There are three things I don’t like. Getting work calls on my time, having to leave my daughter and watching murderers get away with their crimes. At the risk of being immodest, I am extremely badass at my job. One day, I got a call that ticked all three of my boxes. It was my day off, a Sunday, Sarah-Elizabeth sat on my lap and we both listened to the most dramatic recreation of the Jonah in Nineveh story from one of their teenage tutors. My phone is programmed to ring only if the same number calls thrice within five minutes. ‘I hear voices in my head’ rang out and I hurried out, pissed.
A man was violently sick in the hospital and I had to go investigate. It was a weird request, not unusual, not common either. When I got there, it made sense. He was in very bad shape and the doctors suspected poisoning. I had to wait to see if I could interview him so I sat beside him and instead got front row seats to a long, painful death. He went through the lot, hallucinations, violent trashing (he had to be restrained), many heart attacks, and died with a tube in his mouth.
The autopsy couldn’t find anything to point to a cause of death. This was the most frustrating thing about working here. Something is always wrong, somehow and consequently, despite my best intentions, I have never prevented a murderer from getting away with the crime.