A Pilgrim’s Digression

“Law and order” conservatives always extoll the virtues of the police and the armed forces as the “protectors” of our liberty. Anyone who has ever come into contact with the police, on one side of the law or the other, or whose country has been invaded, knows that the reality is decidedly a mixed bag. Give some people a gun and the authority to use it, and a guardian of liberty can become an autocrat.

This is not a “bash the police” post, but I do have a gripe with the Metropolitan Police of Washington, DC. As those of you who read this blog know, two weeks ago my car was broken into. I called the police. The policeman was not exactly friendly, but he was not menacing, either. He just seemed bored by the whole matter as he walked around the car, asking questions and jotting down information. His response to my anxieties was indifference. He’d seen it all before, many times, and it was nothing to get emotional about.

So then upon returning home, I tried to get a copy of the police report for insurance purposes. That’s when things turned sour.

First, I call the phone number the officer gave me at the scene. After I explain why I am calling, the female officer, who is obviously impatient to get me off the phone, says curtly “You called the wrong number. Call…” and she proceeds to give me the number so rapidly that I have to ask her to repeat it three times before I get it written down.

So I call that number. Another officer answers the phone, and I explain my request again.

“You need to put your request in writing and mail it to us with a self-addressed stamped envelope,” she tells me.

I was expecting that the report could be faxed or emailed, or at least that the police would mail it free of charge. So I asked, “I have a fax number for the insurance agency if…”

She interrupts, “We don’t do that. We don’t have a fax machine.”

“You don’t have a fax machine? In a police station?”

“No.”

I didn’t say anything for a few moments, trying to decide if she was telling the truth or just being lazy.

“Anything else?” She asks.

“What’s that address?”

She gives me the address and I hang up and immediately begin writing my request for a copy of the police report. I mailed it out the day after my car was broken into.

I waited all last week, until Thursday. No police report arrived in the mail, so I called them up again. Another female officer answered; I don’t know if it was the same one.

“I still haven’t received the police report I requested, and it’s kind of important. I need to file this claim with my insurance…”

She interrupts me (question: why don’t the police want to listen to people?), “It should be coming any day, Sir. We mail those out the same day we receive them.” She is speaking in that kind of exasperated way that can really alter a person’s temper quick.

“You didn’t let me tell you when I mailed it,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter. It should be arriving any day. Give it another week.”

“Look, can I at least verify the address I mailed it to?”

She sighs, “Yeah, go ahead.”

I read back the address I was given the first time I called.

“The zip code is wrong,” she says.

“What?”

“Should be 20002.”

“Oh, great. That’s the address the officer gave me last time I called. Are you sure?”

I am startled when she says nonchalantly, “I don’t know.” And I imagine her smacking a piece of gum apathetically, or twirling a piece of her hair between her fingers.

After a moment, I say, “Well, could you check and make sure?”

She takes the phone away from her mouth, but I still hear her say, “Hey Shirley, is the zip code here 20002 or 20003?”

There is some debate between Shirley and the officer I am talking to, but they finally decide that the zip code is indeed 20002. I was given the wrong zip.

“So I have to mail the request again?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, can’t you just fax it to me. You have to have a fax machine. I have the police report number.”

“That’s not the way we do it.”

“Do you have a fax machine?” I ask. I am going to try to be sweet; I’ll say “please” and I’ll even beg her to fax me the report.

She hesitates, then answers, “No, we don’t have a fax machine.”

She has to be lying. But what do I do? It does me no good to accuse her of lying.

“Alright, I’ll mail the request,” I say.

In retrospect, I should have asked to speak to a supervisor, but I never think of these things at the time. I am not a confrontational person. I am not the kind of person who asks to speak to a supervisor. It’s rather galling to my wife, I know, because she has no problem speaking up for herself when confronted. Me, I am more inclined to eat whatever shit people try to shove down my throat.

So, several more days have passed now. I called today to see if at least my request had been received. I got the same song and dance: “We mail them on the same day they are received…give it another week…” I am tempted to see if the police station is within easy walking distance of work, and just run by there tomorrow. I will call first…and probably be told that they do not give police reports to walk-ins.

Do all police officers act as if citizens are more trouble than they are worth? I imagine a couple beat cops sitting in their cruiser, drinking coffee and bitching, “Yeah, Tom, if it weren’t for people getting robbed and murdered, our job would be a hell of a lot easier. Damn innocent assholes.”

[UPDATE: I just did a Mapquest for directions to the police station. Turns out the original zip code I was given, 20003, was correct.  I am going to walk down there at lunch.]