Paul Bacon by Bad Cop: New York's Least Likely Police Officer Tells All Page B

back. With his mission accomplished, he walked confidently toward the other instructors waiting
     for our platoon commander’s imminent arrival.
    Before I turned to my troops, I took a long breath through my nose while staring at the cement under my feet. I barely made
     it through most inspections just keeping my own act together. How was I going to guide twenty-eight half-trained recruits
     through a series of footwork that would stump the Alvin Ailey dancers? One thing at a time: I focused on finding the little
     piece of tape on the ground where I’d seen Moran line up his toes at the beginning of each muster. I faced the formation.
     Twenty-eight pairs of eyes stared back at me. I knew everyone in my company by this point, but seeing them from Moran’s shoes
     for the first time, I didn’t recognize any of them. And even though they were standing in straight lines, I felt as though
     they were swarming around me from all sides, like bystanders at a car accident.
    In the middle of this anxiety-induced hallucination, a familiar face broke through the clutter. It was Bill Peters, whom I’d
     first met at equipment day. Shaking his bald head at me, he spoke in a low, gravelly voice, as if in super-slow motion: “You
     are so screwed.”
    Just then, I heard our platoon commander crowing behind me like a two-hundred-pound rooster, “De- TAAAAAIL ! AH -ten-HUNH!”
    I snapped back into the moment. I straightened my arms, threw out my chest, and stared through the person standing in front
     of me, as if they weren’t even there.
    “No,” said Bill. “You bring the company to attention first, then you . . .”
    “Right, right,” I said, and took in a deep lungful of air. It was time to rise to the occasion. As nervous as I felt, I’d
     wanted to shout “Attention!” at a large group of people and watch them click into place. It looked like so much fun when Moran
     did it.
    “Compa- NAYYYYYYY !” I began, pleasantly surprised at how convincing I sounded. “AH-ten . . .”
    I felt a tap on my right shoulder and leapt five feet to the left in shock.
    It was Moran, materializing out of thin air. “Thanks, bro,” he said. “I got it from here.”
    I might have been relieved to see his little mustache five seconds earlier, but his sudden arrival sent my pulse into overdrive.
     I hustled around to the back of the formation to catch my breath before being scrutinized.
    Seconds after Moran had taken over, an instructor walked up to him without the slightest look of suspicion on his face. Moran
     gave the requisite salute, then opened our ranks for inspection. His verbal orders were crisp and accurate and perfectly timed.
     Under his command, our otherwise clumsy group of fresh recruits looked like they were ready to graduate from West Point.
    While the instructor faced down each of my classmates one by one, Moran walked two steps behind him in silence as part of
     the routine. In this passive role, Moran had only to answer for irregularities, not point them out. But for some reason he
     picked on Clarabel after an instructor had already looked her over.
    “What’s that on your face, Suarez?” he barked at her out of the blue. We were all stunned. He’d never dressed down anyone
     in our company, and he’d never shown concern for appearances other than his own.
    The instructor seemed just as perplexed. He turned back from the next person in line to shout at Moran, “What are you trying
     to prove, company sergeant? I’ve already inspected this recruit.”
    I could only see the back of Clarabel’s head, so I didn’t know how she reacted, other than to keep her mouth shut. I admired
     her restraint. It must have been tough not to laugh.
    “Sir, the recruit is wearing purple eye shadow,” Moran reported.
    “So she is,” said the instructor, taking a longer look at Clarabel. “Purple and sparkling.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Moran.
    “She’s your charge,” said the instructor. “I’m either taking a