by cops in the past.”
“I’m not hassling you,” Kopriva stated coldly. “I’m doing my job.”
Dennis nodded. “Yeah, all right. Sorry.”
“No problem,” Kopriva said. As he walked back to the car, he muttered, “You lying, lying, lying bag of crap.”
Back in the car, Kopriva switched to the data channel so Travis could run both names. “Get the listed phys i cal description on Maxwell. And have them run the registered owner, too.”
The data channel was busy and the dispatcher took forever to respond with their requested information. Kopriva wondered when they would ever get the computers in the patrol car. Los Angeles cops had been using them for the better part of a decade.
While they waited for the dispatcher, he quizzed Travis on all the i n fractions they could write Rousse for. The reserve did well on his answers.
“What about the passenger?” Kopriva asked him.
“Kind of a jerk,” Travis said.
“You think he’s telling the truth?”
Travis shrugged. “I suppose. He just doesn’t like the p o lice.”
Kopriva suppressed a smile. Three years ago, he would have thought the same thing. Now he knew better.
Travis had almost finished writing the infractions before radio called out for Baker-123. Kopriva ignored it, giving Travis a chance to answer. The reserve didn’t notice. On the second call, he picked up the mike himself.
“Baker-123, go ahead.”
“Rousse is in locally, extensive record, but no current wants. DOL is suspended for refusing the breath test. Also.”
“Go ahead.”
“Bravo-123.”
Kopriva felt a tickle of frustration. The code was designed to inform the police officer that one of the su b jects being checked had a warrant. Calling the unit by the military alphan u meric ensured that if the suspect were in earshot, he would not inadvertently overhear traffic.
“Go ahead, I’m clear for traffic,” he told radio, keeping his tone neutral. The dispatcher should have told him about the warrant first, not in the order he gave the names. But his anger quickly washed away with the satisfa c tion of having been right.
“It’s for Maxwell, Pete, your registered owner. A misdemeanor drug charge with a $2,030 bond. Pete Maxwell is five-ten, one-fifty, black hair, brown eyes. Also.”
“Have records confirm the warrant. Go ahead your also.”
“Maxwell, Dennis G. in locally, no wants. He’s six-two, two-hundred thirty, blond and blue.”
“Copy, thanks.” Kopriva replaced the mike and turned to Travis, who sat open-mouthed throughout the exchange. “Now, what do we have?”
Travis thought for a moment. “Well, the driver’s suspended, so we write him for that.”
Kopriva nodded. “What else?”
“The registered owner has a warrant.”
Kopriva waited for a long minute, giving Travis a chance to think some more. Travis furrowed his brow, but said nothing.
“Did the passenger have hard I.D.?” Kopriva finally asked.
“No.”
“Is he six-two?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Travis started to squirm.
Kopriva shrugged. “Maybe,” he said easily. “Hard to tell when someone is sitting down. Did he look like he weighed two-thirty? Did he have blonde hair?”
“No.” Realization flooded Ken Travis’ face. “He’s not Dennis. He’s Pete.”
Kopriva nodded. “Exactly. He’s probably Pete, the registered owner. He has a warrant, so he decided to play the name game. Only he’s not very good at it. He picked Dennis, probably a brother or a cousin, whose physicals don’t even come close.”
“Not too smart,” Travis observed.
“Hey, these people aren’t rocket scientists. Thank God.”
Travis chuckled.
Kopriva continued, “So now what do we do?”
“Arrest him.”
Kopriva gave a slow half-nod. “Well, yes. But first we get confirmation from records through radio. A records clerk will pull the actual wa r rant and confirm that it exists and is currently valid. While we’re waiting for that, let’s cut a ticket for Rousse on his
“I’m not hassling you,” Kopriva stated coldly. “I’m doing my job.”
Dennis nodded. “Yeah, all right. Sorry.”
“No problem,” Kopriva said. As he walked back to the car, he muttered, “You lying, lying, lying bag of crap.”
Back in the car, Kopriva switched to the data channel so Travis could run both names. “Get the listed phys i cal description on Maxwell. And have them run the registered owner, too.”
The data channel was busy and the dispatcher took forever to respond with their requested information. Kopriva wondered when they would ever get the computers in the patrol car. Los Angeles cops had been using them for the better part of a decade.
While they waited for the dispatcher, he quizzed Travis on all the i n fractions they could write Rousse for. The reserve did well on his answers.
“What about the passenger?” Kopriva asked him.
“Kind of a jerk,” Travis said.
“You think he’s telling the truth?”
Travis shrugged. “I suppose. He just doesn’t like the p o lice.”
Kopriva suppressed a smile. Three years ago, he would have thought the same thing. Now he knew better.
Travis had almost finished writing the infractions before radio called out for Baker-123. Kopriva ignored it, giving Travis a chance to answer. The reserve didn’t notice. On the second call, he picked up the mike himself.
“Baker-123, go ahead.”
“Rousse is in locally, extensive record, but no current wants. DOL is suspended for refusing the breath test. Also.”
“Go ahead.”
“Bravo-123.”
Kopriva felt a tickle of frustration. The code was designed to inform the police officer that one of the su b jects being checked had a warrant. Calling the unit by the military alphan u meric ensured that if the suspect were in earshot, he would not inadvertently overhear traffic.
“Go ahead, I’m clear for traffic,” he told radio, keeping his tone neutral. The dispatcher should have told him about the warrant first, not in the order he gave the names. But his anger quickly washed away with the satisfa c tion of having been right.
“It’s for Maxwell, Pete, your registered owner. A misdemeanor drug charge with a $2,030 bond. Pete Maxwell is five-ten, one-fifty, black hair, brown eyes. Also.”
“Have records confirm the warrant. Go ahead your also.”
“Maxwell, Dennis G. in locally, no wants. He’s six-two, two-hundred thirty, blond and blue.”
“Copy, thanks.” Kopriva replaced the mike and turned to Travis, who sat open-mouthed throughout the exchange. “Now, what do we have?”
Travis thought for a moment. “Well, the driver’s suspended, so we write him for that.”
Kopriva nodded. “What else?”
“The registered owner has a warrant.”
Kopriva waited for a long minute, giving Travis a chance to think some more. Travis furrowed his brow, but said nothing.
“Did the passenger have hard I.D.?” Kopriva finally asked.
“No.”
“Is he six-two?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Travis started to squirm.
Kopriva shrugged. “Maybe,” he said easily. “Hard to tell when someone is sitting down. Did he look like he weighed two-thirty? Did he have blonde hair?”
“No.” Realization flooded Ken Travis’ face. “He’s not Dennis. He’s Pete.”
Kopriva nodded. “Exactly. He’s probably Pete, the registered owner. He has a warrant, so he decided to play the name game. Only he’s not very good at it. He picked Dennis, probably a brother or a cousin, whose physicals don’t even come close.”
“Not too smart,” Travis observed.
“Hey, these people aren’t rocket scientists. Thank God.”
Travis chuckled.
Kopriva continued, “So now what do we do?”
“Arrest him.”
Kopriva gave a slow half-nod. “Well, yes. But first we get confirmation from records through radio. A records clerk will pull the actual wa r rant and confirm that it exists and is currently valid. While we’re waiting for that, let’s cut a ticket for Rousse on his
Similar Books
