The first thing that hit me was a smell. It was a smell of body odor, of dirty clothes. But it was also a smell of blood and a feeling of fear in the air.
I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise and I thought about my gun, where I left it under the seat of my car. It does me no good there, I thought, and I hesitated, wondering if I should get it.
I looked out into the foyer before I walked out into it, and everything looked fine. But it was not fine, and I knew it. I didn’t turn on any lights. I turned the corner, walking down the hall to the offices, to my office. I walked past the open arch to the café and saw something on the floor; a large lump in the darkness there up against one of the tables. I walked toward it and saw a small glimmer and realized it was a badge. It was Sr. Cpl. Pete Porter lying on his back, his head in a large pool of blood.
I ran to him, his eyes opened as I knelt and I touched his chest. The blood on his shaved head made me gasp and I patted his chest and he looked at me! Oh, thank God.
“Pete, can you hear me?” I asked and saw his eyes roll up in his head. He was in shock and he stopped breathing at that point. I looked over and he had his service pistol in his right hand, laying on the ground. I moved it out of his hand and pushed it up against his side, near his holster. I then checked his breathing and dialed 911, putting the phone on the ground next to me. The emergency line automatically put my call on hold.
I ripped his shirt open, twisting the buttons open, tearing some off, then I pulled the Velcro on his shoulders of his bullet-proof vest and on the side near me.
I couldn’t remember how many compressions I was required to give – was it 20 or 30? I gave him compressions – I don’t know how many – and then held his nose and gave him two puffs in his mouth. I listened and heard no breathing. Finally, a dispatcher came on the line as the phone lay near Pete's head.
I started to speak and my voice broke. “There’s a…a police officer hurt, head wound and bleeding, and he wasn’t breathing but I’ve given CPR,” I said and then gave them the details of where I was, trying to remember the address of Orange Grove. Why couldn’t I remember the address of my own business?
“He’s breathing now but it’s ragged,” I said. “Pete, can you hear me?” I asked him. He didn’t open his eyes.
“Hurry!” I yelled at the phone.
The pain! The shock of the ringing, metal noise was almost as great as the pain. I fell over on Pete’s chest and my right arm felt like it had been torn off. I looked up and saw the man with a piece of metal pipe that was covered in blood. He was yelling at me, wearing only pants with no shoes. He wore a bloody blue medical mask over his mouth and his words seemed like nonsense to me.
I lay on Pete’s chest and felt the floor next to his right side with my left hand and felt his Beretta there in a pool of blood. I put my hand on it and picked it up. I put my thumb on the safety and it was off, then pulled the hammer back. I took a better grip of the weapon and then got a visual on the raving lunatic that was trying to kill us.
I lifted my arm, holding the gun with my left hand and propped the butt of the gun on Pete’s chest, pointing it the moving target. Aim for center mass. Don’t miss. I felt Pete’s hand on top of my hand and then nothing but blackness.
Copyright Mare Loch 2021, 2022 © Excerpt from Orange Grove: The Reformation of a Midlife Wife by Mare Loch. All rights reserved.
Kommentarer