True Detective Stories

Thursday was an interesting tour. We ended the day with seven people shot, including four people at one location. Earlier in the day, we had the extraordinary pleasure of meeting a woman who told the most incredible story of all time.

And by “incredible,” I mean absolutely, provably not credible.

The middle-aged woman comes to the district window downstairs to make a robbery report. The woman claimed, get this, she was robbed in April, and just decided to report the crime Thursday – two months after the alleged incident.

Wait, it gets better.

The woman claimed she received a check from a lawsuit for $15,000, and instead of cashing it at, say, a bank, this MENSA member took it to a check cashing place in the ‘hood. Einstein claims the check cashing place gave her FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS CASH from the check, placed it into an envelope and sent her on her merry way.

So, the woman was just walking down the street minding her own bidness, when an unknown black male approached her, pulled out a handgun, and took the $15,000. Interestingly, the alleged robber did not take the woman’s cell phone, wallet, or credit cards; just the cash.

When asked if she could provide a description of this dastardly offender, she replied, “He was a black male with a ski mask on.” Wow, that is out-f**king-standing!

The assigned detective assured this bullshitter victim that we would have top men working on her case right now. Top. Men.


True Detective Stories

Today was a fantastic day.

It started early this morning while driving to work. I was headed toward the division, and noticed the car in front of me moved hard to the left. It caught my attention, and I saw an oncoming car coming at me halfway in my lane. I moved to the left and blasted the horn. At the last second, this asshole moved to avoid hitting me, and kept driving on his merry way.

I figured this clown was playing on his phone, but since I got an entirely too close look at this douche, I noticed he was either drunk or high. I would have turned around to chase him down, but since I was too busy stopped at the side of the road shaking, I decided against it. It took a few minutes before I could start driving again.

When I arrived, I was told one detective took the day off, another was on funeral leave, and a third called off sick. So of course there was work waiting for us: a burglary of an occupied residence where three vehicles were stolen, a robbery of a gas station, and a missing 11-year old with Downs Syndrome.

So, how was your day?

True Detective Stories

Today is my final day of classroom training, and while the rest of you will be enjoying(?) my posts, I will be assaulting a mannequin. That’s right, it’s CPR day!

CPR is one of those skills we need for the performance of our duties. That said, in a city as large as Philadelphia, firefighters and paramedics usually handle those calls. Besides, when you work in the ‘hood, it’s not always smart to perform mouth-to-mouth on a crackhead.

I mean, I’ll do it, but I certainly won’t like it. (And I’ll gargle with bleach afterward.)

A helpful CPR refresher is posted below the fold. You never can be too careful…

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True Detective Stories

Yesterday I arrived at work early, sat in my car, and contemplated my life choices. While sitting there, I kept telling myself, “Turn the key, pull out of the lot, and go home.” I should have trusted my instincts.

When I approached my desk, I noticed a pile of papers atop it. While my blood pressure began to rise, I saw there were three arrests and two investigations left for us. (Apparently, the day shirt didn’t feel like fighting crime that day.) I thought about running, but my sergeant had seen me enter the office. I was trapped like one of Taylor Swift’s boyfriends.

Better still, two detectives called out sick, one was on vacation, and one was in training. So on a busy Friday night in the big city, we have a total of four detectives.

I work the front desk, so I am responsible for entering jobs and assigning them to other detectives, answering the phones, answering the front window, checking the fax, checking the teletype for court notices, and lying to Congress. Since we were so short, I was also responsible for helping out with jobs, and by 5pm, I had done three arrest reports and took three investigations.

By the end of the night, I felt like this guy…

Continue reading “True Detective Stories”

True Detective Stories

Saturday was interesting.

So an hour into the tour, an officer walks in with a bizarre-looking witness and sits him on the bench. The officer comes to my desk and says, “This is the man who reported the endangered missing person.” Perplexed, I replied, “What missing person?”

Apparently, the overnight shift took a call from a captain, stating an elderly man walked away from his care facility. The witness claimed the missing person suffered from dementia and schizophrenia. With that, we need to run all sorts of protocols. The facility needs to be held as a crime scene, constant radio messages need to be broadcast, and patrol cars need an active search. In short, missing persons like these are a nightmare.

So I look at the report and am about to assign it to a detective when I notice the report doesn’t include the person’s last name or date of birth. Both are necessary to put out the report locally and nationally. When I asked this pretty, but clueless officer why she omitted those important details, she said neither the residence nor the witness had them.


The assigned detective brought in the “witness,” and five minutes later escorted him out. Apparently, the officer declined to mention the fact our star witness did not work at the residence; he was a patient there. Oh, and the patient suffers from paranoid delusions, so there’s that.

After speaking to an actual member of the staff, we found the gentleman does not suffer from dementia, and does not suffer from schizophrenia. Oh, and spoiler alert; the man is allowed to come and go as he pleases.

Honestly, it warms my heart to know this police department is in truly capable hands.

Take The A Training

For the past two days, I have been subjected to our annual police training. Monday and Tuesday were classroom lectures, so I only have to re-certify in CPR and re-qualify with my pistol. Thee classroom lectures are beyond boring; more so when you suffered through the crowd I had.

Monday’s class featured an instructor who spent half the day telling war stories. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but this supervisor hasn’t been on the street since Clinton was president. Dude, no one cares about the time you grabbed your revolver, ran to a call box, and reported the streetcar accident. We especially don’t care when you’re telling this story instead of, say, handing out the exam!

Tuesday was no better. The storyteller was back again, but since all his old fossil stories were told, he kept his trap shut. The problem yesterday was the theater screamer.

There was a black female officer sitting behind me all day. During the course of instruction, she continually blurted out inane comments, or worse, fragments. For eight hours, I had to listen to running commentary such as, “Mmm hmm,” “Yeah, that’s right.”, and the omnipresent, “Yep!” I realize this is a stereotype (and possibly racist) but it felt like I was sitting with her in a movie theater. I kept waiting for her to yell, “DON’T GO IN THERE!” or “LOOK OUT, HE’S GOT AN AX!”

Look, training is bad enough without the unnecessary distractions. Please just emulate your fellow officers and sit there, try not to fall asleep, and shut your dick trap.

True Detective Stories

Nightwork began this week, and as usual, my violent, crime-ridden division was incredibly busy. In a total of thirty-two hours of work, I entered over 100 jobs, ranging from shootings to thefts. Suffice to say, we were too busy for shenanigans.

Halfway through the first night, a man comes to the window says he received a call from a Detective Davis. He claimed Detective Davis told him he was a suspect in a shooting, and needed to come in right away. There is a Detective Davis in our division, so we immediately met him in the hallway, sat him down and obtained his information.

We searched the databases, ran him for warrants, but nothing came back. We notified out shooting team, and they took a run at the guy, but no warrants appeared. A detective kept the man unsecured but seated while we figured out what the hell was going on. Five minutes later, another man came in with the same story. He received a call from Davis, ordering him to report to our division in reference to a shooting. Again, nothing came back on this guy, either.

Now shootings are our highest priority. If someone is a suspect in the shooting, we need to get him cuffed, searched, and secured immediately because the idiot cops on the first floor will send people up without asking any questions. Questions like, “Are you armed?”

So now we have two shooting suspects in our hallway, but no warrants to go with them. Suddenly, the first man says, “This is the number which called my phone if you want to call him back.” A member of the shooting called the number, it rang a few times, then was answered with this…

*laughter* “You’ve just been pranked by 106 FM!” *more laughter*

The detective is very good at what he does, and is usually on an even keel. This time, he let loose.


The “suspects” were immediately released, and we all wondered what would have happened if one of them would have reached into their pocket while ignoring our commands. Assholes.

True Detective Stories

In my twenty-four years in law enforcement, there is really only one thing that truly scares me anymore is the telephone. The effects of picking it up run the gamut from wrong numbers to terrifying, idiotic questions. Yesterday I had the latter.

Officer: “Hi, we had a complainant come to the window to report an assault. Should we send the report up to you?”
Me: “That depends. What exactly happened?”

Officer: “Well, this female was walking down the street when an unknown black male walked by her, brushed his hand across her leg, and said, “Nice thighs.”

At this point I both face-palmed and head-desked.

Me: “I’m sorry, but are you f**king kidding me?” (Sadly, those were my actual words.)

Officer: “No, the woman is here and wants to make a police report for assault. We called the Special Victims Unit-”
Officer: “Yes, and they said they wouldn’t take it because the male didn’t tough her genitals.”

Me: “So, let me see if I understand this. A woman is walking down a busy street at a busy intersection in the middle of the day. Some clown brushed past her, blurts out, “Nice thighs,” and you believe this is an assault. Have I got that right?”
Officer: “Yes, and she wants to press charges.”
Me: “She wants to press charges against an unknown man who brushed past her?”
Officer: “Yep.”

Me: “Officer, you sound new, so just send the report up and I’ll deal with it. That said, we work in one of the busiest divisions in the city, and last I checked, we lead the city in shootings. Do you really think a brush-by is the best way to utilize investigative time? People brush past each other on the streets, in the subways, at sporting events, and so on. Should we get arrest warrants for them, too?”
Officer: “I guess I see your point.”

Yeah, I figured she would. This department is swirling the toilet, and I am unable to anything about it.

True Detective Stories

Yesterday was my first day back to work after funeral leave. I didn’t want to go back, but I was worried sitting home for a week would see the depression return. Unfortunately, this place is so toxic that I should have stayed in bed.

I’m trying to be a better person, because I think that’s what my father-in-law would have wanted. He loved me for who I am, but he was also as much aware of my faults as you guys are. I’m far from a perfect person, and at work, I anger easily because I’m usually surrounded by lazy, stupid people. I’m trying to be better.

I didn’t lose my temper yesterday, and tried to be more polite, even though the annoyances were plentiful. Only a few coworkers said anything about my FIL, which is fine, but it gives you a sense of who your friends are. My plan from here on out is to arrive, do my job, and go home.

And try to be better.

Exit Wounds

In a rare case of my department being ironically timely, I was scheduled for active shooter training yesterday. Unlike the original active shooter training given by the department, this update included simulation rounds, or simunition.

Sim rounds mark you with paint (like paintball rounds), but the projectile travels about 400 feet per second. We had to wear a paintball helmet with a face-mask, our ballistic vest, and groin protection. Some people suggested bringing gloves, but pfft, gloves are for pussies.

During the first scenario, a plainclothes officer comes from behind a screen and walks toward me with a pistol sticking out of his waistband. I don’t see it immediately, but when I do, I draw, and tell him to raise his hands. The officer, obviously playing a bad guy, scrams at me, and draws his pistol. We each fire at each other – he is firing sim rounds, and I am firing blanks. After the first few shots, the supervisor blows her whistle, and the scenario ends.

The supervisor comes toward me and asks, “Are you okay?” Well duh, of course I’m okay, because we’re firing sim- AARGH, THAT F**KING HURTS! I looked down at the pistol and noticed blood on the grip, and in a small puddle on the floor, and the entirety of my left hand.

My first thought was, “When the hell did I get shot?” I never felt the hits, but then again, I was in a high-stress situation. All I remembered was the other shooter, his gun and me firing.

The supervisor gave me some towels to stop the bleeding while she grabbed antiseptic wipes and bandages. The rounds took off a chuck of skin from my middle finger, and a slightly larger chunk from my index finger. I cleaned myself up as best as possible, applied the bandages, and went to the scenarios.

For a few moments, the bandages didn’t take, and blood was running down my fingers, but it wasn’t too terrible. I was, however, shot in my shooting hand, which made racking the pistol slide difficult. You can see above how the blood seeped through the half-assed bandages, and below you can see my fingers when I changed bandages at home.

Thankfully, I was able to finish the course without much discomfort, and spent the rest of yesterday afternoon either lying down or lying in my car at Kyle’s lacrosse practice. I am due back in work tomorrow for a day of one-handed typing, but maybe my sergeant can put me in for a Heroism commendation. I mean, my typing fingers are my livelihood!