I once read a novel where the life of a cop was described as hours of pure boredom broken by seconds of sheer terror. That seems to be a favorite way for writers who don't know a damn thing about police work to impress their readers. They'd be better writers if they rode shotgun in a squad car for a year or so. Then they might have a better idea of an average cop's life. They'd never go for that, though. A lot of people who write for a living are convinced their opinion is the absolute truth, and think facts just get in the way of a good story.
After a lot of years of wearing a badge, I think I pretty much qualify as a real expert. Yes, it gets boring riding around in a squad car for hours without seeing anything. I'm not ashamed to say there have also been a couple of times I pissed my pants because of the situation in which I found myself. A cop's job is much more than that, though.
Writers probably pick the boredom and terror thing because that's what people who aren't cops think they usually see. They see us walking up to their car to give them a speeding ticket and we probably do look bored. We're taught at the academy not to show emotion in order to maintain control of the situation. If they happen to see us when under fire from some guy who thinks he can shoot his way out of going to jail, we probably do look scared. That's because we are. We're human beings and have the same emotions as all human beings.
It would be nice to be able to show emotion sometimes. It's difficult not to when we're called out to a serious crime.
If we're nabbing a perp, we really can't display the emotions we're feeling inside because we're happy. Once we have the guy in handcuffs, they're probably headed for a few years out of touch with anything except a cell mate named "Slash" who works out every day and likes fucking men in the ass. Those days are pretty good for cops because we take a bad guy off the street for a while.
Sometimes that day is the worst day of their entire life because they met up with the asshole now in handcuffs and it didn't go well. I've investigated murders, rapes, and robberies, and none of the victims was having a good day. Those days aren't so good for cops either. We can't do much after the fact except say we're sorry and we'll do what we can.
Then there are the times cops love, the times we help someone who needs help but can't get it. I've had all of those times, a lot of hauling in the bad guys, more than I'd like of consoling victims, and a few of helping someone who needs help. The times I've helped someone more than make up for the others. Ashley was one of those good times.
Like most cities, even relatively small ones, we have our share of homeless people. They tend to congregate in places that offer them some measure of safety. I suppose it's the old thing about safety in numbers and they do need that. Homeless people are prime targets for those monsters in people suits with a desire to hurt and maim.
Homeless people also like a place that's at least a little protected from the weather. During the day they can walk through a mall or city building and stay warm and dry, but at night they're on their own. The pavilion in McGregor Park was just such a place.
It had been built in the thirties as a way for the federal government to inject some money into the local economy and served as a place for entertainment. Bands would play on the stage at one end and people would dance on the concrete floor. There was also a local amateur theater group who put on a play once a month. In the days before everybody had television and air conditioning, those bands and plays were about the only entertainment available on a hot Saturday night. They were also free, so anybody could have some fun to take their minds off the Depression for a while.
The place would have seated about two hundred on folding chairs for the plays, maybe seventy five on chairs around the edges if there was a dance. Now, it had seven picnic tables and nothing else. The stage was still there. It was a platform about three feet above the floor, with doors on the front of the structure underneath. Those doors opened to the space under the stage where the city used to store the folding chairs on rolling racks.
That space was empty now, and under that stage is where about a dozen of the homeless community lived. It was sheltered from the weather and the closed area under the stage helped concentrate their body heat. Getting under there meant they had to crawl on their hands and knees, but with the blankets they sometimes got from the local churches or found in some dumpster, they could stay warm in the winter and out of the rain year round.
The pavilion was so dilapidated nobody ever used it and the homeless people didn't tear things up, so we cops pretty much ignored them. The people who lived next to the park didn't. The Captain got a call one day from one of those irate citizens.
"They're living there like they owned the place. They're dirty and they wear rags and every night they crawl under that stage like a bunch of animals. I don't want my kids seeing that."
The Captain didn't have much of a choice but to send me out there. He didn't need another group speaking at the meeting of the city council like the last time.
"Don, go out there and see if you can get them to go to a shelter or something. If you can't, I'll have to send out enough men to clear the place and that'll just put them back to sleeping in the alleys again. One or two will get hurt and the newspapers will have a field day."
He was worried about the newspapers. I was worried about the people because I knew most of them. I didn't really know them by name, but I saw them panhandling on the street corners when I drove my beat. Usually, they'd wave when I drove by. I'd talked to some as well.
They were a very diverse group and most were over forty. A few were ex- military who were messed up mentally when they came back from fighting in somebody else's war. They couldn't adjust to what most people think is normal and so couldn't hold a job. With no income, they had no place else to live, so they lived on the street.
Some were people who got slammed in what the government called a recession. It wasn't a recession for them. To them it was a full-fledged, fire-breathing depression. They lost their jobs and couldn't find anything else that paid enough to keep up with the mortgage and credit card bills. After the house and car were gone, they ended up on the street too.
We'd hauled in a couple on drug charges, but for the most part, they were just people trying to survive in a society that didn't care as long as they didn't have to look at them.
I drove out to McGregor about four. They'd be coming back to what they called home then. When I drove up there were already a few people sitting at the picnic tables. I locked the squad car and walked over. The people at the tables eyed me suspiciously. I smiled and said "Hi, I'm Officer Jenkins. How you doin' tonight."
One of the men who wore an Army field jacket spoke up.
"You're that cop what drives around here aren'tcha?"
"That would be me."
"You come to tell us to leave?"
"Yeah, that's what they told me to do."
"It was that asshole who lives in that big brick house, wadn' it?"
I shrugged.
"I don't know who placed the complaint."
"Nah, it was him all right. Comes out by his fence every night and watches us. What's he care anyway? We ain't hurtin' nobody and nobody ever uses this place."
"He told the desk sergeant he didn't want his kids seeing you.'
Another man spoke then.
"Maybe he'd do better to make sure his kids get an education so they don't end up like this."
There were nodding heads and muttered conversation then, and as that went on a few more joined the group. That led to another round of conversation as the early arrivals explained what was going on. I finally got it stopped by raising my voice.
"People, calm down and listen to me."
Gradually it got quiet. When I figured I didn't have to yell to be heard I explained what I'd done before I drove over to evict them.
