Alan Russell - Burning Man

“Sometimes the humor is more puerile than caustic.”

The chief didn’t slap his knee, but he didn’t appear to take offense either. “How is it that you became a cop?” he asked.

“I was a sixth-year senior at Cal Northridge and was being forced to reluctantly graduate. There was a job fair on campus and I started talking to some cops manning the booth. My first question was about the department’s retirement package, and they told me right then and there that I was LAPD material.”

“What was your major?”

“For five and a half years it was undeclared, which seemed to suit me, but then the Northridge administrators said they were sick of me and that I better get my sheepskin in something. Since I had taken so many courses in so many subjects, I discovered that I qualified for the trifecta in anthropology, history, and humanities. If they’d let me stay another year, I could have had the pick six with political science, religious studies, and psychology, but I ended up with minors in those.”

“It sounds as if you enjoyed school.”

“It seemed like a good alternative to growing up.”

“You’re single I understand.”

“You understand right. As you undoubtedly know, my wife died.”

He nodded. “How did that affect you?”

“For a long time it was like starting and ending my day with a kick in the balls.”

“What about now?”

“It’s more like a kick in the ribs.”

“Do you have any family?”

“A mother,” I said, and then after a moment’s hesitation I gestured with my head to Sirius and added, “And my friend with the mange here.”

Sirius looked at me with his big, brown eyes. His mouth was open and it appeared as if he was laughing. I’m glad my partner appreciates my sense of humor.

“Your encounter with Ellis Haines made you famous,” said Ehrlich.

Haines was the real name of the Santa Ana Strangler, who was now also known as the Weatherman. When you’re considered the worst of the worst, I guess you’re entitled to two nicknames.

“As I understand it,” said Ehrlich, “you could have cashed in but didn’t. There were all sorts of movie and book deals offered to you, but as far as I know you turned down all those offers. Why is that?”

“I wanted creative control and ten percent of the gross. They might have accepted my demands, but unfortunately Sirius was holding out for a lot more. When I told him they were considering a female poodle for his role, he went ballistic and there was no reasoning with him.”

“You’re right,” the chief said. “Your humor is probably more puerile than caustic.” At least he said it with a smile. “But let’s call it what it really is: a wonderful defensive mechanism. And when you use it, most people probably forget the question they asked. I am still curious, though, as to why you didn’t sell the story of you and the Strangler.”

“Not everything’s for sale,” I said, “even in Los Angeles.”

He nodded. I don’t know if it was my answer, but the chief’s mind seemed to be made up. “Your notoriety from that case has put you in a unique position. Like it or not, the city of Los Angeles looks upon you and Sirius as heroes. To the public, that’s a designation that far exceeds rank. It’s no secret that the department would like some of your luster rubbing off on it.”

I was already shaking my head. “We did the required appearances. I am not going to be used as a glorified PR tool. I did the dog act. I won’t do the dog-and-pony act.”

The chief gestured with his hands for me to calm down. “I’m not talking about putting you onstage. Yes, your name would be associated with this office, and you might be required to serve on some committees and do some public outreach, but what I have in mind isn’t some PR flak position, because frankly I don’t think you’re qualified for that.”

“You got that one right.”

“There’s no name for the position I’d like to offer you, but what I need is much the equivalent of a devil’s advocate.”

I looked to see if the chief was smiling. He wasn’t. I spoke to my doubts, and maybe my vision: “Are vestments optional?”

“In the Catholic church the official title of the devil’s advocate was Promoter of the Faith. It was the job of the advocatus diaboli to present any and all facts unfavorable to the candidate proposed for beatification or canonization.”

“I don’t know how to break this to you, Chief, but I don’t think you have to worry about anyone in the LAPD being nominated for sainthood.”

“I think I’m aware of that, Officer Gideon,” Ehrlich said. “What I’m trying to tell you is that every organization needs its professional skeptic.”

I remembered my moment after, and how I’d had to confront my own festering wounds. I had even attributed a name to how I was feeling, a name I used again. “You’re looking for a Doubting Thomas?”

“I am looking for a point man that can both think and work outside the box. Los Angeles is like no other police department in the world. Our citizenry call this place La La Land, and Hollyweird. We have a unique caseload, and periodically our department is forced to confront situations that are anything but run-of-the-mill. I am looking for someone who can deal with the unusual, the peculiar, the curious, and perhaps even the enigmatic.”

“So you’re talking about me working Elvis sightings and crop circles?”

“I doubt those would even raise eyebrows in Los Angeles. What I was broaching was the possibility of you working special cases.”

“Where I would be your devil’s advocate?”

“That position no longer exists in the Catholic church,” he said. “I believe the church erred when they discontinued that post. Saints need exacting scrutiny.”

“Sinners need it even more.”

“Does such a position interest you?”

“What would I tell people? That I work in the Defense against the Dark Arts Division?”

“I have another name in mind: Special Cases Unit.”

“And would you be the one deciding what a special case is and what’s not?”

“That would be my prerogative, but I’d also expect you to be keeping an ear to the ground and working up cases on your own. With your injuries you could have retired on disability. It’s clear that you’re here because you want to be.”

“There are some cases that fall between the cracks,” I said. “They’re low-priority and they shouldn’t be.”

“You would have carte blanche to work such cases, as long as they didn’t interfere with your special cases.”

“What’s your definition of a special case?”

“Justice Potter Stewart said he couldn’t necessarily define pornography, but said, ‘I know it when I see it.’ We’ll know it when we see it.”

“Would I be reporting to you?”

“You would.”

“I am not the person you’re looking for if what you want is a departmental snitch or a personal lapdog.”

“Those are not positions I had in mind for you.”

“You already have an Internal Affairs Division. I am not going to be playing your devil’s advocate to other cops, am I?”

He shook his head and said, “Only if the case is deemed special.”

“When do you want my decision?”

“How long do you need?”

“By week’s end.”

“That works for me.”

I stood up and we shook hands. Sirius bounced up, but we weren’t able to make our escape without the chief offering some more parting words.

“You should know,” Ehrlich said, “that this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment offer on my part. I have been mulling over the idea of a Special Cases Unit for some months now, and when you arranged for this meeting, I started considering you for the position.