(The cover-up of the doubly-covered-up deceased finally fell before a Freedom of Information Act request.) Except Jason McDougall has called you out to do some rare on-site supervision on-īack in the naughty noughties a fifty-one-year-old Baptist minister was found dead in his Alabama home wearing not one but two wet suits and sundry bits of exotic rubber underwear, with a dildo up his arse. It could be worse: At least they don’t expect you to pound the pavement in person. Detective inspector is, as far as Policy is concerned, still a line rank rather than management.Īnd so you have to drag yourself away from your office for eight hours a month to supervise the kicking of litter-lout ass from the airconditioned comfort of a control room on the third floor of Fettes Avenue Police HQ. Nominally you’re in charge of the Rule 34 Squad: the booby-prize they gave you for backing the wrong side in a political bun-fight five years ago.īut policing is just as prone to management fads as any other profession, and it’s Policy this decade that all officers below the rank of chief inspector must put in a certain number of Core Community Policing hours on an annual basis, just to keep them in touch with Social Standards (whatever they are) and Mission-Oriented Focus Retention (whatever that is). You don’t usually sit in on the West End control centre, directing constables to shoplifting scenes and chasing hit-and-run cyclists. It’s an accident of fate that put you on the spot when Mac’s call came in fate and personnel allocation policy, actually: all that, and politics beside. And it’s down to the front desk to cadge a ride. There’s a whole lot more to shift-end handover than that, but something tells you that McDougall’s case is going to take priority. You sigh, then reach up, tear down the control room, wad it up into a ball of imaginary paper, and shove it across to sit in his desk. You can see him muttering under his breath, crooning lyrics to a musically themed interface. I’ll take care of things, you watch me.” Then he drops back into his cocoon of augmented reality. Ping me if anything comes up.”Įlvis bobs his head, then does something complex with his hands. “I’m off duty in ten, so you’re holding the fort. He nods, catches it, and drags it down to his dock. “I’ve got to head out, got a call,” you say, poking the red-glowing hover-fly case number across the desktop in his direction. Sergeant Elvis-not his name, but the duck’s arse fits his hair-style-is either grooving to his iPod or he’s really customized his haptic interface. If you can hold it together for ten minutes, I’ll be along.” It’s easy walking distance, but you might as well bag a ride if there’s one in the shed. You look at the map and see his push-pin. A two-wetsuit job means kinky beyond the call of duty. Wow, that’s something out of the ordinary. I don’ like to bug you, but I need a second opinion. “I didna want to spread this’un around, skipper, but it’s a two-wetsuit job. “Ye ken a goner when ye see wan.” McDougall’s Loanhead accent comes out to play when he’s a tad stressed. What he isn’t saying is probably more important than what he is, but in these goldfish-bowl days, no cop in their right mind is going to say anything prejudicial over an evidence channel. Berman’s got her sittin’ doon with a cuppa in the living room while I log the scene.” “Victim’s cleaner was first on the scene, she had a wee panic, then called 112. There’s something odd about his voice, and there’s no video. Constable Berman was first responder, an’ she called me in.” Jase pauses for a moment. I’m on Dean Park Mews, attendin’ an accidental death, no witnesses. You push back your chair, stretch, and wait while Mac’s icon pulses, then expands. Chu’s shoulders when he comes on shift, so that’s you on the spot: you with your shift-end paper-work looming, an evening’s appointment with the hair salon, and your dodgy gastric reflux. You can’t think of a reasonable excuse to dump it on D.
EAT OR SNORT X PILL SOFTWARE
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you subvocalize, careful not to let it out aloud-the transcription software responds erratically to scatology, never mind eschatology-and wave two fingers at Mac’s icon. It’s a slow Tuesday afternoon, and you’re coming to the end of your shift on the West End control desk when Sergeant McDougall IMs you: INSPECTOR WANTED ON FATACC SCENE. TELEVANGELIST PAT ROBERTSON, ON THE 700 CLUB, 1999 (ATTRIB: BBC NEWS) Part 1 LIZ: Red Pill, Blue Pill In Scotland, you can’t believe how strong the homosexuals are.