Archive for the bad things Category

scene of the crime

Posted in bad things, co-workers, cops, criminals on October 17, 2009 by sarafist

I woke up to a text from Drihanna: “I need you to call me asap regarding police matter.”

Shit. I checked my call list, and she had called, but no one else had. So it probably wasn’t related to the robbery, or the detective would have called me first. What now?

When I called her, the first thing she asked was, “Did you notice anything sketchy about that Gina person you rented to last night?”

Other than the fact that she wanted two rooms, a Jacuzzi room and a standard room (135 and 215, respectively), no, and I told her so.

“Well, when the housekeepers went in to clean 215 this morning, they found blood. And a knife.”

“What the–? Lots of it?”

“The sheet had soaked places on it, big patches all over, and through to the mattress. There’s a gang of cops here now. Wallace said there were people in and out of here all last night; he was running ragged chasing them down. Some guy came in from 215, and was trying to look at the cameras to see what we could see.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. Well, I gotta get that [phone]. See you in a minute.”

When I got to the lol-iday inn a little while later, there was only one cop left, and he was getting ready to leave. Drihanna filled me in on the details. The cops said the knife probably had little to do with the blood, since it was a bread knife. They also said that the blood patterns–great big soaking splotches all over the sheets and blanket, drips across the room, and fingerprints on the headboard–were consistent with female sexual assault, ie rape. And we apparently work with total idiots: The housekeeper for that section, despite Drihann’s telling her NOT to clean anything in the room or touch it, had the sheet soaking in bleach when the cops arrived to check everything out. And had scrubbed the mattress. Fucking A.


newsflash: it finally happened

Posted in bad things, criminals on August 21, 2009 by sarafist

The lol-iday inn got robbed last night, during my shift. I’m not really in a big hurry to write it all down, but I will have the incident posted for you soon.

shots fired at the lol-iday inn

Posted in bad things, co-workers, cops, criminals on October 24, 2008 by sarafist
I missed some excitement Thursday night. When I turned over desk duty to Wallace at ten o’clock, I thought his biggest problem would be two feuding sets of rooms; both had noisy children and parents that disliked one another. When I woke up this morning, however, I had a text from him: “Shots fired right in front of me at work last night.”


I called him and got the details. It seems he had heard a lot of noise upstairs around one am, and figuring it was the two feuding sets of rooms, he went out to investigate–and to tell them to shut up. When he went outside, he realized that the noise wasn’t coming from those rooms, but that there were two young men walking down the hallway shouting. They came down the front stairs, and Wallace met them out front. “Are you guests here?” he asked, and when they replied in the negative, he told them to get off the property. He said that he was pretty aggressive about it–as we sometimes have to be–and was all but cursing them out. When they asked Wallace why he was so mad, he told them that they just could not be on our property if they weren’t staying here, especially if they were disturbing our other guests late at night. [Dir!] He told them that if they didn’t leave immediately, he would call the cops. They started walking toward the parking lot, presumably to get their car, and Wallace returned to the office.

Watching them on camera, however, he saw that they went up the stairs at the far end of the building, one of our troublespots. Wallace went upstairs and heard them shouting; when he got withing a few feet of them, one of the young men pulled a gun out of his waistband and fired into 223. Wallace immediately reversed, and saw them fire again, apparently at random, as this bullet went through 219’s window. He continued back to the office at top speed to call 911, but found himself at a dead end in our back room, since the rear office–the most secure room available to us–was locked. He turned around and waited to see whether they’d come after him, since he was the main witness, having seen and spoken to them, as well as seen them start firing. Fortunately, they took off down the street.

When the cops arrived, they reviewed the security tapes with Wallace, who saw that even before he’d spoken to them the first time, one young man had lifted his shirt to show someone the gun in his waistband. “If I’d seen that, I wouldn’t have cussed them out–or even gone outside,” he told me. “I would’ve just called the cops.”

The officers recommended that we expel that entire section of rooms, from 220 down to 224, and also 202 & 225 at the opposite end (one set of the feuding rooms, even!), who were acquainted with the shooters, which we did this morning at checkout.

They believed it was a drug dispute of some kind, as the guy in 223 has been under suspicion for dealing for quite some time. He’s constantly got people calling, including from other rooms, and visiting at all hours for five minutes. Mmmhmm. The girls in 222 (who were prostitutes) said that the shooters were friends of theirs, and that 223 had come over to their room and was bothering them. Regardless, we made them all leave. 223 was injured slightly but fine, and 219’s boyfriend was lightly grazed. No other injuries, fortunately.

“That was the biggest adrenalin rush in my life,” Wallace told me. “I can’t believe it.”

more goodbyes

Posted in bad things, families, nice people on July 18, 2008 by sarafist

There’s been an elderly lady and her son staying here for a hundred and thirteen nights. They’re from Hawai’i, and though the son seemed initially rude to me, he’s proven to be a very polite, if somewhat brusque, gentleman. The mother is a very sweet lady—I’ll call her Matilda since she has a very old-fashioned name—but not in very good health. Lifeline came and set up her phone for emergency contact, and what appear to be various medical professionals visit her pretty regularly. Denny works at a gas station, on a very late shift, and often doubles, to pay for their stay. He always stops in at the office to get change for his bus fare, and to say hello and flirt a little, as gentlemen in their fifties are wont to do with sassy young things.

Last weekend, things got a little worse for Denny and Matilda. The other swing girl went out to get a soda from the Coke machine where she heard faint cries. Noticing that the door to Matilda’s room was barely ajar, she went to it, calling to Matilda, who was lying on the floor between the two beds, unable to get up or reach her Lifeline. Carrie helped her back onto her bed and asked whether she wanted medical attention. When the housekeepers stopped by the next day, the same thing had happened again, and once more during my shift when I went to check on her. Fortunately, Matilda is tiny, so it was easy to help her, but we were all worried about her being alone when Denny was at work, so we tried to keep checking on her.

Since one of my sisters works at an assisted living facility, I mentioned the circumstances to her. We both agreed it would be cheaper for Matilda to be in one, and she mentioned that there was a studio available in hers for just over a thousand a month—less than what Denny was currently paying—including the cost of food, activities, and 24-hour personnel on staff. My sister even told me that Denny would probably be able to stay there with her still, as long as it wasn’t obvious. I was really excited to tell Denny about the opening; even though the facility is pretty far from our location, I thought it would be good for him to know there were options out there.

When I returned to work after my weekend, however, it was too late. I mentioned the studio opening to Denny, who told me that his mother was at Providence, and that she’d had a small stroke. She kept telling him she was just too tired to stand, not that anything else was the matter. While he was in the office, they called for him from the Emergency Room. It wasn’t good news; he told them very sternly to not make her think negatively, to just make her comfortable, and that he’d be back at 0800 to be with her. He said that they’d been just about to get an apartment when this happened.

Denny came in this evening, exhausted, after walking all over Portland all day long. When I asked how things were going, he told me, “Fine, if you like looking at caskets.” He told me not to be sorry, though, because things were going to happen regardless. I felt just awful for him, they have little to no money and he’s worried about her care for what time she has left—and he’s losing his mother. I commiserated with him, and he asked if he could just rest a while on one of our couches. “You don’t want to go to your room?” I asked him.
“They didn’t lock it up?” he asked.

“No, someone came in and paid for it today. Let me see . . . St Vincent de Paul paid it through Saturday morning.”

“I thought they had kicked us out because we couldn’t pay!” he told me, jubilantly. “Now I can take a shower. Oh, thank you, Schatzi!”

At least I could give him a little good news right now.

I’m feeling pretty guilty, I have to say. If I had mentioned their situation to my sister sooner, maybe she could have been at the assisted living facility. Maybe the stroke would have been caught sooner, and she wouldn’t be dying now. I should know that it’s not my fault, but I can’t help it.