Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said after I punched line three. “How can I help you?” It had been a busy evening. The phone was ringing off the wall. I was alone at the desk—with the exception of the desk sergeant, who was sitting behind me reading the newspaper. For some unknown reason he felt above picking up the phone and answering it. All six of the lines were lit up.
Earlier in the day, a fourteen-year-old kid had raped and murdered an eighty-five-year old lady on the city’s west side. They picked him up southwest of Lansing but not before he killed a policeman. The cop had pulled him over and the kid just shot him in the face. Dead. A fourteen-year-old kid. A cop killer. It’s hard to figure.
“Just where in the hell have you been? That phone rang more than twenty times. Is that why I pay taxes?” came a male voice from the other end of the line.
I listened to the man vent his frustrations. “What can I do for you, sir?” I asked when he finally took a breath.
“Well, you can start by giving me your name. Someone’s going to hear about this! This is bullshit. The money I pay for taxes and I can’t get you bastards to even answer the phone!” He wanted me to apologize but that would never happen. Never apologize to a fool. He continued to ramble on and on.
“Hey, Anderson,” came the dispatcher’s voice over the desk monitor. “There’s a lady on line six with a problem you can take care of. I told her we didn’t have any cars to send her. See if you can handle it over the phone for me, will ya?”
I flipped the button on the console and said, “Yeah, sure. You might tell her there are five lines ahead of her.” The dispatcher didn’t respond.
“The name is Anderson, Richard Anderson. Badge #324,” I said. “Now, how can I help you?” There was silence. “Hello, you still there?” I asked. I still had five lines flashing.
“I want to talk with your supervisor,” he bellowed.
“Sure, no problem.” I put him on hold.
“Sergeant, line three is for you!” I went to line four.
“Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said. “How can I help you?”
“Who’s on line three? What do they want?” asked the sergeant, looking over the top of his newspaper. I ignored him. Several minutes passed, much advice was exchanged before I finally got to line six.
“Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said. “How can I help you?” The lady on the other end sounded old. Her voice was shaky.
“Well, officer, I have a problem. It was such a nice day that I decided to open up the house and air it out. I opened all the windows and both the front and back doors. I saw it scamper across the back foyer, where the kids used to keep their boots when they were younger. Now they are all grown up . . .” There was a long pause. “I wish Harold was here; he would know what to do. I just don’t know what to do,” she added.
“Well, where is Harold? When will he be back?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s been dead for fifteen years now.”
All the lines were lit up again. “Anderson, who’s on line three?” demanded the sergeant. “It’s not my ‘ol lady, is it?” I cupped my hand over the phone and turned around to look at him.
“It’s some asshole who wants to complain about the way I’m answering the phone, Sarge.” The sergeant was well into the sports section of the paper.
“Well, I don’t want to talk to him. Tell him something. Tell him to call back in an hour. Tell him anything.”
I turned back around and returned to the old lady on line six. She was still rambling. “He took sick in the shop, Harold did, and he wouldn’t leave to come home. Said he only had about two hours left. That was the way he was,” she reminisced.
“Ma’am. Ma’am.” I interrupted. “Listen, I need to find out what your problem is. Why did you call the police?”
“Oh, it’s that thing in the basement. That thing that scampered down the steps,” she advised.
“Well, what is it? Is it a squirrel?” I asked. “Just go down there with a broom and chase it back up the steps. It will run outside just as fast as it ran inside.” I hung up the phone and pressed another line.
“Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said.
“My husband just beat me up! Send me the cops!”
“Anderson, did you take care of line three yet?” asked the sergeant.
“Hell, no! He wants to talk with you!” I responded.
“Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said into line five. “How can I help you?” It was the old lady again. She had moved from line six to line five.
“I wish to speak with Officer Anderson again, please.” She remembered my name.
“This is Officer Anderson,” I said.
“Sir,” she began. “I’m afraid your idea is not going to work. I do wish my Harold was here. He would know just what to do. He was such a great man,” she added.
“Ma’am, we just don’t have a car to send over to take care of a squirrel in your basement. There are simply too many pressing emergencies going on right now,” I advised. “I’m sorry, but that is just the way it is.”
“Officer, officer,” she interrupted. “This is not a squirrel. It’s a skunk!” Shit. A damn skunk!
“Anderson!” demanded the sergeant. “Did you take care of line three yet? It’s still blinking!”
“No, sir, I sure didn’t. I haven’t had a chance,” I answered.
“Well, take care of that asshole,” he demanded. “I’m not going to talk to him.”
“A skunk, huh?” I questioned. “Are you sure it’s a skunk and not a cat?”
“Well, officer, I certainly know the difference between a skunk and a cat,” she reprimanded. “If only Harold …”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Harold would know just what to do, but he’s not here,” I said. “How about taking a can of something, like cat food or sardines, and make a trail from the basement up the steps and outside the house? Maybe the skunk will eat his way up the steps and outside. Then, just close the door behind him when he goes out.” There was a pause on the other end of the line. All of the other lines were flashing.
“If only Harold were here, he would know what to do …” repeated the old weak voice.
I took a chance on line three again. “Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said. “How can I help you?” The same gruff voice was on the other end. He had been on hold for over ten minutes now.
“I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to your supervisor! I told you that an hour ago!” I put him back on hold and advised the sergeant of the call. This time the sergeant ignored me.
The hectic pace continued for two hours or more. One call right after the other. It was crazy. There must have been a full moon out that night. I punched line three again. “Patrol desk, how can I help you?” I asked.
“I wish to speak to Officer Anderson,” said the old lady.
“This is Anderson,” I said. There was another long pause.
“Your idea didn’t work, Officer Anderson. I did just what you said and now there are two skunks in my basement.” Two skunks. Shit! Now what? I was starting to wish Harold had been there because maybe he would have known what to do.
“Can you hold the line for a minute?” I requested and then put her back on hold.
“Hey, Sarge, you’re a hunter, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Sure, never miss a chance,” he answered.
“Well, I was just getting ready to go grab a sandwich with Gillis. Can you take care of the lady on line three for me? It has to do with wild game.” He agreed. I grabbed my hat and headed for the elevator.
“Yes, Officer Anderson is a fine lad,” came the sergeant’s voice from behind his desk. “Harold? Well, where is he? When will he be back? Oh, I’m so sorry.” I had just reached the elevator door when I heard him say, “Sardines?” Then he yelled, “Two skunks?! Did you say two skunks?! Hey, Anderson!! Come back here!!” The elevator doors closed. It started down. I was on my way to lunch. I smiled.
Gillis was parked out back waiting for me. We checked out of service with dispatch and went to a coney island restaurant for a sandwich. “Would one of you be Officer Anderson?” asked the young waitress. “There is a phone call for you in the kitchen.” I followed her through the swinging doors and picked up the phone. It was dispatch. They wanted Gillis and me to drive to a sheriff’s department one hour away to pick up the fourteen-year-old cop killer. We were to take him directly to the juvenile facilities where they would be expecting us.
I’ll always remember the lad’s face. You would have never guessed he was that young. He looked like a hardened twenty-year-old. He reminded me of a caged animal. He was sitting in a cell on a bench with a straitjacket on.
“What’s the deal with the jacket?” questioned Gillis.
“We can’t keep him in handcuffs. If you put them on, he’ll hand them to you in about thirty seconds,” said the desk sergeant. “I don’t know how he does it but he does.”
We kept him in the straitjacket and delivered him to the juvenile facility. The lady on duty at the detention home opened the door for us and was shocked when she saw the boy was strapped into a straitjacket. She ordered us to remove it at once. I reminded her who this kid was and that he had killed two people. My response fell on deaf ears. She assured Gillis and me that our supervisor would be hearing about this matter.
Gillis and I returned to the station. We were already two hours past our normal quitting time. The third-shift sergeant flagged us down. Sure enough, the lady was true to her word. “I’ve got an abuse complaint on you two. I’ll need a report before you go home.” We both sat down at a computer and wrote out a lengthy report. We explained our actions and the reasons we did what we did, always keeping in mind the possibility of a lawsuit.
When I was almost finished with the report, the desk officer yelled, “Hey, Anderson! Do you know what that Malone kid looks like or what he was wearing when you left him?” Gillis looked at me. I looked at Gillis.
“She let that little !&*&#@** get away, didn’t she?” Gillis groaned.
The desk officer held his hand over the receiver of the phone and added, “He slipped away from the juvenile home just now. All Mary Poppins has to say is ‘The little skunk just slipped away. Geez, I don’t know where he could have gone.’”
Gillis and I turned in our reports and headed home. It was now three o’clock in the morning. I wondered if the public had any idea what could happen in a cop’s day at work.
My wife and I have a private joke. She uses it when she thinks I’ve had a bad day. She will ask me, “Well, what was the score last night?” and I usually come back with, “Well, we got shut out. One to nothing or two to nothing or whatever.” We usually lost; but once in awhile we’d get lucky and score.
That morning was a different. When a cop gets killed, it takes the life right out of you. I hadn’t even processed all that had happened. I poured milk on my oatmeal and just quietly replied, “We got skunked.”