Raindogblue

The Sanguine Beauty of Police Work

Last Fall, I responded to a poor soul, who after consuming too much beer, fell on the loose gravel of an asphalt street, and suffered a head wound. As the EMTsloaded the man into the ambulance, an odd motion caught my eye. A small, flittering object scythed downward and landed between the large drops of fresh blood. I turned on my flashlight, took a few steps forward, and bent down to see a praying mantis the color of bone with eyes abysmally black examining the blood. Shifting in a otherworldly fashion, its forearms touched each small pool. The insect seemed like some alien priest of death and pain looking for auguries in a blood sacrifice. How would the up coming winter be? I watched the strange service for a few minutes, and then lifted the creature to the nearby husks of spent wild flowers, so it would not be another casualty of the street.

The Barn

At the end of the shift, and only at the end of the shift, you leave your district and wander back to the barn, turn in your paperwork, put away your car, take off your gear, and go home.

District Car

An officer is assigned a district. The district is assigned a car. If an officer is lucky enough to be the district officer, then he has the fortune of driving the same car every day.

"What's the big deal?" you say. "Isn't one Crown Vic, the same as another?"

Wrong.

If you are the district car, then the district car becomes yours.

There is a pride in ownership. If you drive the same car everyday, you are invested in making sure your car functions, is filled with gas, is stocked with flares and cones, gloves and anti-septic wipes, and is clean with no surprises: No coffee spilled on the seats, or soda on the MDC, no bloody gloves on the passenger floor, no pipes stashed in the few hidey spots in the prisoner compartment, no forgotten prisoner property or evidence in the trunk, and the worst, no uncapped needles rolling about.

If your car is having problems, you write it up. If a drunk pukes or pisses in the back, you clean it or write it up, so it will be haz-mated by the next business day.

Yes, the are official rules about a car should be maintained, but officers are busy, run late, and get caught up on other trivial things like responding to cars and finishing their paper. Unless they're going to be driving the car the next day, it is easier to put the car away, and let the next guy deal with it.

The Sticker Rule

If a child waves to you, give 'em a sticker.

It's not hard. If you're not working on something, or on a call, put your car to the curb, get out, stretch your legs, and enjoy the kindness and courtesy of a child.

The city provides the stickers; a crime dog on a badge. It costs you nothing, and you have everything to gain: The smile of child, perhaps a grateful parent, and the regeneration in your sense of humanity.

I always keep a pocketful of 'em.

Patrol

I’m no coach, but I’ve been given a pup for the night. He is energetic and young, and my few words of instruction bounce off his eagerness. I’ve spent nine hours of a ten hour shift teaching the pup how to patrol. Patrolling is a slow creep along the back ways to see what the street gives you. Patrolling requires one to look and linger and drive slowly enough to see a problem let alone engage. The pup drives fast and clings to the main streets.

As I guide the pup back to the dark, less travelled streets for the long winding trip back to the barn, I see a man in the street, angry, and larger and younger than me. He is walking down the middle of the street with a hard stride. I can feel his anger. Hearing the rush of the approaching car, he glares back. Seeing the patrol car, he stuffs an item in his jacket.

We need to talk to him.

The pup, eager all night for anything, despite my words, keeps driving. The pup can smell the potential for a fight, but he is still a pup and freezes.

We need to talk to him.

Alpha dog wins. The car stops. We hop out.

The angry man doesn’t want to be stopped. He looks at the pup, then me, and wisely begins barking at the pup. The pup takes a step back. Mistake. He lost his show.

I step in, low growl, and engage eyes. I talk him back to standing on the curb. He is angry, but wants no fight.

He missed the bus out of the little town he was visiting a friend in, and has walked five miles only to miss the last bus in this section of town, so he will have to walk another 5 miles to his apartment downtown.
The man is old enough to have been arrested a dozen times, if he was trying to cause trouble, but when I pull his record. He has skirted problems, but has yet to be pinched.

I make him an offer to the next transit station. He’ll make his bus downtown. All I require is a pat down, to prove he isn’t carrying a weapon.

His eyes pop. His face lights. He is all grins. He cannot believe his luck. He empties his pockets, details the contents, consents to the pat down, and off we go.

I drop him off at the transit station as his bus pulls up.

So why did we do that?

Pup scratched his head and says weakly, “uuu, community policing?”

No.

He was pissed and in my neighborhood looking for a fight. Now he is happy, halfway home, and we won’t have to deal with him again. Maybe next time, he might give another officer who stops him the benefit of the doubt or may even help. At least, the next time he sees me, he won’t want to fight from the start.
It is the first time all night his eagerness is not getting the better of him.