Death by ketchup

Listening to the radio today, I had some calls from memory lane come waltzing back to the forefront of the ole memory bank. One in particular stands out. I refer to that call as "death by ketchup".

A few years ago, I was working in a neighboring department and we were toned out to a possible suicide attempt. My partner and I arrived on scene of a newer, middle class home in a nice neighborhood. We parked the truck and headed toward the front door. Immediately I noticed the crime scene tape around the entire outside of the house. The driveway was taped off, the banister, railing, and posts of the front porch had yellow tape around them as well. We ducked under the tape and went to enter the house at the direction of the cops on scene. There are a few general rules we observe when responding to potential crime scenes- Don't become a victim, don't cut clothes where bullet holes are, don't step in blood. I lifted my foot and went to step on the hardwood floor of the entryway. My foot froze midair. I searched for a clean place to step. There was nowhere to step. The ENTIRE floor was covered in blood smears. The white walls had hand prints on them. There was blood smeared everywhere. There were bloody footprints On the white carpet, toes easily identifiable. Our patient had definitely gone for shock factor. The cops directed us to the kitchen, where we found a female, possibly mid thirties, on the floor. She had overdosed the night before, and had cut herself up the full length of her arms and behind both of her knees. Her cuts were long and deep. She wasn't dead yet, but she wasn't far from it. She was cold, ghostly pale, and was only breathing about six times a minute. We put her on a backboard and carried her off to the truck. I remember leaving the house and looking up- there was blood sprayed all over the ceiling of the kitchen and hallway!

We hauled tail to the hospital, and her condition didn't change. The ER took over, tried to stabilize her, and did what they could. To this day I have no idea if she lived or died. I do know that I was mad for a very long time when the cops showed up and informed us that only 50% of the "blood" in the house was really blood- the rest was ketchup. She had tried to go out with a bit of a dramatic flare- and had sprayed the ceiling with ketchup in neat arches and splattered sprays. She had cut herself and crawled around on her hands and knees on the hardwood floor, painting with her bodily fluids. She had eaten bottles of pills and passed out on her kitchen floor.

I remember that scene so vividly. The house was so new and so clean. It was scantily furnished, and there was a mattress on the living room floor. I remember seeing a child's toy there too. I remember the sadness I felt for the possibility that she had children who would suffer the most. I think about that call every once in a while. Mainly when I eat tater tots.