finally walked out into the Yard, climbed into their patrol cars, and headed out onto the street.
As I was about to join them, Dee-Dee, the captain’s secretary, came into the operations room.
“Oh, you’re still here, good,” she said. “Captain wants to see you.”
I followed her down the hallway. She turned left to go back to her desk, and I took a right and walked through the open door to Oliver Kirk’s office. I’ve been inside a lot of captains’ offices, but never one like Kirk’s. Most of the time, you’ll see plaques on the wall from the mayor or from some community group. Then there’s usually a map of whatever police district it is, with red or green pushpins showing drug pinches or maybe reported burglaries.
Kirk’s office, on the other hand, was the bridge of the starship
Enterprise.
When he first got promoted—and became Captain Kirk—guys started leaving
Star Trek
stuff in his office as a joke. He’d come in, and there’d be a little James T. Kirk action figure sitting on his empty chair. He loved it, and even started collecting the stuff himself. Now everything in his office had to do with
Star Trek.
On the walls were color stills from the original
Star Trek
series, along with a row of oil portraits of the
Enterprise
crew, which he had painted himself. They weren’t bad—you could actually tell who was who. By the door was a clock in the shape of the Star Trek insignia. Next to it was a glass display case with weapons and other devices. And in a back corner of the office, next to the window, was a lifesize cardboard cutout of James T. Kirk himself.
People who didn’t know Kirk came into his office and immediately assumed he was a nut. We used to joke that Spock—Bravelli’s Spock, not the real one—would be right at home here.
The first time I was in his office, Kirk proudly showed me what everything was. And he admitted that when he was a kid, he used to watch the TV show all the time. I could picture it—Kirk as a twelve-year-old boy, with the same curly red hair he had today, sitting in front of the TV set, eyes wide open, as his hero led the
Enterprise
to glory. Naturally, his nickname in the 20th was “James T.” Sometimes we’d forget and call him that to his face, and he never seemed to mind.
As I walked in, Kirk motioned for me to sit. It was just a regular chair, not a
Star Trek
chair or anything.
“How you doin', Eddie?” he asked, and I could tell he wasn’t doing too good himself. It’s hard for a sergeant to lose one of his men, but it’s hard for a captain, too. Maybe harder.
“He was a good kid,” Kirk said simply.
“Yeah.”
We looked at each other. What else was there to say?
“Homicide making any progress?” I finally asked.
Kirk shook his head. “No, and there’s some trouble. The black community’s getting hot about all these ped-stops. People are calling their church leaders, the church leaders are calling the politicians. It’s not good.”
“Yeah, I thought that might happen,” I said.
I knew that all day today detectives and street cops had been questioning young black guys hanging on corners. We no longer had much hope of coming across the shooter himself—he was probably hiding in another crackhouse somewhere. Our only hope was that his name—or even his nickname—would spread on the street.
When someone commits a crime that makes the papers and television, they have a hard time keeping it to themselves. They want to point to the TV and say, See that, I did that. It makes them feel powerful, like they’re really somebody. Eventually they tell someone, and that person tells someone else, and pretty soon it’s not a secret anymore.
Most of the guys we were questioning were known drug dealers and crackheads and assorted lowlifes, but some of them were also regular young guys. It wasn’t fair, and you really couldn’t blame them for complaining. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to get stopped by the cops just for walking
As I was about to join them, Dee-Dee, the captain’s secretary, came into the operations room.
“Oh, you’re still here, good,” she said. “Captain wants to see you.”
I followed her down the hallway. She turned left to go back to her desk, and I took a right and walked through the open door to Oliver Kirk’s office. I’ve been inside a lot of captains’ offices, but never one like Kirk’s. Most of the time, you’ll see plaques on the wall from the mayor or from some community group. Then there’s usually a map of whatever police district it is, with red or green pushpins showing drug pinches or maybe reported burglaries.
Kirk’s office, on the other hand, was the bridge of the starship
Enterprise.
When he first got promoted—and became Captain Kirk—guys started leaving
Star Trek
stuff in his office as a joke. He’d come in, and there’d be a little James T. Kirk action figure sitting on his empty chair. He loved it, and even started collecting the stuff himself. Now everything in his office had to do with
Star Trek.
On the walls were color stills from the original
Star Trek
series, along with a row of oil portraits of the
Enterprise
crew, which he had painted himself. They weren’t bad—you could actually tell who was who. By the door was a clock in the shape of the Star Trek insignia. Next to it was a glass display case with weapons and other devices. And in a back corner of the office, next to the window, was a lifesize cardboard cutout of James T. Kirk himself.
People who didn’t know Kirk came into his office and immediately assumed he was a nut. We used to joke that Spock—Bravelli’s Spock, not the real one—would be right at home here.
The first time I was in his office, Kirk proudly showed me what everything was. And he admitted that when he was a kid, he used to watch the TV show all the time. I could picture it—Kirk as a twelve-year-old boy, with the same curly red hair he had today, sitting in front of the TV set, eyes wide open, as his hero led the
Enterprise
to glory. Naturally, his nickname in the 20th was “James T.” Sometimes we’d forget and call him that to his face, and he never seemed to mind.
As I walked in, Kirk motioned for me to sit. It was just a regular chair, not a
Star Trek
chair or anything.
“How you doin', Eddie?” he asked, and I could tell he wasn’t doing too good himself. It’s hard for a sergeant to lose one of his men, but it’s hard for a captain, too. Maybe harder.
“He was a good kid,” Kirk said simply.
“Yeah.”
We looked at each other. What else was there to say?
“Homicide making any progress?” I finally asked.
Kirk shook his head. “No, and there’s some trouble. The black community’s getting hot about all these ped-stops. People are calling their church leaders, the church leaders are calling the politicians. It’s not good.”
“Yeah, I thought that might happen,” I said.
I knew that all day today detectives and street cops had been questioning young black guys hanging on corners. We no longer had much hope of coming across the shooter himself—he was probably hiding in another crackhouse somewhere. Our only hope was that his name—or even his nickname—would spread on the street.
When someone commits a crime that makes the papers and television, they have a hard time keeping it to themselves. They want to point to the TV and say, See that, I did that. It makes them feel powerful, like they’re really somebody. Eventually they tell someone, and that person tells someone else, and pretty soon it’s not a secret anymore.
Most of the guys we were questioning were known drug dealers and crackheads and assorted lowlifes, but some of them were also regular young guys. It wasn’t fair, and you really couldn’t blame them for complaining. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to get stopped by the cops just for walking
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