Burt Girard (Squad Car – Park Patrol)

Officer Girard cursed under his breath when his lieutenant came into the duty room and ordered him out to investigate a situation on Lake Street, in the red-light district.

It was raining hammers and nails and he was in the middle of a ham sandwich, but when Standish came into the room with orders he knew better than to talk back; he and his partner got to their feet and put on their rain gear without delay. They were out the door and in their squad in less than five minutes.

Girard got behind the wheel, drove north down the King’s Highway, merged onto Dupont Avenue and took a right turn on Lake Street. There wasn’t much traffic west of Nicollet Avenue. They drove with the cherries rolling and moved through the traffic lights.

There was a crowd gathered out front of the Round Up where Lieutenant Standish told him the incident had begun. Crowd control was the job of the 5th Precinct, he wasn’t going to stop for that. Standish told them to be on the lookout for Karl Thorrson. Girard didn’t know him by sight but he knew that this Thorrson was a heavy hitter, new in town, some kind of crime boss running the rackets on Lake Street, and people said he was ten feet tall.

The young ranger doubted that.

They were given an address, told to take a sweep through the alley between 4th and 5th Avenue.

So he took a left turn down the corridor and drove in slowly; right at the entrance to the alley there were two 5th Precinct beat cops huddled together under an awning with their backs against the storefront. One of them looked to be having some trouble, the other looked up at Girard as he passed them by. The look on his face suggested that he was seeking some assistance.

To hell with them, Girard thought. I ain’t getting wet for a couple of city cops.

His partner had the same idea and didn’t say a word.

They turned on their search light as they got into the alley.

Officer Girard thought he saw someone slip into a gap between two buildings. Probably just a junkie, he thought to himself. A radio car came toward him from the opposite end. They each stopped in front of the loading dock of a warehouse that belonged to the giant they were looking for. There was a cream colored coupe on the ramp with a couple inside.

Then there was a blinding light, and a thunderclap so loud it shook them in their cars; all the city lights went out for blocks.

They heard a woman screaming from inside the warehouse, Girard decided he had better go in.

Randy Parsons (Beat Cop 5th Precinct)

Officer Parsons was miserable.

He had left the Chicago slaughter yards and come to Saint Anthony to join the police force. He was young and strong, and happy to follow orders, but he had no idea what being a police in a city like Saint Anthony would mean when he came here, becoming little more than uniformed muscle, a pimp with a badge, less than that…just the pimps’ enforcer.

Three out of four weeks he worked the night shift on Lake Street, like a postman working through rain, sleet and snow, keeping the working girls busy, the brothels quiet, and making sure that the drug trade was uninterrupted.

His police salary allowed him to keep a small apartment on Dupont Avenue, a couple of blocks from the precinct. He took the cash that his captain doled out, the monies they received from the local crime bosses and stuffed most of it in a jar after giving up ten percent to the church.

He thought of his tithe as a way to do something good with the devil’s money, and he trusted the pastor at Joyce Methodist to do what was right with it, though he was wrong about that.

It was raining when Parsons clocked into the 5th Precinct; he passed Captain Dougherty in the locker room, grumbling in his brogue, harshly reminding him to keep the hookers busy during the storm.

Only the wicked got a break in Saint Anthony, Parsons thought to himself, and everybody else was expected to suffer for them.

He made note of what Captain Dougherty said, believing his work would be under scrutiny that night; he was determined to go hard on the girls, to set an example.

His partner, Sandy O’Rourke was late as usual, though no one ever bothered him. Sandy had been on the force for more than twenty years and had been busted down from Sergeant twice, but he was a personal friend of the Captain and so he could pretty much do as he pleased.

He was cheerful when he came in, whistling and smiling, and tipping back his flask.

“Its hot and wet out there,” he said as he winked at Randy. “We are on the beat from Nicollet to Chicago; so lets head out now.”

Randy didn’t have a say in the matter, he buttoned up his rain gear and followed the old man out the door, beating his night stick in his gloved hand thinking about how he might use it.