Savage Rage (13 page)

A few other people echoed the sergeant's sentiments but briefly and quietly. The new staff sergeant did not take to unnecessary talking on parade. He glanced from his memo book at the unruly outburst but let it slide.

Too busy with his freaking notes.
The man actually took notes about parade. Jack had never seen a supervisor, of any rank, make an entry about parade other than to say when it started and maybe when it ended. And the staff had spent long enough inspecting everyone. Jack hadn't been given such a thorough going-over since his days at the police college down in Aylmer. Greene had done a sock check to make sure everyone was wearing black socks. A freaking sock check! Several officers, including Jack — no grace period for the platoon's new addition — had been cautioned about the length of their hair. Jack wouldn't have been surprised if the old bastard had taken out a ruler to measure the gap between hairline and collar.

Jack wondered when the basement room at 51 had last seen a stand-up parade. Its old, tired appearance certainly didn't correspond with such formality. The once-white paint was a faded and dreary ivory. A feeble light grimed through the dirt-grey windows set high in one wall. The metal tables, in rows beneath the windows, were as battle weary and worn out as the assortment of salvaged chairs. No, formality did not belong here.

Jack was surprised when the platoon was allowed to sit as Johanson read out the day's assignments and alerts. Greene seemed like the kind of prick who would keep everyone standing. Jack had no doubt Staff Sergeant Greene was indeed a prick of colossal magnitude.

Astonishingly, Greene was not a big man. Forty years on the job meant he had been hired in an era when a significant portion of the job interview was whether you had to duck or turn sideways to get through the door. Greene was neither tall nor wide. He was unimpressively average. Average in height. Average in width. His hair, mostly grey, was rigidly cut to regulation length. The only thing marring his remarkable unremarkableness was his iron-grey handlebar moustache. To Jack, nothing screamed “prick” louder than a handlebar moustache. Wax the ends and curl them up and the moustache screamed “colossal prick.” Greene's moustache screamed colossally.

Johanson finished assigning the scout cars. “Anything to add, Staff Sergeant?”

Jack shook his head at the sad, absurd formality. The parade room felt empty with only five officers and the supervisors. Jack, Manny, Paul, Jenny and Boris were the day shift. Morris and Goldman, both with about four or five years on the job, were on the early half, having started an hour ago. The platoon's strength wasn't looking too good. Manpower had been a problem last summer but never this bad. Seven on the road plus two on annual training and another two on holidays put the platoon's full strength at eleven and the three senior officers who had left the platoon while Jack was in 53 had created glaring holes in the platoon's seniority. The shift's essence, its strength, was broken. Parade should be the warm-up for the workday. Not quite a pre-game pep talk but close enough. This wasn't a pep talk, it was a wake. And the corpse was the platoon's spirit.

What had this prick done?

Jack was about to find out.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Greene stood up as Johanson relinquished the podium, a wood pedestal atop the table just big enough for the sergeant's clipboard. Jack noted Johanson grimace as he stepped aside. The situation must be bad if the sergeant grimaced. Legend had it that years ago Constable Johanson had ended a fight by putting a suspect's face through a car window without so much as twitching an eyebrow.

Greene stood erect and surveyed his officers. Jack figured his gaze was meant to be steely and forceful, but he thought Greene appeared simply . . . well, prickish. At length, he spoke and his voice was as ordinary as the rest of him. Barring the prick screamer beneath his nose, of course.

“I was reviewing the platoon's performance over the past cycle and was appalled to discover that you officers were last in every category.” He gripped the podium and leaned over it, as if he wanted to physically force his words onto the officers in front of him. “And not just last but abysmally last. Over the five weeks, your numbers in arrests, POTs and 208s continued to drop until the next platoon was substantially ahead of you. I will not tolerate such a shoddy work ethic!” He pounded the podium, hammering home his decree.

Jack was not surprised to hear workload was down. Why hunt up arrests outside of radio calls, write tickets or even fill out a 208 after investigating someone? To make this prick look good to his boss? Not bloody likely.

I wonder if he bothered to check what the numbers were like before he got here.

“This platoon is lacking,” Greene pronounced. “Lacking in integrity, teamwork and positive attitude.”

Can he toss in any more core-value buzzwords?

“Therefore, all time off, including that in relation to annual leave, is cancelled until I deem this platoon worthy of such reward.”

A chorus of unbelieving groans churned through the officers. Greene slammed his palm on the podium, silencing the insubordinate din.

“For those of you already planning to use sick time to circumvent my directive, be advised I will be assigning home visits to the road sergeant.”

This shocked even Johanson. His face was a dangerous thundercloud.

The beatings will continue until morale improves. That's fucking brilliant.

But Greene wasn't finished. “Constable Warren. I will see you in my office immediately following parade.”

The officers of B platoon filed out of the parade room glumly, their heads bowed, their footsteps heavy. Even the world's biggest puppy dog was trudging beneath leaden thoughts.

“The fucking moron doesn't see what he's doing to them.”

As Greene had strode from the room, Johanson had signalled for Jack to hang back. Now the room was empty but for the two of them.

“He can't be that blind.”

Johanson sighed and, for the first time Jack could recall, the solid sergeant looked his age. “He can and is. The fool actually thinks he was sent here to instill discipline.” Johanson nodded when Jack cocked an eyebrow. “He told Rose and me that on his first day here. Unbelievable.”

“Why was he sent here?”

Johanson shrugged. “Why does anyone like him ever get sent to 51?”

“He piss someone off?” Jack guessed.

“Either that or they thought he'd retire if he got kicked out of his comfy office at headquarters. Doesn't really matter. We're stuck with him.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Getting rid of a staff sergeant is a hard thing to do. Techni-cally, he hasn't done anything he's not allowed to.” Johanson shook his head. “He's lucky he didn't get sent here even ten years ago. If he'd tried this shit back then, he would've gotten punched out.”

“The good old days?”

Johanson snorted. “In some ways.”

“Is there something on your mind, Sarge?” Jack wanted to catch Jenny before he headed up to see Greene. They'd managed only a quick hello before parade.

“There is, Jack.” Johanson faced him, his eyes steady and, despite what the deep lines around them suggested, still strong. “I suppose you know with the others gone, you're senior man on the road.” Jack nodded. “Because of that and what you went through with Sy and afterwards, the young guys on the shift will be looking to you for guidance.”

Jack laughed but not with humour. “You suggesting I punch out the staff?”

“No, not yet.” Johanson smiled to show he was kidding. Maybe. “A consistently low workload from the platoon will eventually be seen as a symptom of a greater problem, but it has to be across the board. A united front. There can't be any exceptions.”

Jack knew what his sergeant was saying. “Borovski?”

“Borovski.”

Sean Borovski, known throughout the station as Boris — a nickname he hated — was a slug of a police officer. Lazy, fat and cowardly, he was everything Jack hated to see in a police officer. To Jack, Boris extracted revenge on society for a tormented childhood with his radar gun and ticket book. But if numbers impressed the new boss, then Boris must be burning through the tickets.

Jack thought about it. Boris had looked rather smug on parade, even with his multiple chins spilling over the shirt collar he had undoubtedly just started buttoning up. Appearance had never been his strength. Nor had teamwork.

“I know it's a shitty homecoming.” Johanson clapped Jack on the back as he headed to the door. The sergeant was spilling over with emotion today. “But it's good to have you back. Sy would be proud.”

The staff sergeant's office was a tiny room crowded by two desks. Although technically it was an office, its chief function, unofficially, was to act as a shortcut from the back hall to the front desk. Except when Staff Sergeant Greene was in residence, that is. During his first day, in his first hour at 51, officers had learned that they were to enter the office only when summoned and were always to leave by way of the same door they had entered. There would be no inadvertent use of the office as a hallway.

Jack stood in the cramped office while Staff Sergeant Greene sat, back stiffly upright, behind his desk. Although, since the desks were butted face to face and Jack was standing to the side, the desk wasn't quite an authoritative barrier. Greene, like everyone else, would have to learn to work with what the station provided.

The office was a squat rectangle with the doors in diagonal corners. Jack had entered from the back hall. Had he stopped when he entered, Greene would have been two desks away. Jack could have taken a casual approach and sat down at the empty desk, but instead he had stepped around it and placed himself beside Greene's desk, forcing the staff to turn in his chair.

It was a petty tactic, but Greene was reminding Jack rather forcefully of his father-in-law: a man used to being obeyed, who had no time for the opinions of others unless those opinions complemented his own. Jack had made a critical error the first time he had allowed Karen's dad to treat him the way he treated everyone else: as an inferior. Jack had assumed his attitude was a facade and would change once he realized his daughter's new suitor was serious. It wasn't a facade and it hadn't changed. Jack had taken a lot of shit from Hawthorn; he wasn't going to make the same mistake with Greene.

Greene was attempting to regain the upper hand by forcing Jack to wait as he took care of important staff sergeant stuff. Too bad all he had in front of him were the day's parade sheets. There was only so much he could do with a list of officer names and their assigned cars, lunch hours and portable radios. Jack wondered when Greene would realize that the longer he looked over the sheet the dumber he appeared.

Pretty dumb, but Jack was tired of waiting.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” No way was Jack going to start by giving this waxed-moustache prick his full title. His training officer had taught him that rank had to be respected but that the person behind the rank had to earn it. And Greene had earned shit so far.

Greene gave the sheets a final check and set them aside before turning to Jack. He surveyed Jack from head to toe and back again, as if he hadn't given him a thorough exam not half an hour ago. Jack was tempted to hoist his pant legs unasked in case Greene wanted another look at his socks.

“I understand you were stationed here once before,” he said by way of greeting.

“Yes, sir. Last summer.”

Greene's right eye twitched. Jack figured it was because of the “sir.” “I also understand you were involved in some questionable activities.” His lips tightened as if tasting something unpleasant. “Nevertheless, you are the senior road man and as such I expect you to set an example for the officers beneath you.”

Jack held back a retort. If Greene thought length of service was the only factor that made a leader, then in his own mind he would be close to demigod status because of his forty plus years on the job. But if Borovski was one of his favourites, as Johanson had suggested, then Greene had absolutely no insight when it came to judging a copper's worth.

“I will be looking to you to unite this platoon,” Greene said, unknowingly echoing Johanson's words. Jack figured he meant unifying them under Greene's control. “Any officer who cannot work toward what is best for this platoon —”
What's best for you, you mean.
“— has no place here.” Greene fixed Jack with an authoritative stare. If the quivering tips of his moustache hadn't kept distracting Jack, it would almost have been effective. “I will tolerate no rogue officers.”

I think I've just been told no more questionable activities.
“All for one and one for all,” he said.

Greene appeared not to be a movie buff. “If that's how you wish to view it.”

“Is that all, sir? I'd like to get out on the road.” Jack had had enough of the prick and his moustache.

“You may go when I'm finished with you,” Greene snapped. “I have an assignment for you, Officer Warren. As poor as the officers are on this shift, there is one among them who is rather prominent in his impertinence.”

Manny, what have you done?

“I have already formally cautioned Officer Armsman on several occasions about his appearance and disrespectful attitude to those superior to him in rank. If he cannot amend his ways, he will find himself disciplined or transferred. Or both. It is your job, Officer, to influence his behaviour and attitude before my patience runs dry. And I am not a patient man.”

Mentally, Jack was rolling his eyes. Manny was a good cop with a huge heart and a resolute, some would say stubborn, view of right and wrong. And there was no doubt that Greene's manhandling of the platoon would fall well within his “wrong” category. His problem was that he vocalized his opinions. He felt everyone should be able to talk “off the record.” Sy had once warned Manny there was no such thing as off the record with a supervisor and it seemed Jack was going to have to remind him of that.