Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
North Carolina doesn't feel dangerous to me. It shouldn't. It's much safer here than it was in
the 1970s. The murder rate, like all serious crime, has dropped precipitously since the 1970s
and 1980s, when poverty and crack ruled—more than 60 percent. Poverty and addiction still
take their toll, but their cut isn't as deep. Statistically, I'm very safe. I don't have an abusive
partner or parent. I live in a decent neighborhood. We don't have guns in the house. I don't
need to sell my body to feed a drug habit. We have a noisy Irish setter in our house who dev-
ilishly encourages the German shepherd to be noisy as well.
Nonetheless, my relationship with my surroundings has changed since I started working
with Solo. I no longer watch turkey vultures gliding in lazy circles, especially if more than
three stack up in the same thermals, without wondering whether they're smelling something
more than a white-tailed deer carcass far below. We keep track of vultures on searches, al-
though it doesn't take much to attract them. One day I watched four on my urban street
competing over one squashed squirrel, clumsily landing on a neighbor's tarpaper rooftop be-
fore swooping down to squabble over a couple ounces of protein.
It's not just in the woods that my viewing habits have changed. I used to avoid and
scorn the top of television news and web news, with their insistent focus on violence and
crime—the cheapest, easiest thing to cover and get high ratings. Now I tune in quite pur-
posefully if someone is missing. Then I obsess about whether I'll get a callout on that case.
Why bother training otherwise? But with a couple of rare exceptions, when they ask for vo-
lunteers, I don't call the police. I wait for them to call me. That doesn't keep me from wish-
ing and hoping. When the burden of not acting becomes unbearable, I'll call Nancy Hook,
my equivalent of a twelve-step sponsor for this compulsion, so she can remind me what I
might lose by calling law enforcement: my dignity and self-respect. “You're not an ambulance
chaser,” she'll tell me sternly. “You're a professional.” We'll chat, she'll make me laugh, she'll
tell me she has to go feed the horses, and I'll remember that I've got a curriculum committee
meeting I'm almost late for.
After the meeting, if the itch returns, I can always channel Andy Rebmann's stentorian
voice: “You do not self-deploy,” he said, slowly emphasizing each syllable, glaring at search-
and-rescue volunteers at a seminar. I've seen SAR-team self-deployment. It's not pretty. Nancy
and Andy are right: It has the same scuzzy feel as personal injury lawyers—the kind who ad-
vertise with 800 numbers on late-night television—showing up at the scene of a wreck.
In my defense, the thinking I do about missing persons cases isn't entirely wasted. Even
the callouts that never come can add to my knowledge base: Google Mapping how to get to
the area if I'm called, thinking about winds and temperatures and humidity over past days.
If the area has been defined in the news, I stare at the satellite view, look at the dents in the
vegetation, wonder if they represent a creek or a trail.
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