Day 13

They’d have gone out tonight

Frank Lambert’s job has him doing a lot of sitting on his arse these days.  Not that he’s not doing anything, it’s just with the introduction of the computer into the modern office, you get to spend a helluva a lot of time sitting in front of a screen.

Frank doesn’t get out of the office enough any more.  That was one of the things he used to enjoy most about being a cop, being out and about and talking to people.  Didn’t matter who:  criminals, scumbags, journos, lawyers, punters.  Couldn’t do the job without talking to people.  And listening, too.  Lots of listening.  Now it’s incident reports, emails, checking out people on the system.  Mostly anything but talking.  Frank’s not sure he’s up for it any more.

And the city’s changed, too.  Time was it deserved the title Dullsville, but not any more.  Not from a copper’s point of view, anyway.  He’s got three violent home invasions been added to his case load just this week.  The city’s flooded with drugs, and not just a bit of pot any more, amphetamines, cocaine, heroin. Seems like they’re making new stuff all the time.  Designer drugs they call them.  But Frank knows there’s nothing designer about another OD, dead and stinking of piss and shit and and vomit.

Frank sighs, more audibly than he means to, as he pecks at the keyboard trying to complete another incident report before it’s time for home.  His head’s bowed over the keyboard, like his eyesight’s going or something.  The ache in his shoulders and neck is always there and worse at the end of each day than the beginning.

“You all right, Frank?”

“What?  Yeah.  No, I’m fine.”

Frank’s colleague at the desk opposite his is another long timer.

“Got anything on that home invasion from last night?”

“Nope.  I went and interviewed the bloke in hospital this morning.  He’s pretty beaten up, but he’ll be OK.  The poor old bloke wasn’t able to tell me much, I think he probably was out to it before he really saw them coming.  Probably for the best really.  So, I’m just waiting for forensics.”

“Fucking CSI gonna save the day again, Frank?”

The cops smile at each other across their desks.

“Well, what can you do?  Can’t go out any more and bang heads together ‘till someone gives up something.  End up being brought in for questioning by one of the new lot.”

The two start to laugh.  They mostly get it, this new way of doing things, but it’s nowhere near as much fun, as exciting, as innocent as their heyday.

Twenty years ago, they’d have gone out tonight — fuck the paperwork — and had a few drinks, then driven home, in the shit again with their young wives, kids already long in bed.  Tonight, Frank fiddles with the keyboard, drafting and redrafting his report, still avoiding going home and trying desperately to show he can still cut it in the modern city police service.