Code 3 for a fight. An injured finger, I think I heard.
“That fucking finger had better be on the fucking ground or bent backwards onto the back of the hand!”
It’s on a street corner. We drive. There’s a man – or a woman, I can’t tell – at the payphone. It’s pretty obvious it’s him. It’s 11pm and there’s nobody around. But he doesn’t look up at all; instead he looks like he’s concentrating on his phone call and doesn’t make any eye contact.
OK, maybe it’s not him. We drive by at 2 miles an hour, we all look at him, we shine the spotlight at him, and he ignores us. Fine, it’s not him.
“Dispatch, do you have any updates?”
We turn left, and left, and left again, circling around the block.
“The RP says she’s at the payphone and you passed her.”
First of all, it’s a she? Oh well.
Secondly, asshole, didn’t we put a light on you? You can’t even nod at us or something?
We drive around the block and come back to square one. It’s a crazy lady from one of the nearby crazy group homes.
“Why didn’t you wave us down?”
“I tried. I tried to put my hand up.”
“You did not. You didn’t even look at us.”