Officer Herman Sachs was a collector of police department memorabilia, and not long before he died he gave his daughter one of his favorite artifacts: a battered notebook actually used by Byrnes to jot notes about investigations. When Sachs was young--and her mother wasn't around--her father would read aloud the more legible passages and the two of them would make up stories around them.
October 12, 1883. The other leg has been found! Slaggardy's coal bin, Five Pts. Expect Cotton Williams's confession forthwith.
Given its prestigious status (and lucrative pay for law enforcement), it was ironic that women found more opportunities in the Detective Bureau than in any other division of the NYPD. If Thomas Byrnes was the male detective icon, Mary Shanley was the female--and one of Sachs's personal heroines. Busting crime throughout the 1930s, Shanley was a boisterous, uncompromising cop, who once said, "You have the gun to use, and you may as well use it." Which she did with some frequency. After years of combating crime in Midtown she retired as a detective first-grade.
Sachs, however, wanted to be more than a detective, which is just a job specialty; she wanted rank too. In the NYPD, as in most police forces, one becomes a detective on the basis of merit and experience. To become a sergeant, though, the applicant goes through an arduous triathlon of exams: written, oral and--what Sachs had just endured--an assessment exercise, a simulation to test practical skills at personnel management, community sensitivities and judgment under fire.
The captain, a soft-spoken veteran who resembled Laurence Fishburne, was the primary assessor for the exercise and had been taking notes on her performance.
"Okay, Officer," he said, "we'll write up our results and they'll be attached to your review. But let me just say a word unofficially." Consulting his notebook. "Your threat assessment regarding civilians and officers was perfect. Calls for backup were timely and appropriate. Your deployment of personnel negated any chance the perpetrators would escape from the containment situation and yet minimized exposure. You called the illegal drug search right. And getting the personal information from the one suspect for the hostage negotiator was a nice touch. We didn't think about making that part of the exercise. But we will now. Then, at the end, well, frankly, we never thought you'd determine there was another perp in hiding. We had it planned that he'd shoot Officer Wilkins here and then we'd see how you'd handle an officer-down situation and organize a fleeing felon apprehension."
The officialese vanished and he smiled. "But you nailed the bastard."
Bang, bang.
Then he asked, "You've done the written and orals, right?"
"Yessir. Should have the results any day now."
"My group'll complete our assessment evaluation and send that to the board with our recommendations. You can stand down now."
"Yessir."
The cop who'd played the last bad guy--the one with the shotgun--wandered up to her. He was a good-looking Italian, half a generation out of the Brooklyn docks, she judged, and had a boxer's muscles. A dirty stubble of beard covered his cheeks and chin. He wore a big-bore chrome automatic high on his trim hip and his cocky smile brought her close to suggesting he might want to use the gun's reflection as a mirror to shave.
"I gotta tell ya--I've done a dozen assessments and that was the best I ever seen, babe."
She laughed in surprise at the word. There were certainly cavemen left in the department--from Patrol Services to corner offices at Police Plaza--but they tended to be more condescending than openly sexist. Sachs hadn't heard a "babe" or "honey" from a male cop in at least a year.
"Let's stick with 'Officer,' you don't mind."
"No, no, no," he said, laughing. "You can chill now. The AE's over."
"How's that?"
"When I said 'babe,' it's not like it's a part of the assessment. You don't have to, you know, deal with it official or anything. I'm just saying it 'cause I was impressed. And 'cause you're . . . you know." He smiled into her eyes, his charm as shiny as his pistol. "I don't do compliments much. Coming from me, that's something."
'Cause you're you know.
"Hey, you're not pissed or anything, are you?" he asked.
"Not pissed at all. But it's still 'Officer.' That's what you call me and what I'll call you."
At least to your face.
"Hey, I didn't mean any offense or anything. You're a pretty girl. And I'm a guy. You know what that's like. . . . So."
"So," she replied and started away.
He stepped in front of her, frowning. "Hey, hold on. This isn't going too good. Look, let me buy you a coffee. You'll like me when you get to know me."
"Don't bet on it," one of his buddies called, laughing.
The Babe Man good-naturedly gave him the finger then turned back to Sachs.
Which is when her pager beeped and she looked down to see Lincoln Rhyme's number on the screen. The word "URGENT" appeared after it.
"Gotta go," she said.