situation like this,” said Sears. “Somebody found her a year later. She’d turned into a mummy.”
“That
It was a Sunday night when we got the call. Charles Scott Ghanet lived near Schmitz Park in an area of dry yards and treeless avenues, in a house that was small and nondescript. When we rolled up, I got off and collected the aid and vent kits while Tronstad grabbed the Lifepak. On the sidewalk, Lieutenant Sears spoke to a Latino man in jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt, then filled us in as we marched up to Ghanet’s front door. “Neighbor said he’s worried. He hasn’t seen any lights for a couple of days.”
“Charles Scott didn’t call this in himself?” Tronstad asked.
“The neighbor.”
“Don’t you think this asshole might have called at noon instead of three in the morning?” Tronstad muttered. “Is this whole neighborhood retarded?”
“Settle down,” said Sears.
We banged on the barred door, and Lieutenant Sears called out loudly, “Charles Scott? Fire department! You okay? Charles?”
“Maybe he had a stroke,” said Johnson, who had a theory about everything. “My aunt had a stroke.”
Tronstad headed around the house with a flashlight, attempting to peer through the windows. Lieutenant Sears looked at Johnson and said, “Why don’t you go with him?”
“A black man peeking in windows at three in the morning? I don’t think so.”
I left Sears and Johnson glaring at each other. Together, Tronstad and I circled the house, pushing through knee-deep weeds. The blinds and drapes were pulled tight on the other side of the barred windows. Behind the house Ghanet’s fifteen-year-old pickup truck sat in the garage.
“Fuckin’ Fort Knox,” said Tronstad. “I always wondered what he’s hiding in there.”
“He got burgled once.”
“
I
got burgled once, but I don’t live in a fuckin’ vault.”
When we returned to the front door, Sears gave us a grim look.
“What?” said Tronstad.
Johnson said, “Take a peek through the mail slot.”
Switching on my medical flashlight, I propped open the mail slot with two fingers and swept the beam across familiar stacks of old newspapers six feet tall and the backside of a piano half buried by storage. A distinctive odor wafted out the slot. Without waiting to be told, I went back to the rig and retrieved the Halligan tool and flathead ax we carried for forcible entry. It took a minute to get the heavy steel door open. Inside, the smell was worse—a lot worse.
“Hey, yo,” Sears said. “Charles Scott? You in here?”
Ghanet was a pack rat, one of those old-timers who hoarded every newspaper, article of clothing, coupon, magazine, book, car battery, camera instruction booklet, and canceled check he’d ever touched.
Tronstad forged ahead, plowing through the piles of garbage as if on an Easter egg hunt, while I jumped in front of Lieutenant Sears. After the Arch Place fire Sears had treated me gingerly, thinking I’d been shaken because of the deaths. This would be my chance to prove corpses didn’t bother me.
“Jesus. I wonder where the cats are?” Tronstad said as something dark and furry shot between my legs and out into the yard. A second feline shadow followed.
It was a three-bedroom house, and if there hadn’t been garbage piled higher than our heads everywhere, we might have searched it in thirty seconds. As it was, it took our little train over a minute to reach the nook in front of the flickering television, where we usually met Ghanet. He was nowhere in sight.
Like hamsters burrowing into tall grass, we continued our search. Tronstad went into the bathroom, while Sears made his way into the master bedroom. I explored the kitchen. A minute or two later, we met in the cramped pathway Ghanet had carved in the litter between the kitchen and the living room. “He’s not in there,” I said.
“Not on the shitter,” Tronstad said.
“Back East they lost a body in a situation like this,” said Sears. “Somebody found her a year later. She’d turned into a mummy.”
“That
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