The Gray

David Charles

The beeper on my hip started vibrating while my wife and I were sitting in a well lit, white-walled church service in which the preacher was talking about some dark issue; it was likely about the dangers that black sin can bring to our immortal souls. The well-intentioned sermon was forgotten when the pager on my hip went off. I was a military policeman with a new assignment as an on-the-job-training criminal investigator (OJT) and when the duty investigator called, the OJT went to work. At first all I knew was an address and that someone was dead. I thought I was ready for what could have been my first chance to be personally involved in bringing a murderer to justice.

A quick stop by the Provost Marshal’s Office (PMO) for a duty weapon, notebook and vehicle and then I was at the crime scene. It was a standard, lower-middle-class house that served as the assigned quarters for some young military family. Inside the house was dark and messy but not the worst I had seen by far. Actually, it seemed tame for a crime scene. Medical personnel had been there and there was medical waste, wrappings and such, here and there.

The duty agent called me into a bedroom. “What do you see?” he asked. It was common practice for an OJT like me to be questioned by the seasoned agent in charge of the crime scene.

“It’s a baby’s room. Disheveled but probably not to the point of neglect,” was my initial impression. It was standard for the OJT to reply as if reading his crime scene notes. “There is a slight odor to the room, probably dirty diaper pail somewhere nearby.” I stepped up to the crib. “The sheets are wound up and there’s . . . Wait, that’s blood on the sheets and the crib right?” The agent’s answer was a blank expression that simply required me to go on. “There are dark fluids on the crib and sheets, possibly blood, possibly feces. It should be photographed before being tampered with and then the sheets should be taken as evidence. Swabbings should also be taken from the wooden parts of the crib that appear to have some of the dark substance on them. The location of blood or whatever the material is could be important.”

I turned my attention away from the colorful, cartoon laden sheets with the ominous smears and looked around the rest of the room. Stepping near a rocking chair I said, “Possibly more fluids here. More swabbings should be done … after photos of course.” There was nothing else of interest noted in the infant’s bedroom. “The small dresser and rest of the room is reasonably neat and there are clean clothes and diapers, which will go under the heading of negative evidence.” This was noted because what was not at a crime scene could be just as important as what was there.

I did not get a chance to explore the other rooms in the house before being given my next assignment. I expected what was coming but did not want it to come.

“Go to the hospital, stay with the baby victim and find out what the doctors can tell us,” the duty investigator directed.

Again, when the agent directs, the OJT goes.

About a month before, I was sent to the hospital to wait for the medical results when a pilot had gone down during a training accident. The cause of the Harrier accident was still a mystery; the pilot had been ejected almost directly into the asphalt runway and had almost no chance of survival. Adult deaths are no problem. We grow up and then we die. I was okay with that idea as I waited for the doctors to do their job, even though the pilot had been a young adult. It wasn’t even that bad that the other pilots were so rude. You see, Harrier pilots have a very dangerous, difficult plane to fly and it is evidently of paramount importance to them to believe that they are too good to “mess up” and anyone who did crash was beneath them. It was almost humorous the way the “brother pilots” were saying the recently killed pilot was too cocky, and was never as good as he thought he was. It was a cruel mental crutch they used; but like them, I did not have any real problem with the reality that death had come to the young officer. Too bad I couldn’t use the adult crutch this time.

At the hospital I hesitate to go in. Why did the victim have to be a baby? This seems especially heinous. I take a deep breath. Two. What the heck is all the waiting for? I get out of the car and walk into the medical complex with its bright lights gleaming off the well-buffed floors. The corpsman working the desk in the emergency room is the next brief obstacle. “I am here for the investigation into the Burgess infant death.” I say to him.

He directs me to a waiting room because there simply is no space in the trauma room for a person to stand and watch.

“I’ll come get you soon,” he tells me.

I wait for an eternity that ends all too soon.

“You can photograph the body now. The doctor is waiting for you.”

The infant corpse lies on the stained, white sheets. The skin is white and light blue, mottled all over with dark blue and black streaks. Here and there are brown and red marks, bruises, and abrasions. There are also needle tracks and there is a white, rubber tube extending from the small mouth. I stare deadpan. Somewhere inside I am glad the other investigators and I will be a part of the retribution coming to whoever has perpetrated this crime.

“Was the death due to the evident blunt trauma?” I ask the doctor.

“No. What you see as trauma is the result of medical personnel attempting to save the child.”

“Then what is the cause of death, sir?” I remain outwardly professional even as I am seething inside like a boiling stew of rage and retribution inside the iron cauldron that is my tense body.

“Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. SIDS,” the doctor states matter-of-factly, as if his pronouncement answered all my questions.

“What was the cause of the sudden infant death?” I challenge in reply.

“Well, er,” the doctor is a little less smug, “you see, there is no specific medical explanation but this actually occurs fairly often. The infant in these cases seems to stop breathing, to choke, with no apparent reason. It used to be called crib death because that was the most common place for it to occur. Before anyone knows what is happening, the baby is just lying there, dead.”

“So the parents -- or a baby sitter -- didn’t …”

“No. The marks and coloring you see are from the medical attempts to revive the child. Before that, there was just some blood from the nose. Babies’ bodies are so delicate that they often become very bruised during the rough handling of the treatment. The death certificate will say SIDS – Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. No doubt about it.”

Finished, the doctor turned and walked away.

I was dumb-founded. All the rage that was boiling inside me was suddenly frozen into a solid block. There was nothing to be done about the senseless death of the helpless infant.

I called in the details to the duty investigator. “Okay, we’ll wrap things up here. You can go. You’re done for tonight,” he said.

Evidently I went back to the PMO through the gray fog, walking through the earlier process in reverse. My notes went onto the desk in the investigations office, the keys for the vehicle went back to the desk sergeant and the weapon went back to the armory. I know this because that is where they are supposed to go and I didn’t have them with me when I pulled into my driveway and sat staring at my house. What I didn’t know was what to do with the shock and the anger and the desire for righteous retribution and the image of the baby who colors were all wrong lying in a hospital room.

Inside the house, I am quiet. I don’t talk about the details. Marty is usually my rock who shares the burdens of the day. It is just as well that she is at a Sunday evening meeting at the church. I can’t talk anyway. Her mother Beverly is there to watch the children. We get along well but she senses my mood and leaves me alone. Tonight, I can’t get the solid frozen mass out from inside me.

I walk into my daughter’s room. Only a few months old, she is barely larger than the lifeless child I left moments before. I take her into my arms and rock her. I sit in the chair, look at her, and rock her for hours. I won’t let go. I won’t ever let her slip into the gray world around us.

Originally from Florida, David Charles joined the Marine Corps in the mid 1980’s. During the late 80’s, following a couple years as a military policeman, he became a criminal investigator. After a few duty stations in this most enjoyable occupation, David was sent out on a recruiting tour, where he learned that a criminal investigator recruiter is practically an oxymoron. After that successful tour, he happily returned to CID work. Despite the conflicts that took place during his military career, he feels blessed not to have served in a combat zone. Still, he earned the Humanitarian Service medal, Global War on Terrorism medal, National Defense medal, Good Conduct medal, Navy and Marine Corps Achievement medal, Navy and Marine Corps Commendation medal, and Meritorious Service medal. During his Marine Corps career, he managed to obtain some college education, culminating with a Master of Arts Degree. David thanks God for his many blessings, including a wonderful supportive wife and two children, whom he loves very much.

David has also assisted in developing Milspeak Creative Writing Seminars

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