what he’s doing, it’s that we can’t link him to any of the shite that happens in his name.”
Beside me, a guy who wears glasses and looks out of place in uniform makes copious notes. I don’t know his name, but figure he’s shooting for promotion and desk.
There are two types of coppers, or so I believed.
Those who want to get their hands dirty.
And those who want to let others do the hard graft.
Glasses was one of the latter.
And that was fine. Every organisation needs someone standing back from the field, directing the plays. As long as they can appreciate the realities of what that means for the front line grafters.
“The few witnesses we’ve ever had have failed to provide conviction. For a variety of reasons.” Ernie clicked through to an image of an older man wearing Mr Magoo frames. He was frail, as though he’d get blown away by an early morning breeze. “This man came forward with a promise to link Burns to drug trades out in the Lochee area, and a whole network linking back to Eastern Europe. At the last moment, he had a change of heart, said he’d made a mistake. He was willing to serve time for perjury. Nothing we did could make him change his mind.” Ernie stopped there. He looked at each one of us, as though we could answer the question he was about to ask. “What happened?” Another pause. We all knew the answer, but we let Ernie say it out loud. “He was more scared of what Burns and his boys would do than he was of jail time. Because he knew that we operate within certain guidelines. We can only intimidate up to a point. And while we hear stories about coppers crossing the line every time we open a newspaper, the truth is that most criminals – and most members of the public – know such instances are rare.”
Another click. Another image. A woman, mid-forties with fair hair and the kind of eyes you’d call piercing. Like a bayonet. She had a proud bearing, held her head high and stared right at the camera as though daring it to make something of her.
“Kate Fairweather. She came forward after one of her sons was killed. The lad worked for Burns – off the books, away from his legitimate public work – and wound up dead for his trouble. Part of a little gang trouble we had in the late nineties, a skirmish that cemented Burns’s dominance in the city. The lad was killed, execution style, a clear message. His mother took it hard, decided that enough was enough. The worst problem with men like Burns – the manipulators, the liars, the users – is that ordinary people don’t see the pain these men cause until it’s too late. Ms Fairweather couldn’t save her son, but she was determined she could save someone else’s. Or at the very least take revenge by helping put the man she held responsible behind bars.”
Glasses scribbled furiously.
Anecdotal detail adds flavour to procedural notes, but you rarely need it. Even then I knew the lad didn’t have the chops for street work. His attitude screamed, Facilitator . Of course, he’d probably go far. Further than me, at any rate.
“There are some witnesses who cannot be intimidated. Ms Fairweather was one of them. She kept in close contact with the investigating officers. Told us of several attempts that were made to buy her silence. And then she disappeared.” Ernie was trying to keep his tone authoritative, but if you knew the man, you could hear the stresses and cracks in his voice. He’d been one of the investigating officers. A lifetime spent trying to put men like Burns away, and this had brought him so close.
Was that what sent him over the edge?
Was there something in my memories of him that I had overlooked? Were there signs that he was not the man I thought he was?
It’s easy to rewrite memories.
Refocus them.
Remember what you want. Add retrospective details. Make sense of your past, even if it is a kind of lie.
Another click. Crime scene photographs. Stark. Sharp.
Brutal.
Check the reactions
Beside me, a guy who wears glasses and looks out of place in uniform makes copious notes. I don’t know his name, but figure he’s shooting for promotion and desk.
There are two types of coppers, or so I believed.
Those who want to get their hands dirty.
And those who want to let others do the hard graft.
Glasses was one of the latter.
And that was fine. Every organisation needs someone standing back from the field, directing the plays. As long as they can appreciate the realities of what that means for the front line grafters.
“The few witnesses we’ve ever had have failed to provide conviction. For a variety of reasons.” Ernie clicked through to an image of an older man wearing Mr Magoo frames. He was frail, as though he’d get blown away by an early morning breeze. “This man came forward with a promise to link Burns to drug trades out in the Lochee area, and a whole network linking back to Eastern Europe. At the last moment, he had a change of heart, said he’d made a mistake. He was willing to serve time for perjury. Nothing we did could make him change his mind.” Ernie stopped there. He looked at each one of us, as though we could answer the question he was about to ask. “What happened?” Another pause. We all knew the answer, but we let Ernie say it out loud. “He was more scared of what Burns and his boys would do than he was of jail time. Because he knew that we operate within certain guidelines. We can only intimidate up to a point. And while we hear stories about coppers crossing the line every time we open a newspaper, the truth is that most criminals – and most members of the public – know such instances are rare.”
Another click. Another image. A woman, mid-forties with fair hair and the kind of eyes you’d call piercing. Like a bayonet. She had a proud bearing, held her head high and stared right at the camera as though daring it to make something of her.
“Kate Fairweather. She came forward after one of her sons was killed. The lad worked for Burns – off the books, away from his legitimate public work – and wound up dead for his trouble. Part of a little gang trouble we had in the late nineties, a skirmish that cemented Burns’s dominance in the city. The lad was killed, execution style, a clear message. His mother took it hard, decided that enough was enough. The worst problem with men like Burns – the manipulators, the liars, the users – is that ordinary people don’t see the pain these men cause until it’s too late. Ms Fairweather couldn’t save her son, but she was determined she could save someone else’s. Or at the very least take revenge by helping put the man she held responsible behind bars.”
Glasses scribbled furiously.
Anecdotal detail adds flavour to procedural notes, but you rarely need it. Even then I knew the lad didn’t have the chops for street work. His attitude screamed, Facilitator . Of course, he’d probably go far. Further than me, at any rate.
“There are some witnesses who cannot be intimidated. Ms Fairweather was one of them. She kept in close contact with the investigating officers. Told us of several attempts that were made to buy her silence. And then she disappeared.” Ernie was trying to keep his tone authoritative, but if you knew the man, you could hear the stresses and cracks in his voice. He’d been one of the investigating officers. A lifetime spent trying to put men like Burns away, and this had brought him so close.
Was that what sent him over the edge?
Was there something in my memories of him that I had overlooked? Were there signs that he was not the man I thought he was?
It’s easy to rewrite memories.
Refocus them.
Remember what you want. Add retrospective details. Make sense of your past, even if it is a kind of lie.
Another click. Crime scene photographs. Stark. Sharp.
Brutal.
Check the reactions
Similar Books
