It’s been almost two years since my transfer to Area 22. Violent crime is down. The gangsters here don’t gang bang like they used to. Some of this has to do with the nationwide trend of falling crime rates. A lot has to do with the sheer number of cops assigned to this area that weren’t here before.

The downtime has given me time to think about what I want to do next. Do I put in for a transfer to Area 14? Still plenty of homicides there to keep the troops busy. If I go, I’d be the new kid all over again, which would suck.

I could put in for narcotics. But I’m not interested in chasing around a bunch of baseheads or tweakers. Most of them seem pathetic to me. Not that I feel sorry for them, but locking up these fuckers for mere possession has proven to be pointless.

There’s also vice. Mostly misdemeanors–prostitution, gambling, liquor law violations. But the guys in vice always look like they’re having fun. Plus, some of them get to drink while on duty.

I don’t feel like I’m ready for the detective test. Besides, I’m not ready to go inside yet, so getting a detective’s shield is out of the question–for now.

These are the thoughts I’ve been batting around. I was going to write about something else, but my mind has been preoccupied with my next move.

Stay tuned!

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The little boy claimed to be 13 years old. He looked more like eight. Maybe he was just underdeveloped. Or maybe he was lying. I asked him if his parents knew where he was. “Yea,” he replied. Bullshit. He was riding in a van full of gangsters.

His parents were probably working two or three jobs and too busy to keep an eye on him. They’re most likely from some Central American jungle where it’s okay for kids to roam free. But in the urban jungle if you don’t mind your kids, they’ll roam with the neighborhood gang.

“Been arrested before?” I asked.

“Naw,” replied the boy.

“Feel like going to jail?”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“A tiny little kid like you is gonna get your shit pushed in.”

The boy straightened up, puffed out his chest, and held up his chin. “Fuck that. I ain’t gettin’ my shit pushed in.”

“Tell you what, kid. Keep hanging out with these guys. When it’s time for me to collect my pension and retire, I’ll be in the South Pacific drinking a margarita. You’ll be in prison getting your shit pushed in.”

The kid had no idea where the South Pacific was. His whole world was–will always be–a few square miles of urban decay. The furthest he’ll travel will be to a state prison. I wondered, briefly, what was the more tragic: that his crowning achievement in life will be to become a convict and a prison bitch, or that he just didn’t give a fuck.

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Video footage of a plainclothes police officer ending a hostage situation in Guangzhou, China. According to AOL News:

Some are disturbed that the cop shot the hostage-taker four times, killing him, even though he appeared to have been taken out of action by the first shot and was armed only with a pair of scissors.

But others are celebrating her as a hero.

The incident highlights the ambivalence in China toward widespread, Dirty Harry-style police methods that, while at times effectively ruthless against wrongdoers, often show scant concern for human rights and sometimes compound the bloodshed.

It looks like Americans aren’t the only ones who like to Monday morning quarterback. Mighty fine shooting by the female officer, if you ask me. I’m not sure why a sniper didn’t take out the suspect. But hey, different country, different tactics.

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It’s almost 1 a.m. Three guys huddle inside an old Honda. The passenger door is wide open. A plume of smoke rises from inside. Elaine–my partner–hits the Honda’s cabin with her spotlight. In slow motion, three pairs of dopey eyes squint.

“Just some stoners,” says Elaine. We get them out of the car and line them up against a fence.

I toss the car: smoldering joints and a dime bag of weed on the center console. Ashes, lighters, and Zig Zags everywhere. It fucking reeks. No key in the ignition. Shit. If there was, we could book the driver on a DUI beef and impound the car–no car means no accident.

We have to do something. Think. We could take these clowns to jail for being high. But that could take even longer than a DUI. Fuck that.

A better idea: hide the keys in the trunk, under the spare tire. And then lock all the doors. Problem solved, mission accomplished.

Elaine laughs. She loves the idea. It’s good to be working with her again. We write them all for possession of marijuana and kick them loose.

“Hey bro, can I have my keys back?” asks one of the potheads.

“I already gave ’em back to you, bro,” I reply. Elaine and I laugh and drive away. And then we continue patrol.

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In Duluth, Minnesota, a teenage kid attacked a police officer with a baseball bat. The cop shot the kid, killing him. One news source referred to the suspect as the victim:

A 17-year-old boy whose friends said had been drinking earlier in the night died in the street near his Norton Park home late Thursday, shot by a Duluth police officer sitting behind the wheel of a squad car as the boy broke out the driver’s side window with a baseball bat.

Witnesses identified Joey Carl, who lived at 424 N. 79th Ave. W., as the victim.

The headline to this article was, of course, Teen shot dead by police officer. Typical media.

Another news source quoted a friend of the suspect. The friend has been watching way too many movies: “Joey did not deserve to be shot. The cop didn’t even try to taser him. Horrible. No one should die like that.”

Let’s get it straight–if a police officer is being attacked with a baseball bat, the baseball bat-wielding idiot is at best attempting to commit suicide by cop, or at worst an attempt murder suspect, in which case the cop would be the victim.

A cop being attacked by a baseball bat does not have the luxury of guessing if the suspect wants to commit suicide or homicide. Being attacked with a baseball bat clearly puts the police officer in a deadly force situation. To respond to deadly force with a Taser would be tactically unsound.

A tragedy? No doubt. It’s a shame you had to die young, kid. But your parents should have taught you never to swing a baseball bat at the police.

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