Christmas was celebrated twice a year—once on actual Christmas day, and again in July. On the days that it wasn’t being celebrated, the front page of the town paper made special room for a “What We’re Looking Forward to Next Christmas” section to ensure that the holiday season was always at the forefront of residents’ minds.
I’d only been here six months, and in my time here I’d realized that the word “crime” took on a whole different meaning than it did in my previous cities of Seattle, Chicago, and New York. At first, the quiet nights were a great change of pace, a much-needed break from the gritty and dangerous offenders I once lost weeks of sleep over. It was also nice not having to deal with overzealous prosecutors and bloodsucking reporters who crossed ethical lines to get their stories.
Yet, after months of silent shifts and sexless nights, I realized that I missed the adrenaline that came with investigating hard cases, the heightened rush of satisfaction that came from catching a criminal in a twisted web of lies.
There was none of that in this town, and the shit was finally starting to get to me.
“A 10-37 on the Main Street Bridge, 10-4,” The rookie I was training spoke into the radio as we coasted in my squad car. “10-4 … 10-4?”
“They heard you, Officer Harlow,” I said. “You don’t have to keep saying it.”
“Got it.” She cleared her throat. “Is there any reason why you’re not going any faster?”
“A 10-37 is code for a suspicious, parked car. No need to rush.”
“What if the passengers in that suspicious parked car are in the middle of a drug deal?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “Like, what if they’re just sitting there waiting for the other car to arrive and we miss it? I’d hate to miss out on collaring my first criminal.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed the pedal to eighty miles an hour. Snow lashed my windshield as I weaved through the roads, and the rookie clung to her seat with every quick turn.
Once we arrived at the bridge, I slowed and pulled into the emergency lane, right behind a red and black pickup truck.
“See?” she said, pointing as the lights on the inside flickered on and off. “That’s a signal of some sort. They’re waiting for someone to bring them money for the drugs. I saw this on Law & Order: SVU before.”
I gave her a blank stare. “It’s not a drug deal.”
“How do you know for sure?”
Because we live in fucking Cedar Falls. I opened my door and stepped out. “Stay here unless I signal for you.”
“Would you like me to call for backup?”
“You are my backup.”
“Right, right …” She looked straight ahead—slightly trembling, and right then and there, I knew that this was the only town in which she’d ever qualify to be a cop.
I shut my door and moved closer to the truck. The back window was foggy and handprints were smeared across its bottom.
As I approached the driver’s side window, the truck began to rock back and forth. The sound of soft moaning came from the inside. Then harsh, low grunts that sounded more pig-like than human-like.
“You’re my fucking animal,” a deep voice said. “Act like you’re my animal, babe.”
“Ahhh …” the female replied. “Oink! Oink! Oink!”
“That’s it …” he whispered. “Keep oinking me as I fill your pussy with this big bacon stick.”
Jesus Christ.
I tapped the driver’s side window, hard as hell so I wouldn’t have to hear any more of this.
No use.
The car rocked harder. The “bacon stick” was served with another round of questionable sounds. A hand smacked and smeared the steamed window.
“Fuck …” The guy said. “Can’t wait until I press my balls against your snout.”
I knocked on the window hard enough to damn near break the glass, and the truck finally stopped shaking.
“I need the driver to roll down the window,” I commanded.
“Oh, shit!” The female said. “I think it’s a cop!”
“Damn … Well, if we sit here and don’t make any noise for a while, I’m sure he’ll go away.”
I shook my head. “Roll the window down now.”
There were a few seconds of shuffling and “Oh my god” mumbles, and then the window rolled down at a snail’s pace, revealing what looked like two college students. Two bare-ass naked college students.
“Um. He-he-hello.” The guy stuttered. “How are you doing tonight, Officer?”
“License and registration, please.”
“Are we in trouble, sir? I can explain.”
“License and registration, please.” I repeated, shining my flashlight into the car. “And put on your goddamn pants.”
Red-faced, he leaned over the seat and opened the glovebox. He pulled out a small folder and handed it to me. “Just so you know, I don’t normally do things like this.”
“I need you to put on your pants before you start talking to me.” I looked at him. “Do it now.”