The other day we went to a shooting.
The first-in unit met us and said there was only one patient and we were canceled. Stuck in the large, cordoned-off scene, my partner walked over with them to take a look. I reluctantly followed.
“I think he looks about 16.”
On the street, next to the tires of parked cars, the outlines of a crumpled body were visible, covered by – instead of a bright plastic sheet that is typically used – a white bedsheet someone had probably borrowed (assuming they want it back) from a nearby residence, stained with bright red blood.
My co-workers kept walking, past the crime scene tape, up to the body. Perhaps one of the very, very things Hollywood gets reasonably right about us is that we do take peeks at bodies. They take a peek.
As always, despite all the activity on the scene, the small area around the body was eerily quiet and still, impenetrable to noise.
I stopped at the crime scene tape, crossed my arms and waited. I did not want to look. I was not interested.