Jersey beat was downright boring at times. It was refreshing to go out on a real call for once. The last thing he wanted was a ho-hum job where he’d lose his urban edge.
Lenape Creek was a charming little Colonial era town. There was plenty of soothing greenery and the air was refreshingly clean, but the department was small and Sheriff Leeds ruled it like a despot. The other deputies were a bit standoffish, unlike the fraternity of officers he’d left behind. But Jurgensen knew he was lucky to get the job. Leeds made it clear that he was the first outsider they’d hired in forty years, and that if his own son had any interest in law enforcement there wouldn’t have been an opening.
The Sheriff made it clear he wanted Jurgensen to stick to the main roads, ticketing speeding tourists and generally making his presence known to scare away passing felons. He was ordered to go easy on the locals, many of whose families had settled the area long before the American Revolution.
Kyle quickly learned that there was a very distinct divide in the town. He’d met a few residents who told him they were still treated like newcomers decades after they’d moved in. But he could understand the old guard’s clannishness. It had been the same in the city, where the descendants of Fishtown’s old Irish families resented the influx of yuppies and hipster artists, who drove up their real estate taxes and ignored time-honored neighborhood traditions. And in Port Richmond and Bridesburg, the Polish and German and Italian families who’d swept their sidewalks and scrubbed their front steps for a century bemoaned the trashy immigrants from nearby Kensington, displaced by the expanding ghetto of North Philadelphia.
Despite his sense of isolation, Kyle had no regrets about his choice to relocate. His best friend on the force in Philly had been killed by a teenage pile of shit with a stolen handgun. The punk sat sneering defiantly all through his trial—obviously an unrepentant sociopath. But his lawyer got him off with a slap on the wrist, due to his “emotionally challenged” state of mind imprinted by poor parenting.
It was the last straw for Kyle. He knew he needed to get out of the city before he snapped and put a bullet in some cretinous judge’s brain. And so here he was, a big city cop patrolling a sleepy little town.
***
Kyle turned his cruiser onto the reporting party’s street and switched on his spotlight. It was a typical road in the area, with thick, scraggly woods on one side and single homes on the other. He slowed the car to a crawl, cursing softly. He knew he was close to his intended destination but the fog had him flummoxed. He could barely make out the mailboxes on their roadside posts, let alone the house numbers stenciled on their sides. His spotlight wasn’t much help. All it did was brighten the dreamy fog, already tinted surreal blue and pink by his flashing rooftop beacons.
The hazy glimmers of light from the house windows on the street were the only signs that he was still on planet earth. The eerie tableau was spooky, but was enchanting compared to the noise and grit of the city he’d left behind.
He stopped the patrol car and ran a chamois across the windshield. The fog glowed in his headlights like a luminous cloud. In its midst stood a shadowy figure.
Jurgensen got out of the cruiser. “Good evening, sir. Are you the r eporting party who called 911?”
The mysterious figure didn’t respond, but Kyle could see it turning to face him, moving with clumsy stiffness. The shape suggested a man. The awkward movement indicated a drunk. Or someone with some kind of handicap.
Kyle switched on his flashlight and held it high, creating a circle of light before him. “Step forward toward my car please, into the light.”
There was no verbal response. But the man shuffled slowly forward. Seeming to act in compliance.
“Are you alright?” the deputy asked, sensing there might be more to the
Lenape Creek was a charming little Colonial era town. There was plenty of soothing greenery and the air was refreshingly clean, but the department was small and Sheriff Leeds ruled it like a despot. The other deputies were a bit standoffish, unlike the fraternity of officers he’d left behind. But Jurgensen knew he was lucky to get the job. Leeds made it clear that he was the first outsider they’d hired in forty years, and that if his own son had any interest in law enforcement there wouldn’t have been an opening.
The Sheriff made it clear he wanted Jurgensen to stick to the main roads, ticketing speeding tourists and generally making his presence known to scare away passing felons. He was ordered to go easy on the locals, many of whose families had settled the area long before the American Revolution.
Kyle quickly learned that there was a very distinct divide in the town. He’d met a few residents who told him they were still treated like newcomers decades after they’d moved in. But he could understand the old guard’s clannishness. It had been the same in the city, where the descendants of Fishtown’s old Irish families resented the influx of yuppies and hipster artists, who drove up their real estate taxes and ignored time-honored neighborhood traditions. And in Port Richmond and Bridesburg, the Polish and German and Italian families who’d swept their sidewalks and scrubbed their front steps for a century bemoaned the trashy immigrants from nearby Kensington, displaced by the expanding ghetto of North Philadelphia.
Despite his sense of isolation, Kyle had no regrets about his choice to relocate. His best friend on the force in Philly had been killed by a teenage pile of shit with a stolen handgun. The punk sat sneering defiantly all through his trial—obviously an unrepentant sociopath. But his lawyer got him off with a slap on the wrist, due to his “emotionally challenged” state of mind imprinted by poor parenting.
It was the last straw for Kyle. He knew he needed to get out of the city before he snapped and put a bullet in some cretinous judge’s brain. And so here he was, a big city cop patrolling a sleepy little town.
***
Kyle turned his cruiser onto the reporting party’s street and switched on his spotlight. It was a typical road in the area, with thick, scraggly woods on one side and single homes on the other. He slowed the car to a crawl, cursing softly. He knew he was close to his intended destination but the fog had him flummoxed. He could barely make out the mailboxes on their roadside posts, let alone the house numbers stenciled on their sides. His spotlight wasn’t much help. All it did was brighten the dreamy fog, already tinted surreal blue and pink by his flashing rooftop beacons.
The hazy glimmers of light from the house windows on the street were the only signs that he was still on planet earth. The eerie tableau was spooky, but was enchanting compared to the noise and grit of the city he’d left behind.
He stopped the patrol car and ran a chamois across the windshield. The fog glowed in his headlights like a luminous cloud. In its midst stood a shadowy figure.
Jurgensen got out of the cruiser. “Good evening, sir. Are you the r eporting party who called 911?”
The mysterious figure didn’t respond, but Kyle could see it turning to face him, moving with clumsy stiffness. The shape suggested a man. The awkward movement indicated a drunk. Or someone with some kind of handicap.
Kyle switched on his flashlight and held it high, creating a circle of light before him. “Step forward toward my car please, into the light.”
There was no verbal response. But the man shuffled slowly forward. Seeming to act in compliance.
“Are you alright?” the deputy asked, sensing there might be more to the
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