A Night With The Desk Sergeant "Have it your way," the little man disagreed, indicating a vast disgust with all law-enforcement arithmetic. by Silvia Bobolis and Lenore Chase It was Saturday night at the police station. The hands on the clock above the two-way radio pointed to ten, and everything was peaceful. Now and then a light shone on the radio board and Gar-side, the call-sergeant, flicked a lever and spoke into the microphone. When he was not talking into the radio, he was answering the telephone and when not doing that he was typing. The typewriter was wide, capable of holding two sheets of paper side by side. On one he pecked out a register of telephone calls and on the other the radio log. On the far side of the box-like office, Keeter, the capable desk-sergeant, sat and hammered out details of the various complaints on forms five by six inches in size. Now and then he lunged to his feet to extend the hospitality of the premises to whoever might be hustled into the outer space through a side door by from one to four police officers. Just now he was typing, using two fingers sometimes and then four or five. Despite this, he was quick and accurate. Actually the room was a pigeonhole, but it served the purpose. Stretching across the front of it was a long, high counter topped by glass except for the section where the desk sergeant stood to register guests. At the moment there were no guests. Amid the clacking of typewriters, the telephone rang. Garside said, "Police station, Garside speaking." A pause ensued and the person on the other end of the line poured out her troubles. The policeman began to scribble on a pad. "What's that? He's taking all your furniture? . . . Who is he, your husband? ... I see, just the guy you're living with. Okay, we'll send a police car right down." "Where from?" inquired Keeter as his machine began to clank, result of two lefts and a speedy crossover with a right. "The Virginia Hotel," Garside said, throwing a couple of sentences of instruction onto the air waves for the benefit of car 10. "Oh, the Drysdales again," Keeter commented, and the 1915 Underwood weaved and shuddered under his onslaught. Rrring .... "Police station, Garside. Yes, I just sent 'em down to the Virginia .... Well, lady it's up to the boys to decide if he's drunk enough to be arrested .... I'm sorry, but that has nothing to do with me. You talk to the boys about it." He turned around and declared to the room in general: "That's the trouble. They'll call a cop at the drop of a hat, but they beg you not to arrest anybody." There was a commotion outside. It turned out to be two policemen escorting an intoxicated middle-aged woman. Her straggling gray hair hung below her shoulders and accentuated a shiny black eye. Her green coat did not hide the top of a low-necked pink nightgown. It did not show below her coat; she must have tucked it up for her appearance at the station. The desk sergeant walked up to the window and started the regular procedure. He poised his pencil above the form in front of him. "Name, lady?" he asked, hardly glancing at her. "Name's Jennie Baker." Jennie had a smile on her facefl She had looked at every cop in the room by the time she reached the window and had picked her favorite. Then she started to flirt with him. The cop took it without a flicker of a muscle for a while, then took hold of her arm and turned her toward the desk sergeant. She flopped her head forward as close as the counter would allow and said with a sputtering slur, "Smile, why doncha?" Also not looking at her, the sergeant said, "You can't expect me to smile. I've got to work all night. Where you from, Jennie?" "Ogden." "Born there?" "Not sure, but think I was. I went to the church school here too," she added as a final flourish. "Well, the saints won't be happy about this tonight, will they? How old are you?" "I'm forty . . . fifty-one." "Okay, where's your bottle, Jennie?" "I ain't got a bottle." A cop handed the desk sergeant her bag. It was a draw-string pouch affair and a perfect container for the quart bottle it held. "Seven dollars, twenty-two cents here. You can take the cigarets." He glanced at the clock and wrote the time of the arrest. "Drunk and disturbing the peace. Okay, Jennie, here you go." A little man in a white jacket limped in and led her out the door to the elevator and the women's division of the jail on the ninth floor of the city-county building. At the exit of Jennie Baker, the telephone rang. "Police station, Garside speaking . . . Just committed a murder, huh? . . . What's your name? . . . Well then, who did you kill? . . . Oh, just a little time." Garside banged the receiver down. The laughter was interrupted by the entrance of an ill-looking Mexican. He limped into the room on the arm of another Mexican. His eyes were glazed over and had huge purple-colored circles beneath them. He was glistening with sweat and his mouth hung open. His posture was peculiar; he was bent forward with his arms hanging straight down. He was a picture of misery, and no wonder, for below his heart a patch of red was slowly spreading on his faded plaid work shirt. A barrel-shaped officer, over six feet tall, bounced in the same door. "What's this, Olsen?" asked the desk sergeant. Page Fourteen "Brawl down the street. Another Mex pulled out a knife. This guy got in the way." "Know who did it?" "Yeh, we'll have him in a while." "You better take him to the hospital. That looks pretty bad." "These Mexes are always getting into brawls," the call sergeant observed. "If he dies, it won't make much difference." It took a long time for the Mexican to cover the space to the door, even with his friend's help. The desk sergeant leaned back in his chair and yawned. "Ohh . . . I'm going to take a breather. This is nothing like last Saturday. Hope it'll be this way all night." The half dozen policement now lounging around the office nodded in agreement. They looked nonchalant, and Butch, the cop with the young bay window, cracked peanuts and tossed them into his mouth. The outside door opened down the L-shaped hall. Before anything was seen, sounds of rowdy male voices were heard. They all popped into the doorway at once, two policemen and three spirited drunks. Just to look at them one would have thought they were not drunk because they were dressed neatly and walked with an easy air. There was no doubt that they were drunk, though, when they started talking. The little man wearing a quiet gray suit seemed to be the main spokesman for the trio. "Get your hands off my arm," he shouted. "I can walk by myself." "Okay, buddy," the desk sergeant said. "Let's have your wallet and anything else in your pockets. Name?" He started the procedure again and counted the money as the little man racked his brain for a suitable name. "Thirty-eight dollars." "Have it your way," the little man disagreed, indicating a vast disgust with all law-enforcement arithmetic. The police escort delved into the drunk's pockets again. "Glasses, keys . . . what's this?" He started to open a little red purse. With eyes blazing, the little man childishly shouted, "Now take your filthy hands off that. That's my wife's. If he wants to look at it, okay," he said, with a gesture towar dthe desk sergeant, "but you keep your hands off. Damn it, I don't want you to touch it." "Okay, okay," the officer soothed. Keeter looked in the little red purse. The object of the heated discussion was a small powderpuff. The policemen could have had a lot of trouble getting the three men through the side door leading to the tank, but they were brawny cops and they did it with hardly any strain. For the need of a little conversation, Garside said, "They're bringing in the Mex who did the stabbing. It just came over. He can't talk English either, but I bet he can say 'no' when we ask him if he did it." "Mmm," was Keeter's answer. "Well, guess this is gonna be a quiet night," the call-sergeant said between yawns. He glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to two. Hooks on the south wall of the office carried register sheets of telephone calls of the past week, including the preceding Saturday, and there also were the radio logs. The complaint records were jammed onto an upright nail near the radio. Last Saturday night, Garside had been at the phone, the same as now, according to the register. Slagowski was desk sergeant. The business conducted read down a long page in columns: "11:11 p. m. Tribune calling for news. None .... 11:55 p. m. Lady calling for Slagowski. Connected . . . . 12:05 a. m. Patrolman Love wants car at rear of Well. Has drunk . . . . 12:23 a. m. Man wants car at rear of 146 25th st. Mad house .... 12:40 a. m. Mrs. Smith: Have you any info, on my boy. Answer: Not much .... 12:49 a. m. J. Speers reports car belonging to Louis Garcia stolen. Answer: Okay .... 12:54 a. m. Lady wants officers. Having trouble with customers. "2:42 a.m. (Slagowski has apparently taken over both jobs) Dorothy, Ben's cafe, reports three boys refusing to pay for meal. One minute later she called up, stating that they had paid their bill. No action .... 6:30 a. m. Mrs. Jones called me seven times, wanting me to let her talk to her husband, who is in jail for drunken driving. She went so far as to ask me to come out to her place and take care of her and her aged mother while Mr. Jones is in jail .... "6:50 to 7 a. m. Mrs. Jones: Please let me talk to Mr. Jones. I'm sick, his mother is sick, and everything is wrong but him. He never did anything wrong in his life. Answer: The bail is still $300 and I'm here alone so you can't talk to him." All night long at intervals, Slagowski had sent out calls over the air to patrol cars: "10:58 p. m. Headquarters to Car 7: Go to Finer Foods. Fight .... 11:37 p. m. Car 10 to headquarters: Off the air at the Old Mill .... 11:55 p. m. Back in service .... 1:36 a. m. Headquarters to Car 7: Go to 400 30th st. Family fight .... 1:38 a. m. Car 7 to headquarters: Back in service. Go to Bamberger station and pick up drunk .... 3:07 a. m. Car 10 to headquarters: Stick's Lunch kicked in .... 3:11 a. m. Headquarters to Car 25: What kind of ambulance call have you? Answer: Maternity." In addition to his other duties, after other officers had gone off shift, Slagowski had filled out a number of complaint report blanks to be submitted to his superiors in the morning. On the "kick in," he reported: "Place entered through a small window, exit via read door. The manager, strangely enough, showed up on the scene a few moments after the officers found the joint burglarized. A few coins and a 20-pound roast was reported missing by the manager after he had inspected the premises with the officers." Of the family fight at 400 30th street, the complaint declared: "Officers Hansen and Bruestle were able to talk these people into at least a temporary truce and they left the street to go into the house." Reporting on a complaint concerning a prowler, the desk sergeant recorded: "Mrs. Anderson reported a man trying to enter her home by way of rear door. We were unable to locate anyone when we arrived a few minutes after receiving the call. However, we talked to Mrs. Anderson and quieted her fears as best we could." One quick glance back at the list of telephone calls, showed the final call came over the wire at 7 a. m. Sunday. It read: "Tribune calling for news. None." Page Fifteen