I’ll start by saying I’m not a big supporter of American law enforcement. But I witnessed a police shooting that was a clear case of the police protecting civilians and themselves. Carlos had lost his ever-loving mind and stabbed his housemates with a bayonet. Then he charged the cops yelling, “Kill me, or I’ll kill you.” The police had no choice but to shoot. Carlos committed suicide by cop. And the people who were actually responsible for the tragedy never suffered any repercussions.
Let me tell you about the Belvidere, NJ, Police force. There wasn’t a killer in the lot of them. They were the mellowest group of law enforcement officers I had ever met. BPD was respectful to everybody, including the poor residents. I didn’t know every officer personally, but those I spoke to had transferred from urban police forces in tough places like Trenton and Newark. They came to Belvidere to write traffic tickets and rescue kittens from trees. Not one of them deserved to be Carlos’s exit strategy. In fact, Belvidere didn’t deserve the professional police department they were lucky enough to have. And Belvidere is literally the only police force I would say that about.
It all began in the early winter of 1993 after Debbie finished her two-year prison sentence. Carlos was her boyfriend, and they were both junkies who spent half their time shooting up in New York City and the other half sponging off Debbie’s mother. Carlos attacked the old lady when she refused to give them drug money. He ended up with a four-year sentence, and Debbie did two with some time for good behavior.
Debbie reached her low. She turned her life around. She was on a methadone program, and her HIV was under control. She had reconciled with her mother just before the old lady died, and her mother left enough money for Debbie to move into Blair House. It was a crying shame Debbie was still a raging alcoholic, but addiction stories don’t end like they do on the Hallmark channel.
Chris, Our maintenance man, was also a raging alcoholic. And Debbie discovered that she loved getting drunk with Chris as much as she liked shooting up with Carlos. So Debbie decided to leave her junkie ex-boyfriend behind, and Chris and Debbie became our closest couple-friends. That should give you a clue of how screwed up our Hillbilly Heaven was. Those two were constantly getting into trouble, and my partner and I kept pulling them out. And it wasn’t one-sided. One day, Chris came into the house, tossed his car registration on the table, and said, “it’s your problem now.” Yes, Chris and Debbie were alcoholics, but that doesn’t mean they were bad people.
Carlos was another story. Debbie was a Warren County girl who went to New York and fell for a “bad boy.” Carlos was the bad boy. I can’t say if he led her into heroin addiction, but he was there to make things worse. And it was a real codependent relationship. He was abusive, and she couldn’t pry herself away from him. Even after she hooked up with Chris, she couldn’t let go. Carlos was also a paranoid schizophrenic. He was obeying the voices when he attacked Debbie’s mother. He also suffered from AIDS Dementia. He spent four years in the prison hospital because he was too dangerous for the general population.
For some damned reason, they released the poor bastard when his sentence was up. No support. No help. No rehab. They just kicked him out the front gate. So there Carlos was, a ticking time bomb with no place to go and nothing to get there with. What else could the poor putz do but walk the half mile from Warren County Correctional Center to Chris and Debbie’s front door? And there he stayed until he snapped out and tried to murder the people who cared for him.
Debbie felt guilty for breaking up with Carlos while he was still in prison and breaking their suicide pact. They were supposed to kill themselves when their AIDS got too debilitating. Debbie actually felt guilty for choosing to survive. She asked Chris if Popi could stay with them for a while. Chris had the backbone of a banana slug and agreed to it. Carlos squatted in their apartment for months. He didn’t contribute a dime, either. Carlos wouldn’t even let Chris help him get his SSI reinstated. He had become too paranoid.
I didn’t know about Carlos’ HIV or his Schizophrenia until after the dust settled and I heard it from the police. He seemed to be the mildest of people. Carlos rarely spoke but smiled a lot. And he seemed harmless. The poor bastard was so short and skinny that a moderate wind could have blown him away. His big black mustache should have looked ridiculous on other skinny men, but it worked on him.
Too quiet is always a red flag. Every insane murderer you hear about on the news is always quiet. They always smile. And always seemed friendly. Until they’re not. It was that silence that made me uneasy around Carlos. In the six months he had been around, I can’t remember exchanging more than a few words with him. He just sat there and smiled. I suspect he no longer had anything in common with the real world and lived in a monstrous fantasy world. I’m still freaking out that such a dangerous person was so close to my kids.
Every once and a while, I would get little hints from Chris that things weren’t as harmonious as they appeared. He was annoyed that Carlos wasn’t contributing any money. And he was a little bit jealous of the attention Debbie gave him. I asked Chris why he put up with the freeloader. And, as usual, he backed down and said the poor guy didn’t have anyplace else to live. It wasn’t my business, so I didn’t press. I don’t know if it would do any good if I did. Both Chris and Debbie were stubbornly self-destructive.
Of course, Chris’s ex-wife, the manager, was the catalyst. She was one of those people who fucks things up on people for fun. One day, it occurred to her that Carlos was living off the lease. And she couldn’t have the rules bent like that. Chris and Debbie tried to put Carlos on the lease, and Chris’ ex-wife claimed the landlord refused permission.
I didn’t believe it for a second. The manager was a toxic narcissist who would lie to keep in practice. I also think the racist bitch didn’t want a Puerto Rican living on the property. I tried to help Carlos because I hated the manager’s guts more than I was afraid of him. But Chris and Debbie were okay with Carlos leaving. They wouldn’t admit it, but they were tired of having Carlos around.
Strangely enough, Carlos took the news very cheerfully. That should have warned us. Suicidal people always cheer up when they come to the final decision. His mood seemed damned strange, considering he was being kicked out on the street.
Despite the alcoholism, Chris and Debbie were better human beings than those who ran the prison. They tried to help Carlos. They made appointments with social security, doctors, and housing agencies. Anything to help him get stable. Chris was even willing to drive him to New York if that was what it took to help him get housing. But Carlos refused it all. He wouldn’t go to any appointments, and there was no way to force him. He claimed his plan was to walk to NYC. Of course, he had something totally different in mind.
The last time I saw Carlos alive was Sunday, June 5, 1994, the day before he was supposed to leave. I passed him while coming home from the butcher shop. I told him I would be sorry to see him go, which was a little white lie. He responded with his usual big charming grin, which creeped me out. Later, we went to the mall with my mother-in-law, and I forgot all about Carlos and his big friendly grin. I looked back at all the red flags he was waving and wondered how I could be so blasé as to put them out of my mind. I had grown used to having him around. It never occurred to me that he was about to snap. Even though it was apparent after it happened.
Blair House sat in the middle of a pleasant wooden lot. After my mother-in-law went home, we had our coffee outside. We came home with new lawn furniture. Mom and I sipped our coffee in the warm evening while the kids chased fireflies.
Meanwhile, Carlos was inside doing psycho-killer shit. He took the sharpest blade in the kitchen, an old bayonet Chris used to chop vegetables. Lucky for Chris and Debbie, bayonets didn’t have a proper grip. Otherwise, they would both have died that night.
Carlos came up behind Chris and plunged the bayonet into his kidney. The blade missed the sweet spot thanks to AIDS-weakened muscles and a poor grip. Chris pushed Carlos away and ran out of the apartment. Poor Chris was too terrified to make a sound. He managed to stagger down the stairs without falling.
Chris lurched through the door and weaved towards one of our nice new chairs. At first, I thought he was drunk. I was at the wrong angle to see the blood leaking from the wound and expected to help him upstairs again. My partner did see the blood dripping down our chair. They looked up at me and cried, “call an ambulance.”
“Get the kids inside,” Chris said, his voice sounding like it was coming from the grave.
“Hurry!” my partner said firmly.
While this was going on, Carlos entered the bedroom where Debbie had passed out drunk. She was lying on her back, and he stabbed her right in the chest. The blade hit a rib and bounced out of Carlos’s hand. Debbie gave out a blood-curdling scream that made me grab our youngest. I grabbed our oldest by the arm and tried to pull him inside, but he refused to move.
“Poppi stabbed me!” “He stabbed me!” Debbie screamed from the stairwell. She ran out of their apartment, her shirt dripping with blood. I thought she would die for sure.
“Get the kids inside!” Chris repeated. There was more urgency in his voice the second time. For once, my stepson didn’t give me any trouble. He ran ahead and opened the door while I carried the three-year-old. My partner stayed behind to help. I don’t think it even occurred to them that a crazy killer was about to burst through the door. But there wasn’t anything more they could do. Debbie warned them she had HIV and not to touch her bloody wound without hospital gloves.
To this day, I don’t know who called the cops. My stepson decided to go out for his mom, and I had to block the door to keep the kid inside. So I definitely didn’t call the cops. I heard the sirens seconds after I got the kids inside. The police lights flashed through the window and against the wall, which made the oldest more determined to go out. He stood with his back to the window, and I had all my attention on the kids. I was trying to soothe the three-year-old while the ten-year-old yelled at me.
I wasn’t watching the cops leave their cars and reach for their weapons. And my stepson was yelling too loudly for me to hear Carlos scream, “kill me, or I’ll kill you!” He waved the bloody bayonet and charged the three officers protecting the civilians. I did hear the gunshots. Altogether, the three officers fired off eight rounds and a warning shot. But I heard it as five. Some of the bullets were fired simultaneously. Five rounds hit Carlos, killing him instantly. Two shots were never accounted for. The eighth went through the downstairs apartment, frightening a poor Labrador Retriever who cried for her daddy for the rest of the night.
I froze from fear and confusion. My stepson went silent. I knew those sounds were gunshots, but I didn’t want to admit it. I desperately tried to convince myself they were something else. Fireworks, an ambulance backfiring, anything but gunshots. Within seconds, my partner ran inside, yelling, “get on the floor!” I found myself on top of my three-year-old without thinking. And my stepson tried to get outside again, and his mom had to wrestle with him. But it was over. No more gunshots. Carlos was killed right in front of my partner’s eyes. To this day, they still get PTSD flashbacks from the night Carlos died.
I never warmed up to Carlos, but I had difficulty believing he was dead. I had seen him that afternoon, and he was smiling. The memory of that happy smile still haunts me. My partner told me the cops killed him, but my brain wouldn’t accept the information. I kept going into denial and asking people if he would be alright. The police set up their temporary headquarters in the manager’s kitchen. God, that woman was in her glory! She was making coffee and sandwiches and kissing the police chief’s ass.
“Is Carlos going to be alright?” I asked the police chief when I came in to give a statement.
“Carlos is never going to be alright again,” the chief snapped. I think the chief was taking the whole thing worse than I was. He was a big guy with the stereotypical cop body. Like the rest of the force, he was there to be Andy Taylor, the town’s best friend. Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen in Belvidere, NJ. But we both had to come to terms with it. I left and went to Chris and Debbie’s stoop. Carlos was still there, behind yellow tape. There were investigators around him, reporters arrived, and news photographers took pictures. Carlos was the biggest story in that berg since the Revolutionary War. I looked at Carlos and cried.
Debbie was incredibly lucky. She got out of it with only a few stitches. Poor Chris had a long recovery and used a colostomy bag for a few months. They both mended, but the drinking got worse than ever. Not that I could blame them. Carlos wasn’t the only bad thing that happened to them that night. Debbie got outed as HIV+ over the police radio. The dispatcher also revealed that the suspect had Schizophrenia and AIDS psychosis.
The press went nuts! That was just the sort of lurid story that sold newspapers back in the 1990s. They played the AIDS angle for all it was worth. My partner was in hysterics, the kids were having tantrums, and the goddamned reporters kept ringing the doorbell. And when I answered the door, the first thing that came out of their idiotic mouths was, “did you know they had AIDS?” I finally had to ask the cops to keep them away.
The country hazmat truck arrived, and they tossed our new lawn furniture into the dumpster. 28 years later, and I’m still pissed off over that. We had those chairs for less than three hours! And neither the cops nor the Board of Health knew that HIV couldn’t live outside the body. We could have washed those chairs off with bleach. Besides, it was Chris, not Debbie, who bled all over the chairs.
What was utterly unforgivable was the Board of Health wouldn’t let the dog’s owner into his apartment. The dog was crying harder because she knew daddy was back. The poor guy had to sit outside and listen to his baby cry while the forensic guys removed Carlos’s body and the hazardous waste guys steam-cleaned the porch. And that took about four hours. I feel as badly for that pup as I do for Chris and Debbie.
After tossing our lawn furniture and letting the dog suffer, you should have seen the mess they left. There were discarded vinyl gloves and used bandages all over the ground. I made myself responsible for cleaning it up and carefully used shovels and tree branches. There were still reporters around, and I got my picture taken disposing of a used rubber glove on the end of a stick.
Of course, the newspapers played the AIDS angle for all it was worth. Poor Debbie’s privacy was violated as her medical condition was on the local newspaper’s front page. Chris and Debbie became local pariahs and were shunned by the whole town. I caught a grade schooler spitting at them. And when I confronted him, he said, “they have AIDS, and that makes them bad people.” What can you do with that sort of mentality? And it was horrible to see it coming out of a child.
There was an investigation of the shooting. We were interviewed by a detective from the prosecutor’s office, who also happened to be my second cousin. My partner and I gave our statements, and we told the truth. The officers stepped in front of the civilians. They gave verbal warnings and a warning shot, but Carlos was determined to stab them. The cops got off, and I have no problem with that whatsoever.
What irks me more than anything else is nobody investigated why a paranoid schizophrenic with AIDS Psychosis and a history of violence was released into the community. He was not mentally competent to be released unsupervised. The prison administrators could have gone to court and had Carlos declared incompetent. He could have been placed under a conservator and hospitalized. It would have been the best thing for the community and the best thing for Carlos. But I think the whole thing boiled down to nobody caring about poor people.
Having Carlos committed was work. It would have taken the prosecutor’s office and the public defender working with the courts to have him taken care of. Putting Carlos in the hospital would have been a dent in somebody’s budget. Then there was the myth of impoverished people being a personal burden on the taxpayer.
Maybe things might have been a little different had Carlos been white. It’s barely possible that the powers-that-be might have put a little effort into helping a white prisoner. But Warren County hated poor white people almost as much as they hated minorities. Had things been different and Carlos attacked a pair of middle-class strangers. The prison authorities would have been investigated. It would probably be very superficial, but at least somebody would have looked. But Carlos attacked a pair of poor people doing their best to be decent human beings. And who the hell cares about poor people?
So, instead of improving the prison system, the authorities fell back on AIDS hysteria. Warren County was still in full AIDS Panic mode. The citizens of Belvidere had their middle-class NIMBYreflex stimulated, and Blair House had to go. Even though we were the victims more than they were. My partner even testified to a grand jury in the cops’ defense. Talk about gratitude! Blair House was sold to a bank before the summer was out, and the illegal harassment began a few months after the closing. And once again, my family would be in another fight for our lives.
The Traumatic 90s 