looked at her watch and immediately had a fit.
“It’s only twelve-thirty?” she said, thinking that it seemed like she’d been there forever when she’d only done a half hour extra.
Half seriously, she sucked her teeth and made an announcement, ignoring the corporal who hung over her shoulder and the static-filled chatter of the commanders and detectives who occupied J band.
“I’m tellin’ y’all, if I don’t get some coffee right now, and I mean right this minute, I’m not responsible for what happens to these idiots on my radio,” she said.
“I’m going to get us some now,” one of the cops said as he passed his headset to another officer and started toward the hallway.
“And make mine black,” she said. “You know I don’t like nothin’ too white.”
“Not even me?” the cop asked sheepishly.
“Especially not you,” she said with a devilish smile.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to hope the jeweler takes refunds on three-carat diamond engagement rings. And here it is I thought there was a chance for you and me.”
“Now, you know you ain’t thought nothin’ of the sort. You don’t make enough money to keep me like I need to be kept.”
“Not even with overtime?”
“Not with two jobs, a water ice stand, and double time on Sunday.”
The cop laughed and went out into the hallway.
One of the sergeants hung up the phone at the supervisor’s desk and ripped a sheet of paper from the printer. “We just got this GRM on the guys from the Park Avenue job.”
“Okay,” she said, taking the paper and glancing at it before broadcasting it over J, T, M, and all eight divisional bands.
“Cars stand by,” she said, pausing for a half second before reading on. “GRM 92635. Wanted for investigation for a founded shooting at 3746 Park Avenue and an assault on a police officer at the Roberts Avenue off-ramp of the northbound Schuylkill Expressway on September 24, 1992, two males. Number one, Leroy Johnson, black male, thirty-four years, has black hair and brown eyes, is five feet eleven inches tall, one hundred sixty pounds, with a scar on his right forearm and a tattoo on his chest area that reads 30 TH STREET NATION . He is darkcomplexioned with a thin build and was last seen wearing jeans, red sneakers, and a black sweatshirt with the word fila written across the chest. He has a thin beard and mustache and speaks with a slight stutter. Number two, Samuel Everett Jackson, black male, twenty-four years, has black hair and brown eyes, is five feet ten inches tall, one hundred fifty pounds. He is darkcomplexioned with a thin build and wears a mustache and goatee. No further description. These males may have made their escape on foot from Roberts and Wayne Avenue, where they may have been involved in an auto accident at or about twelve-fifteen A.M. , September twenty-fifth, 1992. They should be considered armed and dangerous. Please use caution. This is KGF 587, the correct time is now 12:35 A.M. ”
When she had finished reading the GRM, the dispatcher looked puzzled.
“A general radio message fifteen minutes after the last time somebody saw them?” she said. “Excuse me, not the last time somebody saw them. The last time somebody thought they may have been involved in an auto accident.”
“Yeah, they’re really trying to move on this one,” the sergeant said.
“Yeah, I guess they are.”
They both sat quietly for a moment, listening to the static-filled transmissions on the radio.
“It’s a shame about that rookie,” the dispatcher said seriously, remembering how he’d screamed over the air just before his car ran into the median. “Have they said anything about his condition?”
“He’s over at Abbottsford Hospital with second- and third-degree burns on his arms. He’ll live. But get this. One of the suspects from the car he was chasing is in Abbottsford, too. He hasn’t regained consciousness since they brought him in, and it doesn’t look good. Apparently the guy
“It’s only twelve-thirty?” she said, thinking that it seemed like she’d been there forever when she’d only done a half hour extra.
Half seriously, she sucked her teeth and made an announcement, ignoring the corporal who hung over her shoulder and the static-filled chatter of the commanders and detectives who occupied J band.
“I’m tellin’ y’all, if I don’t get some coffee right now, and I mean right this minute, I’m not responsible for what happens to these idiots on my radio,” she said.
“I’m going to get us some now,” one of the cops said as he passed his headset to another officer and started toward the hallway.
“And make mine black,” she said. “You know I don’t like nothin’ too white.”
“Not even me?” the cop asked sheepishly.
“Especially not you,” she said with a devilish smile.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to hope the jeweler takes refunds on three-carat diamond engagement rings. And here it is I thought there was a chance for you and me.”
“Now, you know you ain’t thought nothin’ of the sort. You don’t make enough money to keep me like I need to be kept.”
“Not even with overtime?”
“Not with two jobs, a water ice stand, and double time on Sunday.”
The cop laughed and went out into the hallway.
One of the sergeants hung up the phone at the supervisor’s desk and ripped a sheet of paper from the printer. “We just got this GRM on the guys from the Park Avenue job.”
“Okay,” she said, taking the paper and glancing at it before broadcasting it over J, T, M, and all eight divisional bands.
“Cars stand by,” she said, pausing for a half second before reading on. “GRM 92635. Wanted for investigation for a founded shooting at 3746 Park Avenue and an assault on a police officer at the Roberts Avenue off-ramp of the northbound Schuylkill Expressway on September 24, 1992, two males. Number one, Leroy Johnson, black male, thirty-four years, has black hair and brown eyes, is five feet eleven inches tall, one hundred sixty pounds, with a scar on his right forearm and a tattoo on his chest area that reads 30 TH STREET NATION . He is darkcomplexioned with a thin build and was last seen wearing jeans, red sneakers, and a black sweatshirt with the word fila written across the chest. He has a thin beard and mustache and speaks with a slight stutter. Number two, Samuel Everett Jackson, black male, twenty-four years, has black hair and brown eyes, is five feet ten inches tall, one hundred fifty pounds. He is darkcomplexioned with a thin build and wears a mustache and goatee. No further description. These males may have made their escape on foot from Roberts and Wayne Avenue, where they may have been involved in an auto accident at or about twelve-fifteen A.M. , September twenty-fifth, 1992. They should be considered armed and dangerous. Please use caution. This is KGF 587, the correct time is now 12:35 A.M. ”
When she had finished reading the GRM, the dispatcher looked puzzled.
“A general radio message fifteen minutes after the last time somebody saw them?” she said. “Excuse me, not the last time somebody saw them. The last time somebody thought they may have been involved in an auto accident.”
“Yeah, they’re really trying to move on this one,” the sergeant said.
“Yeah, I guess they are.”
They both sat quietly for a moment, listening to the static-filled transmissions on the radio.
“It’s a shame about that rookie,” the dispatcher said seriously, remembering how he’d screamed over the air just before his car ran into the median. “Have they said anything about his condition?”
“He’s over at Abbottsford Hospital with second- and third-degree burns on his arms. He’ll live. But get this. One of the suspects from the car he was chasing is in Abbottsford, too. He hasn’t regained consciousness since they brought him in, and it doesn’t look good. Apparently the guy
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