Saturday morning, we visited the collision scene where we sadly found some of Lauren’s items and her blood dappling the ground. Her broken sunglasses, a yellow Cramps band button, and pieces of her wicker basket lay discarded without regard. Seeing all these abandoned objects was like looking at the missing pieces to a lost puzzle box. What had happened to Lauren and why wasn’t she here?

At a time like this, a time when I drifted in a dim and uncertain space, I would look to Lauren for guidance and support. But, she wasn’t there and she couldn’t help me navigate this unknown. And so, my family and I maneuvered through the messy logistical obligations of losing a loved one, while enduring the NYPD’s investigation. There was no time to grieve, no time to process the magnitude of our loss.

New layers emerged when we visited the CIS (Collision Investigation Squad) headquarters in Flatbush. As five people, we entered a back office where we sat down to discuss the details of what the CIS knew thus far.

The police officer handling our case, PO Christopher Paul, initially told us there was “no criminality afoot.” He divulged that the “accident” occurred at around 8:30am when there’s “a lot of traffic.” He then informed us that Lauren was riding southbound (against traffic), the car bumped her, and she fell off her bike. The PO suggested that he did not believe my sister made contact with the car. Then, he revealed to us that police officers on the scene had decided to move Lauren’s body to the back seat of their vehicle because no ambulance could arrive due to the heavy traffic.

When asked if this was an appropriate response (as police officers are not trained EMTs), the officer told us that being transferred by a police vehicle is an honor they usually only reserve for one of their own. In an attempt to prove how distinguished it was to ride in a police vehicle when injured, he recounted a personal anecdote of a NYPD officer being shot in the head and then honorably transferred in the back of a police vehicle (even though there was no hope that he would live). This inappropriate analogy provided my family no solace and no reprieve in the initial shock of my sister’s death.

We asked whether the driver was impaired. According to the police, the driver had no phone calls, no texts, no apparent distractions while turning left onto Lexington Avenue. The police officer revealed that the driver went to the hospital hyperventilating and later passed out due to being very distressed.

At the end of our meeting, the police officer gave us a couple of documents: vouchers for my sister’s belongings, the initial accident report, and a diagram depicting a reenactment of the collision.

Initial diagram of crash provided in the initial “Accident Report” on April 16, 2016.

Our meeting ended here and we continued on to our next hardship. That same day, my family and I were vexed with the task of identifying my sister’s body at the Medical Examiner’s Office.

After waiting for what seemed like hours, ME staff escorted us into a side room shrouded in a blend of stale taupe, beige, and pale green. We sat waiting in front of a computer screen where moments later Lauren’s face would materialize for us to recognize.

First, a plate with Lauren’s full name flashed on the screen. Then, “her face” — err rather, somebody’s face appeared. The photo we saw resembled nothing of what we knew Lauren to be.

Bruising, skin discoloration, scrapes over her left eye — wounds all gracing a distended and unrecognizable human face. None of us could distinguish Lauren from the person’s visage on the screen. Her most identifiable feature — her smile — was not what we knew. Teeth had moved about her mouth in a nonsensical manner. There were spaces between teeth where no spaces had existed before. We stared blankly at the screen. This couldn’t be Lauren. Who was this? Where was Lauren? What happened to her? How could this much damage be inflicted one person?

It was this moment when we requested photos of her tattoos, and ultimately, these unambiguous features confirmed what we hoped wasn’t true. Lauren was dead. She had been killed by the car that hit her yesterday morning.

Contrary to what the PO told us, the Medical Examiner revealed that Lauren had endured ample “contact with the car”:

Lung trauma and rib fractures due to the car rolling over her.

Blunt force trauma to the head resulting in several fractures, which the ME suggested could have been the result of her helmet hitting the hood of the driver’s car and/or being rolled over.

Bruising on her neck which could have been caused by impact with a tire or pavement.

Extensive internal bleeding.

And so, my sister’s pain and suffering became a list of fatal injuries on a piece of paper.

Scrutinizing the initial “Accident Report” came later in the day when we had a moment of abatement. The “Accident Description/Officer’s Notes” read:

And it continued on another page:

One aspect of this report that I found so aggravating was the NYPD’s use of language:

“At TPO operator of vehicle #1 was traveling northbound on Classon Ave. turning left onto westbound Lexington Ave. Operator of vehicle #2 was traveling southbound on Classon Ave. on a bicycle against traffic.”

Labeling my sister a “vehicle” implied that she, as a cyclist, was equally as powerful as the car that killed her. This label distorts the truth. Vehicles cause much more damage than cyclists, and it’s absurd to think that “vehicle #1” and “vehicle #2” are equals.

An additional aspect that I feel distorts the reality of crashes, like my sister’s, is the misuse of the word “accident” in departmental language. The tragedy my family and I have faced and continue to face is magnified by the insulting connotation of this word.

Collisions or crashes are preventable, not unfortunate accidents. Would a person label the violent act of shooting someone “an accident?” Then, why do we refer to crashes as such? NYC has worked to correct this shortcoming, but NYS, as a whole, has been apathetic in changing the official name used in these reports.