Chapter 2
Brian pulled off his single-sleeved uniform shirt and pitched it into the trashcan that sat in the corner of the locker room. He pulled on a black tee-shirt. His arm had begun stinging again, and the bandage around his forearm became loose as he had predicted it would. He took his sheers and cut it off. Then with another roll of cling he rewrapped the dressing—the right way this time—and taped it into place. Now it was snug and felt like a real bandage.
Mel entered the locker room and shook her head.
“The Chipmunk wants to see us.”
“Oh God, what does that fucking rodent want now?”
“He didn’t seem pissed. Just please don’t get him started. Joe’s waiting outside for me.”
“I’ll try not to.”
Brian closed his locker and followed Mel into The Chipmunk’s office.
Ben Levy sat behind his desk and didn’t say a word as they entered. His office was the usual array of sports memorabilia and entertainment trinkets. It seemed more cluttered than it had in the last few weeks. His collection seemed to be growing exponentially. On his desk sat his newest trophy in a frame, a playlist of songs from the last Rolling Stones concert signed by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. Ben had supervised the EMS crew at the show personally.
The concert had been a nightmare for them, starting with the opening of the doors. Brian and Mel had been called to the lobby for a routine trip and fall. When they arrived, a man in his mid-fifties lay flat on his back, his head in growing pool of blood from somehow landing on his keys. His wife, obviously a diehard Rolling Stones fan, stood over him, insisting that it was nothing and that if he didn’t immediately get up, they would have driven all the way from Allentown, Pennsylvania for nothing.
Upon examination, Brian discovered that the man’s pupils were uneven and sluggishly responsive to his penlight, indicating that he had a pretty bad concussion.
“You always do this, Rodney! Get up!” the woman screeched. “This is the last time we’ll be able to see the Rolling Stones! Keith Richards is probably going to die soon!”
“Ma’am, Keith Richards is going to outlive us all. Your husband is going to need to go to the hospital.”
“He’s faking it! He didn’t want to come anyway!”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“I’m not missing this concert, Rodney, because you are a klutz!”
It was at moments like this that Brian realized just how lucky he really was to have Brooklyn in his life. She could be high strung at times but not like this.
After two drug overdoses and several calls to pick up fallen down drunks, the show was over. Brian and Mel hadn’t gotten a chance to see a single number. When it was all over and they were packing up the ambulance to leave for the night at 2 am, they received a call from security to pick up someone who had passed out in his seat in the top tiers of the arena and been left behind by his friends.
“Professor, you and Mel take this one,” Ben had barked at them.
Brian and Mel took the elevator up to the top floor of the arena where they met a huge Jamaican in a security guard’s jacket that was bursting at the seams. In the seat second from the aisle sat a young man sitting upright, holding half a beer in his hand which was resting on his knee. His eyes were closed, and Brian noticed something odd about him. There was no chest movement.
“Dis guy must be really drunk, mon. I can’t wake him up no matter how hard I try,” the guard said.
Brian leaned over the young man. He placed two fingers on his carotid artery and then saw that his lips were pale blue. There was no pulse.
“He’s not drunk, he’s dead.”
“Oh shit, we’re gonna be here all night now,” Mel whined.
“Dead!” The security guard shouted, making them both jump. “What ja mean, he’s dead?!”
“As in ‘the big dirt nap’ dead.”
The guard began backing away as he did he started frantically wiping his off hands on his jacket. “I touched him! Oh MY God! I touched him!”
“He’s not gonna bite you,” Brian said.
“You don’t understand, mon, I touched a dead mon! Oh Lordy, pray for me, sweet Jesus! I touched a dead mon! These here people don't be pay me ‘nough to touch no dead mon!”
“So what, you touched a dead man.” Brian began poking the dead man on the shoulder with his index finger while eyeing the guard. “See. Nothing.”
“I ain’t even never seen a dead mon, sept fa ma cousin Howie! I be havin’ bad dreams ‘bout Howie even to this day!” The security guard began weeping. “Oh my sweet God, I touched a dead mon...”
The guard began wretching.
“Dude, if you are going to vomit, turn the other way. It really is bad luck to throw up on a dead guy.”
The guard turned away and threw up in the aisle across from the dead body. He stood up straight and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist then looked at Brian with a helpless expression.
“Feel better?”
“Naw, mon! I’m gonna be havin’ to go wake up my grandma!”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Mel said. “Go downstairs and call PD; they’re going to need to do a report.”
Brian sat down in the arena chair next to the dead man and began writing his paperwork.
Patient found in arena chair sitting upright holding a beer. Nonresponsive X3. Negative breathing. Negative blood pressure. Negative pulse…
“Check his feet, Mel.”
Mel pulled his shoe and sock off of one foot, revealing the purplish skin where his blood had pooled when his heart had ceased pumping.
“Dependent lividity.”
Positive dependant lividity.
Brian reached over and tried to move the man's arm. It was stiff and did not budge an inch.
Positive Rigor Mortis. Time of death 2:06 am.
“I pronounce you dead. God, I’m starving. Can we stop for a hotdog or something on the way home?” he asked.
“Whatever. What did he mean when he said he was going to wake up his grandmother?”
“Who knows? Maybe he’s going to ask her to throw a mojo on him or something.”
It had been a long night and was stretching into a longer morning before NYPD had finally finished their report and the Medical Examiner had come to pick up the body…
http://www.kindlemojo.com/tom
