Bernard Schaffer - Superbia

The obvious question people will have upon reading this book is, “How much of it was real? Who were the characters based on?”

The answer is no one.

The answer is everyone.

My police career began as a part-time officer 1997 when Chief Robert Furlong opened his office closet to show me a collection of old uniforms and said, “Pick out whatever fits you, kid.” Since that time, I’ve worked with hundreds of police officers from all over the country. Some of them are still here. Some of them aren’t. Some were fired. Some quit when they realized the job wasn’t for them. Some died. Some killed themselves.

Others, like me, stuck around. Despite all the never-ending bullshit both inside and outside the station house, we are still here. Still holding the line. Still the people who show up when everybody else is running the other way.

Not for the money. No matter how much money we make, it could never be enough to compensate for what we experience.

Not for the glory. That wears off after the first few years when you realize exactly how meaningless and replaceable you really are.

Not for the recognition. Newspapers don’t put cops in the paper when they do good things. They reserve headlines for cops who get arrested.

I keep a binder by my desk that contains all my certificates and awards and official documents, a physical representation of my many hours of training and accomplishments. That’s the unimportant part of the binder. In the back are the collection of letters and Christmas cards I’ve received from kids who were being abused. Kids who are okay now. Those mean more to me than any medal you could pin on my chest.

I’m tightening up right now thinking about it. Maybe I’ll cry. It happens.

The truth is, not many people know what any individual police officer has done in the course of a career. How many lives he’s saved. How many crimes she’s stopped. But if you do the job correctly, I can guarantee you one thing: The victims know. Their families know.

This book was me opening up my own personal closet for everyone to see. After all these years dealing with cops, kids, bad guys, the dead bodies, I’ve got quite an assortment of stories. If you’re still wondering how much of it is real, I’m going to tell you like Chief Furlong told me. “Pick out whatever fits you, kid.”

To my family. All of you. For everything I put you through both as a police officer and as a writer. I can’t imagine which one is worse.

To the Kindle All-Stars who formed the incredible support team for this book. Laurie Laliberte, who edited the manuscript. William Vitka, Keri Knutson and David Hulegaard who read the earliest draft and provided detailed feedback course correction, and encouragement.

To the men and women of the multiple law enforcement agencies throughout Bucks and Montgomery Counties, and the City of Philadelphia, past and present. I’ve always feared this book will spell the end of my time among your ranks, but I want to be clear about one thing. I wrote it anyway, because I wrote it for you.

Turns out I was right. I was removed from the detective division and narcotics unit today.

I don’t regret a damn thing. And now the gloves are coming off.

They fly helicopters over police funerals.

Enormous, powerful machines from any surrounding agency fortunate enough to have one. They swoop in low above the crowd of mourners, reminding everyone of the power and force of a unified Blue. One officer falls, but the line does not falter. The line is still held.

And what a crowd it is.

Law Enforcement from all over show up in their Class A uniforms. High collars and spit-polished leather, looking for the attendant with the cardboard box of clean white gloves.

New Jersey State Police always march in unison from the parking lot to the church in perfect formation. Other, smaller departments see them do it and try to copy it like children chasing after a parade float. There’s a kind of “me too” aspect to the entire proceeding. Frank felt sick.

Danni Ajax sat in the front row of the church dressed in black gown and long, elbow-length gloves. Every bit of her, the grieving widow she became the instant they knocked on her front door to tell her Vic was dead. Vic the bastard. Vic the no-good estranged husband forking over half his salary every week, only to be screamed at that it was not enough. Every basket of fruit and bouquet of flowers and monetary donation to her children refined her appearance of grief. She’s getting good at it, Frank thought. But then, this is the big show. Pretty soon she’ll be in the full throes of hysteria.

Beside her, the enormous figure of newly-minted Chief Claude Erinnyes. Sergeants, Lieutenants, Commissioners, Mayors, all filed toward him and said the same thing: “How you holding up, Chief? Everyone in our department is so sorry for your loss.”

Erinnyes would nod and sigh thoughtfully and nod and sigh thoughtfully again, sucking in their good wishes and attention like an engorged tick.

All the high-ranking officials and honored guests flanked Chief Erinnyes and Danni and Jason and beautiful little Penelope Ajax. They filled up the rows closest to the casket with their brightly polished badges and eagle emblems and gold-trimmed sleeves. They were gracious in their allowance of letting all the mourners in attendance draw strength from them, just by being in the midst of such supreme police command presence.

The crowd parted along the right hand side of the church and Frank saw Dez Dolos leading a tall, grey-haired figure through the horde. “That’s the FBI Director,” someone whispered. “Holy shit.”

Dez made a gracious gesture toward Chief Erinnyes, who stood up and clasped hands with the Director, both of them smiling pleasantly. The Director continued down the line, shaking hands with each person. “I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sorry for your loss,” repeated to each person he passed, including Vic’s children, his wife, and then the next seven people in the pew beside them. The Director reached the end of the line and Dez quickly escorted him back through the church, taking him down the front steps and into a limousine waiting outside.

“You absolute mother fucker.”

Frank sat six rows back. To his right, he saw the only other person from his PD who arrived early enough to sit up front behind the roped-off RESERVED seats. Jim Iolaus was wearing his brand-new Class A uniform, bought for him by the Chief just for this occasion.

An hour earlier, Frank watched Iolaus and Chief Erinnyes pose for pictures on the church’s front steps. Quite a momentous occasion, Frank thought. Why wouldn’t you want a framed photograph of how you looked at someone’s funeral?

“You son of a bitch.”

Frank ignored the words of the man sitting next to him. Ignored the smell of gunpowder. Ignored the blood smeared across the front of his shirt.

“I’m talking to you, mother fucker. You stole my death!”

“No I didn’t,” Frank whispered. “Go away.”

“Yes you did! I shot myself to make a point and you stole that from me. You think I wanted all this? You think I wanted to give Fat Fuck the chance to sit there and play the benevolent leader? You betrayed me, Frank.”

“Fuck you, Vic. Leave me alone.”

“Real, real nice,” Vic said. “On the day of my funeral it’s, ‘Fuck you?’ In a church?”

“You just called me an absolute mother fucker! Look, knock it off. I’m trying to pay attention, okay?

Vic grimaced at the sight of Danni. “Look at her carrying on. What did she say when you gave her the letter?”