True Detective Stories

Yesterday started out in a grand fashion.

We were scheduled to have nine detectives working, and as I was driving in I received texts from three saying they were sick, one whose wife went into labor, and one who would be two hours late.

Joy.

So it was me and The Redhead Queen in the office when the first report came in. The complainant’s (bullshit) story went like this: He came home late after a night out. In his rush to get inside, he left his fully loaded Smith & Wesson 9mm semi-auto pistol in his car. Because reasons. The next day, this clown wakes up, goes out to the car, and notices the gun is missing. There are no signs of forced entry, the inside of the vehicle is not disturbed, and nothing else is taken. Just the loaded pistol.

The Queen brings in the “victim,” and goes after him hard. She asks why he would be so stupid to leave his gun in his car, why he has no information on the weapon, and why he hasn’t hanged himself in embarrassment. (Okay, I made up that last part.)

A half hour goes by, and I see the Queen walking the victim out the door and giving him a hearty, “Have a nice day!” Puzzled, I stare at her blankly, and ask what the hell just happened.

“Oh, while I was grilling him, the guy claimed he worked as a Voodoo priest. I have enough problems without some dude sticking pins in his very own Redhead Queen doll.”

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True Detective Stories

Sunday night was very slow at our division; an instance as rare as a good Katy Perry song. Heavy rains kept the imbeciles away, so most of us caught up on old jobs (my coworkers) or watched YouTube all night (me). Halfway through the tour, the district brought in a burglary report, and the complainant claimed she had video of the incident.

The assigned detective said he would call the complainant and ask her to send the video via email. He said this in front of me and another detective. I interjected, saying, “You need to ask the complainant to bring the video here personally.” When the assigned asked why, I replied, “Dude, she’s a 25-year old white female. In this division, that’s like finding a unicorn!”

As is usually the case, the assigned detective dismissed me.

An hour later, a female police officer – young, hot, and blonde – came upstairs to tell us there was a woman downstairs with video of a burglary. The woman was asking to come speak to detectives. Ever the helpful soul, I told the officer to send her up.

Shortly thereafter, a woman came to the window. She was white, but not 25 and definitely not hot. In fact, it looked like someone microwaved her face.

How could this be? How could my superior detective instincts be wrong?

The woman was bringing in burglary video, but not from the job we were expecting. The woman asked for the other detective in the previous conversation, and as he was getting ready to walk out to meet her, the female police officer stopped him. She said, “When you meet her, be sure to look at her fingernails.” The officer make a “vomit face” and went back downstairs.

Sure enough, the woman had the nastiest fingernails I have ever seen. I would have guessed she was wearing crap brown fingernail polish, but it was probably more accurate to say she keeps her fingers inside her butthole. *shudder*

True Detective Stories

After twenty-three years of policing, my department has gone through many changes; some good, some not so good. Political correctness has overrun my profession, and with that has come hours and hours of training which has little to nothing to do with trivial subjects like fighting crime.

As you read this post, I will be sitting in a classroom undergoing “customer service training.”

No, that is not a typo. The department, in their infinite wisdom, has decided to send me – ME! America’s most beloved detective! – to be trained in customer service.

First of all, most of the people I deal with on a regular basis are felons – both the criminals and my coworkers – not customers. I am not asking them if they would like fries with that or helping them install a new cell room door. Second, just because I routinely hang up on callers, occasionally “help” a prisoner down a flight or stairs, and have cute young female officers sit on my lap doesn’t mean I need training. It means I need a promotion.

I can’t imagine this training will be productive, but maybe they’ll be serving beer and hot dogs?

True Detective Stories

Thursday was the last day of my first day shift, so by mid-afternoon I was entirely fed up with people. So naturally I answered the worst phone call of the day: a frivolous complaint from the only wealthy section of North Philly.

Snooty Rich Woman: “Hello officer [Yeah, it’s detective, but whatever.], I am calling from the East Mount Airy Neighbors Association [Oh here we go.] and I was looking for some information about the pipe bomb incident yesterday.”
Me: “Yes ma’am, what do you need?”

Snooty Rich Woman: “I saw this story on the news, and I have a beef about it. [Wow, how unexpected.] You see, the news reports stated the incident happened in East Mount Airy, and that is incorrect. I live here, and that incident was a few blocks from our neighborhood border. [Like I 1. have a map of the city’s neighborhoods handy and 2. give a shit.] Personally I think the story slandered our neighborhood. We don’t want people think that kind of think happens here. [It’s Philadelphia, honey, “that kind of thing” happens everywhere.] Does the police department have detailed maps of the neighborhoods and their borders?”
Me: “Um, no ma’am. The police districts may have them, but our detective division covers four districts, so our maps are extensive.”

Snooty Rich Woman: “My feeling is our reputation is being assaulted with these inaccurate news stories. [Don’t care.] I mean, the incident did not occur inside the East Mount Airy border.”
Me: “Ma’am, can I be brutally honest with you? [Here comes the pain.] The pipe bomb story is what President Trump [Who you obviously did not vote for.] would call fake news. Neither the police district nor the detective division puts out the information on these cases, unless it is something sincerely newsworthy, like a homicide. The local news outlets have people listening to police scanners, and when something they deem newsworthy comes out, they take down the information from the radio calls and run with it. The media doesn’t know the neighborhoods, because most of them are transplants, so they guess. That said, if you have a problem with the media misidentifying a crime scene, you may want to take it up with them.”

Snooty Rich Woman: “Okay, thank you. We appreciate what you all do.” [Hangs up.]
Me: [to self.] “Yeah, sure you do.”

True Detective Stories

So yesterday I was working the front desk when an officer brought in a missing person report. The report contained a photo of the lovely lost lass, and honestly, you could hardly notice her face tattoos.

The woman was reported “missing” – or as I would describe it, “escaped” – from a work-release program on August 8th, and the rocket surgeons at the program waited five weeks to notify the po-po. The report was completed by a rookie officer, and the page contains all sorts of descriptions and identifiers which need to be filled in.

One of the questions deals with the victim’s mental state. In this case, the officer checked the box marked “poor,” and in the remarks responded “Found incompetent to stand trial.”

Yeah.

I assigned the report to our lone female detective, and a few minutes, she returned to my desk and asked if I read the section on medications. I admitted I had not, so she showed it to me. The section is titled “Prescribed Medications: No. Yes, Type.”

The officer checked yes, and wrote “Crack.”

True Detective Stories

Working in a major metropolitan – bankrupt – police department has its drawbacks. The politicians never back you up, the citizens despise you, and the equipment issued is rarely up to snuff. We still use typewriters as well as computers, and up until 2015, we were using Windows XP.

That said, when the cell room turnkey came upstairs yesterday, it was cause for alarm.

Our turnkey is a bloated, boring, old timer who will walk into a room and stand there until you acknowledge him. He is easily the most irritating person in the building; even more so than me. Yesterday he walked into the office, leaned over my desk, and looked at my computer. I asked, “Um, you need something?” He replied no, and walked to another computer. Sweaty McBoring proceeded to approach every computer on our floor, look at it, and walk away. Finally, he passed my desk again.

“What exactly do you want, Sweaty?”

Sweaty reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a floppy disk. (I attached a photo of one for our younger readers.) Apparently Sweaty had some old files on the disk he wanted to print out before his retirement, and was looking for a terminal which would accept a disk.

When I told him the division doesn’t use Commodore 64s anymore, he was crestfallen. Undeterred, he said he was going to try the police district’s terminals downstairs – even after I told him the building’s computers were the same model.

I mean, who am I to ruin an imbecile’s dreams?

True Detective Stories

Thursday night was an abundance of bitches. One detective was given the night off at the last minute, another asked for a day off from a supervisor in a different squad, so we had a paltry four detectives working. Nightwork in North Philly is always busy, and Thursday was no exception.

In the last hour of the tour – you know, the time I am at my most pleasant and patient – a couple appeared at the window and asked to speak to a detective. Sadly, I as the only thing even close to a detective in the area, so I volunteered my services. Besides, these people could have been the victims of a robbery, assault, of regicide.

No, this crime was much more dastardly…

Continue reading “True Detective Stories”

True Detective Stories

While it would be ridiculous to accuse all police officers of being heartless, insolent, jagoffs, there is a segment of each department whose mission appears to be ruining our reputation with the public.

Take this jagoff, for example…

A police officer called the division looking for guidance, and unfortunately he got me instead. Hey, I certainly didn’t become a cop to help people! Any hoo, the officer calls and the conversation goes as follows. (For the record, some of this is paraphrasing.)

Officer: “Yeah, I’m out here on Fifth Street and we have two guys shooting each other… with paintball guns. Can we confiscate these guns?”
Me: “That depends. Are they committing a crime? By that, I mean, are they shooting passersby, cars, or storefronts? Are they threatening people with the guns? Help me out here.”

Continue reading “True Detective Stories”

True Detective Stories

Working as a detective in North Philly has severe disadvantages. The area resembles Fallujah (with more shootings), the cockroaches are bigger than your head, and the public hates your guts.

One person in particular despises the police so much that he spends his days screaming at us from the end of the driveway.

The self-proclaimed “King” is an elderly, bearded, heavily-accented black man who spends ten hours every day, rain or shine, bellowing about how awful we all are. If you need a visual, picture a Jamaican Jerry Garcia.

The King’s day begins at 7am with his trademark “HEY!” (He yells “Hey” hundreds of times a day to get our attention, even though we started ignoring him a year ago.) In between screams, he claps his hands, but does so by holding both hands upright and slapping them together. You know, like a mental patient.

The King’s typical rants are as follows:

1. Shameless self-promotion. “HEY! I am the king!”

2. Death to America. “HEY! America is no more anymore! Nothing America!!”

3. F**k the police. “HEY! You cannot stop the king! Nothing police!”

The rants are placed on “shuffle” until 5pm, when he retires for the day. The King has been doing this for over a year. At the start of the King’s reign, one of the officers asked why he hated the police so much. The King replied he was stopped by the police, and during the investigation they found the King did not have a license or insurance. As is policy, the officers impounded his car. Apparently that move set the King off, and he postponed his life to spend every waking moment yelling at us from the sidewalk.

While the King is incredibly annoying, at least he’ll likely contract cancer from all the asbestos in the city’s buildings. You know, like the rest of us.