Why I have become obsessed with detective work and forensic investigation? Is there something inherently sexy about dusting for fingerprints with carbon powder, or testing the DNA of a strand of hair, root intact of course, or spraying a fine mist of luminol to check for hidden blood evidence? I did not grow up dreaming about the curriculum at John Jay College, nor have I ever wanted to take any kind of police exam. Turn to almost any channel on your tv (or, just scroll through the shows I have queued up on my DVR), and you'll be bombarded by sexy female cops, like Detectives Olivia Benson and Alexandra Eames, Dr. Sydney Hansen, CSI.. I admire the power they wield - beauty, acumen, cleverness - manicured nails resting against a shiny Smith & Wesson... could they BE any cooler? Times have changed, since the days of Dragnet. Ah, thank God for modernity. It's not just men who can berate a perp.
I suppose you could say my EMT work brings me in frequent contact with New York's finest... they protect and serve, whilst I tend to bloody wounds and assess consciousness. My most recent brush with the boys in blue was this past Saturday night --er, Sunday morning, 4:30 am. Nothing gets me out of bed like the ear-piercing sound of nine gunshots (more specifically, 4 shots - pause - eyes dart furtively around bedroom - 5 more shots). Yep, the myth holds true - even if you've never heard "live" gunshots, you know 'em when you hear 'em. [Cue heart pounding, fingers trembling.] I tip-toed to the window, and once safely situated, barefoot, on my fire escape overlooking 9th Avenue, a sea of chaos unfolded before my tired but adrenalin-pumped eyes. A grey SUV sped off, a man collapsed in a bloody and fatal heap, to the street [a gut-wrenching case of mistaken identity], 3 cops dashed as if in a 100-metre heat down 48th street, 4 unidentified men with multi-colored down coats took off in the opposite direction, a fleeing suspect tripped on the sidewalk on 49th, hitting his head but concealing his gun in the sewer just in the nick of time -- some of these details I would be asked to recount the next morning to a slightly bleary-eyed detective, ducking out from under the yellow tape.
After deciding not to become part of the ensuing crime scene by grabbing latex gloves and running to the injured, I watched from the fire escape as cops, ambulances, and unmarked Caprice Classics sped onto the scene. Within 10 minutes, the injured were whisked away, possible suspects were taken into custody, and the entire 9th Avenue was closed off, turned into forensics playground. It was 5:30 am. And I was thoroughly and undeniably awake.
It was as if my DVR was sputtering to life, in a Frankenstein sort of way. We ARE what we eat; could we also beCOME what we WATCH? Perish the thought. DVR, TiVo, and Netflix give us anonymity. Gone are the days of perusing Blockbuster, pretending you're renting that cheesy exercise video for your "roommate" or that Review of the Brazilian porn industry for a "class." You want the entire series of Beverly Hills 90210? No problem. Only a random Netflix employee in a Queens warehouse will know your secret.
Watching the chilly interrogation of a homicidal psychopath, or the autopsy of a stabbing victim on tv gives us the comfort of distance. Detective Olivia Benson won't really die at the hands of a suspect - she's just a character. I won't really lose my lunch from observing cranial surgery gone wrong - I can turn the channel. But when it comes to real life, there's no cathode ray tube to protect us; no one-way tinted glass through which to watch a crime scene unfold on your block in the dark, chilly hours just before dawn.
But I can't help myself. Dangerous. Death-defying. Gruesome. Creepy. Paranormal. Bring it on. I'll just make sure my latex gloves are nearby, or that my remote control is stocked with fresh batteries.
--In memory of Fausto Lopez: 1966-2006--
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