Lucky me. My favorite headache was in the building and for once, that really was good luck.

Our precinct had not the most glorious of histories. I had to admit this. Some of our cops had been as bad as the worst that the gangs had, because they were the worst that the gangs had. We found them and they went down. Not all of them, but we'll get all of them sooner or later. Count on it.

That's what gets me. Finding the bad guys in our ranks and getting rid of them - that's what we did. Cops did that, all the guys in Internal Affairs and every honest cop who worked with them. Putting those losers on our force? That's what a bunch of pointy headed BS artists did, down in Human Resources. You know the type - tries to explain everything by saying that it had something to do with him wanting to bed his own mother, or her wanting to have a penis. Family gatherings must have been a real hoot at the Freud House. "Sigmund, why are you looking at me that way?", Mom would ask, while stuffing a knackwurst down her pants. "No reason, Mom", he'd say, while his girlfriend tried to figure out why he wanted her to eat so many bananas. "Ziggy, I'm getting sick", she'd cry, just as he started getting excited. "More, Liebchen, more", he'd plead.

What a great mind. I feel lucky to live in a time when we're all going to learn so much from him, or else. Psych services does not take "no" for an answer. They hook up with the diversity people in HR, and before you know it, nobody there cares if somebody out of the academy can hit a target, or what his own criminal record looks like. They just want to know what his favorite color is, and how much sunscreen he needs at the beach. Vital information, that is. Some of the wrong cops they end up sending us, being wrong, go out and do the same wrong stuff they were doing before they were cops, but no, we can't ask too many of the wrong questions about their backgrounds before we hire them, or somebody will start yelling about McCarthy. Hasn't he been dead for 50 years? Isn't it time that we buried him? No?

Fine. So we dance their dance, get ourselves and a bunch of innocent bystanders stepped on, and what happens? Do we get a pat on the back and an apology? "Sorry, Pat, sorry that we got in your way as you tried to do your freaking job, and a bunch of good people who did the right thing and turned in some lowlife got snuffed, because we thought it'd be extra special and cool to tell you stupid flatfeet who was supposed to be on the force." Like Hell! A bunch of those phonies screw up, we get the blame, even though nobody asked us if we even wanted some of these clowns, and somebody in city Hall decides that what we really need is more pointy headed phonies. Thank you, Mr. Mayor!

Say Hello to Dr. PITA, our weekly friend. No, that's not his real name. I don't care what his real name is, and yeah, you do know what that stands for. Department hired him instead of four - count them, four - beat officers I could really use on the weekends, because somebody decided that we mean ass cops wouldn't hurt so many people if we could understand their culture better. "Really?", I asked in front of the boys (and girl) when somebody dropped by to chat. "Not wanting to get the shit kicked out of them is part of the culture of the victims? Who knew? Funny thing - I kind of thought that was part of everybody's culture, one of those things that everybody can come together as one, on.

I guess not.

So, yeah, here he is, and as usual, he's talking to my people before I get to talk to my people, and you can guess how much I like that, but today, that's cool, because I'm playing the SOB, and he doesn't even know it. "Doc", I said, "I don't know how I can understand the culture of the streets, when I hear about it through cops who have cultures of their own, that I don't always understand. I try to get them to open up and share their feelings and issues with me, but they're always so guarded, so ashamed. How do I work past that?" He ate that shit up like it was his mom's best fudge. "Thank you for bringing this concern to me, Pat. I can see that it took a lot of courage for you to do that." He's got that validation stuff he's always talking about, and I've got a partner I can use, when I start asking questions. Let the word "psychological" or "cultural" come into the conversation, and not answering a question gets to be a bad career move. Bonehead will end up asking a lot of the questions I don't want to, just because he's tagging along, and he wants to think he knows everything about everything. He can't keep his nose out of anything in front of him, which is fine by me, because getting anybody to say anything has been like pulling teeth. Some of the boys really screwed up. I can tell, but how did they screw up? This time?

I dig at the boys, and I make sure to ask about their feelings about what happened, and if they are really being honest about where those feelings are coming from. The kids look at me funny, but it keeps Doc Pita engaged, and I got to give him credit - a lot of his questions were better than I thought they'd be. "Got anything to say about this, Pat", he asked at one point, just as the troops let another plot detail slip out. "You're the expert, Doc", I said, putting the responsibility for the meeting back on him, just in case somebody decided to complain that they had been mistreated. "Just help me understand the culture these officers come from, so I'll know how to work with them more effectively." That shut him up for a second, before he turned back and started questioning the officers again, with my help.

There's a reason why people talk about "conspiracies of silence". Fear kept their mouths running, and the more those mouths ran, the harder people found it to keep their made up facts straight. They lied a few times, but we picked those apart. Finally, we got them to break down and come clean. Did it in less than ten minutes.





We still hadn't rolled on that public intoxication complaint, because once I cooled down, I knew it was just a bunch of guys getting drunk - maybe. I've got murders to stop tonight, and those girls sounded crazier than the guys that they were complaining about, so what are you going to do? Send a dozen squad cars every time a woman meets her monthly friend?

But then we get down to the meat of the matter, and find out that maybe those girls had a little help getting crazy, and we gave it to them. Story goes, we get some calls a few weeks back, about an intruder in this narrow little courtyard or alley or whatever they call those things. Nobody saw the guy going in, but people walking by hear him banging around in there, and throwing rocks at the window. Called us up on their cell phones just to share that with us. Bless them.

Boys get there, and the gate is closed. They don't hear anything. No windows broken, no sound of anybody there, so sign that this was anything other than a few crazy yuppies who had too much to drink and a lot of time to waste. So what do they do? Decide that they have probable cause. Why not? Do they go in the front door, like the rest of the world would? No. Somebody asks himself what Dirty Harry would have done, and decides to kick in the back door. "They'll never see that coming?", he thinks. They sure didn't. Hello, officer McAllen! Nice foot cast that you have there.

You'd think that the swearing that Rob did at that point would have tipped off any real perps at that point, but no, my boys are out on a mission. And the girls who called us? They were probably asleep or something, so they never knew what was going on. Probably still don't at this point. That's when Lucy - how did I know that she was going to get in on this - Lucy goes into her car, opens up the trunk, and inside that small arsenal she's got back there, finds a sledgehammer which she was keeping on hand, "just in case". "Just in case of what, Micelli?", I ask. "I don't know, boss". Sure you don't.

The lock stands up to that for no less than six blows of the hammer, damned impressive when you consider the cheeseball construction in the rest of that part of town. Lock's busted, and in they go. Big surprise: nobody's there. Obvious conclusion - the perp must have gone upstairs. Up the back stair well they go. They get up to the balcony outside somebody's window and there she is, combing her hair - lady in her mid 40s, looking through the closet and picking up a bathrobe. Yeah, real scary.

A miracle happens, and they decide not to body slam somebody who would probably turn out to be somebody's Aunt Sally, worn out from a frenzied day of cookie baking, about to go to bed in her own home. The newspapers sure do love those stories. They figure out that there is no perp, and console Lucy, who's carried that sledgehammer all of the way up the back stairs, because ... "no reason, boss" ... yeah, I'm sure ... and go back downstairs, having nobody to clobber.

So, what's the one thing that you wouldn't want to do, right after smashing a security gate and putting the property and its owners at risk? Tell the owners about that because that's what they'd be expecting, and surprises are what make our lives so rich and fulfilling. Just look at all they were doing for mine. "What would I do without rookies", I asked. "Gee, boss, I guess you'd have to hire some older guys, maybe ...", Lucy replied.

"Shut up! That didn't need an answer."

"Then why'd you ask it? Hey, boss - are you OK? You look like you're about to have a stroke or a heart attack or something."

"Only if my prayers get answered. This, boys and especially girl, is what you are going to do. You are going to find a locksmith, a blacksmith, whoever fixes what you just broke. You are going to give him as much of an escort as he wants and pay him as much as he asks for, which at this hour is going to be a lot. You are going to pay it out of your own pockets. You are then going to knock on the owner's door, get on your knees, and beg her for scaring her and her daughter to death. Are we clear? And stop calling me 'boss', Lucy."

"Yes, Dad"

Snickers all around. Geez, I'm running a kindergarten. A kindergarten with guns.