Brennan pointed to Arne Jacoby, in the seat next to Ashley. Jacoby had a look that could make him appear to be the best protector in the world—or the meanest son of a bitch. He was six foot four and pushing three hundred pounds of pure muscle. He was a handsome guy, not just black, but ebony, with a shaven head and great features. Against the almost shimmering dark beauty of his skin color, he had startling green eyes.
Jacoby grinned. Although each academy class learned from a variety of experts in different fields, Brennan was their sergeant, their main instructor for their journey through training. He was a good guy; the class liked him. He could be tough, he didn’t tolerate much, and he spoke often about the morality expected from a police officer. He believed passionately in everything he said. But despite his propensity for waxing on at length about tenets, ethics and morals, Jacoby had been paying close attention.
He stood.
The class, in their chairs, looked up by rote.
“To protect and serve,” Jacoby told Brennan.
“There you have it. Thank you, Jacoby. That’s our main function. Not to harass the law-abiding, not to seek out crimes where they don’t exist. To protect and serve. However, we all know that there are criminals out there, people who set no value whatsoever on human life. You’ve seen the tapes. You know the statistics. You know that cops have pulled people over on traffic violations and been shot in the face because they’ve happened to pull over a perp guilty of another crime or just a plain old psycho. But say you know you’ve got someone ahead of you in a car with an APB out on them. There’s a warrant out for this person’s arrest. What’s the most important thing to remember?”
“Not to get yourself shot in the face?” Jacoby asked.
Brennan grinned, allowing Jacoby the pure logic of that one.
“And after that?”
“Reading the guy—or the woman—their rights.”
“Hallelujah!” Brennan said. “In the past weeks, you’ve listened to specialists on many aspects of crime scene investigation. You’ll hear from more. Anthropologists, entomologists, dactyloscopists, botanists, chemists, ballistics experts, mathematicians, profilers, serologists, psychologists and linguists. In today’s law enforcement, the work of all these people is incredibly important. But all their work means nothing if police work is shoddy at the ground level. That’s when your basics come in. Someone tell me about Miranda warnings. Montague, you’re up.”
Ashley stood as Arne Jacoby sat and began to go through the cautions delivered to every suspect—and familiar to anyone who’d ever been to the movies or watched a crime drama on TV.
“Very good, Montague. What about ‘the fruit of the poisonous tree’?”
“Say an officer failed to give a suspect in a murder case a Miranda warning. In talking to the suspect, the officer found out where the murder weapon was hidden and discovered the weapon. A judge could bar the weapon from being admitted as evidence, because it was located from information gained before the suspect had been informed of his rights.”
Brennan nodded, indicating that Ashley should sit again. “You all know these things. I know you all know them. You’ve come a long way. You’ve taken polygraphs, you had to study to pass your tests to get into the academy. My point this morning isn’t to teach you new things. My point is that you must never forget the basics of good police work. Maybe you’ll never join the vice squad, maybe the last thing you ever want to be is a homicide detective. But what’s important is this simple fact—you never know when you’re going to be the first officer called to a crime scene. What you do in those first moments can make or break a case. Whatever details you may learn in the future, whatever expertise you gain, remember that the most carefully gleaned information can be thrown right out of court if the basics of law enforcement are forgotten or neglected. All right, ladies and gentlemen, that’s it for now. Lunch break. This afternoon, we’ll be listening to a serologist and blood spatter specialist. Get out of here. Go eat hot dogs or arroz con pollo and think about what I’ve said.”
The class began to rise and filter out. “Hey, Montague, you want the hot dog or the arroz con pollo?” Jacoby called to her. “Whoops, what was Brennan thinking? They don’t even have arroz con pollo at the roach coach. What’ll it be, hot dog or mystery meat sandwich?”
“Hot dog,” she said to him. “Except I have to check my messages, make a few phone calls.”
“Hey, you know what? I’ll splurge and buy the hot dog for you. We’ll be out at the tables. Want a Coke?”
“Sounds good. I’ll get you next time.”
“Buy me a beer one Sunday at your uncle’s place.”
“It’s a deal.”
Jacoby went off to procure their food. Ashley stood to one side as she checked her cell phone for her messages.
True to his word, Nick had called the hospital. Stuart was still in intensive care. Only family members were allowed to visit.
He was, however, hanging in. Nick apologized at the end of the message, telling her he was sorry he hadn’t been able to glean more information.
It was not much, but Stuart was still hanging in. He was alive. And while he was alive…
There was hope.