I had to look twice at the picture, he didn’t belong on the obituary page. He was a young guy, long braided hair, mother dead, raised in foster care, leaving his foster mother, a brother and two kids without a father.

The last time I saw him I was standing in the pouring rain in somebodies backyard on Prarie Avenue. He had a bullet hole in his head. The rain thinned the trail of blood that ran down his chin and onto his t-shirt, making it look fake. I felt for a pulse, felt the cold skin at my fingertips, no radial pulse, no carotid, nothing. His eyed rolled back in his head. I wanted to close them like they do in the movies but this was a crime scene, I backed out, careful not to trip over the gun that fired the bullet that ended his life.

It’s strange, but the picture on the obituary page didn’t differ all that much from the mental image I have from the day I determined him dead.

It’s bad enough that they come to Providence, drink themselves to stupidity, tie up our resources because they can’t take care of themselves or their friends and act like complete morons. It gets worse when they vomit on themselves, and the ground next to them and I step in it, then have to pick their sorry, intoxicated puke covered bodies off of the pavement. What is intolerable is when their friends, who are unable to look after their own and get them home safely tell us how to do our job, and when we don’t do it to their satisfaction curse, and threaten and demand names and on and on and on. Little bastards, I’ve got kids older than them. They’re lucky they aren’t mine. But then again, mine would never act that way.

The Potters Avenue Pool will be closed until the next heat wave. Sorry for the inconvenience.

They were lined up at the kitchen door, waiting for their meds. I walked past them, into an office in the back. The house manager pointed to a man seated in a chair by the back door.

“Take him to the VA.”

“Excuse me?”

She handed me the man’s information, a piece of paper with his name, date of birth, brief medical history and medications, and went back to her task.

“He scraped his elbow last night.”

The seated man looked at me. The manager looked at me. My partner looked at me. The twenty or so men lined up at the kitchen door waiting for their meds looked at me.

“You can’t call 911 for something like this.”

“Just give him a ride to the VA,” she said, annoyed at my audacity, glaring in my direction, dismissing me.

The patient, a thin elderly man looked miserable, obviously uncomfortable.

“I’ll be alright,” he said. “I just wanted to clean this up.”

The portable radio on my belt continued it’s non-stop chatter, dispatching rescues to all points of the city. Our six were used up, we had moved on to the surrounding communities, getting mutual aid, leaving those communities with less protection.

“If there is an emergency, there won’t be anybody to respond,” I said, more to myself because nobody was listening.

“He needs to go to the VA,” the manager repeated.

I helped the patient to his feet.

I wonder how it feels to have strangers tell you to calm down, have them reach into your pick-up truck and drag you onto a backboard, slap an oxygen mask onto your face and wheel you into a rescue vehicle.

I wonder how it feels to be held down by those strangers, have large needles stuck into your arms, all the while knowing that you are going to die, but those strangers keep telling you to just breathe and stop fighting.

I wonder how it feels to have your clothes cut off in a room full of doctors, nurses, firefighters and emergency personnel, and try to answer questions before the sedation medication takes over and a tube is thrust down your throat.

I wonder how it feels to be working at the same hospital that your family member was brought to, and see the chaos that rules during a Level 1 trauma, and know that is your cousin fighting for life.

I wonder how it feels to put a gun to the back of a twenty-three year old kid’s head and pull the trigger, and then shoot him in the face, just to make sure.

I wonder.

Man shot in residential parking lot

01:00 AM EDT on Saturday, July 19, 2008

By Gregory Smith

Journal Staff Writer

PROVIDENCE — Daniel Martinez, 22, was shot in the head and seriously wounded as he sat in his pickup truck late yesterday morning in a residential parking lot adjacent to a multifamily house at 14 Croyland Rd. in South Providence, the police said.

He was admitted to Rhode Island Hospital in critical condition, according to Detective Lt. Robert Lepre, who said the police are not yet sure whether he was shot once or twice.

Martinez, who was shot as he sat behind the wheel of his gray Dodge pickup truck, told the first police officer at the scene, Patrolman Jose Deschamps, that his assailant was a short man with tattoos and possibly tight braids. Lepre said it is not clear whether Martinez knows the shooter.

“We believe the suspect possibly fled in a Honda … possibly gold or reddish, maroon,” Lepre said.

The victim now lives in the Valley neighborhood, but Lepre said that he used to live at 10 Croyland.

The scene of the shooting is off Potters Avenue, a block or two from Robert L. Bailey IV Elementary School on Gordon Avenue.

Lepre said detectives have not identified anyone who saw or heard the shooting, which was reported at 11:41 a.m., but that several people are being interviewed.

Detectives took Martinez’s truck back to police headquarters for closer examination.

The police are confronting a resurgence of gun violence after several years’ decline; they have confiscated at least 10 firearms in the past nine days. The latest was a rifle that they say was hidden near a fence behind the Hartford Park public housing project.

Lepre speculated that the rifle might have been what the police call “a stash gun” or “community gun” that criminals hide in a public place for quick retrieval when needed.

Four police officers were on foot patrol at Hartford Park late Wednesday night when they said that they spotted Anthony Reid, 21, of 187 Althea St., in the West End, looking around and then pointing to a spot near a fence. Reid, they said, is under a no-trespassing order from the Providence Housing Authority to stay out of Hartford Park.

Then they said they saw Kenneth Perez, 18, of 8 Whelan Rd., in Hartford Park, go to the spot where Reid pointed and picked up what appeared to be a rifle. The officers moved in, but Perez allegedly ran into woods near Merino Park and discarded the rifle.

The police recovered the rifle, a .22-caliber Marlin that had been reported stolen in Cumberland, and arrested Reid — but Perez escaped. Reid was charged with violation of the no-trespassing order and the police obtained an arrest warrant that names Perez and charges him with illegal possession of a firearm.

gsmith@projo.com

How could this madwoman drive, I wondered. She rocked in the stretcher, arms folded across her chest, screaming the same phrase over and over, fear filling her eyes. She has a life, I thought, nice home, family, probably a job and friends and everything we all take for granted. The placid, amused expression she had on her face when they took her picture was in stark contrast to the contorted figure on my stretcher. I copied the information and went to hand her licence back to her, she recoiled and screamed some more.

She has a history of bi-polar disorder, depression and schizophrenia. Something happened this morning, she was at home with her two teenage nieces when she snapped. The girls called 911, we found her at the kitchen table, screaming. She screamed all the way to the hospital and was still screaming when I left.

There is a fine line between psychosis and sanity, I’ve seen many people cross the line over the years. With proper medication and follow-up care the mentally ill can be helped, and resume some resemblance of normalcy. It is difficult for the families, knowing that at any time their world could be turned upside down.

What causes the descent into madness, and why are only some people afflicted with this curse?

0130 hrs

“Rescue 1 and Engine 14 respond to Bergen Street for an infant injured in a drive by shooting.“

I rolled out of the bunk and was half dressed when the Rescue 6 took the call. I waited to hear more.

0133 hrs.

“Engine 14 on scene.“

I turned on the light in the office and turned the volume on the radio higher.

0135 hrs.

“Engine 14 to Rescue 6, we have an infant grazed in the head by a bullet, alert and conscious, vitals fine, minimal bleeding.“

0140 hrs.

“Rescue 6 transporting to Hasbro.“

I turned the light off, lowered the radio and waited for the next one.

Assholes.

One guy was laying on his back on the sidewalk, gunshot wound to his upper thigh. I took a quick look, was reasonably certain the femoral artery was intact and walked across the street. Another gunshot victim had run inside the tenement house. He was on his back on the grimy kitchen floor, his leg elevated, blood covering his expensive sneakers and dripping onto the linoleum. I saw two holes in his calf, one in, one out. Rob brought in a backboard, we secured him to it and carried him out of the house toward the rescue. The police had already put up the yellow tape around the front porch, we had to break through it.

Rescue 5 arrived on scene and took care of the other victim. We took them to Rhode Island Hospital where they told the police that they had no idea who shot them, didn’t see anything, no warning, no car, no idea.

City Ordinance proposal RB-2112, submitted by Lt. Morse, Rescue 1, 7 July 2008@1123 hrs

I hereby propose a resolution that will loosen hordes of raging bulls into the streets of Providence at two o’clock in the morning each and every Saturday night or whenever the bars may close.

Remember to toast those that have preserved our freedom today. The Greatest Generation, the generations that preceded them and just as important, our generation.

There is a war going on, If one American soldier dies fighting that war, to that soldier and those close to him, that war becomes just as deadly as any in our history. Remember the families that anxiously await their loved ones return, remember the families that will wait forever.

I’m proud to be an American, proud of my country, our military and everybody who works toward making this the greatest civilization in history.

Celebrate our Independence on July 4th. Travel. Have a cookout. Go to the beach. Enjoy your lives, spend time with friends and family, drink, laugh and relax. Feel the thunder and beauty of fireworks here at home.

It is an insult to those who have fought and died preserving our freedom to waste it. Enjoy, we’ve earned it.

She walked out of the group home, past me, up the steps into the rescue and sat on the bench, looking out of the rear window. I sat in the Captain’s chair and waited. Eventually she looked my way.

“I heard you’re suicidal.”

“That’s what they say.”

“Who’s they?”

“Them in there,” she nodded her head toward the house.

“What do you say?”

“What does it matter?”

“What do you mean what does it matter?”

“They say I gotta go for a psych evaluation, I’ve got to go.”

I asked Rob to head toward Hasbro Children’s Hospital. Shanaya watched me from her seat, four feet away. She is going to be eighteen in a month.

“What happens when you turn eighteen?” I asked. The State is cutting back and services for children in state custody may be cut drastically. I looked at the young lady seated across from me, tough, determined and depressed and wondered how in the world would she survive on her own.

“They mentioned Crossroads.”

“You can’t go to Crossroads!” I said, sitting up in my seat. Our rescues are called there daily for assaults, overdoses, drunks and every reason you can think of, then some. The clientele there is poisoned with chronically homeless people who know the system and how to abuse it. This kid wouldn’t have a chance. They would eat her alive.

I sensed she wanted to talk so I pressed.

“Where are your parents?”

“I was adopted when I was four. They gave up years ago. They knew what they were getting into.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m a lot of trouble.”

“How much trouble can you be?” I asked. She was suddenly adorable as her smile lighted her face.

“I stayed out late, cut school, wouldn’t listen.”

It was probably worse than she let on, but I have a bad habit of placing most of the blame on the parents. Kids are what you make them, for the most part, at least in my world.

“I don’t think your parent’s tried hard enough. Can you go back?”

“They’re done with me.” She said it with such finality I wondered about the motives of the adoptive parents.

“Is there anybody else?”

“There’s seven of us, five boys, two girls,” she smiled again, I melted.

“Do you see them?”

We had backed into the rescue bay at Hasbro but I couldn’t go in just yet.

Her mood had lightened considerably, she became animated, using her hands as she talked, her eyes sparkling like they always should have.

“We keep in contact on My Space, all of us, even the baby, she’s seven and is going to live with a family in Virginia but she’s part of us. We’re going to get together as soon as we can.”

Rob opened the rear door of the rescue. Shanaya’s face dropped, she put the mask back on. I couldn’t move for a minute, she gave me a quick smile, letting me know it was alright, got up and walked into the hospital.

Responding to a tip over on Rt. 95 I heard Rescue 6 being sent to a house in my district where a woman jumped from the third floor, Rescue 2 to a house a mile away from the house where the woman jumped from the third floor for an injured child, abuse suspected, Rescue 4 sent for a man hit in the head with a crowbar, Rescue 3 had a woman struck by a car, loss of consciousness, Rescue 5 to the bus station for an intoxicated man and a few out of town rescues sent for the usual assaults, difficulty breathing and seizures.

I swear something strange is in the air sometimes, all hell breaks loose at once. It is the first of the month, but still, this is getting ridiculous!

The guy who rolled his truck self extricated and escaped any serious injuries. We made him go to the hospital against his will because he was acting like an idiot, head injury suspected.