## LaSalle Estates - Spring 1997 Calvin Davies leaned over and kissed the top of his daughter’s head, then gently pressed his fingers into her side, counting ribs like a sculptor. It was a tickle game they’d played every morning since she was little. Now that she was seven, she didn’t light up quite the same way—but sometimes, just sometimes, the spark was still there. Astrid squealed. “Daddy, stop! I almost spilled my cereal!” Calvin held his hands to his chest, eyes wide. “But Astrid! How else will I know you still have all your ribs? What if the Boogeyman stole one last night?” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly, Daddy. I'm not a baby anymore, the Boogeyman isn’t real.” “Okay, honey.” Calvin feigned shock. He walked toward the fridge. “You all ready for school? Lunch packed?” Calvin opened the fridge. “Hey, your lunch is still in here. Come grab it and put it in your backpack, please. I can’t bring it to you if you forget it—I’m working all day.” Astrid sighed, slid off her chair, and trudged to the fridge. “Oookaaay.” She took the brown paper bag from his hand and sock-skated across the floor to her backpack. From across the room, she called, “Is Tía Carmen picking me up today?” “Yep. She’ll pick you up at the front door after school.” Calvin said. “I don't like staying at her house, Juan Carlo's annoying.” “Your cousin’s three. He’s a little wild. But so were you at his age.” “No, I wasn’t. I was a good girl.” “Sure you were, never a bad day in your life.” Calvin checked his watch. “Alright, we’ve only got a few minutes. Do you need help with your hair? It looks like it needs to be brushed. Don’t forget to brush your teeth too.” *** “Have a good day at school,” Calvin said as Astrid climbed out of the backseat. She two-hand slammed the door shut and waved as she turned toward the school. Calvin pulled out of the lot and headed to the Clackamas County Sheriff’s Office for morning briefing. He parked in the back lot, grabbed his duffel from the passenger seat, and made his way inside. In the locker room, it was the same familiar routine—uniform on, gear check, a glance in the mirror. He walked into the briefing room just before start time, taking an open seat in the front row. Lieutenant Colton, Delta shift’s leader, stepped up to the podium and began the day’s rundown. “Good morning, everyone," Lieutenant Colton said, launching into the day's rundown. "There was a little activity overnight—armed robbery at the Center Market in Milwaukie. No injuries reported, and detectives are collaborating with local PD. Beyond that, the usual. Davies, you're on welfare checks and standard patrol. I'll need you to hang back to discuss the subjects.” “Let’s have a safe shift out there today. Dismissed.” Colton rearranged his papers and notes. Calvin stepped up to the podium. “You have two welfare checks today,” Colton said, handing Calvin the folders. “The first, Marshall Reedy, a 95-year-old male. He lives alone, and still drives if you can believe that. He calls his daughter in Phoenix every night. No call, no answer for two days.” “The second, Lara Cartwright, a 27-year-old female. Her manager filed the report, she’s been a no-call, no-show for about a week. She’s in the system: substance abuse and domestic disturbance calls.” “Understood, Lieutenant,” Calvin replied, already leafing through the folders. Colton paused. “How's Astrid? You still figuring out this single-dad routine?” “We’re adapting, there are good days, and bad days. But it’s getting better—there is a lot to get used to. Thankfully, my sister has stepped up, she’s been a huge help, especially after school. Thanks for asking.” Colton gave a nod, “Glad to hear it. I went through this about ten years ago, you just get used to the chaos. Stay safe out there today.” *** Deputy Davies turned the Crown Vic onto the cracked pavement of LaSalle Estates, the sun, just dipping behind the West Hills, painting the concrete complex gold and gray. Units 101 through 104 stood to the left, flanked by a warped chain-link fence and an overgrown common area. Coming to a stop and putting the car in park, he keyed his mic. “Dispatch, Delta Two-Two. Arrived at LaSalle Estates, welfare check on Unit 104.” “Copy, Delta Two-Two.” “Proceeding to welfare check on Unit 104.” “Copy.” Deputy Davies adjusted his duty belt and hip-checked the cruiser door shut. A child’s swing creaked lazily in the breeze—still swaying from recent use. His eyes swept across the scene: peeling paint curled from the siding. Years of neglect had turned the flower beds near each unit into cracked, hard-packed dirt. Taped below the peephole of Unit 104, a red-stamped _Past Due_ envelope flapped faintly in the late afternoon breeze. A handwritten date: 05/01/97. Nearly a week old. The windows were single-pane sliders, no screens, the sort of cut-rate build you got in late-'60s low-income housing. Peering through the front window, he saw a cluttered kitchen. A hallway door sat ajar, obscuring the view of the living room. Davies pounded on the door, a trained knock that carried. Then, loud: “County Sheriff! Welfare check!” Silence. Waiting the prescribed 60 seconds, he pounded the door again. He tilted his head, keying the mic again. “Dispatch, Delta Two-Two, no response. Proceeding to walk the perimeter.” “Copy, Delta Two-Two.” As he neared the gate beside the unit, the door of another unit opened. A woman in her fifties, hair bound in mismatched curlers, opened the door. “Hey! I seen that girl go in there four or five days ago. Her man hauled a bunch of stuff out the day before, ain't seen him since. She’s prolly still in there. That’s her car there.” She pointed to a battered '70s-era Honda Civic hatchback parked crooked in an assigned spot. “Appreciate it, ma’am. Just checking to make sure she’s safe,” Davies said, with a wave. She gave a nod, curlers bouncing, and closed the door. Davies turned and pushed through the gate. The common area was a mess of weeds, crumpled cigarette packs, and garbage. He stood at the first window, cupping his hands to block the sun glare—just a pile of clothes and a blinking alarm clock: 2:12. Moving on, he reached the window beside the sliding glass door. Blinds mostly shut. Music drifted through the glass. He cupped his hands again, to peer through the glass. Empty entertainment stand. Coffee table. Beanbag chairs. A figure. Dead still. Half-reclined in a beanbag chair. Bare legs. He snapped his radio. “Dispatch, Delta Two-Two. Visual on an unresponsive subject inside Unit 104. Suspected medical emergency. Requesting EMS Code 3. Forcing entry under exigent circumstances—no response to knock or verbal commands.” “Copy, Delta Two-Two. Confirming exigent entry. Dispatching EMS Code 3. Medic 7 ETA three minutes. Dispatching backup unit, Delta Seven-Three, ETA six minutes.” He tested the sliding door. Locked. Dowel in the track. He turned and sprinted back toward the front. “Dispatch, rear access secured, attempting front door.” Davies twisted the door handle. “Front door unlocked, making entry now. Stand by. “Copy, Delta Two-Two.” Davies slammed the front door open and stepped inside. The smell hit him first—stale cigarettes, rotting food, body odor. Sweat-stained air. Dim golden light speckling the hallway. “Clackamas County Sheriff! Lara Cartwright, call out if you can hear me.” He turned the corner into the living room. The figure on the bean bag—female, mid-20s—slumped like a rag doll. A stretched-out t-shirt clung to her thin frame, the sleeves chewed at the edges. Crusted blood clung below one nostril, a faint trail dried on her upper lip. One bare leg twitched involuntarily in a slow rhythm. Her eyes were half-lidded. Skin waxy, lips dry. She hadn’t moved since he entered. He moved quickly, checking for a pulse. “Dispatch, Delta Two-Two. I have a white female, mid-20s, matching the subject’s description. Unconscious, irregular breathing, pulse faint, no obvious trauma. Request EMS expedite. Initiating sternum rub. Stand by.” “Copy, Delta Two-Two. EMS is en route Code 3. ETA one minute. Entry is cleared. Confirm sternum rub in progress.” Sirens bled through the open front door, rising fast and close. *** Davies knelt beside Lara, pressed two knuckles to her sternum, and ground them in circles, hard. “Open your eyes, goddamnit.” Sirens squelched outside—then cut off. A door slammed. Boots pounded pavement. “EMS!” someone shouted from the doorway. Davies didn’t look up. “I’m jumping in,” The paramedic said, dropping to one knee. “Let’s get her supine.” They moved Lara onto her back. “Airway’s clear. BP’s crashing. Skin’s cool and clammy—she’s circling the drain. What do we have around her? I need to know what she’s on.” Davies stood, scanning the room. His voice was low, clipped—stream-of-consciousness. “Empty vodka bottle. Crushed cigarette packs. Tiny zip bag—maybe speed. I’ll check the bathroom.” The second paramedic entered with a backboard and med bag. From the bathroom Davies shouted. “Empty bottle of lorazepam.” “Copy that.” The first paramedic said. “We need to bag her, get a line in. BG’s low. Let’s stabilize and load her.” Davies stepped back into the living room just as they rolled Lara onto the backboard. The first paramedic started strapping her in while the second knelt by her arm. “Cubital blew—going radial.” he muttered. “Got it. Line’s in. Pushing saline.” A flurry of motion—gloved hands working in sync. “She’s bradying.” The second paramedic said. “BP’s tanking. Push D50. Let’s get her on the monitor in the rig.” The first paramedic gave Davies a sharp glance. “You said lorazepam and speed?” “Vodka too,” Davies confirmed. “No signs of trauma, but she’s been down a while.” The paramedics lifted the board in one smooth motion and moved toward the door. “We need a name! Grab her wallet and any ID!” The first paramedic called out. “Copy. Grabbing what I can find.” Davies called back, “You running her to Emanuel?” “Trauma One.” he confirmed, already out the door. *** Deputy Davies stood just outside the doorway as the medics closed Lara into the ambulance. Red and blue lights swept across the walls of LaSalle Estates, reflecting off the windows like a warped carnival ride. The backup deputy rolled into the parking lot, headlights cutting through the trees. Deputy Wooten stepped out and walked toward Unit 104. “OD?” Wooten asked, pulling on gloves. Davies nodded. “Likely. Found her unconscious. Shallow breathing. Lorazepam in the bathroom, speed baggie on the floor. Trauma One to Emanuel.” Wooten nodded. “You riding along?” “Driving myself. Grabbing her ID and any pill bottles—EMS asked for anything that might help the ER team. I’ll follow up and finish the report there.” Wooten stepped past him and into the apartment. “I’ll finish the sweep, secure it, and call it clear.” Davies gave one last look at the trashed apartment—cigarette butts, empty bottles, and the murmur of music still playing from the boombox. He walked to his patrol car and keyed his mic. “Dispatch, Delta Two-Two. Subject en route to Emanuel. Backup’s on scene. I’m en route to the hospital with evidence and effects.” “Copy, Delta Two-Two. Marking you en route to Emanuel.” Davies ducked into his cruiser. ## Blackout Playlist: To be added