Attempted Suicide

I only had two burglaries and I was done. I looked at my watch, it read 1554. I've not been on duty two hours yet.

Now, what to do whilst I wait for the next job? A certain High Street coffee shop gets a large portion of my salary.

Why not, I've got time.

I park the van in the staff car park at the rear, they've told me to do this before. There's always a few spare spaces.

"Black Forest Hot Chocolate?" The Manager asks,

"Go on then...!"

I held it in my hand for no more than three minutes when the radio went.

An attempted suicide. An attempted suicide?

Its about seven miles away. Enough time to drink my hot chocolate I guess.

The job is on a different division to the one I'm on at the moment.

"CSI Guy to Control, over"

"Ah, good afternoon CSI Guy, go ahead"

"Good afternoon. I've been asked to attend Flat 56, Huge Tower, Any Road. I'll be twenty minutes, over"

"Noted, Thank-you"

I use the Sat Nav on my iPhone, so I programme the address in and set off.

Whilst I'm driving, I'm trying to figure out how this is an attempted suicide. I've heard small bits over the radio but not enough to understand it.

I arrived in just over twenty minutes.

As I approach, access to the small service road ahead of the tower block is restricted by a Police van.

The passenger gets out and I wind down the window. She says "The gaffa is just down there" and she points towards a bin area at the right hand side of the block.

I park up and grab my clipboard. I write down the time in the top right corner of the front page.

As I walk around the fence of the bin store, there's an Inspector and Sergeant staring towards the sky. The Inspector is tapping his finger towards the sky and squinting.

There's claret all over the ground. Thick, dark red claret. There's Paramedic paraphernalia on the ground around the blood.

The Inspector gives me the run down.

Turns out that the thirty-something male tried to hang himself from the balcony railing.

Tried being the operative word.

Depending on which way you look at it, this guy was either very lucky or very unlucky.

He lowered himself over the railing with the ligature around his neck. His fiance and two four year old twin girls were inside.

By all accounts, he only hung there for about three seconds before his fiance came out to see what was going on.

She tried to help him back up. He had changed his mind.

He didn't want to die.

She pulled with all her might, he was seventeen stone in weight, she was ten- it wasn't going to work.

She lost her gripped and the ligature tightened. Then it snapped.

He fell nine stories and landed on his back beside the bin area, he whacked his head on a skip as he did.

He was still alive. The Paramedics had whisked him off to A&E before I got there.

It was my job to ensure there was no foul play and to document the scene in case he did pass away.

I've mentioned before, I don't like lifts. Thankfully it was only the ninth floor.

A case in each hand and my clipboard under my left arm.

I opened the door to the flat.

It stank. Not a smell I'm use to at home. I've grown accustomed to it, its skank and dirt. People and clothes that haven't been washed for a while.

The corridor had a number of doors leading off of it.

Each internal door had holes in the main panel. I see this a lot in these blocks. I used to wonder what these were. They are fist holes.

Someone gets angry and punches the nearest thing, three or four times. At least it wasn't his fiance, or his twins.

There is no carpet, there use to be floor tiles. Some of them remain, broken.

It should be a two bedroom flat. The master bedroom has a 50 inch flat screen on the wall. There's a double bed and a single bed. Everyone sleeps in this room.

The second bedroom is full of junk. There's what looks to be the remains of a cannabis grow room. This is the room that the twins should be sleeping in.

I take photographs as I progress through the scene. I take a few steps and take another.

As I get to the living room I can see the door to the balcony. I walk outside and the remains of the bed sheet is flapping in the wind.

There are marks on the rail and the wall beneath the balcony, most likely to be where he desperately tried to climb back up.

I take a photograph from the balcony showing the ground. I need to shout down to clear officers out of the scene.

I take the remainder piece of the bed sheet and exhibit it.

I make note of some other bits and pieces that I can see about the place that may be relevant later.

I walk back downstairs with my cases and take some photos of the bin area. The rest of the bed sheet is on the floor, it's been cut of by Paramedics.

The guy didn't die. He was in hospital for some time. I'm unsure of what his circumstances are now.