His body looked rangy and underweight beneath a gray T-shirt, droopy Lakers shorts, and teal flip-flops. A flaming tattoo wrapped itself up his left calf. His fingers, long and slender, were oozing bright red blood from where America’s Finest Pimp had hit him, and now it was dripping onto his shirt. I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a dishtowel, and tossed it to him.
“Where is Scarlett? Please…” His tone was plaintive enough to be believable. I was about to tell him to get some ice on his nose so we could talk.
The next thing I heard sounded like a cat, until it didn’t. My right hand was on the way back to my holster. “Who else is here?”
“The baby.”
I grabbed him by the arm and pushed him ahead of me into the bedroom. Once I would hide behind books. Now I was using a human shield. Beside a box spring and mattress on the floor was a yellow hand-me-down crib. After ordering him to stand against the far wall so I could watch him, I approached it.
Sure enough, inside was a baby, incredibly tiny, with a tuft of brown hair and a very soiled diaper.
When I looked back at Lewis, he was kneeling, his head pointed down. “I don’t feel good…”
“How long has this baby needed changing?”
“I don’t know. AFP was here for couple of hours, waiting for Scarlett, telling me he’d kill me if I didn’t give him the money she owed him…” He was sobbing. The vein up his forehead expanded. “I think I have a concussion. I’m dizzy. Can you change him please? I didn’t mean to leave him back here alone.”
I filed the money part away and let him alone. He was useless. I looked around for supplies. All I saw was a television, along with a video-game box and a cell phone sitting atop a plastic crate that doubled as a bedside table. Opening the closet, I found a shelf with a box of Pampers, wipes, and baby powder.
Back at crib-side, I felt pretty useless myself. As a young deputy, I had delivered a couple of babies in the backs of squad cars. Otherwise, I had spent a lifetime staying as far away from them as possible. At least until a year ago, I figured that would always be the case. But as I beheld this tiny, helpless creature, I was nearly overcome by a hurricane of feelings and instincts. The bracing stench coming from the diaper brought me back to reality. It wasn’t as bad as a dead body left for a week inside a house during high summer in Phoenix.
I pulled out a clean diaper and slid it under the baby, who was squirming with more energy and squalling like a siren. Maybe I was painting myself into a very messy corner, but it was worth a try. Then I set the wipes on the mattress and gingerly undid one tab. The stench grew worse. Thankfully, the window was open and a faint sea breeze was coming in. So far, so good: I pulled the other tab, folded it in on itself, and lowered the front of the soiled diaper. Immediately a little fountain of urine shot all over my tie and shirt.