Rebecca Split (Sparks will fly)

A fair cop

Sergeant Nicholas Hemm, or Nick 'em as he was affectionately known by his peers, had always been a fairly good copper. He had never made the big bust, but he had never shied away from trouble when it came looking either. The way he dealt with the infamous Feathertson Feuding Pensioner affair of '99, was still used as a training example for new recruits at the Porirua based Police Training school, with the resultant buckled zimmer frame and cracked walking stick given a particular place of honour in the school museum. In fact it was that whole event that had seen him pushed through to Sergeant, but unfortunately, life in a relatively small rural town left little further opportunity for advancement. It was the boys from the neighbouring Upper Hutt that tended to lead on incidents that happened on the Rimutaka range and the plain clothes CIB boys that generally got the nod in the more serious stuff. Not this time though. He had blown the 'Junk Yard Junkies' as he had decided to call them, wide open and it was he that would be basking in the mornings headlines, waiting for the medal and the call to head office for promotion to the dizzy rank of Inspector. He had all the exams under his belt so after this they couldn't possibly hold him back. He had even surreptitiously tipped off the press in order to guarantee coverage of the story and was about to face the cameras to make sure that it was his face that was seen when the great New Zealand public heard of what had happened here.

"Ladies and Gentlemen if I can have your attention please." Although disappointed with the turn out, Nick 'em determined that it was time to address the throng of reporters and intended to sound professional as he did so.

He wasn't sure exactly how many were supposed to be in a throng, but in this instance there were three, four if you counted the young boy on the bike who had seen the cars heading down to the site, peddled after them and decided to do an article for the school magazine.

Then, just as he began, he noticed a TV3 van pull into a lay-by across from the entrance and decided that despite the fact that he had people hanging onto his every word, it was time to change tact. This was going to be big and opportunities like this didn't come along very often, at least not for him.

"If we can just wait for our friends from television to set up," He said, "I'll be more than happy to speak about what has been happening here."

"Can you tell us about.."

"Are there any injuries?"

"Sergeant Hemm, are there terrorists...."

"Any pensioners involved on this one Nick?"

At least two of the journalists already knew his name, one being the little boy, and they weren't afraid to use it.

Even as the journalists pushed and clamoured for their scoop, an action that was quite unnecessarily really, as there was plenty of room and it was harder to clamour than just stand there and talk. That said, journalism by its very nature involves a certain degree of clamouring and the most modern universities even have, clamouring and bustling written into the curriculum of their Journalism degree courses. Nick 'em didn't concern himself with this though, he was already planning his next move.

"If you'll just be patient, I'll be releasing a statement in ten minutes and will be happy to answer all your questions then."

He walked away from the gate and, once out of site of the press, used the wing mirror of an old mini to check how he looked before practicing his revised, television focussed, speech on the rottweiler, who proved to be a willing and supportive listener.

"We have found several pieces of chemical. Pieces of chemical? Stupid arse."

"After receiving information about the potential for a chemical. No! No! No!"