C.S.I. = “CRIME SCENE INTRUDER?”

So I tried sneaking into my first crime scene yesterday. I didn’t get anything scoop-worthy, which was very disappointing. But at the same time, I learned a valuable lesson. A crime scene is like a sample sale from a popular fashion designer: If you want the good stuff, you have to show up early.

I probably showed up about thirty minutes late. The whole thing started around 6 p.m., when my editor got a page about some poor woman in Williamsburg who had been sexually-assaulted by three African-American men. The address sounded familiar, so I ran it on Mapquest and discovered it was only a mile from where K. and I live. After grabbing my camera and press pass, I hopped the 59 bus home, getting off a few stops early to walk up Humboldt St.

The entire journey probably took about a half-hour at most. However, by the time I arrived at the seedy, rundown-looking apartment complex where the attack took place – and where the three suspects were still reportedly armed and at-large – the building had effectively been locked down. Not that I was expecting to get into an actual crime scene.

Still, my editor told me that a reporter could luck out, and arrive just after the first cop car swept in like gangbusters. If that were the case, one could still find people hanging out on the sidewalk, or peeking out through doorways. Somebody who might have seen something, heard something, known the victim, or maybe just somebody with valuable information to share about how often that kind of crime goes down in that part of town. People, after all, are supposed to be our best resource.

I found myself short of resources that night. It was 6:30 p.m., and there were more cops around than civvies. I also didn’t see an ambulance, which meant the victim was either at the hospital or on her way there. The possibility of an assault victim receiving medical attention wasn’t exactly disappointing to my journalistic sensibilities. However, it left the question: Were all these cops hanging around because they were still looking for the perps? Or did a swab of a tainted habitat require so many pairs of eyes and hands?

So there they were, New York City’s Finest. Male and female alike huddled in a circle out in front of the building. Talking and laughing. I decided to take the direct approach. Naturally, that got me nowhere. The slick-haired, suit-wearing, “detective”-looking guy glanced briefly at my press pass, then curved his brow upwards into a thoroughly-unimpressed peak before brushing me off. “Nothin’ to be worried about here,” he said, making one of those flapping motions with his hand.

Knowing I wasn’t welcome made me especially anxious to stick around. I put my press pass back in my pocket, and took a seat on a bench next to this teenage girl wearing what appeared to be a huge coat. A few minutes later, she was joined by her friend, a Latino-looking girl whose name rhymed with “Korea.” For the most part, the cops had sloughed away into the night, but I could see a few of them still hanging around in the lobby. Given how hospitable they were to me before, I opted to try gleaning information from these two adolescents instead.

“Why are all the cops hanging around?” I asked the huge coat.

She shrugged her big coat-covered shoulders. “You can go ask ‘em if you want,” she said. “’Less you got somethin’ on you.”

“That why you been hangin’ out here for the last thirty minutes, instead of goin’ in yourself?” asked the apparently observant Korea.

I tried to smile and look cool, at the same time taking the press pass back out of my pocket. After showing it to them, I did my best to adopt an attitude that was weary and dejected, something I thought might gain their confidence. “Just seems like these cops don’t want to talk to any reporters,” I said.

The huge coat lit up. “Damn right they don’t want to talk to any reporter. Some girl got raped, you know. And if I were you, I would hide that…,” she said, pointing to the ID, “…and find a way to sneak up there. And if anybody catches you, act like you live there but you got off on the wrong floor.”

“But how do I sneak in there?” I asked.

“There’s a stairwell in the back way,” Korea said. “You want to go up? Wait out back and I’ll let you in.”

And that’s how I ended up getting into the building. For a while, I wasn’t sure whether I had walked straight into an ambush. I mean, there I was standing alone behind the building, an easy mark for a roving gang of thugs. Would the cops have been able to hear my cries for help? Would they have discovered my battered body slumped beside the playground before they went home for the night? Or would children on their way to school the next day be the ones to make the grisly find?

But of course, none of that happened. Instead, Korea let me in like she promised. She told me to go up to the 15^th floor, before disappearing out another doorway, which I presumed led back to the lobby. Up fourteen flights of stairs I went, until I could hear the crackling of a police band radio, and voices talking. I set my stuff down on the landing, beside the door that led into the hallway. Peeking through the small window that was about the height of my head, I could make out three cops standing just a few feet away.

No way was I going to get a photo of that poor girl’s apartment. Still, I could hear the cops conversing with each other, mostly mundane chit-chat mixed with long intervals of silence. I got out my notebook and jotted down anything that sounded useful. There wasn’t much. One of them mentioned the hospital the girl was in, which rhymed with “Cool.” About thirty minutes went by, and that was all I wrote down: “cool.”

I could tell this was going to be a lost cause, so I packed up my things and got ready to walk back down. As I was making my way down the first staircase, however, this strange feeling took me over. I turned around, walked back up to the 15^th floor, walked out into the hallway where the NYPD’s Finest were still standing, and looked the nearest one straight in the eye. He seemed taken aback by me.

“Any news?” I asked.

“Downstairs. In front of the building,” the cop said. He punctuated each sentence with a jab of his finger in mid-air.

“I was down there, and none of the officers said I couldn’t come upstairs,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I’m just curious if the three perps got picked up.”

“Where are you from?” asked the female officer next to him.

I brandished my press pass for all to see. “We got a call about three African-American men, possibly armed,” I said. “We heard they assaulted someone.”

I don’t know if mentioning what happened got to the first cop, or if he just figured he’d cut me a break, but his tone immediately became more civil. He told me what hospital the victim had been taken to, information I had heard, but pretended was new. “You can go down there and talk to her,” he said. “Otherwise, there should be some kind of press release going out tonight.”

“Okay,” I said. Then I asked which precinct everyone came from.

“The ninetieth,” he said. “Nine-oh.”

“Okay,” I said. Then I left.

A few minutes later, I was outside again. I called my editor and told him the cops hadn’t been very useful, except for the one who told me which hospital the victim had been moved to. I asked if he wanted me to high-tail it over there, not sure if I wanted to make the trip myself. To my relief, he said it wasn’t worth it. After all, we were a weekly newspaper. We’d be getting most of the story off the inevitable press release.

It was a long walk back to the apartment, and it gave me plenty of time to become distracted by my own random thoughts. I wondered if the evening had been a complete waste of time. I wondered about my behavior at the office earlier, when I leapt at the chance to visit the site of something lurid and terrible. I wondered if that was normal. I wondered if I would be doing this kind of thing again.

But mostly, I wondered if the cops had caught those three armed rapists. As the possibility they hadn’t crossed my mind, I pulled my jacket around tighter and walked up Humboldt St. as fast as I could, hoping K. was already home, not to mention safe and sound.