The Rookie 1

I heard the bellow through the half open door of Sergeant Tallon’s office, “Morris, get your ass in here.”

My five feet eleven inches untangled itself from the desk and I walked through his door and said, “A little voice said that you were looking for me. Is that true Harry?”

Harry laughed, “If you weren’t so fucking lazy you would have taken the sergeant’s test two years ago and you could be yelling too.”

I didn’t answer. We both knew he was right, but the fact was that I loved the street; being made a sergeant meant one foot was off the street one promotion later there would be no street.

“What’s up?” I asked to change the subject.

Harry answered, “I’m making you the Field Training Officer of a rookie right out of the academy.”

I wasn’t surprised; with my experience Harry often asked me to be the FTO for Metro West which was our division. I didn’t mind since it broke up the boredom of the day, and sometimes I thought I actually did help the rookies start out to be better cops.

Harry continued, “Officer Phelan should be here within the hour. Her dad worked the job for thirty years mostly in Metro North. He only retired a few years ago.

“Her?” I asked.

Harry grinned, “I think the first name is Laura. Good luck…I counsel you to read all the regulations on sexual harassment Joe; I wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble that you couldn’t handle.”

I gave him the finger without saying anything more and walked out of the office back to my desk. No angel of mercy had appeared during my short visit with Harry—my paperwork was still there waiting for me.

Thirty minutes later I heard someone knocking on Harry’s door. I looked up and spotted the knocker; her back was to me: Brown hair cut short in a pageboy style, broad square shoulders with no slouch, very nice hips curving into a very, very nice ass, and long legs. I guessed she was five feet seven inches or so.

I thought, “If you were a detective, Officer Morris, I think you just saw fifty percent of your new partner.”

Three minutes later I heard a female voice say, “Officer Morris?” I looked up…brown, serious eyes, nice face, exceptional breasts…she repeated, “Are you Officer Morris?”

“Guilty,” I replied. “Let me detect; would you be Officer Phelan by any chance?”

“Yes sir,” she replied.

“First mistake,” I said with a grin. “The sir is in the office you just left. I’m Joe. And what should I call you officer?”

She grinned back in relief, “Laura would be fine.”

I continued, “Let’s hit the street Laura. Sign out a car and meet me in the parking area.”

Laura said, “Yes sir;” and then seeing the look on my face quickly said, “I mean, I’ll sign out the car Joe.”

Minutes later I held out my hands for the keys and said, “I’ll drive half the shift and then let you drive the second half.”

We got in and I headed out to the beltway for Laura’s first lesson. Ten minutes later I accelerated up the entry ramp and kept the car in the right hand lane going the speed limit of 55. I asked Laura, “Why did you join the department?”

Laura answered, “It’s in the family. My dad worked Metro North for thirty years and finally retired. My brother was signed up for the academy two years ago, but he was killed in a car accident, so it was almost ordained that I would replace him. I probably would have joined the department anyway. Dad says it’s in our blood.”

I asked, “How did you do in the academy?”

Laura replied, “I came in second out of forty-five. I did well in almost everything except for unarmed combat. Relative to the guys I lack upper body strength, and that hurt me.

I paused for a second as a mile marker flashed by the car and then said, “I can give you a few tips on unarmed combat if you want. The secret is to use…” I abruptly put on the flashers and pulled to the side of the road well clear of traffic. Laura tensed up and looked around searching for the reason for the stop. Her eyes looked at me confused.

I said, “Laura, we just saw a car sideswipe another car right in front of us. One car is turned over. Call it in.”

Laura looked around searching for the accident.

I quietly said, “Pretend Laura, pretend.”

She reached for the microphone and asked me, “Where are we?”

I replied, “I don’t know; pretend I’m not even in the car.”

Now Laura was confused, “But if I don’t know where we are, how can I call it in.”

I said nothing. The silence lasted twenty seconds or so and Laura said, “I guess my job is to know where I am, right Joe?”

“Yep,” I replied. “We might be having a great conversation on who is going to win next week’s football game, or telling each other jokes, but you have to always know where you are. The beltway is easy; there are mile markers. With a little effort you will start to remember them automatically. Until that happens, you have to concentrate. Now we just passed mile marker 138. Pretend to call it in.”

She pretended and made all the rookie mistakes. Number of people involved; special equipment needed, direction the vehicles were going. She wasn’t that bad; she was just a rookie.

After thirty minutes or so I pulled out into traffic again and arrived at my favorite speed trap. It was by a viaduct. I pulled the car in so we were facing the traffic coming at us. The cars were coming around a curve and our car was in a little valley, so it usually took five seconds or so for the cars to spot the squad. I told Laura to take the driver’s seat and turn on the radar unit while I got into the passenger side.

I asked, “Laura, you are going into traffic court to testify against a whole bunch of speeders you wrote up. What’s the first thing that you are going to need?”

“That’s easy,” Laura replied. “I have to have available a certification when the last time the radar was calibrated.”

“Give the lady a prize,” I replied. “Now pretend I’m the judge and you are testifying against the first speeder. What do you say?”

Laura thought for a moment and said, “Well, I guess I would say something like judge, the radar said the defendant was doing 72 miles per hour in a 55 mile per hour zone and…

“Nope,” I interrupted.

She looked at me puzzled.

I continued, “Judge, I observed the defendant doing what I estimated to be 72 miles per hour in a 55 mile per hour zone, and checked my observation with the radar unit and it confirmed my observation.”

Laura was still confused so I said, “Depending on the judge and the defense counsel, the radar unit can still be attacked many ways. This way you made the observation and the unit backed you up. It is much more difficult for them to wiggle out of the ticket that way.”

Laura asked, “But aren’t you lying when you say it that way…that you observed someone going 72?”

I pointed at a red car coming around the corner and said, “64…what’s the radar say?”

“65,” replied Laura.

I continued, “Green car, 70”

Laura answered in a surprised voice, “70. You can really do that.”

I answered, “In a few months, you will be able to do that too. It just takes practice. I’m generally within two miles per hour either way over 95 percent of the time which is about average for the traffic guys. Let’s spend thirty minutes here. First guess the speed and then check the radar. We are not going to ticket anyone unless they are outrageous, so don’t worry about it. Just try to guess the speed correctly.”

We spent thirty minutes with Laura guessing the speeds; I spent thirty minutes checking out her breasts. Since I was an experienced officer, she never caught me. If she could read my mind, the politically correct sex police would have put me away for a good number of years. At the end of thirty minutes Laura’s grouping was four miles per hour either way. I knew she would improve on that with practice.

“Time for a stop,” I thought, “And then maybe a lunch break.” I took the wheel again and watched the traffic coming at us. Finally I said, “White car Laura, how fast?”

“70,” she answered.

“71,” I guessed out loud. I looked at the radar. “70,” I admitted. “You are about to write your first ticket.”

I hit the flashers and swung the car in a tight turn to chase the speeder. A few miles later we pulled behind the white car which was now going a very proper 54 miles per hour; which of course was much too late. He pulled over onto the grass and I pulled the squad behind him slightly closer to the pavement.

I said, “Laura, I will back you up, but pretend you are by yourself. Write up a speeding citation.”

We both got out of the car. I came up the passengers side and checked the inside—only the driver. Laura walked up to the driver who had rolled down the window. She said all the right things and went back to our unit to check out the car and the driver. I stood in front of the unit listening to her call it in and watching the driver. Finally, Laura got out of our car and stood beside me as she said, “He owns the car. No wants or warrants, but he really is nervous.”

I replied, “Did you write up the speeding citation.”

She said, “Yes.”

I continued, “Well why don’t you ask his permission for you to search his car?”

This time I stood behind Laura on the driver’s side. I had also noticed the guy was a little kinky, so I unsnapped my holster and eased my Glock out; hiding it behind my leg.

She went up to the car and I was impressed when she asked the driver, “Mr. Brown, you have to sign the citation. It is not an admission of guilt; only an acknowledgement that you received it. By the way, you don’t have any atomic bombs or biological weapons in your car, do you?”

Brown of course said, “No officer.”

Laura continued, “Then you don’t mind if I take a minute or two to search your car, do you.”

Brown agreed. When presented that way, almost everyone agrees even if they have something to hide. “Academy teaching must have gone up a notch,” I thought.

Laura asked the man to get out of the car. He did. She presented the citation to him and he signed it. She gave Mr. Brown his copy of the citation and his driver’s license back. She leaned into the car to check the seats, the ash trey and the floors.

I raised my voice and said, “Laura, that’s enough. We have to get back to the station.”

She looked at me confused and then nodded. She told Brown to slow it down and have nice day. We went back to the unit and sat down. I said nothing. Finally Laura said, “I screwed up, didn’t I?”

“Yep,” I said. “Two pretty big time ones.”

She thought for thirty seconds or so and then said, “Joe?”

Actually, they were big time mistakes, but experienced officers make the same ones. They just get lazy. I said, “First, I agree with you. That guy was too nervous for just a speeding ticket. I was betting that there was some wants or warrants for him but you said no. So I figured he had something in the car. Your instinct was good. Probably some pot, but who knows.”

“Why didn’t you let me search then,” asked Laura.

“Laura, anything you found in that car would have been thrown out in court unless he had a rookie lawyer. So once you blew that, why waste time searching the car? Besides, you were dead anyway.”

“What,” she gasped.

I grinned. That’s why I like being an FTO; it boosts my ego. I said, “Laura, you did a great job of getting him to agree to the search, but you made a key mistake. You asked his permission before you gave him his license back. There have been several court cases in this state that ruled if you hold the license and ask permission to search, it is deemed to be a form of blackmail—I won’t give you your license unless you agree to the search. So when you asked him, he was home free.

“And of course you were dead too.” Laura was confused as I knew she would be. “Describe what happened when you went back to the car.”

Laura answered, “Well I asked him to get out of the car. He stood by the back side window and signed the ticket on the hood of his car. I gave him the citation and his license and then I started searching his car.”

I prompted, “Describe physically what you did just after you handed him his license.”

Laura said, “Why I turned to lean into the front seat and was checking out the ash trey when you…

I interrupted, “Do you want to be dead by being shot with the gun that he had under his shirt, or with the knife that was in his pocket?”

She said, “But you were there…oops, you weren’t there. And I turned my back on Mr. Brown while he was two feet from me…right?”

“Yep,” I said. “We cops make a lot of mistakes on the job. Most of the time we are lucky and nothing happens. But every now and then we make a mistake and we are unlucky, then we get hurt…or worse.

“Let’s go have lunch. I’m hungry after all this policing stuff.”

By the end of the day one I thought Laura was going to be a good cop. She picked up things easily, wasn’t afraid to ask questions, and never made the same mistake twice. Three more times I tried the ‘where are you’ trick, and she nailed the location all three times.

I was going to enjoy teaching the rookie, but there was a problem. The rookie was too good looking. As she was concentrating on doing what I told her to do, I was concentrating on her. She was a winner! “Hands off,” I told myself.

“How long?” myself answered back.

A week went by and Laura was learning fast. My initial guess was proving itself out—she was going to be a good cop.

I was leaving the station that night when I heard a man’s voice say, “Joe Morris?”

I turned and saw an older man about sixty standing in front of me. I looked at him and said, “I’m Joe.”

He said, “I’m Mike Phelan. Laura is my daughter. She’s says you’re a good teacher.”

I answered, “She’s a good learner. You should be proud of her.”

“I am,” he replied, “Although I worry about her. I worked the job a long time. I loved it and brought up my son to love it too. And then he got killed in the car accident. I don’t know if Laura joined because she wanted to, or because she knew how bad I hurt that a Phelan wouldn’t continue in law enforcement. Did she tell you that my father was a cop too?

I nodded, and said, “Laura is going to be good. I’m going to teach her everything I know to keep her safe. Don’t second guess why she joined. Just see what happens.”

Mike answered, “My wife died a few years ago. It is just Laura and me now, so I guess I’m being a little too protective. I checked with Sergeant Tallon. He said you are good. I just wanted to meet you. Thanks for taking care of her.”

I nodded and he walked away.

Several months went by and Laura continued to improve. We had slipped into an easy relationship. I asked her about most things as she did to me. My problem continued to be keeping my hands off her. One time I asked her what her boyfriend thought of her job. She said, “My boyfriend used to hate the idea that I was a cop.”

“And now he accepts it,” I said.

“Now he isn’t my boyfriend anymore,” Laura replied.

A few weeks went by and Laura took me up on my offer to check out her shooting mechanics and to go over unarmed combat techniques. It was our day off and we met at the academy indoor shooting range.

She was dressed in a short sleeve blouse and some slacks that confirmed my initial observation that she had a wonderful ass. We went through the normal safety checks when we got to the shooting booth. I said, “Laura, assume your shooting position and let me see how it looks.”

Laura took our standard three point position—both legs spread, knees slight bent, both arms outstretched and one hand cupping the other holding the gun. I noticed two things right away. She really did have a very cute ass and her firing position was perfect.

I said, “Laura, you have a pretty good firing position. Let me adjust it a tad and it will be perfect.”

I walked up behind her and leaned over her; my arm went out and my hand gripped one of hers as I changed her grip about a quarter of an inch. My head was next to hers as I smelled her hair and her wisp of perfume. And then of course her ass was pushing into my pelvis, but that couldn’t be helped either.

I said, “Stand up and relax and then take your firing position again.” Her position was still perfect, but then, it was before I touched her. I continued, “Most shootings happen within fifteen feet of the two people involved. Set the target for fifteen feet, and start shooting.”

Laura pulled the pulley system and her target went back fifteen feet. She assumed the position and fired away. Her magazine emptied as she fired in a deliberate, steady routine. She pulled the target in. Her grouping was perfect; all centers. I was surprised; even good cops miss a center every now and then.

I said, “Good shooting. Now set the target for twenty-five feet.”

It was a repeat. She hit centers with every shot. I looked at the target and then I looked at her. She had a little smile on her face and then said, “Dad has been taking me out to the range since I was sixteen. I’m usually pretty accurate.”

I thought, “What a smart ass…she could have least have told me.” But then if she had, I wouldn’t have been able to correct her firing position.

We messed around a little more on the firing range, and then went up to the gym. Laura came out of the female locker room in sweat shirt and pants. I was dressed the same way.

I went over many of the basics with her and we tried a few holds. Finally I said, “A very common problem is when someone grabs you from behind. If you are taken by surprise, you need to move quick or you get deeper into shit very quickly. I’m going to come up behind you and grab you, and then talk about the three ways to break the hold.”

I moved behind her and reached around her. One of my hands gripped the wrist of my other hand as my arms held her just below her breasts. In fact, my wrists were pleasantly feeling the bottom of her breasts as I held her in the grip. We went over the three possible moves she could make and when I thought I couldn’t keep this up much longer—her breasts were very soft against my wrists; her hair against my face—I told her to make her move.

She did well. We went to other combat situations. And then back to the behind grab position. Once again her breasts were softly pressing into my clinched hands. When I suggested we try the same move a third time, Laura looked at me and said, “Again?”

I answered, “You should practice this move until you have it down perfect.”

We went on to a grab technique. The bad guy has something and the officer grabs the arm. If the bad guy pulls the officer, the technique is to knee the person in the thigh just where a very sensitive pressure point is located. If done correctly, the leg is paralyzed for five or more seconds; the person is immobilized. I strapped on a thigh shield to absorb the blow and told Laura to try it.

She grabbed my arm; I pulled my arm back as she came into me. Her knee came up to strike my thigh to immobilize me, and I felt a sharp, agonizing streak of intense pain. Laura had missed my thigh; she had kneed me in the balls.

I heard her say, “Oh my god, I’m sorry Joe. Are you OK?”

My hands were on my knees. My brain was deciding whether to throw up or just pass out. All the while I heard Laura’s scared voice repeating, “Joe, are you OK…I’m so sorry.”

Minutes later the pain was receding. Pain was reduced to embarrassment; my partner had almost put me out for the count. Once the pain receded, my brain started to function. Laura wouldn’t have done that because of my behind the back grip, would she?

She sounded very sincere, very worried whether I would be crippled for life. I knew it had been an accident until she said, “Maybe we better try it again. You told me I have to practice each move until I have it down perfect.”

I admitted it to myself, “This little female shit had put me in my place just because I happened to love feeling her breasts.”