18 January 2006

Today I took a report from a woman who was being harassed by her crazy ex-boyfriend. In the space of three hours she got over 200 text messages from him. The irony? She works for a cell phone company.

I won't disclose the content of the messages, but I can assure you that text messages lose none of their bizarre abbreviated cutesiness even when they're trying to be threatening.

Ofc. Krupke at 5:29 PM
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16 January 2006

Here's a piece of Devil's Island logic: today I was working a series of break-ins to garages and parked cars that happened overnight in the upper-scale Noblesse Pointe subdivision. One of our complainants was a guy who carries a state concealed weapons permit, who in his garage and in and around his car has a .44 Magnum, a .40 automatic, and a .380 compact, for purposes of defense. Fortunately, none of the guns were taken when someone was able to rifle through his garage and car because he doesn't lock any of his doors.

We also got a report of child abuse called in by an out-of-state relative, which sounded pretty serious. The household in question had come to the attention of the SCPD a number of times in the past for domestic violence, so we weren't shocked. Upon investigation, however, it turned out to be a tussle between the semi-estranged idiot father and his young son, which did not quite exceed the parental authority to discipline children. Or, to put it more simply, even abusive shitsticks occasionally (and probably accidentally) act within their rights.

We spoke to the father by telephone. He refused to meet with us, and when Cpl. Chambers, my supervisor, talked to him on the phone, he had to weather a storm of loud lawyering-up just to tell the guy that we didn't find anything to base a charge on. As it says in Proverbs, the wicked flee when no man pursueth.

The mother wasn't there when we visited the house; immediately following the incident, she went off to her therapist to talk about what had happened. Priorities.

Also, in honor of Martin Luther King Day, I was dispatched to a report of a "suspicious vehicle" occupied by three black females on one of the main roads. I asked for further description. "It's silver," I was told. I located what I am reasonably sure was the car in question (it was silver). The passengers were three middle-aged black women and one white woman (this last was not considered suspicious, apparently). They looked about as threatening as the Sunday School Bake Sale Committee. They turned out to be from some do-gooder outreach organization offering assistance to the deaf. They asked me (I am not making this up) whether I knew of any deaf people in the area. I referred them to the Community Association.

I asked Dispatch, would the complainant like to be informed on the results of my investigation? No, they would not.

Lastly, while working one of the break-ins, I was confronted by a five-year-old girl who had never seen a police officer up close before. She fixed me with a grave, serious look, and asked with the utmost gravity, "Do policemen ever get presents from Santa?"

Only if we're good, kid. Only if we're good.