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Child in Car Fireby Richard HannibalEditor's Warning: To those of you who might be offended by the horrific reality of a true story involving a child and his mother, please do not read any further. This is not for the faint of heart. But it does starkly portray the harshness of what some policemen and other emergency respondents may face in serving us. Next time you meet one - even if you are being arrested, thank him or her.
It was a moonless night, a couple days before Christmas. The uniform was parked in a closed gas station, completing the paperwork from a previous injury traffic collision. The adrenaline of the last Code-3 run was just subsiding when the radio came to life. "Tom-3, major injury accident, Highway 71, one mile south of Ninth Street!" In a single motion, papers were thrown on the floor, switches were activated and red and blue lights began their strobe effect on a nearby wall. Another button was pushed and the siren began its urgent scream. ‘Tom-3' was rolling to his third injury accident of the evening. The Code-3 run was always exhilarating. The sense of urgency began a welcome rush of adrenaline as the uniform began threading the black and white through light traffic. The siren wailed and red and blue lights competed with the colorful Christmas decorations hanging in strings on homes and businesses as they flashed by. The terrain changed from city streets to a darkened rural highway as the car's powerful engine sucked air, pushing ‘Tom-3' to his destination. The uniform enjoyed working traffic collisions, which was his primary assignment. It fulfilled a deep need to help people and bring order to chaos. There was also the lesser admitted need of being needed and in control. Then, there was the selfish motivation of the adrenaline addiction that only rolling to and handling major emergencies can give. The police car's lights were now reflecting off passing hillsides and barb wire fences as the high beam headlights and spotlight pierced the darkness ahead. In the distance the uniform saw a faint orange glow, which grew in intensity the closer he got. The uniform checked his speedometer often as the events, lights and siren distorted speed. He was surprised to see the needle near the 95 mile per hour mark. "Slow down, you will be of no help if you don't arrive." ‘Tom-3' slowed, arrived and the siren was silenced. The uniform scanned the approaching scene as he always did. Where was the best location for the flares? Where should he place his police car? Where are the injured? He had an unrealistic, but deep fear of running over one of the injured in his haste to arrive at an accident scene. Not this time. The darkened rural road was well lit from an angry, orange blaze of a crushed car, fully engulfed in flames. The uniform was aware of one or two other cars at the scene, but at the time did not know if they were involved or just passing by. As the police cruiser came to a stop, the uniform saw a woman tugging on the crushed door of the burning car. It was surreal as the flames silhouetted the woman and the white, red and blue lights of the police car cast conflicting colors on her. The uniform's mind could not comprehend why the woman was next to the burning car, especially since she was oblivious to her hair, which was smoking and on the verge of combustion. The woman was obviously screaming, but like many other incidents in his past, the uniform perceived the scene in slow motion and muffled sounds. The uniform's priority was obvious . . . "get that crazy woman away from the burning car." The uniform felt intense heat on his face as he neared the woman. As he got closer, the woman was aglow with gray/black smoke coming from her hair and clothing. Her hands were on the white-hot door handle of the car as she tugged frantically. The muffled screams and the slow motion of smoke and flames continued as the uniform reached the woman, grabbed a wrist and pulled. The intent was to pull the woman from the heat before she exploded in flame herself. The uniform's grip was firm, but failed as it slipped off the woman's wrist. He reached out again, this time grabbing an upper arm, and again, the firm grip failed. The uniform tried again and noticed shreds of skin hanging from his hands. It was then that he realized the woman's burned skin was coming off in his grip. Another attempt was made, this time successful, as hot clothing was grabbed and the woman was pulled backwards off balance. The screams continued, but now in a stereophonic effect. The woman's screams were now deafening in the uniform's right ear, but other screams were filling his left ear as he looked back at the burning car in horror. The object of the woman's irrational behavior was seated in the back seat. A seven year old boy was seen through the smoke and flame, seat-belted and hopelessly pinned in the wreckage. The boy's hair was on fire as he screamed and his arms moved in a wild, windmill fashion. The uniform knew the situation was hopeless and all he could do was keep the mother from returning to the flames. The night was filled with screams. Horrible screams. The hysterical pleading of the mother to return to her son joined the roaring crackle of the fire and the high pitched sounds coming from the back seat. The woman broke free, leaving more skin dangling from the uniform's hands. The uniform rushed forward, again grabbing the woman and trying to keep his gaze away from the back seat. But that was impossible as all there was on this dark, cold night, was a child, engulfed in flames. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. The uniform again pulled the woman back, but this time having to extinguish flames in her smoking hair. Screaming! Horrible screaming! Where was it coming from . . . the mother . . . the child in the back seat . . . or from the uniform? Thank God for the struggle with the mother, as it kept the uniform from totally focusing on the horror happening in the rear seat of the burning car. The uniform and mother were now a safe distance from the flames as the screams from the back seat began to subside. The uniform turned the mother away from the car and held her to his breast, not allowing her to witness what was happening to her son. The uniform's gaze could not be deterred as he watched the child in the back seat begin to blacken. The screams were less, the movement had stopped and soon all that could be heard was the mother's sobs and the crackling fire. The child continued to sit upright as the flames consumed him. He was now part of the blaze. He became one with the fire. Find the switch, quick. Not the mechanical switch to activate lights or sirens, but the mental switch to deactivate emotion. The uniform now had a job to do. Call the fire department. Call an ambulance. Protect the scene. Call a tow truck. Call the coroner; and then, the routine, but dreary on-scene investigation. Time went by as the badly burned mother sped away in an ambulance. The child's charred, smoking body, with white bone protruding through the blackness, was removed by a coroner's crew. Thank God there were two on the crew and the uniform's assistance was not needed. The burned hulk was towed away. The scene was returned to normal . . . Chaos returned to order. The uniform entered the police car with hands filled with paper, diagrams and the other items accumulated at the scene of fatal accidents. The hot lights of the patrol car were given temporary relief as the uniform pulled off the road and onto the shoulder. The horror was not yet realized by the uniform. He was to busy with the investigation and bringing chaos to order. The uniform's horrific adrenaline rush was being replaced by intense fatigue as the police radio came to life. "‘Tom-3', an injury traffic accident, Highway 10 and Garey Avenue." Emergency lights and siren switches were again activated, but the switch in the uniform's mind needed no attention. Emotion had been deactivated for the night . . . and perhaps for the rest of his life. |
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