Girl with dog and torch

A little after eight o’clock this evening, my floormate D. came into the Common Room to tell us all that there had been (another) car accident down in the intersection below our floor.  It’s apparently a tricky intersection; there have been many car accidents there over the two years I’ve been here.  I sleep on the Quad side, so I have a very quiet room, but people on the Broadway side speak often of accidents.

We could hear the sirens then, and hear them pull up below us.  We kept on with conversation, and dinner, and watching basketball.

About a half hour ago, two police officers (but in regular clothes, just with big badges clipped to their coats) came to the floor.  I was in the kitchen washing dishes, and heard the female officer ask the three who were back in the living room their names and personal information, and tell them what had happened.  I couldn’t hear over the water, and didn’t want to stop and go in, for fear of being nosy, or of being disrespectful (me wanting to know the details versus what might be a tragedy).

After the officer moved along the hall, I came back in and sat down.  She saw me out of the corner of her eye: “Where’d she come from?”  Pleasantly, warmly she said it.  I said that I had been washing dishes, and didn’t want to be nosy.  She said (again, warmly, kindly to me), “This is a time when we need people to be nosy.”  She said that there had been (another) robbery attempt outside, and the robbery victim, frightened and trying to escape, ran into traffic and was hit by a car.  She said he was in bad shape, and might not make it.  Had I heard yelling?  Arguing?  Seen anything?  She took my name, school, room number, age, and phone number.

She left again.  We sat in silence, thinking about the robbery victim, the robber running away, the poor person driving downtown on a normal Friday night.  K. came in and took my hand; she looked sick.  She walked me silently down to the far kitchen, at the end of the hall, and made me look out the window, down into the street.  We could see the blood: a lot of it.  It was more red, and brighter than I would have expected to be able to see, from this (seven floor) height.  I also saw a shoe, and a bag of groceries.

I feel guilty for looking.  I feel bad that what I saw is so indelible.  It’s linked to the badge on the officer’s coat, which I couldn’t stop looking at, except that I was trying to be serious and respectful, and look at her while I spoke to her.  I kept thinking of all of the episodes of Law & Order I watch, and how many pretend interviews I’ve seen, just like this one, and pretend accidents, even filmed here at Union.

We’re afraid it will turn out to be a student here.  Everyone who voices this sentiment says, in one breath: “Not that it’s not bad enough, being someone we don’t know…but,” they hope it’s not someone we know.

I don’t know what else to say.  Probably tomorrow they’ll e-mail around a police report, with bare details.  Probably not the name of the victim, though, although I guess if it’s a classmate I might already know.