Death of a beauty at the hands of a monster

Responding to a call for domestic violence is never an easy task. there is this autonomic function that occurs when one hears the words "Child injured by father". You move more swiftly, pulse races more quickly and you find yourself wringing your sweaty hands in what can only be described as a response to anticipated vengeance.

February 1983 was a particularly cold winter month in New Haven. I remember this vividly because my wife was pregnant with our youngest son, Christopher and she suffered terribly with the cold. We lived in a run-down neighborhood full of violence and chaos. Truthfully, we never felt safe there. Our eldest son Tim was almost 2 and a day did not pass that i didn't fear for his safety. It was not uncommon to hear screams, gunshots and the harried cries of neighborhood children. Why not move, you might ask. We couldn't afford anything better. Paramedic salaries at the time were abysmal and Kathleen worked as well, as an evening dispatcher in the 911 system. Even though we are not together any longer, I am still supremely proud of her for her calmness under fire and doing so while pregnant.

She wasn't working the night we got the call (around 2 am I think) for the injured child. As we got closer to the scene my mind raced, as did my partners, of what would await us. We thought of our own children and the children we had come to love. 

New Haven, while home to Yale University, was a poor city. The impoverished were well hidden away from trustees who had deep pockets and sang the Yale fight song at the Yale Bowl, Saturday afternoons during football season. The dichotomy struck me cold. 20 year old players wearing helmets, pads and the like were well protected from the violence they hope to make an NFL living at some day. Children, with underdeveloped orthopedic structures, malnourished bodies and bloated bellies from poor diet didn't stand a chance from abusive, alcohol or drug fueled rage.

There was snow on the ground on Ashman Street where low income housing once stood. As we arrived, there were tears, screams, signs of self flagellation; prayers offered to God, as a small girl lay half impaled on a security fence and the bottom half of her torso lay a few feet away, transected and lifeless.  Steel from the fence protruded through her long locks of beautiful black hair.

This beautiful child was not injured. This stunning beauty who now lies in peace, was lifeless, and to add the exclamation point to the sadness, she was in two distinct parts. Naked from the waist down, her life blood still yet not frozen, but steaming on the sidewalk, surrounded by crime scene tape and a mother who just stared at her lifeless daughter in shock and disbelief.

Dad, and I use that term with disdain, was manacled in the back seat of a New Haven Police Car. He was sitting there smiling and for one brief solitary second I wanted a piece of his flesh. I am ashamed to admit it, and I hope God will forgive me.

Epilog: She didn't put away her toys.