Mentally and emotionally wiped out, on Thursday morning, Tony shuffled into the station at 5:45 a.m.
The atmosphere was eerily subdued. Normally before shift change, the officers who’d worked overnight were trickling “back to the barn”—as they liked to call the station. There, they’d finish up reports, or hide out to avoid stumbling into a traffic collision in the early rush hour chaos.
Usually, they’d gather in the report writing area or the detective squad room laughing and joking while hoping no hot shot calls would come out before the day watch made its way down the stairs to sign out their equipment.
But today, there was no laughter or jokes. Instead, small groups of officers talked in quiet tones, mourning the loss of their brother in blue, Dolby Sinclair.
“Hey, L.T.,” said a young probationary morning watch officer. “Sad day, sir.”
He struggled to remember the probationary kid’s name, but his mind wouldn’t cooperate. “Sure is,” he mumbled. He tucked his head and took the stairs two at a time. As soon as he opened his locker, it came to him. Jim Tully. A good kid.
Once in his uniform, he returned downstairs to a nook where a coffeemaker sat on a counter equipped with a sink. Next to the counter, was a breathalyzer machine where impaired drivers usually sealed their fate of being under the influence of alcohol.
As was customary, being he was the on-coming WC, he made a fresh pot, and the remnants of the graveyard java were sent down the drain.
The coffee klatch was on an honor system with an empty can to hold the buck per cup. Due to inflation, there were rumors the station fund committee was thinking of upping the price to two dollars. It was still a bargain, and being that they made it in house, a cop didn’t have to worry about metal shavings or something worse being poured into the brew.
The morning WC came and rinsed out his cup and put it into a thirty-cubby wooden mug shelf that an ambitious cop had created decades ago.
“How’d your troops take the news?” Tony asked.
“Let’s just say we all wished we had the night off so we could get drunk.” The sergeant shook his head. “I always thought Dolby got the short end of the stick with his last beef. The captain didn’t like Sinclair and wanted to make an example of him.”
Tony made a face. “Yep. The department took a hard-charging street cop and neutered him.” He poured himself a cup of fresh brew. “Any info on suspects?”
They walked along the hall and into the watch commander’s office.
“Yeah. We got a call from Glendale PD. They had a report of a stolen Toyota MR2, red in color. The owner is a teenage girl who lives in Chatsworth.”
“What was the car doing on the other side of the Valley?”
“She was visiting a ‘friend,’ he said, making air quotes. “Probably her boyfriend, but she’s a minor and he isn’t, so their story is they’re just friends.”
“Uh, huh. Has the Toyota been recovered?”
“Not yet, and I haven’t heard anything new.”
“What about the other victim? The guy in the burglary crew. When I went home last night, he was in surgery.”
“Yeah, he’s gonna make it. Apparently, he was clipped by a car fleeing the scene, and he fell to the ground with a busted leg. Then another rocket scientist getaway driver ran him over crushing what was left of that leg, as well as the other one.”
Tony shook his head. “He needs to be grateful he didn’t wind up like Sinclair.” He grabbed the line-up of who was working days, along with a notebook containing any pertinent info officers might need. “I’ll keep roll call as short as I can.”