Rookie Blues | Captain America

.:Chapter 3:.

10-35, 10-35

On Monday, I found myself crammed in the front seat of another officer's cruiser. Technically, even though I'd been at MPD for over a year, I was still a rookie. Which meant I needed a supervisor.

Officer Draper wasn't a bad supervisor. He was in his thirties, with a wife and two kids and all that other goopy stuff, and screamed of such generic American mayonnaise-ness I wondered if he'd been spat out of a had-been frat boy factory thirty-six years ago.

Riding with Draper usually involved two things: buying him over-priced double-shot coffees and finding ways to ignore the big codeword callings over the radio. Monday was one of those days.

"I mean," Draper said through a mouthful of bearclaw. "It's not that I don't think Werth is a bad outfielder, just that I think as a professional guy, he should, y'know— shave a li'l."

I knew jack and shit about baseball. I just hummed and sipped my latte, jiggling my phone on my knee whilst we sat, scoping a run-down dump for some drug dealer who'd missed his court appearance. Big surprise: the dude being charged for possession of ten thousand dollars' worth of crack hadn't appeared in court. I didn't know why they didn't have a mandatory holding period for people who got slam-dunked for carrying around enough bricks of coke to build a crackhouse until their court hearing. Cutting them loose seemed like the stupidest of ideas.

It wasn't that way in Afghanistan. Anyone suspected of making IEDs was quarantined until we searched their stuff and shoved them in front of some brass for interrogation. But I guess you couldn't equate the Taliban with drug dealers. Even if both of them didn't do a lot for the betterment of others.

And drug dealers didn't gun down UNICEF workers trying to vaccinate women and kids against polio and smallpox.

"It's like each time he appears on field, he looks like a caveman!" Draper continued seriously, oblivious to my glazed-over expression. I could see it myself in the wing mirror, but Draper was a man on a baseball-chatting mission. "I mean, Batiste, d'you — y'know, as a lady — think a beardy caveman's attractive?"

I took a contemplative sip of latte. "Depends on the beard," I said. "Caveman? Nah. But like, lumberjacks are the shit man. Farmer's market hot."

"'Farmer's market hot'?"

Huh, I'd forgotten Draper wasn't the type to do school runs in the morning. He probably wasn't in the know for schoolyard mom talk. I cleared my throat thoroughly before explaining, "farmer's market hot, like, you know how you see those guys in Downtown that look homeless but wear Abercrombie & Fitch and shit?"

Draper nodded diligently.

"They're farmer's market hot. They're rugged lumberjack looking dudes who sell you home-smoked bacon and handmade soaps at the same time" — I clicked my tongue and made finger-pistols at the dashboard — "every suburban chick's dream."

"Suburban?" Draper laughed. "Didn't you grow up in Potomac Gardens?"

"Shuttup—"

A crescendo of loud beeps popped out of the dashboard radio.

"10-35, 10-35, requesting all officers to secure area 1847 Hobart Street North-West." The dispatcher sounded familiar and Draper let out a groan under his breath. We were in Adams Morgan, not that far from location. "10-35, 1847 Hobart Street North-West," it repeated, and another melody of robotic beeps followed to end the transmission. Background cop chatter from across town filled the airspace again once the message cut off.

A major crime in Mount Pleasant? That was weird. Rich neighborhoods near the Smithsonian Park mostly got break and entries or 'suspicious persons'. Major crime was murder or terrorism or something.

Draper took a whole chunk of bear claw into his mouth before jabbing the radio with a finger. "10-15, patrol 357 en route," he said into the receiver.