A Cop’s Toughest Job
by Marshall Frank

November, 1966.
Miami, Florida

Sergeant Ray Beck and I stood at the bank of the man-made rock pit, wiped our brows with already sweat-soaked handkerchiefs and waited for the divers to bring the body to shore.

At noon, the overhead sun baked the southern suburbs of Dade County into a megalopolis of steamed roadways and sweltering humanity.

A small gathering of children and neighbors stood behind yellow barrier tape to look on while the squawk of police radios broke the silence.

Ray was familiar with Miller Lake, an old rock pit nestled in the upper side of a new development named Kendall.

It was his fourth case here since being assigned to Homicide four years earlier.

With all the interviews, sketches and photos taken, it was time to examine the body.

With plenty of witnesses, there was little doubt about what happened.

No foul play.

Miller Lake had claimed another drowning victim

The pathetic, limp body of a shaggy-haired eight year-old boy was laid onto the shore as his playmates stood by staring.

His name: Rolando.

He had stood up in an aluminum canoe when it suddenly tipped over.

He couldn't hold on.

Two of his friends could swim.

He could not.

The examination would not take very long.

All the common signs were there; Foaming from the mouth, fingernail imprints in the palms of his hands, goose flesh and the idyllic gaze from lifeless eyes.

After twelve years on the job and four of probing unnatural death cases, Ray was calloused all right, but he admitted feeling a lump in his throat each time he was compelled to touch a dead child.

Shootings, bodies, blood... he took it all in stride.

But kids were something else.

Haunting images suddenly flashed from an early memory bank.

Bennett! Behhnnett! Behhhhnnehhhtt!

The field investigation was complete and the boy was on the way to the morgue, but the worst was yet to come.

We walked back to the car where we soaked up the air conditioning and Ray had me begin the initial report.

The radio dispatcher asked if we were ready to take on another case.

Ray picked up the mike. “That's negative,” he replied.

“We’re not yet clear for calls.”

Quizzically, I looked to my mentor.

“I thought we were finished here.

What’s up?”

“Finished?

Afraid not.”

Ray shifted into drive.

“Time to visit Mama.”

Now I felt light-headed. As my heart began to race, my mouth turned dry as I anticipated the dreadful moment, me designated to inform an unsuspecting mother that her child was no longer alive.

Oh God, do I have to do this?

I was concerned how other detectives perceived me, knowing that the bureau captain and lieutenant hadn’t wanted want me in Homicide.

All they needed was a good excuse.

If Ray told them I didn’t have the stomach for this job, I’d be back in uniform somewhere.

It was important to appear stoic, though the anxiety burned inside of me.

Bennett! Behhnnett! Behhhhnnehhhtt!

As I thought about Rolando’s wet little body, visions of my own brother flashed into my mind, from that fateful day in April of 1943.

Who was it that informed my mother? What did they say?

I could only imagine the horror of her reaction.

“Is this your first notification with a kid?” asked Ray.

“Yeah.”

“Get ready for a rough time.”

“Why don't we just use the phone and call?” I asked.

“Never, Marshall. You never call.

Imagine, if you were home alone, and you just received a cold phone message.”

Twenty minutes passed before we arrived.

Gravel rock crunched under the wheels as we pulled in front of the coral pink, one-story apartment building in the Little Havana district of Miami.

It wasn't far from the salsa beats and sounds of Calle Ocho, known six years before as, simply, Eighth Street.

Olive-skinned kids with dirty faces frolicked about in bare feet while they glanced curiously at the two conspicuous men wearing polyester suits.

Slowly we walked to the row of mail boxes in the courtyard where I spotted the name “Arguello” scribbled in pencil under the number “8.” Beads of perspiration formed on Ray’s temples.

The trek to the last apartment was like walking the final corridor on death row.

Sounds of lively Spanish music blared from inside the Arguello apartment as the aroma of baked chicken and yellow rice permeated the air.

“Hope she speaks English,” Ray said, under his breath.

“You okay, Marshall?”

I had to play it tough.

“Yeah.

I’m fine.

Let’s just get this over with.”

Ray took a deep breath, hesitated, then knocked.

I could feel the pulse on my temple.

No answer.

He knocked harder this time, with the gold ring on his finger.

Almost immediately, the volume subsided and footsteps approached the door.

Sweat trickled down my sideburns.

Ray patted me on the shoulder.

The jalousies cranked open and she asked, “Yes, may I help you?”

I was struck by her eyes and her flawless skin.

Petite, no more than thirty, the woman wearing wide-rimmed glasses had full, red lips that formed an infectious smile. So trusting. So unsuspecting. I felt a nudge from Ray.

I displayed my silver shield. Ray’s was gold.

“My name is Detective Frank.

This is Sergeant Ray Beck. May we please come in?” I could barely look her in the eyes. I knew this would be a moment that would impact her until the end of her life.

Smiling wide, Mrs. Carmen Arguello hurriedly opened her door, then said she had to attend to her oven.

“I'll be right with you. Please sit.”

Seconds seemed like hours as we sat nervously fiddling with pens, wiping brows, scanning the room, not saying a word.

It was difficult to breathe inside the sweltering apartment as an oscillating fan gave movement to the drawn window curtains.

A partial ray of sunlight beamed through the glass jalousie door.

A portrait of Jesus hung on the wall and an arrangement of framed photographs were set in layered rows upon end tables, mostly of a smiling, laughing, shaggy-haired, eight year-old boy.

I swallowed hard at the thought of what lay ahead.

The lady emerged clutching a dish towel.

“Please excuse the mess, I am making supper for the little one and myself.”

Little one?

“Yes, how can I help you?”

Her smiling eyes opened wide.

There was no turning back.

A million thoughts raced through my head in a micro second as she stood there with her curious, innocent smile.

Ray stood behind me as I took the lead.

“Is there anyone here with you, ma’am?”

Her brow furrowed. “No, I am a widow.

What is it please?”

“You have a little boy named Rolando?”

“Yes,” she replied nodding.

“Oh dear. What has he gotten in to now?”

The broad smile disappeared.

Her expression changed to exasperation, impatience.

“Has he been throwing rocks again?”

There was only one way to do this.

I stood, wetted my lips and made hard eye contact.

“I'm afraid there's been an accident, ma'am.”

My voice quivered.

I couldn’t help it.

She looked confused.

She paused, peering deeper.

Then the transparency in my face told it all.

I felt the weight of a bowling ball in my chest, and the urge to cry out.

I’m sorry Mommy.

After three words, she knew.

“We’re very sorry,” I said.

As though a blunt instrument struck her from behind, her face transformed into a compression of crevices and wrinkles and distortions.

First, it was disbelief.

No tears.

Not yet.

Then her lower jaw protruded outward baring teeth while she choked, grabbed her chest and staggered away.

Then came the wailing and the sobbing, the oh so pathetic sobbing.

Images of my mother’s contorted face appeared into my brain, as she shouted, “Oh God!

Why God?

"Oh no, please God!”

Alone with this woman we had just met, Ray Beck and I spent the next hour allowing her beat on our chests screaming in a language we did not understand, holding her, comforting her and trying to explain something that was unexplainable.

Ray’s eyes welled up.

That was good, because it validated my own emotions.

Before the end of that torturous hour, three human beings of disparate cultures and tongues shared a moment that would be etched in their hearts for a lifetime.

I steeled myself as best I could, braving the depth of emotions while in her presence.

But no matter how hard I tried to remain unaffected, old childhood images whittled me down to a member of humanity. I broke into a sob the moment we sat alone back in his car.

I simply couldn’t control myself.

Ray looked away, allowing me my tears.

Carmen Arguello remained with neighbors and relatives who would see her through the emotional abyss and to help palliate the shock.

Ray waited and looked at his watch while I gathered myself and thought about the perils inherent in this job, the crime, the riots, drugs, weaponry, the incessant tidal wave of violence that secures the very need for the existence of police.

It is all dangerous.

But I would gladly have faced a thousand thieves or plunge into the bowels of any street riot than have to face one more Carmen Arguello.

Ray picked up the mike to check back in.

The dispatcher said they were backed up with calls and there was no one else available to handle a report of child abuse.

The victim was at the morgue.

“QSL. We're on the way.”