We get a call for a violent, emotionally disturbed person on St. John’s Place in Crown Heights.

We arrive and park. There are already two police cruisers on the scene, so we go right into the tenement. It’s in bad shape, with sagging steps and cracked walls painted a glossy avocado green.

“Dee-pressing,” Bronson whispers.

We climb three flights of stairs and are met by four police officers, who say they get called to Tyrone’s apartment once a month. “He’s 25 years old and lives alone,” one says. “Functions pretty well, as long as he takes his meds,” another says. “But he runs out at the end of the month, breaks a window, and we get called here by the neighbor.”

“Every time,” a third says.

“He’s a little agitated,” the fourth says, then raises an eyebrow: “But he responds very well to females.”

They all look at me. I look back. They keep staring. “Okay, fine,” I say. “But I want all four of you right behind me.”

One officer opens the door for me. “Ladies first,” he says, smiling.

I approach Tyrone, who’s sitting on a couch in a very tidy living room, watching a blank TV screen. The broken pane of glass is letting in the mild winter air. He’s wearing clean clothes, but his hand is bleeding. I crouch down and introduce myself.

He smiles, says, “Pleased to meet you,” and offers me his hand.

I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Lovely apartment you have.” I mean it – everything is neat and clean.

“Thanks,” he says, and looks back at the blank TV screen.

Bronson unzips the trauma bag and starts bandaging Tyrone’s hand.

“Why don’t we go to the hospital,” I say, “and get you some of those medicines that make you feel better?”

He regards his hand and sighs deeply. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll go to the hospital with you.”

On violent EDP calls, a police sergeant is supposed to respond. All I’ve got are four cops and a lot of weird chivalry. One officer gets on the radio and says, “Cancel the sergeant.”

No! I want to shout. But I don’t want to agitate Tyrone. While he goes to get his coat, I whisper to the officers, “I want backup.”

The sergeant gets on the air, his voice crackling over the radio: “I’m a couple of blocks away, I’m responding.” Thank God, I think. But the officers all cringe at the sound of the voice. “Oh no …”one of them moans. “Not Blinky.”

Now it’s my turn to stare. “Who’s Blinky?”

Blinky, they say, is new to the precinct. “He has a number of nervous tics,” an officer says. “One, he blinks all the time. Two, he sticks his tongue out like a snake and licks his collar. Three, he spits.” The officer mimes the whole motion. “Over and over again. It drives everyone crazy.”

“So,” I say, “another EDP.”

“One of New York’s Finest.”

Blinky enters the apartment – he’s in his late 20s, and, unlike the rest of the officers, wears his hat. “Whaddaya got?” he asks.

“We’ve got it under control, Sarge,” one says. “He wants to go to the hospital, we’re gonna follow the ambulance, happens every month, nothing for you to do.”

Blinky considers this. “I wanna talk to him,” he says. Blink-blink.

Tyrone comes back into the room. He stares at Blinky, whose eyes squinch three times before he says: “Hiya.”

Tyrone’s polite diction falls away and his street voice comes out. “Yo,” he says quietly. “Stop blinking.” Blinky blinks some more. Tyrone raises his palms and takes a few steps back. “Yo, why he blinkin’ at me?”

An officer tells Blinky, “There’s really nothing to do, Sarge, we got it under control.”

But Blinky blinks repeatedly at Tyrone, trying to formulate something to say.

Tyrone yells, “Yo! Tell him to stop blinkin’!”

I speak up. “Sergeant, please. He responds well to females. I’ve got it under control.”

Blinky sticks out a long tongue and gives his shirt collar a good lick.

Tyrone shields his face with his hands. “Yo! Why he lickin’?” He runs to the other side of the room and starts pummeling the window frame with his bandaged hand. “Tell him to stop lickin’!”

The officers surround Tyrone, but he won’t be calmed. His hand starts bleeding again. An officer pleads with him to relax so we can bring him gently to the hospital. “So you can get your meds,” he says. “We go through this every month, Tyrone. You know us.” Another, sensing the futility, is already getting out his handcuffs.

Blinky spits on the floor. “Good thing I came.”

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician who works on an FDNY ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.