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Roscoe, NY
“You know, Matt,” said Nancy, between mouthfuls of Moo Shoo Pork, “we really could use more help on the force.”
“Fat chance,” I replied. “I’m lucky to have Rick, Pete, and Bobcat.”
Nancy frowned at the omission of her name.
“And you, of course,” I quickly added. “ We can’t forget about you. What would I ever do without you.”
Nancy smiled her approval.
When I took over as chief, it had just been the three of us: Bobcat, Rick, and me—until Pete Richards came on board at the beginning of the year. He was my “Number Three” now, behind Rick and Bobcat. Pete had joined the force after the town council reluctantly acquiesced to the continuous lobbying by both the mayor and me. It should have been a no-brainer, since anyone with a high school diploma knew it was damn near impossible to maintain an around-the-clock presence on the job with just three full-time officers. But, funds were scarce, and the council members answered to the ballot box. So, I wasn’t particularly surprised when they only signed Pete to a single-year contract—disappointed, perhaps, but not surprised. After that, well, they’d “just have to wait and see how it goes.” Now, with another murder on our hands, it didn’t take a genius to see what the future held—unless we could find our man, Pete would be nothing but a memory by year’s end.
Pete and I had met as PBA representatives back in the city when we were both new to the NYPD. It was a curious friendship, since other than our being cops, we had little in common. I was a staunch Republican, unabashed about my conservative views; Pete was a “Card Carrying Libertarian,” content to live without any government interference at all, and willing to let you live any way you wanted to—as long as what you did was legal. He was tall—about six-two—with a wiry build that belied his status as a black belt designee in karate. He had a full head of straight, blond hair with a touch of strawberry to it, punctuated by a cowlick that stood straight up in the back, like that of a seventh grader. But his most striking feature was a pair of piercing blue eyes. Pete had a way of looking at you that was totally disarming, almost as if he could see right through you. He was a good cop, and if you crossed the line, he’d hunt you down “like the dirty dog that you are,” (as he was proud of saying). In twenty-two years on the force, he had received seven citations for bravery. I had one—the citation I received for being dumb enough to get myself slashed by a serial killer.
There was one thing Pete and I had in common—sort of; we were both fishermen. However, I was a fly fisherman and he was a meat fisherman. My motto was “Catch and Release.” Pete’s was “Catch and Fillet!” Often times he would say, “You catch ‘em and I’ll cook ‘em,” when we would join one another for the annual PBA “head boat” outing out of Sheepshead Bay. The quarry we pursued in those days was bluefish, neither scarce nor hard to catch. When it came to trout, however, and their elevated status as true game fish, Pete respected my point of view and never teased me about my fly-fishing passion. So, when I finally got the go-ahead from the council to add a man, I just naturally thought of him.
Sipping my Oolong tea, I studied Nancy from a distance. She had been most helpful ever since I had joined the force, and I didn’t often dismiss her advice out of hand.
“I know you’ve got something up your sleeve,” I said, considering her comment about more help. “What kind of help are we talking about?”
Nancy had on a dark gray, self-tailored woolen skirt, which was pleated at the waist, and extended to just below her knees. A white, ruffled, short-sleeved blouse with a three-button placard front completed her outfit, which gave her the dignified look she sought. On her feet were black Mary Jane flats, the only shoes she ever wore, along with a matching black, patent leather belt. She was the epitome of grace and style.
“Well, I was thinking about a couple of auxiliary members; kind of like what they have over in Walton.”
“And I suppose you’ve already looked into how the whole thing works, right?”
“Uh huh,” replied Nancy. “It won’t cost a penny. The state foots the bill.”
These types of small town goings-on were still new to me, coming as I did from a big city police force, where everything was either connected to politics or tax increases—or both.
* * * *
The next day, I called Ray Berger, the police chief over in Walton, to inquire about his auxiliary help.
“It’s not like I want to add a dozen officers or anything like that,” I said. “It’s just that I could use an extra body or two. We’ve had a rash of break-ins lately, and I’ve got nobody to keep an eye on those businesses.”
“Well, I don’t know exactly what you have in mind,” replied Ray . “But we use our auxiliary volunteers more for things like crowd control on Fourth of July, church traffic, you know, high school graduation, stuff like that. I suppose you could use them as night watchmen. I never thought of that. Anyway—”
“Actually, Ray, I was more interested in how you fund something like that. I don’t have to tell you what it’s like over here with the mayor and council. Trying to get an extra dime out of this bunch is like trying to get a sixty-yard field goal out of a forty-yard place kicker. It just can’t be done.”
“I know what you mean,” laughed Ray. “But, really, there’s not much to worry about in the way of funding. It’s all strictly voluntary. Actually, they raise the money themselves with things like hoagie sales and flea markets. Our volunteer organization supplies each member with a uniform and an insignia—that’s it. The rest of the stuff—things like walkie-talkies, flashlights, pepper spray—they buy themselves, or it’s donated.”
“Do they carry firearms?
“Ours don’t,” replied Ray. “But, some organizations do, but then they run the risk of all that liability shit, and who needs that, right?”
I pondered the prospects in silence.
“Anyway,” continued Ray, “I’ve got a number for the state association if you need it. That’d be Region Three.”
“I’d appreciate that, Ray.”
I grabbed a pen and jotted down the number as read it to me over the phone.
“Oh, yeah,” said Ray. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We run background checks on ‘em through NCIC and CLEAN.”
“Yeah, I figured that.”
“Anyhow, I hope that helps. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Will do, Ray. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
After hanging up the phone, I sat mulling over my options. Should I talk to Harold first, before I called the state organization? Or, should I contact the state first, get all my ducks in a row, and then speak to the mayor? Forewarned is forearmed, I decided, so I called the state.
* * * *
A half hour later, just as I was finishing up with the state representative, Nancy padded into my office and stood waiting patiently until I was through. After I hung up, she spoke.
“So, was I right?” she asked, a smug smile on her face.
“About what?” I was determined to play our usual game.
“The auxiliary.” (Only she pronounced it auxil-irary, as many of her generation often did).
“Yes and no,” I replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She obviously wasn’t impressed with my non-answer.
“Well, yes, as in they do have an auxiliary—”
“Told you so,” said Nancy.
“And, no,” I continued, “as in the state doesn’t pay for it.”
“Oh.” Nancy appeared genuinely surprised. “They don’t?”
“Nope. They don’t.” It was my turn to be self-righteous. I played it to the hilt, crossing my arms in front of my chest, and leaning back in my chair with a broad smile across my face.
“Then, who—”
“Who pays?”
“Come on, Matt,” said Nancy. She was losing her patience. “I don’t have all day. Who pays for it?”
I looked to my left and then to my right. I leaned forward in my chair and whispered, “Get this. Because they’re volunteers, they pay for themselves.”
“No kidding,” replied Nancy.
“I guess that’s what happens when you’re a cop ‘wannabe,’” I replied. “You’re willing to do anything—even if it means paying for it yourself. Actually, the auxiliary organization buys their uniforms and insignias with money they raise from fund-raisers and donations. But, the volunteers pay for everything else out of their own pockets.”
“That’s fantastic!” said Nancy.
“But first, we’ve got to start an auxiliary—and that’s where you come in.”
“Oh, no,” protested Nancy.
“Oh, yes. But, first I’ve got to talk to Harold.”
“Good luck with that one,” Nancy quipped.
“Au contraire. It’s an election year, remember? And, anything that Harold can take credit for—that doesn’t cost the town money—is an idea he’ll listen to. Take my word for it.”
“Hmmm,” said Nancy.
“And, if you’re lucky,” added Matt, “maybe he’ll do it all by himself.”
“Now you’re talking.”