The Lost Night (Page 21)
9-1-1 CALL FROM: Sarah Kwan
CALL TO: NYPD 9-1-1
DATE: 8-21-09
RE: 11-441957
Q: Christopher Fuchs
NYPD Dispatcher
A: Sarah Kwan
A: Oh my god!
Q: (Inaudible) 9-1-1 (inaudible) this call is being recorded.
A: Is this 9-1-1? Oh my god. Hello?!
Q: It’s 9-1-1.
A: Hello?! (Unintelligible.)
Q: Ma’am, I need you to stop screaming so that I can hear you.
A: My friend, she (unintelligible)! Oh my god!
Q: What’s happening?
A: Oh god! No! Oh my god! My friend is all bloody! She needs an ambulance!
Q: What’s wrong with her?
A: Oh my god. You need to send someone! Quickly!
Q: Ma’am, listen to me. I need you to calm down so I can understand what’s going on. What’s wrong with your friend?
A: I think she’s been shot!
Q: You think she’s been shot?
A: There’s blood on the ground, oh my god, oh my god.
Q: Listen to me. I need you to stop screaming so I can…
A: (Unintelligible.)
Q: Ma’am, are you listening? Take a deep breath and calm down so I can understand you.
A: (Unintelligible)…touch her, don’t touch her! Is it OK if he checks her?
Q: Before anyone touches her I need you to give me the address so I can send the ambulance right away. OK?
A: [redacted] Hurry, oh my god, please hurry.
Q: OK, the ambulance is on its way, now listen, I’m going to transfer you to the paramedics so they can give you CPR instructions, OK? Don’t hang up.
A: Wait! So he shouldn’t touch her?
Q: Listen to me, I’m going to transfer you to—
A: There’s no pulse! Oh my god, he said there’s no pulse, please hurry, please hurry.
Q: I’m transferring you, don’t hang up! (Call is transferred to NYFD.)
Mr. Gonzalez, NYFD Dispatcher
Q: New York Fire Department.
Mr. Fuchs, NYPD Dispatcher
Q: NYPD with a transfer (inaudible).
A: …please, oh my god!
Mr. Gonzalez, NYFD Dispatcher
Q: Fire Department, what’s the address of your emergency?
A: [redacted] She’s not breathing, she doesn’t have a pulse.
Q: [redacted]
A: Oh please hurry!
Q: What’s the phone number you’re calling me from?
A: [redacted] Quickly! Please?
Q: [redacted]
A: That’s right, yes.
Q: What’s your name?
A: Sarah Kwan. Oh my god, I don’t know what to do, she doesn’t have a pulse, oh my god.
Q: OK, exactly what happened?
A: Please hurry!
Q: (Inaudible.)
A: It looks like she got shot! In the head!
Q: With a gun?
A: Yes! Oh my god, I see the gun, oh my god, oh my god! It’s by her hand!
Q: OK, ma’am, I’m sending the paramedics right now. They’re on their way. Please do not touch the gun.
A: Oh my god, oh my god! (Sobs.)
Q: How old is she?
A: How old is she?
Q: Yes, her age.
A: Twenty-three. (Inaudible.)
Mr. Fuchs, NYPD Dispatcher
Q: Hey, FD, hold on a second. Did she shoot herself?
A: I don’t know! It looks like it! There’s a gun! Oh, please!
Q: You see the gun?
A: Yeah, it’s right by her! It’s on the ground next to her.
Q: OK. We’ll get the police and the paramedics…
A: Where are they? Where are they?
Q: I need you to not touch the gun, OK? Can you do that?
A: I don’t know what to do, oh my god, I don’t know what to do. (Sobs.)
Q: Ma’am, I need you to calm down and listen to me. Do not touch the gun, OK?
A: OK. OK. Please hurry. Oh my god.
Mr. Gonzalez, NYFD Dispatcher
Q: Ma’am, the paramedics are on their way, I need a yes or no answer, is she breathing?
A: No!
Q: Can you feel again for a pulse?
A: He just did, there’s nothing.
Q: Who did?
A: Anthony, he’s the landlord. He came in when he heard me.
Mr. Fuchs, NYPD Dispatcher
Q: Are you the only people in the room?
A: No, more people are by the door now. Wait, I hear sirens, are they here? Is that the ambulance?
Mr. Gonzalez, NYFD Dispatcher
Q: Sarah, the police are there. I need you to go to the front door and let them in and lead them upstairs. Can you do that? Stay on the line.
A: OK. OK.
Q: Make sure someone clears a path so they can get through. OK?
A: (Inaudible.)
Q: Sarah, they’re going to need to be able to get inside in a hurry, make sure people get out of the way.
A: OK. OK. Over here! Please hurry, she’s up here! Get out of the way!
Unknown Officer
Q: OK. (Inaudible.)
A: Where’s the ambulance?
Q: The ambulance is on its way.
A: (Unintelligible.)
END OF CALL.
I sat back, my heart pounding. Then I reached out and closed the file; I felt dirty, like I’d just done something unseemly.
Anthony. At the peak of the night’s party, drawn by the sound of screams, Anthony had appeared. Calhoun’s sketchy landlord, the creepy and cryptic Anthony Stiles. The memory of him mushroomed in front of me, so vivid I felt it like a force: Anthony Stiles, who half behaved like a slumlord and fucked a number of tenants and always had a thing for Edie. Jesus Christ. Anthony Stiles.
What had he been doing, skulking around Calhoun within earshot of SAKE? Why hadn’t Sarah mentioned him? I picked back through the detectives’ notes until I found him: He’d told them he’d been alone at home, in his fancy apartment just steps from Calhoun, when a tenant had called to alert him of the commotion. The notes didn’t specify which tenant, because the NYPD wasn’t big on competency that night, apparently.
I Googled his name and a headline came up, an old news article on a snarky city website: BUSHWICK LANDLORD FOUND DEAD IN HOUSE FIRE. I clicked through to the article and the photo on top made me squirm—eight years later, he was fatter but still smirking, still far too confident for his lot in life.
Anthony Stiles, the 51-year-old owner of Bushwick’s Calhoun Lofts, was found dead after firefighters brought a massive blaze in a Bushwick apartment under control Tuesday morning, officials said. The victim was pulled from 250 Boerum Street, near Bushwick Avenue, after flames erupted around 2:35 a.m., NYPD and FDNY officials said. Stiles, who lived in the building, was found on the first floor and pronounced dead on the scene. Three firefighters were treated for minor injuries at the scene, an FDNY spokesman said. Investigators believe there were no other tenants in the two-story building. About 140 firefighters helped bring the blaze under control at 5:47 a.m., according to an FDNY spokesman. The unit’s fire alarm failed to deploy and firefighters only responded after neighbors called in to report the blaze, officials said. Investigators are still trying to determine what caused the fire.
What the fuck? I returned to my search results for further updates but found none. In my job, this was the kind of detail I hated, the one that pushed the other, neater facts out of place, forking off into too many possible explanations. It could have simply been a fire, that kind of thing happens. It could’ve been arson but unrelated to Edie, of course. There were so many tenants in that building, all those possible enemies, and so many sleazeball slumlords winding up dead around the city for reasons that never became clear. Hasidic landlords with buildings in Williamsburg and tens of thousands of dollars of debt turning up broken and bloodied in car compactors, that kind of thing.
Or it could have something to do with Edie. He knew something, maybe, or someone knew something about his guilt and made sure he paid for it. God, dying in a fire. If you’re already asleep, do you die of smoke inhalation, or are you awake and screaming, burned at the stake?
The fire had been eighteen months ago; we’d all moved on and missed the headline. But we’d sort of tacitly worshipped Anthony back in the day, this strong-jawed Peter Pan with a thick beard and the confidence a forty-three-year-old man should have but should never exercise around throngs of postgrads. He’d inherited the lofts in his thirties and would only periodically maintain them, showing up primarily for unscheduled appearances at parties and shows. He’d called Edie “Red,” and she’d feigned disgust while complaining that he’d burst into the apartment right as she was getting out of the shower to let her know about a new building code, refusing to leave as she stood there dripping. Even the guys had begrudgingly thought Anthony was cool, with his sleeve tats and long hair and wild stories about touring with his band in the nineties.
He was around a lot, but I’d interacted with him directly only a handful of times. Once I’d been stumbling out the front door, hungover from the night before and rumpled from sleeping on SAKE’s couch. I’d been wearing something ridiculous, my top and bottom both inches too short—a sexless walk of shame. Anthony had been standing out front, surveying from a few yards away an overflowing and likely vomit-splattered Dumpster.
“Hey, you got any cigarettes?” he asked.
I did, a pack I carried around like gum, although I rarely smoked, and only when drunk.
“I’ll pay you for it,” he offered, but I waved his dollar away.
He smiled at me, then leaned in for a light. I always felt self-conscious about this part, concerned I’d mess it up, but I didn’t.