Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Two

For as many years as I've rushed off to crime scenes, they never get old, and they never get normal.

I mean, they're exhilarating. Anyone who denies that has never pulled up to the yellow tape and felt the thick, grim energy in the air. On the other hand, it is a surreal experience to approach a scene knowing that on the other side of that tape, someone has died violently.

It's unnatural and, therefore, should never feel normal, no matter how common.

By the time Tony and I reach the general vicinity of West Monroe Street and South Cicero Avenue, patrol officers have taped off an entire block. They are lucky, because the block is a dead-end, at least, where vehicle traffic is concerned.

For just a second, I ponder how I might use "dead-end" ironically in an article if it turns out the incident is a homicide, before dismissing the thought as probably disrespectful.

Tony counts the TV live-news vans aloud like I'm not standing there with the same view.

"Damn 'em, Blake! There's a new station every week! Even the websites have live crews now. We had to park three blocks away!"

He's right about the glut of broadcast and digital-first news outlets, but I don't respond because I don't want to feed his anger and inspire a longer rant.

We walk in silence for a moment - me carrying Tony's tripod, while he wheezes to keep up, overstuffed camera bags crisscrossed on both shoulders.

It's my job to be the lead ambassador of our little two-man crew. So, as we turn onto the residential street closest to the scene, I make sure to raise my head and make eye contact with everyone I see.

From an ever-shrinking distance, the block is the image of serenity. Elm trees line both sides of the street. Only a few passenger vehicles are parked at the curb, as city ordinance requires most vehicles in residential neighborhoods to use the alleys to park in rear driveways, where spots are available.

What appear far away to be split-level single-family homes, are actually bi-level duplexes built in the post-World War I industrial surge. Most of the structures, whose exteriors are covered with a combination of clapboard and vinyl siding, have raised entryways in the front, including elevated lawns that slope neatly to meet the sidewalks. Behind the homes, driveways to cave-like basement level attached garages are parallel with the alley throughways.

I nod at the first man who meets my gaze. He's sitting on his porch smoking a cigarette and looks away.

Two young women come along next. Possibly teenagers, but I'd guess in their early twenties. Both wear pink hoodies, hoods up, with the brand name "Juicy" on their backs. Best friends or siblings. They don't look away. They meet my gaze boldly.

"What's good, my dude?"

The question comes from the taller of the two. She eyes me curiously, ignoring Tony. Her companion stares blankly.

"I was hoping you could tell me," I answer with a slight smile. Nothing's funny. I just mean to be friendly. "We're about to get the police version, but you know..."

I leave that last part open-ended, knowing this pair will read between the lines that I don't believe I'll get a complete story from the police.

They would be right about that belief, but to be fair to the cops, I'm not sure I've ever approached a scene where they gave a complete story right away. Only on one-hour (minus sixteen minutes of commercial breaks) episodes of Law & Order, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, or Criminal Minds are all the answers available so quickly.