Big City Detective
My new detective partner and I found a place out of the way in the large squad room. It was another of those shiny porcelain-block structures built for utility over comfort. The path from the entrance passed between the desk man and the sergeant, then opened into a rectangular room lined with steel tables and oversized industrial manual typewriters.
The chairs were cold steel too — their cushions polished smooth from years of use.
We took a spot along the outer wall facing the windows that overlooked the side of the fire department building. The new sergeant came over with several incident reports in his hand — the initial write-ups from patrol officers.
We were intimately familiar with those.
He introduced himself and said he’d break us in slowly. Theft from auto. One-page burglaries. Small things.
The protocol was simple: call the complainant, get the details, investigate, prepare the report. If you could identify the offender, get a warrant. If not, code it active and file it.
We were on our second or third report when I noticed the sergeant hovering. Two detectives stood behind him.
I looked up.
“Remember what I said about breaking you in slowly?”
“Yes.”
“I lied. Get your stuff. You go with him, and you go with him.”
He pointed — first at one detective, then the other.
My partner went one direction. I went the other — to a robbery.
It started that day.
And never stopped.