We’re called for a stabbing.
Its dark and when we pull up on scene, we can see officers with guns drawn. We stage and wait the word to go in.
It’s hard to tell what’s going on, then another cop comes running out into the street right for us. We step out. “You’re going to need your stretcher,” he shouts, “and, and disinfectant, lots of it. Give me the strongest stuff you got. I got blood on me. He got HIV and he bleeding all over the place.” The officer is hopping up and down and moving his hands like he’s got posion ivy, but can’t itch himself.
I grab a couple trauma dresssings and a box of vionex, which I hand to the officer.
We go down the hill behind the house and find six cops standing in the dark. They attack the box of vionex, shining their flashlights on each other as they scrub their hands.
I look around and see a body lying face down on the ground, handcuffed. “Can I get a light over here?” I ask. “Is this guy alive?”
“He’s fine,” an officer says. They are scrubbing each other like surgeons.
I shine my tiny pen light on the man. His eyes are closed, but I can see a little chest movement. He’s got some lacerations about his head. His hair is matted with blood. Smells like etoh. He’s got a nice steady pulse in his neck. Rate of 80. “You okay, buddy?” I ask.
He opens one eye, looks at me like he’s bored, then closes it.
I look back at the officers. “You missed a spot,” one says, shining his big mag light on the other’s hands. “Right there.”