The first time I was shot was when I was stationed in Iraq. I had been out on patrol with my squad and we walked right into an ambush. I’d like to be able to say that we all fought with valor and bravery but I haven’t the slightest clue. I was the first one hit, shot first in the left knee and then again in the hip, my left side, and my right shoulder – all in the space of about half a second. The hit in the shoulder is the last thing I remember. I can’t tell you anything about the pursuant battle other than only two members of my squad survived and I was the luckier one. I woke up in a hospital in Germany six days later with a purple heart on my bed stand and a note that I was up for a citation for bravery under fire.

My Gunnery Sergeant will never walk or write left-handed again.

I was stateside three weeks later, and out of rehab in four months after that – discharged for having done my duty at the rank of Lieutenant at the age of 24 with a thank you and a fuck off. I had joined the Marines at 18, so I had no college education and no prospect of getting in, so I joined the police force. I’m not the only vet to have ever done so, but that hushed silence that would always fall in the shower room when I got undressed and you could see the scars made everyone think I was a bad-ass. I milked that in the early days but it got old quickly.

Been there, done that, sold the movie rights.

I’m supposedly recovered from all of that, but there are times when I can feel each bullet tearing through me all over again. You don’t know pain if you’ve never felt this. I look at those actors on TV and the movies who portray having been shot and I think the same thing every time; what a bunch of fakes.

Because I’ve been shot a few times I will go out of my way to avoid it again, which is why I went half way down the stairs and waited for the police to arrive by sitting there with my hands plainly visible. I had to shoo off potential clientele twice, but I was essentially left alone for the 15 minutes it took for the first car to arrive.

As the first two came up the stairs I told them to put on gloves so as not to contaminate the scene. When they asked me what I had found I told them I didn’t know – I didn’t have anything with me that would stop contamination so I stepped outside and didn’t disturb a thing. I hadn’t opened any doors and the things they needed to see were most likely behind them. They’d understand that when they saw what I had seen. When they looked at me strangely I pointed out that I used to be one of them. When a second pair of police arrived they stayed with me while the first pair went inside.

I could hear doors being opened, followed by expletives. That happened 6 more times with increasing frequency before one of them came back, hurtling down the stairs as fast as he could go, past us and rushing outside. Seconds later retching sounds could be heard outside.

We all looked up to see the other policeman, obviously rattled.

“How bad?” One of the ones with me asked.

“Worse than you can imagine,” replied the one at the top of the stairs. “Watch him”, he said, pointing to me.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I protested. I knew the drill though, and I had been expecting it.

The first policeman activated the radio at his left shoulder. “Dispatch, this is Roberts, Badge A5483. We will need a full homicide squad at my 20, crime scene investigators, and tell the morgue to send enough busses for 13 people. Over.”

There was a silence from the other end that was an equal to the one that fell over the rest of us in the stairwell and then dispatch chimed in, “Did you say thirteen? Over.”

The policeman nodded and then activated his radio again. “Thirteen. Five men, seven women, one child. No survivors. Over.”

Oh fuck.

The first policeman looked down at me. “They’re all shot in the head,” he said. “All of them.”

I looked back at the other police in the stairwell and sighed. “You’d best put me in the back of your car,” I said. They stared at me. “Is this your first homicide?” I asked. “You need me the hell out of the scene but available for questioning. The back of a police car is the best place. Besides, I’m a suspect. We’re all in for a long night.”

Despite being in the center of activity that involved a closed-down downtown street, dozens of policemen and detectives and coroners and their cars, flashing lights, news vans and reporters and even a helicopter, plus scrutiny from the people in the neighborhood who were supposed to be there and their phones and cameras that probably already had my face on a hundred places on the internet I had nearly fallen asleep when a knock on the back window of the car I was in shook me out of my stupor. It was a familiar face and a welcome one, who opened the door and helped me out.

“Gary, you look like hell.”

Once I stood and stretched I was about two inches taller than Homicide Detective Eric Clapton. Really. That’s his name. He’s heard every joke you can possibly say about it so don’t even bother. Even if you are forewarned with the knowledge that this same squad once had a detective (now retired) named James Hendrix.

“Thanks Eric,” I replied. “I had wondered if someone I knew would show up.”

“A lot of us are here,” he said. “Martin, Shelly, Lopez, Jersey.”

“Wow, it’s a fucking baseball team.”

“Just about,” Eric replied with a chuckle. The mirth was short-lived. “How are you holding up?”

“Pretty well considering,” I said. I looked up from street level to where the action was. “What the hell did I stumble into?”

“The worst massacre this city has seen since the wild west days. They’re spread out in 7 different rooms. Five Johns with their girls, a woman I’m guessing was the mama-san in another, and a woman and small child in the last, all shot in the head. Small caliber. The killer policed his brass. No bindings and hardly any evidence at all although we’re going to strip the place bare looking. It looks like they were all caught by surprise. No restraints to be found anywhere.”

That down-right shocked me. “How the hell do that many people get caught by surprise?” I asked.

“Not a clue yet,” Eric replied. “No one tried to get dressed and two of the ‘couples’ were still clenched. Maybe they have some impressive sound-proofing up there. I don’t know.”

I shook my head.

“I know you like these places Gary,” he continued. “Tell me what you saw.”

I did. Every last thing I could remember, which wasn’t anywhere close to being enough. I’m not a member of his squad anymore and pointed it out, saying that I hadn’t expected to walk in on anything like this.

Eric asked me a dozen questions, finalized with, “Are you still living in the same place?”

“Same place,” I replied.

“You know we’re going to have to process you.”

“Yeah, I was expecting that. Send someone to my place for a change of clothes?” I handed Eric my keys. He took them and chuckled.

“I suppose I can find a rookie to haze,” he said. He called over a uniformed officer and said, “You know that high-rise condo complex south of Market near the Embarcadero? The tallest one. Go to suite 2120 and get Gary here a change of clothes, right down to the underwear and a pair of shoes, and bring them to the 12th precinct. Mitchell! Forenzo!”

I winced at the thought of needing to go to the 12th precinct. That used to be my place of employment, same as every homicide detective in the city.

The first pair of police at the scene came to us. “Take Mr. Gary Carter here to the crime lab at the 12th to be processed. I’ll want the works. Take his clothes, check for gunshot residue, blood, bodily fluids, everything. A change of clothes will be brought to him there. Once he’s processed he can go home, so someone give him a ride.”

The policeman who had vomited pulled out his cuffs.

“No need for that,” Eric said. “He’s one of us.”

“Well, I used to be,” I said. “Retired. Sort of.”

The detective turned back to me. “Take care of yourself Gary. I’d hate to arrest you for this.”

“Me too.”