The Katrina Files

PART I

Chapter 1

     Where do I begin? How do I begin? How do I tell the tale of human tragedy and suffering? A tragedy that replays itself over and over in my dreams until I sit up screaming and my clothes and sheets are soaking wet. Sometimes I refuse to speak of it, fearing that I won't make it through emotionally. In the end, I always give in because it's therapy for me. I am torn. I hate to relive it, but if I leave the thoughts in  my head, they torment me. Somehow, I must get it out in the open. It has been suggested that I see someone, a psychiatrist. I've tried that and it worked . . . for a while. I have to keep telling it. I probably would go crazy if I didn't . . . if I'm not there already. And so I tell it once again. This time to a reporter from the Times Picayune. My story will probably end up buried somewhere in the back pages. Most people won't even give it a glance. Time seems to bury things like that . . . bury them until they're long forgotten. Time has long since buried the events in my story. I'm an old man now. An old man who is alone and unsure of himself. I've had to write my story down on paper because the details are getting more and more fuzzy as the years have buried my memory. My name is Jack Whitman and in my head are the stories I call the Katrina files.

Chapter 2

     It was August 25, 2005. I was a young man in the prime of life living in one of the most exciting cities in the world, New Orleans. I had an exciting job as a New Orleans police officer. I had climbed up the ranks to make it to Detective Sergeant. I had been on the force for fifteen years and that day seemed like any other day. Of course, being a police officer, you never really know what's going to happen on a particular day. You try to prepare yourself mentally for almost anything, but I never dreamed the things that were about to take place would happen in my lifetime. I was born and raised in the New Orleans area and I had lived there all of my life. I couldn't imagine myself living anywhere else. 

   I drove into work that day, which was a Thursday, and I heard reports on the radio that a storm was brewing in the Caribbean Sea. Growing up in "Hurricane alley", those reports didn't always mean much. Over the years, we've had our fair share of "near misses" and after awhile you become somewhat complacent. I walked into the fifth district police station, where I was assigned, and noticed a group of officers standing around the vending machines. "Hey, what's going on?", I asked. "This stupid machine took our money again!" "Hey, let me know when the guy comes in. He owes me money.", I said heading back to my office. I had a stack of paper work on my desk and I decided to make myself a cup of coffee before I tackled my work. My partner, Nick Duronslett, was standing at the coffee station talking to other officers. "Hey guys. What's going on?", I greeted them. "We're talking about the storm that's brewing out in the Caribbean." "Oh yeah? What are the weather guys saying?", I asked. "They're saying that it's supposed to head up the east coast, but you know what those forecasts are like." I knew. Maybe that's what caused some people to ignore the final warnings. I went back to my desk to work on a murder case that me and my partner had been working on. We were scheduled to go interview witnesses and scout the crime scene out. Lunch time rolled around and we decided to go to one of the local eateries before we left for the crime scene. We stopped at R & O's restaurant and man, let me tell you, it was so good it made you "wanna go home and slap ya mamma!". We had po-boys, gumbo, and bread pudding for dessert. It's funny how you have a good thing, but you never notice it until it's gone. We had our fill and then left for the crime scene. 

     A young man in his twenties was killed here a few days ago. He just became another statistic in a city where the murder rate was getting out of control. We interviewed a few witnesses and gathered information and then headed back to the station. "Hey Jack. Does it bother you? . . . you know, the murders and all", asked Nick. "You know, I've heard some officers say that after so many years on the job, they become numb to that kind of stuff. Me . . . I don't think I'll ever get used to it. I mean, I'm not as queasy as I used to be and I don't have the nightmares like I used to have, but that kid that was killed a few days ago was someone's son or brother. Everyday someone's life is shattered forever. That is what I'll never get used to." We drove back to the office in silence the rest of the way. I suppose that we were thinking of all the lives that were shattered that year.