Station Stereotypes: The New Detective

It is Angelo's first day in civvies*. After two and a half years hooning round with blue lights on, he has passed his Detective's board, defeating a grand total of one other candidate in the process (the other one being a traffic officer).

He has grand plans. No more will he have to deal with the common assault on the woman who got nudged by her husband into a sitting position. No more the twelve-year-old who pinched a gir's bum in the park and ran away giggling. No more the two stolen bicycles sold on Ebay. No more the bouncer who headbutted someone and broke their nose.

Angelo takes up his seat in the CID office with the proud air of a Real Police Officer. His sergeant approaches and hands over a pile of paper. It's a GBH. A woman was nudged by her husband into a sitting position. In the process she banged her head on a lamp and cracked her skull. Next he's assigned the twelve-year-old who stuck his hand inside a girl's pants in the park and ran away giggling. Then a complicated fraud involving three bicycle shops and an Ebay account. Finally, a bouncer who headbutted someone, then took out a knife and stabbed them.

By the end of the day, Angelo is a highly-trained detective. He now knows that a GBH is just a common assault with worse injuries. That a rape is just a bottom-pinch involving penetration. That fraud is just what you call it when it involves documentary evidence and big companies.

With this advanced knowledge, Angelo is now expected to scan computer logs for incidents that require his input. Whatever he types into the logs will be enacted by the uniformed officers at the scene, whether or not he was actually drinking a cup of tea when he typed it. Moreover, he is now competent to advise his former crew-mates and their sergeants on how best to package exhibits and write their statements. He is a font of all knowledge about major crime and critical incident handling. He can interview suspects ten times as effectively as when he was wearing a uniform.

Angelo finds an envelope in his docket. He retrieves it, runs his finger along the seal, and a post-it note falls out. His breath catches in his throat. He holds the note up, turns it over in his hands, clutches it to his chest and lets the joy flood through him. It is his authorisation code, his top security access, to that hallowed phrase: "It's not in our remit."

* Civvies = plain clothes

PS - did anyone else think it was a hilarious pun when they read today that "the body of a guy has been found in the embers of a bonfire"? Just me then...
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