Code 3 for an overturned vehicle. It is 5:30am.
An overturned sedan is resting against a parked car. A teenage girl is sitting on the curb nearby.
“Were you alone?”
“No. My boyfriend took off.”
“I don’t know. He lives around here. Somewhere up the block.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
I don’t believe her.
“How long have you been together?”
Two months; maybe I can buy that she doesn’t know exactly where he lives. But I still think she’s lying. He probably was driving in the first place, which is why he took off, even though she insists she was driving. Everyone lies to us. We take everything with a grain of salt, or, sometimes, a lot of salt.
But whatever. He’s not here, and we’re not going to go search for him. She is loaded in the ambulance.
We leave and go available. We drive 4 blocks before we are dispatched to an assault a block over from the wreck.
Some young woman says she was choked by a guy looking for his weed. She says it was the guy from the wreck, but he doesn’t live here. Why he came here looking for his drugs, I don’t even want to know.
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, and I stabbed him with a screwdriver.”
“Where did you stab him?”
“Here. On the porch.”
Umm… thanks, I kinda figured that out with all the blood spattered on the porch.
“That’s not what I meant. I should have been more specific – where on his body did you stab him?”
“In the arm.”
She doesn’t want to go to the hospital, and good for her. She points in the direction of his flight.
Suddenly, something is said on the police radio and half of the cops suddenly take off, all of them driving the wrong way up this one-way street. They screech to a halt 3 blocks away.
We drive the direction of traffic, circling around the block to where they stopped. And there he is, the troublemaker himself, bleeding from the arm.
Good thing they got him before he generates yet another call for us. Who knows – the politicians probably think we hired him.