The sergeant and I crept up the stairs toward the apartment door, our leather gear squeaking with every step. Even these small sounds echoed loudly in the stairwell. Funny, movie cops never seem to make a sound. We had already turned our radios down to minimum volume after requesting emergency traffic on Channel One, but we still prayed that no one would blunder onto the air before we had a chance to assess the situation. I could hear my heartbeat as we covered the last few feet to the landing. I forced myself to take three deep breaths to slow down.
We were there to check on the well-being of the resident, Dianne Marcus. Her boyfriend told dispatch that she had been terribly depressed lately. Three days earlier she had asked him where she could buy a gun. She told him she wanted it for protection at the apartment, but it had been twenty-four hours since he had spoken to her. She had not shown up for work that afternoon.
When we reached the landing Will took a position on the opposite side of the apartment door. The apartment was the first one at the top of the stairs, so I was forced to stand slightly below the door on the first step. The doorknob was on my side, so I reached up, grasped it slowly, and tried turning it. Locked. I looked over at Will and shook my head.
By watching the crack under that door I could see a shadow pass back and forth. I could hear someone moving inside the apartment. Will reached up and knocked on the door. "Ms. Marcus! I'm Sergeant Will MacPherson with the Winter Park Police. I need to talk to you, please."
No response. Just more movement within the apartment, a little more hurried, I thought.
"Dianne," Will continued, "please, we need to talk to you. Please open the door. We just need to make sure–"
Bam! The muffled shot caught us by surprise. Automatically, we drew our service weapons and were now crouched, assessing ourselves and each other. No pain, no blood anywhere. I gave Will a thumbs-up. He nodded he was also okay.
Will had already stepped back from the apartment door in readiness to kick it in. I nodded and positioned myself to cover him as he stomped forward behind the doorknob. Nothing. He kicked again, and we heard splintering, but the door remained shut.
I stepped up beside the sergeant. "Will, on three. One! Two! Three!" Both of our feet hit the door together and it swung in, slamming against the wall. Wood splinters scattered on the beige carpet.
As the door flew open, the sergeant and I shifted to either side of the opening, surveying what we could of the inside of the apartment before entering. I saw no movement. Will indicated there was nothing where he was looking either.
He then signaled that he would enter first. With a nod Will ran through the doorway, with me on his heels. He peeled to the right and I went immediately to the left.
That phenomenon of everything going to slow motion during a traumatic or stress event is common, and this one was no exception. From the instant of the shot was fired time had slowed. What seemed to take long moments was actually occurring in just seconds.
I scanned what must have been the living room of the apartment, my service weapon covering what my eyes were seeing. As I swept the far side of the room I took in a surreal, slow-motion scene.
A beautiful young woman casually leaned back in a gray La-Z-Boy chair. The chair gently inched back into its fully reclined position, and a snub-nosed .38 revolver dropped from the girl's right hand to the soft carpet. It seemed like I was moving through mud as I covered those last few steps to Dianne Marcus. Her beautiful brown eyes bored into mine as I walked up to the recliner. There was a small hole in her yellow T-shirt. The center of her chest. Damn it! Oddly, there was no blood. I heard Dianne moan slightly. Her eyes never left mine, and I had a hard time looking away.
"Roll rescue! I have a white female with a gunshot would to the chest. Slow all other responding backup units. 305 and 306 are 10-4 at this time." I spoke the words into my shoulder mike, but my voice sounded distant.
Will had finished clearing the rest of the small apartment and hurried over to me. "Let's get her on the floor," he said. Carefully, Will and I lowered Dianne to the carpet. My hands came away from her back red and wet. The bullet had passed through her petite, delicate body.
I knelt beside Dianne and held her hand. Her eyes were trying to tell me something, I knew it, but what was so important? What did she want me to know? "Stay with me, Dianne! Rescue will be here in a minute!" Her breathing was labored, shallow, punctuated by an occasional deep gasp. Her dark brown eyes, flecked with red, speckled with shards of black, wide with surprise, were locked onto mine. "Stay with me, dammit!" I said. I squeezed her hand tighter. I couldn't look away and felt myself drawn deeper into her gaze.
Dianne's eyes never left mine even as that last breath left her. I honestly believe I felt a gentle squeeze from her soft hands as her body completely relaxed and death shaded her eyes. Almost as if to let me know "It's okay."
"J.R." I felt Will's hand on my shoulder. "Hey! J.R., c'mon, man, let the paramedics work." I stood up and stepped away from Dianne as the paramedics went through the motions of resuscitating her. Time had resumed its normal speed.
"J.R., come over here. You've got to see this." I followed the sergeant over to the small table beside the La-Z-Boy. Laid out neatly on the table was an open photo album. Photos of Dianne and a little girl with Mickey and Minnie. Carefully, folded beside the album was an elegant black dress with a note pinned to it. "I'm so sorry. But I cannot go on, knowing I was responsible for my baby's death. Please bury me in this dress beside my daughter, Cari." Underneath the dress were the funeral arrangements Dianne had recently made. There was also a newspaper clipping. Will read it.
"It's about that car accident in Altamonte Springs a month ago. Remember? The one involving the waitress and her four-year-old daughter. She was drunk, ran off the road, and hit a pole. The little girl was killed. This is her, Dianne Marcus. No wonder she ended it. Hey, J.R., you all right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, Will, I'm fine. I'll go get my paperwork and get started on the incident report. You already notify the detectives?"
"Yeah," Will replied, "Franklin's on the way. I'll let him make the call to the Medical Examiner. And I'll see if I can find any next-of-kin info around the apartment."
I walked to the apartment door and looked back to where Dianne lay. The paramedics were packing up their gear. Somehow she looked smaller now, empty. I glanced down at the dried blood on my hands as I walked down the stairs to my patrol car. The sun was just setting. I stood a few moments in the waning sun, bloody hands held in front of me, thinking about the last thirty days of Dianne Marcus's life.
Five more hours till the end of my shift.
I thought of other suicides I had worked. After a while you get a little numb. Your mind begins to close up, trying to protect itself from too much tragedy, too much pain. Each of those deaths had become just another body. Just another incident report. Another tragic story.
Not this one. And maybe not ever again. Walking back to the apartment I knew this would be one funeral I needed to attend. Dianne Marcus had brought me directly into her tragedy. Pulled me in with those brown eyes.