a black lead to his Pittsburgh P.D. harness, she scowled at the familiar checkerboard pattern of the out-of-town force.
“We’ll have to get you fixed up with a loaner so no one thinks you’re not local.”
She tugged on the leash and Bones dutifully followed.
On the car ride to Manhattan, Sergeant del Vecchio talked to Bones the entire way, stopping only to yell at someone she seemed to know while going around the toll booths at the Lincoln Tunnel. She told him that she was born in Jamaica, Queens. She explained that her family had been there for years and, for a time, she dreamed of becoming an actress. When she was in high school, she’d seen the respect the Junior ROTC kids got and, despite her school having an over fifty-percent dropout rate, managed to graduate and went straight into basic training two weeks after she’d cleaned out her locker. It was there that she learned she had a natural ability with “MWDs.”
“An MWD is what they call military working dogs,” del Vecchio explained. “Once I got into the handler program, my first assignment was with a Belgian Malinois named Destry. He was just the sweetest dog. We trained together for months before deployment. We did three tours together in Afghanistan, but he was kept on after I finally cycled out. I really hope I can adopt him when he’s on the other side.”
As the sergeant continued describing her time in the military alongside Destry, Bones stared out the window, taking in all the new smells. The area was heavily industrialized, so the shepherd’s olfactory senses were being assaulted by the acrid smells of wastewater treatment facilities industry, oil refineries, and any number of chemical plants, combined with the exhaust fumes of thousands of heavy trucks and commuter vehicles.
Bones came close to vomiting several times, though his mostly empty stomach would’ve discharged little.
The New York Police Department’s Canine Team was part of the NYPD Emergency Services Unit, which was part of the even larger Special Operations Division. There was a training facility on West 20th across the street from the large kennels that housed active-duty dogs on operation days.
“The reason we had to bring you in, Mr. Bones, is because we’re just stretched too thin and have had too many injuries lately,” del Vecchio said, leading the shepherd out of her car on a lead. “My dog, Perseus, got shot on a narcotics raid in Staten Island a few weeks ago after being loaned out to those bozos. I’m still pissed on that one. So, when we go after these assholes today, I’m going to have you in a vest. Pretty sure you’re only being used on point. Detection, intimidation, possible pursuit but not likely.”
The Special Ops division building was old and in desperate need of a facelift. A onetime precinct house, the place had been taken over by Special Ops in the late seventies. Year after year, renovations projects were budgeted and put forth to the city and, year after year, they were among the first things cut. It got so bad that a couple of officers had even come in with buckets of paint on their days off to at least make the first floor presentable. They made it an hour before a visiting administrator accosted them for a work order and shut them down.
So now, alongside curling linoleum, rat-eaten corkboard ceilings, and chipped doorframes, were four half-painted hallways, a reminder to all of the power and absurdity of police bureaucracy.
“That the Pittsburgh mutt?” called a uniformed tactical officer when he spied Bones and del Vecchio.
“This is the guy. Already told him if he felt like biting someone in the ass, O’Hara was just the douchebag to see.”
“Oh, fuck off, del Vecchio,” O’Hara snarled. “Ever wonder why no one buys your shit about gender bias in the division? Five minutes next to you and they know it’s your mouth holding you back. And in an outfit as small as New York’s finest, people talk.”
“Fuck yourself,”
“We’ll have to get you fixed up with a loaner so no one thinks you’re not local.”
She tugged on the leash and Bones dutifully followed.
On the car ride to Manhattan, Sergeant del Vecchio talked to Bones the entire way, stopping only to yell at someone she seemed to know while going around the toll booths at the Lincoln Tunnel. She told him that she was born in Jamaica, Queens. She explained that her family had been there for years and, for a time, she dreamed of becoming an actress. When she was in high school, she’d seen the respect the Junior ROTC kids got and, despite her school having an over fifty-percent dropout rate, managed to graduate and went straight into basic training two weeks after she’d cleaned out her locker. It was there that she learned she had a natural ability with “MWDs.”
“An MWD is what they call military working dogs,” del Vecchio explained. “Once I got into the handler program, my first assignment was with a Belgian Malinois named Destry. He was just the sweetest dog. We trained together for months before deployment. We did three tours together in Afghanistan, but he was kept on after I finally cycled out. I really hope I can adopt him when he’s on the other side.”
As the sergeant continued describing her time in the military alongside Destry, Bones stared out the window, taking in all the new smells. The area was heavily industrialized, so the shepherd’s olfactory senses were being assaulted by the acrid smells of wastewater treatment facilities industry, oil refineries, and any number of chemical plants, combined with the exhaust fumes of thousands of heavy trucks and commuter vehicles.
Bones came close to vomiting several times, though his mostly empty stomach would’ve discharged little.
The New York Police Department’s Canine Team was part of the NYPD Emergency Services Unit, which was part of the even larger Special Operations Division. There was a training facility on West 20th across the street from the large kennels that housed active-duty dogs on operation days.
“The reason we had to bring you in, Mr. Bones, is because we’re just stretched too thin and have had too many injuries lately,” del Vecchio said, leading the shepherd out of her car on a lead. “My dog, Perseus, got shot on a narcotics raid in Staten Island a few weeks ago after being loaned out to those bozos. I’m still pissed on that one. So, when we go after these assholes today, I’m going to have you in a vest. Pretty sure you’re only being used on point. Detection, intimidation, possible pursuit but not likely.”
The Special Ops division building was old and in desperate need of a facelift. A onetime precinct house, the place had been taken over by Special Ops in the late seventies. Year after year, renovations projects were budgeted and put forth to the city and, year after year, they were among the first things cut. It got so bad that a couple of officers had even come in with buckets of paint on their days off to at least make the first floor presentable. They made it an hour before a visiting administrator accosted them for a work order and shut them down.
So now, alongside curling linoleum, rat-eaten corkboard ceilings, and chipped doorframes, were four half-painted hallways, a reminder to all of the power and absurdity of police bureaucracy.
“That the Pittsburgh mutt?” called a uniformed tactical officer when he spied Bones and del Vecchio.
“This is the guy. Already told him if he felt like biting someone in the ass, O’Hara was just the douchebag to see.”
“Oh, fuck off, del Vecchio,” O’Hara snarled. “Ever wonder why no one buys your shit about gender bias in the division? Five minutes next to you and they know it’s your mouth holding you back. And in an outfit as small as New York’s finest, people talk.”
“Fuck yourself,”
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