First Response

I was driving home from the symphony late one night through the downtown area. The traffic was closely spaced and moving quickly despite the rain and the slick road conditions. I had just passed the last of the downtown high-rises when suddenly a dozen red taillights flashed in front of me. I hit my brakes and was thrown into my safety belt. Traffic came to a full stop for a moment, and then began to inch forward again. In my peripheral vision, I caught sight of a pile of clothing lying in the center lane. At first I thought that it was just some garbage that had come off the back of a truck. But as I rolled slowly past, I developed a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. The clothing was not arranged randomly. It was held together in some dimly recognizable order.

I pulled over to the median strip and carefully got out. The October rain was cold against my face. A nightmarish light, created by the headlights of the rapidly congesting traffic, glared off the wet pavement. In my immediate vicinity, vehicles were moving quite slowly, and I was able to weave between them to the object on the pavement.

Lying in front of a black Camaro, in a chaotic tangle of clothing, was a man about 45 years old. He looked like a homeless person, with an unkempt and felted beard, brown teeth, and filthy sweatpants. His two layers of long underwear, plaid wool shirt, and tattered cotton coat were all hoisted up around his armpits, revealing a chest that was ghastly white. There was a single deep laceration across his torso that was not bleeding. I squatted down next to him and …