fair, freckled, and speak without a trace of a Spanish accent. The Negro officers were not all assigned to the Negro areas; he was irked that the Chicanos were all stuck here in Hollenbeck. He could see the need for Spanish-speaking officers here, but nobody had even bothered to see if he could speak Spanish. It was just “Duran to Hollenbeck,” another victim of a system.
“Ramirez,” said Lieutenant Jethro, settling his long sagging body in the desk chair and opening the time book.
“Here.”
“Anderson.”
“Here.”
“You’re working Four-A-Five.”
“Bradbury.”
“Here.”
“Gonsalvez.”
“Here.”
“Four-A-Eleven.”
Serge answered when his name was called along with his partner for the night, Galloway, whom he had not worked with since arriving in the division. He was scheduled off tomorrow, Sunday, after working six days, and wished he weren’t. Every night was a new adventure and he smiled as he realized he would probably be glad for days off soon enough. He tired of everything quickly. Still, this was a more interesting job than most. He couldn’t honestly think of one he’d like better. Of course, when he finished college, he might find something better. And then he had to smile again at himself. He had enrolled in two night classes at East Los Angeles Junior College. Six units. Only a hundred and eighteen to go, and here I sit dreaming about finishing college, he thought.
“Okay, here’s the crimes,” said the lieutenant, after calling the roll. Perkins took the lineup board downstairs to the teletype machine to be forwarded to Communications, so that Communications downtown would know which cars were working in Hollenbeck. The policemen opened their notebooks to a fresh page, and got ready to write.
Lieutenant Jethro was a loose-skinned, sallow man with a hard mouth and very cold eyes. Serge had learned however that he was the division’s best-liked supervisor. The men considered him fair.
“Had a robbery at twenty-nine twenty-two Brooklyn Avenue,” he read mechanically. “At Big G restaurant. Today, 9:30 A.M. Suspect: male, Mexican, twenty-three to twenty-five years, five-five to five-six, hundred sixty to hundred seventy pounds, black hair, brown eyes, medium complexion, wearing a dark shirt and dark pants, carried a handgun, got eighty-five dollars from the cash register and took victim’s wallet and I.D. . . . Goddamn it, that’s a shitty description!” said Lieutenant Jethro suddenly. “This is what we were talking about last night at roll call training. What the hell good does a description like that do you?”
“Maybe that’s all they could get out of the guy, Lieutenant,” said Milton, the burly baiter of supervisors who always took the last seat of the last table in the roll call room, and whose four service stripes, indicating twenty years service, entitled him to a constant barrage of sarcasm directed at the sergeants. He was usually pretty quiet around the lieutenant though, Serge thought.
“Bullshit, Milt,” said Jethro. “This poor bastard Hector Lopez has been hit a half dozen times this year. I’m always seeing his name on robbery, burglary, or till tap reports. He’s become a professional victim, and he usually gives an outstanding description of the suspect. It’s just that some officer—in this case, it was a day watch officer—was in a big hurry and didn’t try to get a decent description. This is a good example of a worthless piece of paper that can’t be any use to the detectives. That description could fit twenty percent of the guys on the street right now.”
“It only takes a few minutes extra to get a decent description the dicks can work with,” Jethro continued. “How did the guy comb his hair? Did he have a moustache? Glasses? Tattoos? A distinctive walk? How about his teeth? His clothes? There’s dozens of little things about clothes that might be important. How did he talk? Did he have a gravel voice? Did he have a Spanish accent? How about that gun? This report says handgun. What the hell does that tell you? I know goddamn well Lopez knows the difference between an automatic and a revolver. And was it chrome plated or blue steel?” Jethro dropped the papers disgustedly into the folder. “We had lots of crimes last night, but none of the suspect descriptions are worth a shit so I’m not going to read them.” He closed the folders and sat back in his chair on the ten-inch platform, looking down at the policemen of the night watch. “Anything you guys want to talk about before we have an inspection?” he asked.
A groan went up at the mention of the word