Probation brew city blue.., p.1
Probation: Brew City Blues™ Book Two, page 1
PROBATION
BREW CITY BLUES™ BOOK TWO
PATRICK O’DONNELL
MICHAEL ANDERLE
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2022 Marlowe & Vane
Cover by Gene Mollica and Sasha Almazan
https://www.gsstockphoto.com/
Cover copyright © Marlow & Vane
A Michael Anderle Production
Marlowe & Vane supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Marlowe & Vane
an imprint of LMBPN Publishing
PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy
Las Vegas, NV 89109
Version 1.00, December 2022
ebook ISBN: 979-8-88541-649-8
Print ISBN: 979-8-88878-044-2
THE PROBATION TEAM
Thanks to the JIT Readers
Zacc Pelter
Diane L. Smith
Peter Manis
Jeff Goode
Christopher Gilliard
Wendy L Bonell
Mary Morris
Jan Hunnicutt
John Ashmore
If we’ve missed anyone, please let us know!
Editor
The SkyFyre Editing Team
DEDICATIONS
I’m a retired cop and a writer, but my heart will always be with law enforcement. I dedicate this book to brave men and women who choose to put themselves in harm’s way so we can all live a better life, especially those who paid the ultimate sacrifice.
The world is less of a better place without these cops.
Sergeant James P. “Dr. Love” Baier
Sergeant Hollis “H-Dog” Smith
P.O. Charles “Chuckie” Ervine Jr.
P.O. Michael “The Commander” Michalski
P.O. Matthew “Matt” Rittner
P.O. Mark Lentz
P. O. Wendolyn Tanner
K-9 Kenny
— Patrick O’Donnell
To Family, Friends and
Those Who Love
To Read.
May We All Enjoy Grace
To Live The Life We Are
Called.
— Michael Anderle
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Author Notes - Patrick O’Donnell
Author Notes - Michael Anderle
Books By Patrick O’Donnell
Books By Michael Anderle
Connect with The Authors
CHAPTER ONE
Don’t want to be late on my first night as a probationary cop rather than a recruit…
Those were the words in Mike Collins’ mind as he walked into the bustling assembly room. The place was filled with coppers—early shift cops getting ready to go home or out for choir practice with their buddies, and late shift coppers starting their workday.
He lined up in front of the sergeant’s office window and threw the good sergeant a salute. “Good morning, sir, Officer Collins reporting for duty.”
Sgt. Baier returned the salute with his normal wave hello. “Collins, good to have you back with us. You’re with Reggie on 95R.”
Back on 95R with Reggie, right where I started.
It was common practice for a cop fresh out of field training to be partnered up with their former Field Training Officer. They already knew each other, and the teaching never stops between a new cop and their FTO. Even if the recruit did a great job in field training, there is plenty more to learn.
Reggie smiled and waved Mike over to the table where he was sitting.
“Welcome back, Mike!”
Mike returned the smile. “Thanks. I guess I passed field training.”
“Of course you did. I trained you.”
Same old Reggie…
Mike sat across from Reggie. “What did I miss?”
Reggie leaned toward Mike and spoke in a voice that was closer to a whisper. “Well, it seems like our lieutenant may move on to bigger and better things. There’s a rumor that she’s getting transferred to the office of the chief.”
“Well, that sounds important.”
Reggie shrugged. “Who knows? There’s also a rumor that she’s doing him, and that’s why she is getting the job. You know, rumors.”
Mike shook his head. Sometimes this feels like I’m back in high school. A good-looking female can’t be promoted without everyone, including the other females on the shift, thinking that she is blowing the chief. Nobody thinks maybe she deserves it because she is qualified.
Reggie went on. “We are getting another sergeant, and it’s not looking too good. Sgt. Raymond Dubicki is coming over from District Three. Or more like getting pushed out of District Three. Word is that he is a complete dick. He hasn’t been a sergeant for long, so he will probably be responsible for the probationary cops, which of course means you. That job comes with a lot of paperwork, so the new guy usually gets it.”
Mike nodded. “Of course. I’ve had dickhead bosses before, and I survived.”
“Yeah, but he is going to be filling out your monthly evaluations. Every copper who is on probation gets a monthly eval. Lucky you!”
Sgt. Baier threw Lieutenant Sandra Kucharski a salute and told her everyone was present and accounted for.
She stood at the podium and looked out at everyone. “Good morning, late shift!”
A mumble of groggy “good mornings” greeted the lieutenant. Reggie’s voice was by far the most awake, a loud and enthusiastic, “Good morning, ma’am!”
Lt. Kucharski laughed and gave him a smile. “Thank you, Reggie, and the rest of you.”
Mike looked around the room and counted nineteen cops sitting with fancy travel coffee mugs, energy drink cans, and the occasional caffeinated soda perched in front of them on their desks. Some of them looked like they were ready to go to bed rather than having just gotten out of bed. Messed-up hair and glassy or bloodshot eyes were the norm.
The lieutenant read off the roll call board and shared a few changes in department policy and procedure. Then she read the monthly disciplinary report. This was a monthly list of officers who had received discipline for breaking SOPs or minor infractions of either the law or city ordinances. Punishment could be as minor as a verbal or written warning but could also be more serious. It could include demotion in rank — assuming the officer had any rank to be demoted from—or suspension without pay for up to thirty days. Cop slang for a suspension was “taking days” or “taking a rap.” The most serious disciplinary action was getting discharged from the department.
“A police officer failed to be civil and courteous to a citizen,” Kucharski reported. “This is his first violation, and he is getting a written warning. A police officer failed to be civil and courteous to a citizen and failed to notify a supervisor of using force. This is his second violation of failing to be civil and courteous, and his first violation for failing to report a use of force.” After a slight pause for effect, she added, “Ten-day rap.”
A groan came out of the crowd, and one officer piped up, “What the fuck, Lieutenant? Ten days?”
Sgt. Baier gave him a bit of a stink eye, and the officer backed off.
The lieutenant continued, “Oh, there’s more. A detective failed to complete a report before the end of her tour of duty. This is the detective’s second violation of failing to complete a report before the end of her tour. One-day rap.”
This one got a couple of laughs from the crowd. A few coppers murmured in concert.
“Fucking detectives.”
“Doing reports is their job. They can’t even do that right.”
The lieutenant looked at the crowd and smiled. “Thank God none of you are regulars on here. Let’s keep it that way. Anybody have anything of value for the group?”
Nobody said anything, so she handed the group over to Sgt. Baier. “They’re all yours, Sarge.”
Sgt. Baier stepped up to the podium again. “Fall out and stay safe.”
Mike and Reggie headed out to the squad. They passed through the garage, where the usual suspects were standing around smoking and joking.
Mike thought, I’m not there yet. But it’s looking up. Some of them actually looked at him and nodded or smiled.
“So, tell me something,” Mike asked Reggie. “Why don’t they use any names when they read out the disciplinary report?”
“You know, they used to. Someone pitched a bitch about it and won, so they can’t name names anymore. It doesn’t really change anything, though. Most of the time, we can guess who the victims are, especially the ones who took big raps or got fired.”
“Pitching a bitch” was cop slang for filing a formal complaint. It seemed funny to Mike, not naming names when everyone knew who’d done what.
They performed the squad check, looking over the vehicle for any new damage. Squad 95R was the district wagon, formerly known as a “paddy wagon,” responsible for taking hitches all over the city and backing up other cops with combative members of the public.
Reggie jumped into the driver’s seat of the wagon, and Mike got into the passenger seat. Reggie picked up the squad mic. “95R late, we are two-man and 10-08.”
“10-08” told the dispatcher they were ready for assignment, and “two-man” meant that Mike was no longer being treated as a mere recruit. Mike liked that Reggie was looking at him as a partner, not just a recruit. He was still on probation, though, so he wasn’t a full-fledged copper yet.
About five minutes later, a voice came in over the air. “Squad 50, we are in pursuit southbound on North 12th St. from Locust.”
Reggie looked over at Mike with a big grin as he turned on the emergency lights and siren. “Here we go!”
CHAPTER TWO
With all the glee of a kid with the keys to the candy store, Reggie picked up the radio. “Squad 95R, show us meeting him.”
The dispatcher asked, “Squad 5?”
Sgt. Baier in Squad 5 replied, “Squad 5, 10-04 on the chase.” This meant he knew what was going on and he was responding.
As Reggie and Mike tore out of the parking lot with lights and sirens blaring, Mike saw the smoking and joking group running to their cars to join in the chase.
Squad 50, the squad in pursuit, consisted of Officers Steve Johansen and William Hill. Johansen, also known as “the Swede,” was a six-foot-four former Marine with blond hair in a buzz cut. He looked like he could probably bench press a Volkswagen. Hill was an Indigenous American, six-two, 260 pounds. He had once been a college football player but had either quit or been thrown out. He had short black hair and a little bit of a belly, and was known to be a chain smoker.
PO Johansen came in on the radio. “Squad 50, we’re now eastbound on Center, 1100 block, black four-door, no registration plates, about forty-five miles per hour, traffic is light.”
The dispatcher replied, “10-04 on that, Squad 50.”
Reggie was across the bridge that went over the interstate, heading for Center Street. He was going about fifty miles per hour, but it felt a lot faster because everything inside the wagon sounded like it was going to fall apart, and the shocks were old and worn.
PO Johansen’s voice came in over the radio again. “We’re still eastbound on Center approaching 8th St. Black Ford four-door sedan, no plates, looks like one occupant, can’t tell race or gender, going about fifty miles per hour, wanted for traffic violation and fleeing.”
Reggie stopped the wagon at the intersection of 8th and Center with the lights on to block any traffic going south that might collide with the subject vehicle or squad. Mike looked to the east and saw a couple of squads on the other side of the bridge on 7th with their lights off, waiting to see what direction this was going to go.
A squad trailed behind Johansen and Hill with their lights and siren going, but they hadn’t identified themselves. Reggie pointed them out to Mike. “That’s stupid. If they pile up, they could take a rap for not letting the dispatcher know they are in the chase.”
The parade blew past Reggie and Mike—first the black four-door sedan with no plates and no headlights activated, then the police cars behind them. After they went past, Mike yelled, “Clear right!” and Reggie gunned the wagon, spinning the rear wheels on some loose gravel.
The two squads joined in the chase, and the suspect vehicle lost control and hit a concrete pole in the parking lot of a gas station. The squads, including Reggie and Mike, quickly surrounded the vehicle. Smoke was coming from its engine compartment.
Johansen and Hill were the first out of their squads, pistols drawn. The driver was frantically trying to open the driver’s side door, but it was stuck because of the damage to the frame of the car. The driver jumped over to the passenger side and kicked that door open.
PO Hill pointed his pistol at him and shouted commands. “Okay, it’s over! Get out of the car with your hands in the air!”
A male in his early twenties came out of the car with his hands in the air. He had some blood coming from his forehead where he had struck the windshield.
PO Hill handcuffed the man. “If you would wear your seatbelt, you wouldn’t hurt your head when you hit a pole.”
Reggie chimed in. “You wouldn’t hurt your head if you weren’t fleeing from the police, either.”
The suspect said nothing, only looked down at his feet.
Sgt. Baier arrived a moment later and got on the air. “Hey, dispatcher, Squad 5 here. Could you send MFD? Our car struck a pole, and the engine is smoking. Oh yeah, we’re also at a gas station, 400 W. Center St., one in custody. I heard that gas and fire don’t mix so well. Also, our C-1 has a laceration on his forehead. He is a conscious and breathing male, about twenty years of age.”
MFD was Milwaukee Fire Department, the best people to handle the smoking engine before it caused an explosion.
Reggie turned to Mike. “Damn Sarge, always joking around. We’re lucky to have him.”
Hill walked the prisoner toward Mike and Reggie. “Hey, Reggie, would you mind giving this kid a ride to the district once MFD gives him a once-over?”
Mike thought, Yeah, I’m here too, but I guess I’m still invisible…
Reggie met PO Hill and had the prisoner sit on the step that led to the back of the wagon’s passenger compartment.
PO Hill spoke to the suspect. “What’s your name, kid?”
The suspect bristled. “You have to read me my rights and give me my phone call.”
Reggie grinned, amused. “Junior, you have been watching too much TV! The man isn’t asking you if you killed someone. He’s asking your name. He doesn’t have to read you shit until he questions you about a crime. You do have a name, don’t you?”
