It was a bad scene.

One of the worst I’ve ever witnessed- which figures. I had recently gone part-time as a medicolegal death investigator with the intention of giving my fractured psyche a chance to knit itself back together after over a decade of constant trauma. I figured if I only worked part-time, maybe I could use the rest of the time to process, reflect… heal.

It appears fate had other plans. Rather than going on easy death-calls that required little effort and less emotional involvement, here I was… less than a month after my alleged “retirement” and I was on the second-worst scene of my career.

So, what was the WORST scene of my career? A lot of people ask that. It freaks me out. Why do they want to know? What are they hoping to get out of it? It stinks of maniacal voyeurism reminiscent of public executions and shitty horror movies. America lacks self- awareness in that regard… like a lot of historical assholes. Sure, the puritans were deeply moral and overly concerned with their pristine souls… but they still burned people at the stake in the town square. I’m sure the Romans thought of themselves as the pinnacle of
civilization… while screaming with delight as a lion tore someone apart for their amusement. Similarly, when I tell the most pedantic, progressive people I’ve been a death investigator for over a decade, they always want to know: “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen?” High-five, guys. You’re real beacons of morality.

Anyway, I’ll tell you… just so you understand the scale against which I judge these things- The worst scene I ever had was some dude who shot both of his children and then himself because he was pissed off at his wife. (Fuck you, pal.) And while this current call was initially the second worst, it quickly shot-up in ranking and still remains tied with that family-annihilator chart-topper. How did this happen? Well, it was all thanks to the dumb-ass comments of a sheriff’s deputy.

This call was a double-homicide/ suicide. That’s right, three bodies: two homicide victims and one suicidal shooter. Some guy had shot his wife… his wife’s sister and then himself.

“That’s terrible! Why didn’t I hear about this?” -you may be asking.

Well, the sad fact is… domestic homicides AREN’T news. No one cares. There might be an online blurb or a brief mention on the evening news right before the weather. But otherwise, these deaths don’t warrant any air-time or ink unless emergency vehicles delay the morning commute. Furthermore, if a politician or celebrity has done something particularly salacious, domestic homicides get bumped right off the edge of the world… especially if the involved characters have brown skin… like all of these people did.

It gets worse.

When I arrived at the scene of this incident, the whole story was awful. As it was reported to me, the husband and wife had a history of conflict. They fought all the goddamnned time. When these arguments broke out, either the wife or the kids would call the wife’s sister because this sister would come running over to help diffuse the situation.

Well, a couple of weeks earlier, the already-dicey emotional climate of this family kicked up into a real tornado. The wife had caught the husband peeping on their teenaged daughter while this girl was in the shower. Now, this woman had grown accustomed to dealing with her husband’s lousy attitude towards her. BUT, she was not going to tolerate any bullshit directed at their daughter. She immediately reported the incident to police. And there was enough evidence for the police to arrest… for the DA to indict… and for this Fuck-wad to go to jail. HOWEVER, due to some stupid reason or another, Fuck-wad was released with an ankle monitor and a stern warning to NOT have any contact with his wife or daughter…

…An edict he emphatically ignored.

Earlier in the evening, Fuck-wad showed up at the family home and launched into an extended argument with his wife in the backyard. The children were hiding inside and as their parents’ exchange heated up, one of the kids decided it was time to call their aunt for back up. The wife’s sister came over to help eject Fuck-wad from the property and the next thing you know- shots were fired. Fuck-wad had pulled a gun out and shot his wife, her sister and then himself…

all while his children cowered and watched from the upstairs windows of the house.

It was a disaster. Even as police were arriving, other family members were showing up at the scene, having been called by the traumatized children. Prior to my arrival, the backyard had been a writhing tangle of people and languages. The Spanish-speaking family had been screaming questions and collapsing in grief on the two murdered women. Police had been yelling at everyone to stand back and keep their hands visible as they tried to thread through who was the shooter, who was dead, who was unconscious and whose blood was EVERYWHERE. The family had been corralled inside the home. But then the dead women’s mother began having chest pain and an ambulance was called. The family had all opted to go to the hospital with her.

Even though the chaos had died down by the time I arrived, it was still a bad scene. As the last responder, I wasn’t dispatched to respond until long after pretty much everyone else had already come and gone. By the time I arrived, the sky was dark and it was freezing. The cold had slowed the post-mortem changes on my three decedents, but as I bent down to assess their injuries, I could barely feel my fingers. The investigating officers and detectives were somber. Our usual camaraderie was muted and strained. Everyone was nervous and exhausted and even though the chaos had abated and the yard was eerily silent, you could still feel the screams in the air. 

Both women had taken shots to the hands and heads. The hand wounds were defensive in nature, meaning the sisters saw the bullets coming and attempted to shield themselves before the final blows. One of them had been shot right through the eye, and they both lay there exactly how they fell. They looked ridiculous- that’s something that TV always gets wrong. When people die- they don’t land in dramatic, graceful poses. They land with limbs splayed out, clothes tangled and hair in their eyes. More “Looney Tunes” than “Classic Painting.” I couldn’t say which sister died first. When the husband started shooting, these last moments passed in milliseconds. Likely they were both gone before either really knew what was happening. The perpetrator had a single hole to the temple, typical of a self-inflicted gunshot. It was all terrible. It was cold and dark and eerie and…terrible. And even though I know better, sometimes my mind wanders off-leash and begins asking questions. Are they going to keep living here… I pondered as I glanced up at the spacious 2-story cabin-style home. They’ll have to sell it. They couldn’t possibly stay. What’s going to happen to the kids? Where were they when this happened? Which window? How much did they see? Both their
parents are dead, what’s going to happen to them now?

I glanced around. There was a lone news-van posted up across the street… meaning there must have been a lack of interesting stories for the 10 o’clock edition. If this had happened in a nicer neighborhood, there would have been five or six more channels, all clamoring for footage. Whoever this crew was, they stayed inside their vehicle. Smart choice. Not only was it freezing, but I also had a reputation for yelling judgmental epithets at lookie-loos and news reporters. I hate on-lookers, both news media and random gawkers, alike.

Not too long ago, I was on the scene of an auto-pedestrian death. Some dude had gotten mowed down by a car and was laying in the middle of an intersection while the local populace stood around, unapologetically watching him bleed as though it was a sport. I stood in front of them, public-speaker-style, and yelled at them to go home. “This man did not die for your entertainment,” I hollered at them. And when a few of them stayed, rooted to their spots in the parking lot of a nearby drug-store, I marched right up and confronted each one individually. “Why are you here,” I asked them. “What are you hoping to see? What does any of this have to do with YOU? Would you want people staring at YOUR family member?” That day, the cops had all watched with horrified admiration as I accosted the local populace for their tactless curiosity.

All the police in our area had been warned off antagonizing the citizens as the department was trying to salvage their public image after a few dozen national police brutality scandals. But at the medical examiners’ office had no such directive. It might have been classier to just ignore all these assholes who wanted to watch our decedent get shoveled off the pavement into a body-bag. But I wasn’t classy anymore, I was exhausted, burned out and had no patience for the knuckle-dragging masses and their camera phones.

Back to the scene at hand…

I took my photos, bagged the bodies and called a funeral home for a transport assist since I can only carry two bodies at a time. State law dictated that all three of them had to be autopsied. Also, no fucking way was I going to make either of those two victims ride in the same car as their killer. Fuck that, he can sit by himself and think about what he’s done. Anyway, once help was enroute, I climbed into the “Critical Incident Command Unit”
with the police and detectives. This unit is a big, old, motor-home-type vehicle that is fitted with tables, chairs, TV monitors and whiteboards. It’s a quiet place for briefings and meetings. In the Command Unit everyone compares notes and we do our best to figure out what happened and what needs to happen next. On the down-low, the Command Unit also a good place to throw-up or cry… depending on what kind of scene you’re dealing with.

I sat down next to a detective who glanced over and grinned. “Didn’t I just go to your retirement party?” he asked.

“Hey man, I told them I’d stay on until they found a replacement, it’s not MY fault they didn’t post the opening until last week.”

The lead detective launched into the description, reiterating everything we already knew and offering a few extra notes. As he spoke, I glanced around the gathered company and felt my eyes narrow as my gaze fell upon a PARTICULAR character.

It was fucking Deputy Mason… I hate that guy.

As a rule, I get along great with cops. Despite the fact that I am an uber-feminist, autistic liberal and they’re… cops… we get along great. I deal with the dead bodies and they know better than to fuck with me… because if they DO, they end up helping me carry dead people around. Either that or I “accidentally” spatter them with blood or decomposition fluid. Oops.

Mason is different, though. While he has never crossed me, personally, he HAS seriously fucked with female-kind and I have never forgotten it.

A couple years ago my friend, Kara, was dating Mason. She was head-over-heels for him. Never mind the fact that Mason was and is the unremarkable epitome of mediocre white dudes: kinda chubby, kind pasty and not super intelligent. But what the hell, I guess a bullet-proof vest covers a multitude of sins. Prior to their romance, I didn’t know a thing about him. She told me she was dating this guy and I was like… “cool.”

But a couple of months later, I got a phone call… and if you’ve ever had a girl or woman friend in your life… you know this call. Kara called me, crying. She was a mess and couldn’t even keep it together long enough to tell me what was going on. Still, the ask was clear. She was sitting in a bar, not too far away, and she needed me there as soon as possible. Upon my arrival, Kara collapsed on me in a wet mess. Between sobs and shots of bourbon, the story emerged. When they had gotten together, Mason had admitted to Kara that he was still legally married. BUT he swore that the relationship was over, they were only living together at this point because they were working through the logistics of parenting plans and selling their house. They were sleeping in separate bedrooms. The love was dead. Kara looked into his social media and didn’t see any mention of his wife; No pictures or anything. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea of dating a guy who was technically married, but he seemed so sincere and sensitive… and she really, really liked him.

Well, as “sincere, sensitive, technically married guys” are prone to do, Mason went weirdly AWOL for the last few days. He wasn’t responding to Kara’s texts and kept dodging her attempts to make plans. And while Kara can make unfortunate decisions in her dating life, (just like ALL OF US) she isn’t stupid. Kara skipped Mason’s social media and went right to the source. She looked up Mason’s wife’s Facebook page and learned what she needed to know. There, in brilliant, multi-pixel, technicolor… were lovely pictures of Mason and his wife, celebrating their wedding anniversary on the coast… roughly 24 hours earlier.

The two of them were kissing for the camera and toasting to their love’s longevity. They had even written their entwined initials in the sand on the beach… surrounded by hearts and flowers. The message was clear. Mason and his wife were very much together- at least as far as Mrs. Mason knew. I scrolled through the pictures, feeling my jaw get tighter and tighter with Kara’s every sniffle. Then, to top it all off, Kara showed me screenshots of Mason’s dating profile from a month or two before when they had met. There was the slimy little troll, sitting in his patrol car in uniform… his badge, agency and name were prominently displayed in the photos.

“That CRUSTY LITTLE CUM-STAIN!!!!” I had yelled… right there in the bar, loud enough that I drowned out the sound system and heads were turning. I ordered more bourbon and asked Kara what she wanted to do about it. Was she going to contact his wife? Did she want me to report him to professional standards? Which match should we strike to burn this bastard down?

Kara shook her head. She was destroyed about it, but didn’t want to ruin his life. I absolutely wanted to ruin his life, but it wasn’t my choice. She opted to write him a strongly worded letter (which he ignored) and move on with her life. Good for her.

I, on the other hand, wasn’t so magnanimous. I was pissed… as was my husband when he heard what had happened. My husband is a deputy for the same county and confirmed that officers taking pictures of themselves in uniform for dating apps was STRICTLY forbidden. Furthermore, Mason had something of a reputation: He had come to our county as a transfer after a scandal at his previous law enforcement agency. He had been cheating on his wife at that location as well… and had managed to knock-up a dispatcher in the process. He and his wife had relocated to our county/jurisdiction in an attempt to leave the past behind and save their family. It was going great.

After that, I had nothing but derision for Mason. Anytime I ended up on a scene with him I wasn’t outwardly hostile, but I made it clear that he shouldn’t talk to me. And now here he was, Mr. Morality himself in the incident command vehicle at a double homicide/suicide.

I did my best to ignore him and listen to what the lead detective was saying. We were debating if this was a spur-of-the-moment choice for the shooter, or if he came over with the intention of killing his wife. A quick review of their history answered the question.

Today was their wedding anniversary…

…meaning our shooter definitely showed up at the house planning to kill at least his wife, possibly himself, and the sister was collateral damage. The group fell silent as that fact sunk in. This asshole had killed his wife on their anniversary, then murdered her sister before killing himself… while his kids fucking watched.

“WELL… At least he remembered their anniversary…” Mason quipped from his corner.

Everyone turned to look at him as he chuckled at his own cleverness. Rage erupted in my chest: a vicious, fiery, glow that grew with each second that Mason stood there, giggling and thinking he was a real witty motherfucker.

A couple of the younger officers tittered, glancing to the left and right as though they were asking what to do. Should we laugh? Are we laughing at this? What’s everyone else doing? Is it funny?

Mason decided to double down and really went for it:

“At least he got her something…“

(For those of you who lack the capacity to grasp Mason’s asinine humor, the implication is Fuck-wad got his wife a bullet for their anniversary)

The company went silent for a second. Mason stood there, grinning like an idiot while one of the detectives gasped and ran his hand over his face. A couple of the others let out a quick “heh” while others said nothing at all and stared at the floor. But I couldn’t… not this time. I didn’t work for the sheriff’s office and even if I did, I was retired/ part time and didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of my conduct.

“I don’t know how fucking funny that is… MASON,” I barked at him, far louder than was needed for the small space. I stared hard at him while everyone else held their breath. Mason dropped his eyes. I waited before speaking again, letting the moment linger. “Did you know…” I spoke with deliberate venom. “…that in America, more women were murdered by their partner or former partner in the first three months of 2018, than all the
people killed in all the school shootings from 2000-2018?”

It’s true. If you count up all the fatalities from school shootings from 2000 to 2018 (and I mean colleges, private schools, school buses, etc.) the count is 270. According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention’s website, at least three women are murdered by a partner or former partner every EVERYDAY. If you do the math, that means the total number of women killed in just 3 months well exceeds school shooting fatalities. But of course- no one knows… because domestic homicide isn’t news-worthy. Remember?

No one spoke, not until someone (I’m not sure who) muttered, “God, what a statistic to know…”

“Yeah,” I snapped. “But it’s funny, RIGHT MASON? It’s fucking funny isn’t it?”

Mason stared at the floor. I think he mumbled something to the tune of “No, I guess not.” I’m not sure, I was too furious to focus. I have no idea what happened next, but I’m certain I made everything awkward and intolerable for however much longer we were in the command unit. It’s a talent of mine.

The next day, I wasn’t over it. If anything, I was angrier as I thought about Mason’s flagrant and well-known disregard for the women surrounding him: His wife, the dispatcher, Kara… whatever poor sap he was cheating on now. It’s one thing to be kind-of a dope when it comes to your interpersonal relationships. It’s another thing entirely to be so fucking accustomed to women being meaningless extras in someone else’s movie that you have no problem making jokes about their deaths while their bodies are still lying 50 feet
away. The message is clear: Women only matter inasmuch as they are devices for a man’s pleasure or wrath. Either way, they are expendable- whether you shoot them or you simply ignore their tearful email. Who gives a shit… it’s funny.

My call to the professional standards line was brief. I left a message stating I had concerns about a deputy’s behavior on a scene and I’d like to speak to a sergeant. I imagine my ire had proceeded me, because when the sergeant called back he already sounded exhausted with the whole situation.

“Ok,” he sighed. “What’s going on?”

I did my best to stay calm and opted to omit Mason’s extramarital affair with my friend. While it was relevant in my mind, I knew it would be seen as a personal vendetta and would invalidate my complaint. When I got to the part where I quoted Mason’s words, the sergeant audibly gulped and I heard him mutter, “Jesus…”

“Look,” I said. “I’m as guilty as anyone when it comes to making off-color remarks at a death scene. We all engage in some form of morbid humor for the sake of diffusing the tension. But making fun of a scene like THAT is really next-level. I mean, it displays a lack of decency and tact that even I find really obscene.”

“Well, what would you like to see happen here?”

I wasn’t prepared for the question. What did I want to see happen? I wanted to see him fired, for starters. I wanted Mason to spend a single day dealing with the endless bullshit that comes with double X chromosomes and constantly being told your existence is a fucking joke to the ruling patriarchal society. I wanted him to be ignored, dismissed, undermined, ridiculed and murdered and see how funny he thought it was. I wanted him to fear for his life in his own home or debate whether or not it was safe to walk to his
car after work. I wanted him to bust his ass for an unequal wage. I wanted him to fight and fight and fight for the esteem and credibility he had, thus far, taken for granted. I wanted him to know how it feels for your death to be a punchline. I wanted him to understand.

But of course, I didn’t say any of that. I didn’t think of it at the time and besides, none of those things were possible. Instead I made some lame comment about how maybe he should cross-train with the medical examiner’s office and actually have to see and talk to the families that were affected by situations like this. Maybe he wouldn’t be so quick to laugh at their misfortune. But, as soon as I said it, I knew it was a wasted request. Police
navigate human devastation everyday and it was obtuse to suggest Mason didn’t get it. No police officer is going to believe that another police officer needs schooling on how fucked up the world is.

In the end, I don’t really know what happened. I know Mason didn’t get a formal write up in his personnel file and ended up with a “verbal counseling” or something… which basically means this incident won’t haunt him, professionally speaking. Someone in management likely took him aside and told him to pull his head out of his ass and not say stuff like that in front of a known, raging feminist.

I also know that Mason started running his own, heavily edited narrative. He complained to anyone who would listen that I had it out for him because of his relationship with Kara… which is true. But it doesn’t change what he said. In my mind, the combined incidents reinforced his undeniable disregard for women. Furthermore, he COMPLETELY rewrote history and told everyone that my anger was unwarranted because when he was dating Kara, he and his wife were briefly separated. But then they got back together and he
broke it off with Kara… so it wasn’t actually cheating.

(Incidentally, Mason and his wife did get divorced later. It turns out his wife found out about his next affair via text message during a marital counseling session. Rumor has it she dumped his lying ass right there in the therapist’s office.)

I wish I could say I’m surprised, but this isn’t my first ride on the misogyny-go-round. Back when I was a paramedic student, my field training instructors thought nothing of thumbing through a Playboy magazine while we were sitting in the idling ambulance, waiting for the next call. Then they casually asked me how I chose to groom my pubic hair.

Those guys didn’t face any real consequences either. When I went to administration and told them about the whole uncomfortable situation, these two field instructors received a minor slap on the wrist but certainly kept their jobs and their stellar reputations. I, on the other hand, was the target of a vicious smear campaign as they rewrote history as well. They told everyone they just had a Maxim magazine and I was going to fail paramedic school so I made up the story in order to have their evaluations of my performance dismissed. And the whole “pubic hair question” was omitted completely. Never happened. The entire Denver Health Paramedic Division swallowed their story and I was labelled a conniving liar. Everyone hated me. Despite my straight A’s, my paramedic career was over before it began.  The only thing that would’ve made anyone happy to see me walking into the ambulance garage was if I was on fire.

Am I traumatized? Did that situation make me particularly sensitive to Mason’s dumb-ass behavior? You bet, it did. Is that so unreasonable? Does that mean that I should have taken this incident in stride and cut Mason some slack? Absolutely-fucking-not. It’s ludicrous that 20 years later these things are still happening. I cannot believe that in 2023, women are still being told it’s our responsibility to absorb archaic and dangerous comments and attitudes from the “boys will be boys” school of thought.

That’s right, I said DANGEROUS.

“Now Grace…” I can hear people saying. “Sticks and stones… sticks and stones… they only hurt you if you let them.”

Bullshit.

I recently called out an acquaintance for his words. Let’s call him “AH.” He’s a 42 year-old man who had lost a game of pool against a 50-year-old man. AH’s response to this humiliation was to give a nonchalant shrug and say, “Whatever, I’m still fucking a
28-year-old.”

The 50 year -old billiards winner told me about the interaction with an air of confusion. Like, he couldn’t quite process the statement. I don’t think he was telling on AH so much as he was just like – what the fuck? That’s certainly how I felt… what the fuck, indeed. My blood was boiling. And a little while later, I confronted AH about it. I asked him if he really made that comment and his response was predictably tone-deaf:

“Yeah… I said it. I’m not sure why it matters.”

I tried to tell him that the way men talk about women matters. And it’s one thing if a 20-something who’s been raised on Joe Rogan and porn makes dumbass comments about women- it’s another thing entirely when someone with a developed frontal cortex thinks that it’s cool and funny to talk about his partner as though she’s a medal he can hang on his dick.

“Well, I didn’t say it in front of women from what I recall and if I did, I guess it was a mistake.”

And this is where he really shot himself in the foreskin.

He knew he shouldn’t say that in front of women – yeah, that’s not a good thing. It doesn’t mean that he views women as complex and nuanced personalities with their own ambitions, dreams and legitimate value. It only means he knows how and when to lie. It means viewing women with contempt and scorn is fine so long as they don’t know you’re doing it.

I’m not sure who scares me more; dumbasses like Mason who just pop-off with their idiot remarks regardless of who’s around- or more socially adept trolls like AH- who disguises his low-key disregard until there are no “females” around- One of them you can see coming… the other seems perfectly well adjusted until he’s got you pinned in a corner like Harvey Weinstein, or he’s hammering on your hotel room door, demanding to be let in like Donald Trump… or he’s holding a gun in your face while your children are watching

Who cares? You’re not a person, you’re a plot device.

I’ll tell you the same thing I told AH

Words matter.

The bible says that “life and death are in the power of the tongue.” It also says that God basically spoke the universe into existence. The whole concept of magic and spell casting indicates that the appropriate words, said at the appropriate time and in the appropriate order will make wonderful or terrible things happen. Don’t believe me? Call a black
person a n****r and see what happens.

Furthermore, men take their cues from other men.

I can’t help but think about the younger officers who were in the Command Vehicle when Mason shot off his mouth… I remember how they all glanced around, waiting for the hint on how to respond. They were LEARNING. One man, unopposed, saying shit like that gives other men permission to say shit like that. It has the power to embolden them to believe then say then DO awful things.

This quiet, insidious attitude takes root and gets watered by subtle attitudes and images. Soon enough, every dumbass, knuckle-dragging Chad feels he has the right to impose his opinion on the world- Women: How should they look? What should they wear? How much should they earn? How much should they eat? Who should they fuck? Where should they live? IF they should live…

It’s a downhill slide to insignificance- we should know, we’ve been kicked to the bottom of that slope all our lives- by fathers, brothers, colleagues, bosses, friends… even other women. Like Sisyphus, women have had to roll the boulder of their own existence up that mountain over and over and over. Meanwhile men have judged our performance, taken credit for our progress, commented on our fat rolls and thrown fists, rocks and bullets. It’s a hard fucking road. It’s a daily battle. It’s a matter of life and death. And if you’re not going to help, you can at least cheer us on… and if you can’t even do that… then keep your big mouth shut.

Asshole.