Sunday, February 11th open thread: ‘Night Shift’

A most interesting time. Too much of my life was working on, night shifts, when I should have been home, abed. Rotating tours, 00:00×08:00, then the next week 16:00×24:00, and the following week 08:00×16:00. It causes people to disconnect with their otherwise normal world. You seek sleep, but it is never restful. My face still shows it.
If the night shift, is on a weekend, you will be busy if you are a cop. If the night shift is at anytime other than dead of winter and icy cold, you will need to observe people. Icy cold, there will be no people on the streets, and those who are, stand out. Some are harmless. Some are criminals. Some are victims on the hoof.
Night shift, as we said, was 99% boredom and 1% sheer terror. Vehicle accidents are at higher speeds, and the carnage more severe. Arguments are more heated, and assaults more violent. Fires are bigger, and people panic in the middle of the night awakened from their sleep and disoriented. Their belongings lost. Confusion. Fire apparatus loudly pumping. Red lights and loud radio chatter over the truck’s public address speaker. People shouting. Some shouting names, and you must pay attention to that. Where is the person who is being called? Some shout names of pets missing. People are distraught. Once, a woman was shouting for her cat, and by the looks of things, if the cat was inside that building, there was no hope for it. A homeless addict walked up to me, inside of her coat, there was a yearling cat, purring. The woman asked if this was the cat, it was running down the street and stopped by her. We went to the woman who owned the cat and they were reunited. The homeless woman was not rewarded other than a thank you, and quickly vanished into the night. Weather in time started to warm up, and that meant St. Patrick’s day would be nearing. We called it “Amateur’s Night”, because of the alcohol related problems that would be presenting itself. As usual, we were not disappointed. A couple of nights later, nearing 4 a.m., a 911 call of a body discovered. I was maybe the third car in. The body, a woman. Everyone knew her, a homeless woman, the one with the cat. Her face, bloodied. Blood over a large area of sidewalk pavement indicating a protracted fight. The corpse did not appear to have any sign of sexual attack. Detectives took over. Almost a month went by. A cop was in the station house, having a container of coffee, waiting for Roll Call. He asked if I remembered the DOA (Dead On Arrival) that was found, and I said, yes. He tells me that the detectives made an arrest. An informant, a street person, looking to get off on a petty larceny charge, gave up the guy. Another street character. He was walking down the street as he told detectives after being brought in, and in the narrative, the homeless woman was attacked as a robbery, for one dollar and some bit of food in her pocket. I was unphased. We got through Roll Call, and headed out, into another night, and it was beautiful. I thought of my wife, and looked at the streets. Central was calling with a job. A typical night shift.

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