The History and Development of Police Interrogation Techniques

The sublime dichotomy of Good Cop/Bad Cop…it seems like simple common sense to modern Americans. For instance, if you, the Good Cop, want to scare a criminal into confessing, you must make him believe that your partner is prone to excessive force and that you will be unable to stop him. A good way to do this, as we all know, is to have a few well placed friends on the force hold a conversation outside the criminal’s holding cell revealing that all the officers at that precinct are bound by shear dint of this “bad cop’s” personality to turn a blind eye to his excesses:

“That’s Kuwolski for ya.”
“What are ya gonna do?”
”Nuthin’.”
”Nuthin’. Yeah.”

Or if the criminal is a particularly difficult nut to crack, they might embellish a little further:

“Too bad about that last guy.”
“Yeah, they say Kuwalski worked him over for 3 straight days before releasing him.”
“I heard Kuwolski killed him.”
"I heard Kuwolski killed him and then ate him.”
"I heard he killed him, ate him, then shat him out and ate him again.”
“That’s Kuwolski for ya.”
“What are ya gonna do?”
"Nuthin’.”
"Nuthin’. Yeah.”

And yet, though this seems a self evident process to you and me, the Good Cop/Bad Cop scenario is in reality a hard won discovery, which for hundreds of years — from law enforcement representatives from England’s Round Table through to Spain’s Grand Inquisitors to America’s Keystone Cops — had eluded the simple pragmatic formula for success that we enjoy today.

Here then, in all its splendor and ugliness, all its moments of clarity and misdirection, is a brief history of the development of Good Cop/Bad Cop.

578 A.D. Good Knight/Chivalrous Knight
GOOD KNIGHT: The Grail….where have you hidden it? Speak, or my fellow liege lord will be forced to act upon you.
CHIVALROUS KNIGHT: (off saving many damsels)
GOOD KNIGHT: Damn.

In 590 A.D. , the formula was retooled slightly, yet still unsuccessfully…

590 A.D. Good Knight/Slightly Less Chivalrous Knight
GOOD KNIGHT: The Grail…. where have you hidden it? Speak, or my fellow liege lord will be forced to act upon you.
SLIGHTLY LESS CHIVALROUS KNIGHT: (off saving only one damsel)
GOOD KNIGHT: Damn.

1492 A.D. Good Cop/Native American Cop
GOOD COP: We know you know where the short cut to the East Indies is. See if you don’t tell us where they are, my people have to exploit this whole hemisphere, spreading disease and eventually enslaving and exterminating the entire indigenous population, which unfortunately includes my partner here. Now tell us where—
NATIVE AMERICAN COP: (scalps GOOD COP)

1599 A.D. Good Cop/Rubenesque Cop
GOOD COP: I beseech thee, miscreant, confess. I am well humoured, but my partner here, he is choleric and suffering from a distemper of the spleen. I will be unable to restrain him if you do not offer up the truth as a tithe to his wrath.
RUBENESQUE COP: I like gravy.

1700 A.D. Bad Inquisitor/Worse Inquisitor
BAD INQUISITOR: Confess to the heinous sin of heresy. Admit your allegiance with Lucifer, or I will be forced to torture you until you die.
WORSE INQUISITOR: And I will help.

During the industrial revolution, many law officers turned to then-modern scientific advances as their savior, for example, the disastrous 1882 A.D. employment of the Good Cop/Curious Cop patter:

1882 A.D. Good Cop/Curious Cop
GOOD COP: Tell us where the gold is. Please. I can’t control my partner anymore.
CURIOUS COP: (shovels coal into suspect who dies from coal poisoning)
GOOD COP: See, Kuwolski, coal isn’t the solution to every problem.
CURIOUS COP: Yeah, you’re right. What are you gonna do?
GOOD COP: Nuthin’.
CURIOUS COP: Nuthin'. Yeah.

1938 A.D. Good Gendarme/Morally Ambiguous Gendarme
GOOD GENDARME: Maintenant Monsieur Mastermind, tell moi where ze shipment is coming in ce soir or my partner will have to do ze rough of you up.
MORALLY AMBIGUOUS GENDARME: Eh. What do we even mean by “bad” and “good?” Zese concepts, Zey are arbitrary and imposed on us by a specific culture of religion and class. Zis suspect probably needed ze money simply to live. But who care. I am going for ze wine. Maybe I come back. Maybe not. Who care. Not I. (leaves)
GOOD GENDARME: When he returns, you are in trouble. He is a mean drunk.

By the mid 1900’s, using the controversial Rhyme Technique, law enforcement was closing in one what would eventually prove the most effective interrogation method.

1952 A.D. Good Cop/ Sad Cop
GOOD COP: Where’s the loot, kid? You got three seconds to tell me before I loose my partner on you.
SAD COP: (sings DEEP PURPLE)
GOOD COP: And I’ll make him do it in a falsetto next if you don’t talk.

1963 A.D. Good Cop/Dad Cop
GOOD COP: I want answers, and I want answers now you dirtbag!
DAD COP: Good job, son. Way to bait his anger. There’s no way he won’t tell you everything you need to know now. Good work. I am so proud. Uh-oh, Woo Woo!
GOOD COP: No, not now Dad.
DAD COP: Yup, now. It’s the Hug Train! All aboard!
GOOD COP: DAD! Let me go.
SUSPECT: You are so lucky to have a dad like that. I probably wouldn’t be here if I had had had a good male influence in my formative years.
DAD COP: SHUT THE FUCK UP GUTTERSNIPE OR I’LL SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK AND HAVE MY BOY PISS UP YOUR ASS!
GOOD COP: I’m so confused.

1980 A.D. Good Cop/Rad Cop
GOOD COP: Stop doing Ollies while we interrogate!
RAD COP: Skate or die, old man! (skates off)
GOOD COP: I’m 23!

By 1983, they were very close.

1983 A.D. Good Cop/Ad Cop
GOOD COP: So, we’ve got the evidence and a confession from your friends. All we need to know now is who’s the ringleader. Who set you up, you filth?
AD COP: Filth? Tough stains getting you down? Invented using NASA tested technology, new CLEANSING SOLUTION will clean your floors in half the time of regular disinfecting agents. Let me uncuff you. Here, I’ll mop this area with Agent X and you mop that area using CLEA—(suspect runs off) where are you going?
GOOD COP: No one likes you.

Finally, in 1985, they hit the mark. Here, in its entirety, the first ever recorded beta version of the Good Cop/Bad Cop patter in a live interrogation. Though ultimately unusable, the process would quickly be refined into the successful format we know today.

1985 A.D. Good Cop/Bad Cop
GOOD COP: Hey, listen, I don’t care if you don’t tell me who you were buying for.
My partner over there though, he’s not so well in the head. And if you don’t tell him what he wants to hear, well, I can’t be held accountable for what he does.
BAD COP: (enters) He talk yet?
GOOD COP: Nope. You want me to step out of the room, Kuwolski?
BAD COP: Sure. (GOOD COP steps out) Now, who were you buying for?
SUSPECT: I ain’t telling you nothing.
BAD COP: (shoots Suspect in head)
GOOD COP: (re-enters) Good work.
BAD COP: (eats suspect, then shits him out, then eats him again)
GOOD COP: Dear god, Kuwolski! I thought that was just a joke about you.
BAD COP: Me too. What should we do about it?
GOOD COP: Nuthin’.
BAD COP: Nuthin’. Yeah.

And who knows what the future might bring…

4205 A.D. Good Cop/Xandorian Cop
GOOD COP: You’re sure you can’t remember the name of the person who sold you the Obliteration Ray? Ok then, but I warned you. My partner, the crazy alien one, he’s going to take a crack at you now. Hey, (screeching noise, punctuated with guttural ululations), it’s your turn!
XANDORIAN COP: Dearest suspect, please, this is unseemly. Tell us who sold you the weapon.
SUSPECT: Ok.
XANDORIAN COP: Thank you.
GOOD COP: Great work. Uh-oh, here comes the Hug Train.
XANDORIAN COP: Woo Woo!
(They hug.)

Time Out New Amsterdam

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Requests for archived publications from before 1626 must be addressed:
c/o Archive Request
Time Out Weckquaesgeeks Tribal Hunting Grounds
Small chunk of land not yet usurped, New Amsterdam

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KNIGHTS OF HUDSON
This fraternal society of Hudsons, bound by the ideal of Henry Hudson-to have every new landmark named after them, is open to all males of age named Hudson. This week celebrate the discovery of the Hudson Small Copse of Birch Trees Formerly Hidden by a Low Hill and the Hudson Clouds That Resembled a Fish Then a Castle Then Just Clouds.

COMMUNITY ACTION
Indian Removal
Come help force the Mazola Tribe off their own land. Bring as much refuse available in order that you may toss it about and filthy up their land. Whosoever’s trash elicits the most tears from a Mazola will receive free 10 acres of land and a bath.

LET’S GO DUTCH
A celebration of the all but foregone conclusion that the Americas will soon belong exclusively to our glorious Dutch people. Town Common. 6 of the clock.

NORTHWEST PASSAGE LOTTERY RESULTS
Another 25 more names have been drawn randomly and those men chosen to seek out the elusive shortcut to the East Indies. Monday, names will be nailed to the rector’s door. Wives of the first 100 men who have yet to return will be on site to offer coping strategies to the newly widowed.

SPINSTERS OF NEW AMSTERDAM
If you are enamored of cats, rocking chairs, and silence, this is the club for you. FCM: Five Cat Minimum.

ROUND EARTH SOCIETY
The eccentric members of this group may have some crazy beliefs, but the public is welcome to party like it’s 1699 with them this Tuesday to celebrate their recent “circumnavigation of the globe.” Whatever that means.

PERSONAGES ARE TALKING ABOUT…
INDENTURED SERVANTS
Dubbed “the new slavery” by the New Amsterdam Times, servant’s rights abolitionist Lady Allison Coalfitch explains the benefits of having servants wholly dependent upon you without the stigma of slavery. If not for the topic though, come witness the novelty of a woman speaking in public.

MUSEUM OF THE MOTIONLESS IMAGE
Explores man’s fascination with pictures that do not move, which is all of them. Interactive portion allows patrons to create their very own still images. Choose between: Bowl of Fruit, Candle by Window, or Goblet Struck by Shaft of Sunlight.

MUSEUM OF INDIAN MASSACRES
If you haven’t had time to exterminate an Indian tribe yet, be sure to check out this touring Spanish exhibit featuring a replica of the original smallpox blanket and recent advances in Indian killing technology. Ends with discussion on treaty breaking etiquette.

MUSEUM OF THEOLOGICAL HISTORY
Pins and Needles
From the creation of the earth 6000 years ago until now, the most pressing question has always been, “How many angels can fit on the head of a pin?” A to-scale wax display reveals the answer. Also check out the “How Demons Work” exhibit.

Pinpricks in the Sky
New Amsterdam’s recently rebuilt candletarium presents this highly accurate recreation of the night sky. The 30-meter long curtain and 800 candles representing the constellations will make you wonder if you’re inside of doors or out of them. But who’s behind the curtain? Curator Bartholomew Evans of course. And God. Praise God.

MUSEUM OF DUTCH-AMERICAN HISTORY
This one hall museum, though small, makes up for its size with its freeness. Free.

HISTORICAL REVISIONIST SOCIETY
The only remaining evidence proving indisputably that Norsemen and Chinese discovered America first will be publicly set ablaze all week. Is it hot in here, or is it just the truth burning? Open to the public.

NEW AMSTERDAM TRANSIT MUSEUM
Celebrating the conveniences and advances in travel brought to citizens by the wheel, the horse, and strong backed servants.

24 HOUR BIBLE READING MARATHON
From start to finish, a dozen of NAC’s leading ministers take turns round the clock to read aloud the entirety of the Old and New Testaments. Discussions with the author to follow after you die.

PREACHING THROUGH THE NIGHTSTAND
Gideons discuss their radical plan to spread the Gospel through the leaving of free Bibles in the nightstands of local inns. The prohibitive cost of books begs the question, “Who died and left them a printing press?”

THE DICTIONARY
Continuing reading series of Robert Cawdrey's A Table Alphabeticall, the singular collection of all words. This week, the letter "ƒ," featuring words such as “ƒolemn,” “ƒacroƒanct,” and “ƒwiƒƒneƒƒ.”

INDIANS: WHAT IS THEIR DEAL?
Adventurer/Pastor Fallow Sturbridge the Elder discusses his books and theories on why Indians continue to resist being overrun though it is manifest that God has sided with Europe. Silly natives.

I’M PREDESTINED FOR HEAVEN SO LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED
Calvinist Danforth Purview reads from his mostly autobiographical novel in which the protagonist engages in drinking, gambling and illicit carousing with women of questionable repute after proving theologically that he is bound for heaven. A limited number of guests shall be granted a glance at Mr. Purview’s next work “A Compendium of Persons to Murther Now That I Am Anointed.”

This week’s returning plagues include insider favorite Pleurisy, the Ague, and The Consumption. New World superstar Smallpox will also be making the rounds. “Out out brief candle” indeed! But then, the bard may have found it tougher to write while contending with 3 continent’s worth of ailments and a tomahawk up his ___. ;)

See CLOGGING

VISITING ARTISTS
Jamming on harpsichord tonight with the Prussian born The All-Stars of Minuets is Schroder von Kreiger. Expect both major and minor chords…because these guys take it to that level.

BATTLE PREACHING
Weekly. Lyrical masters Franciscan Friar Cruci-fikshun and His Eminence Grandmaster Trip duke it out to see whose rhymes can best instill the fear of old Splitfoot into the layman. Favorite verse from last show:
“Your words are like zeros, make less sense than Nero,
You call that salvation? Your faith is on vacation.
That ain’t no fire and brimstone, you make it sound nice, cozy, like my home,
You should give up your clergy gown,
In fact, we don’t want you here, see you in Jamestown”
(kicks over podium on way out door)

TORY NATIONAL CONVENTION
The TNC is coming to town and authorities are expecting record protests. Constabularies warn that handcuffs have been invented and will be used if necessary.

FUNG WAH CARRIAGE SERVICE
New Amsterdam to Boston. 5 schillings each way. No refunds.

BROWNSTONE WIGWAM
Pre-war (war not specified). Owner asking 1.2 million sea shells.

Do not.

Master Barber seeks journeyman/guinea pig on which to experiment with excessive bleeding techniques. Pale and waifish lads need not apply.

Excerpts from "Acting Up! 25 Great Monologues for Horror Movie Cliches"

Also available from the Acting Up! series:
“50 Dramatic Scenes for Martial Arts Tournament Underdogs” and “35 Humorous Interludes for Robot Armies from a Post Apocalyptic Future”

18-22, Man
Gary is an orphan who spent most of his youth being transferred from one unloving home to another. Abandonment issues have continually forced him to push the women in his life away when they get too close. As the monologue opens, Gary is trying to convince his latest girlfriend, Karen, to stay with him while he works through his lack of emotional availability. Also, Gary is a wolfman.

Gary

Karen, you know I’d never do anything to risk my, our, OUR relationship. Not on purpose. But I can’t help who I am. If I’m tough to reach, well, there’s a reason for that, you know. But I’m trying. You have to believe me when I tell you I know that without you I’d be lost. Hey, remember that night in Alburquerque? You do. The hot tub? Yeah. The front desk guy at the motel had to call the police. Everyone thought you were in pain. If only they knew…See you’re laughing. Hey, look, I know the last few months have been rocky for us, I know I’ve been, well, aloof, to say the least, but I’m going to get my act together---god I sound like a cliché—you know what I mean. Look, I love you. There I said it. I love you, I’ve always loved you, and I always will love you. And in your heart, you know that to be—Hold on, was I supposed to set my clock back yesterday?
(turns into wolf, devours Karen)

20-25, Man
Lenny is a tough guy from the Bronx, a high school drop out, and a reluctant hero. Having managed to raise his two younger brothers almost completely on his own while watching out for his widowed alcoholic mother, Lenny’s paternal role is the family’s main source of hope as well as friction. As the monologue opens, Lenny is chastising his younger siblings, Stu and D.J. for falling in with a local gang. Also, Lenny is a vampire.

Lenny

You think this is a game? This. That this apartment you live in pays for itself? I pay for it. You think your school work doesn’t matter. Well, it does. You think mom’s going to snap out of her boozing some day? Well she’s not. Lemme tell you something, if you join up with the Los Locos, or the Demolition Crew, or the Bowery Boyz, or any of those other gangs, you’re selling your futures down the river, and mine with them. And for what? You two have to learn to respect—Argh! Who left that blind up?
(disintegrates into ash)

25-30, Christine
Christine is a bright red, possessed 1958 Plymouth Fury. Also, she is a classic.

Christine

Vroom! I’m possessed and from 1958! Vroom!
(runs over casting director)

The Greater Los Angeles Bus System Book Club presents: The Case of the LA Metro Passenger or A Token of Respect

It was another sunny day in Hollywood. That meant good conditions for tourists, film crews, and beach goers.

That meant driving.

And that meant cars. On the road. Lots of them.

If there’s one thing LA didn’t have, it was a shortage of drivers.

PI Sam Anderson made a decent and fairly exciting living as a motorist violations investigator, clear cut tail gate cases mostly, but on occasion there were jobs not so easy in the right/wrong department. Just 10 days on the clock, he went undercover as a resident of Park-LaBrea Apartments to track down the owner of a particularly jarring, over sensitive car alarm that was keeping the building up nights. Turned out the owner was a 90 year old, half-deaf consumptive living on her own for the last couple years. The last gift her husband and children had given her before their untimely deaths in the otter lake at Sea World was this car alarm. She said she’d rather die than lose that alarm, said it put her to sleep at night, said it kept her going in a world filled with nothing but suppositories and half-eaten Lean Cuisines.

Unfortunately for her, that alarm was in a car. Sam’s jurisdiction.
Towing that car away was one of the hardest things he had ever done, and not just cause the old lady turned out to have a fantastically strong grip. Driving away, he could see her, a broken wrinkly lump, weeping old people tears in the middle of the street. She died two hours later.

“The law was the law,” Sam had told himself driving away, but that was brief comfort. Being completely right didn’t make the inadvertent murder of nonagenarians any easier. But, those were the nuts life dealt you. Sometimes you got tasty peanuts, other times you got punishing cashews; Sam just happened to be this lady’s last cashew.

Author's note: Now of course, that’s not meant to be taken literally. Sam wasn’t physically transformed into a cashew. It’s just a figure of speech, like when detectives are called hard-boiled. It means they’re tough, not that they’re actually giant hard boiled eggs. How would they conduct investigations if they were hard-boiled eggs? It would be pretty difficult to do any under cover work as a 6 foot tall hors d'oeuvres. People you even thought were friends would be trying to put you on trays or at least trick you into attending art gallery openings and political fund raisers, and before you knew it--Gulp!--down the hatch of some obese conservative Republican, clogging his colon, making him even more irritable, and increasing the chances he'll push through some right wing transit bill that would make a horse and buggy dirt highway look positively draconian. I mean, really, the only thing worse would be an inefficient subway system. Anyway, back to our exciting story.

The case being offered Sam at this moment was a whole different matter, and the man in front of him, the Assistant Vice Comptroller of the External Token Reimbursement Sub Committee for the LA Metro Service (Los Angeles’ fabled subway system), knew it. He’d done his homework and had almost definitely discovered Sam’s secret, the reason he’d been forced into business on his own in the first place.

Back in ‘90, a few years after he’d started, Sam broke the one rule traffic violations investigators can never break. It wasn’t that he’d pocketed over $1.50 in dashboard change that day alone—everybody skimmed. It was that he got caught. Then the IRS got in on the game, asking a million nosy questions about the $14.72 Sam had spent that year but had failed to declare on his taxes.

“Those are nice socks. Is that One HUNDRED percent cotton?”

“Stop N Shop Oats? When d’you start buying name brand cereal?”

“Nice bathroom, can I pee in it?”

Three years of probationary status and a glove compartment full of failed dreams later, his status had been reinstated to full investigator at the department. It didn’t take long though before the stifled whispers as he entered a room and the refusal on the part of the bureau to up him to Bumper Sticker Fraud -- checking accuracy of claims that someone’s son really was an Honors student or if someone notorious for lack of sports prowess would in fact, rather be playing hockey -- forced Sam to go private. Since then, it had been an up hill battle to establish his own business, but he’d done it. Now this guy might be threatening to take away all he’d worked so hard for, all he’d strived toward all these years, simply because of one mistake Sam had made when he was young, a rookie!

The most embarassing part about it all this was, the car Sam had stolen the change from, was a Miata.

“So, Sam…” The Metro suit stopped, distracted. He noticed a map of the NYC subway system hanging on the wall, a memento of the days when Sam still dreamt of joining the big boys in the Big Apple tracking down big turnstile jumpers, skipping out on big subway fares . The suit giggled to himself. The guys at the LA Metro didn’t have to worry about any of those things.

“So, Sam, you seen any good dashboards lately?”

So he did know. Big deal.

“Look, whatever you have to say, say it, and get out.”

“I wouldn’t be talking’ like dat to a future employer if I was you.” The suit began tossing a Metro token in the air, one of the millions supposedly in circulation but which would never touch civilian hands. Mostly the Metro guys just used them for fishing lures or amateur hypnosis parties.

Brilliant scam, the Metro. Making the tax payer foot a multi-billion dollar construction and employment fee for an extensive underground subway no Los Angelino would ever get around to using. No passengers. No upkeep fees. No need to pay a large staff. Instead, give a handful of confusing but legit sounding titles to a few loyal goons, and voila, gravy. It made Sam’s dashboard scam look like chump change. His mind sifted through lost opportunities as the suit went on.

“I’ll put it real simple for you. We got a job that needs someone real good-like, on the QT. And you need a job.”

It was true. Since the police had started installing cameras at stop lights, a lot of business had dropped off. For an old traffic sleuth like Sam, that was bad news. Damn robots. Sam poured himself a cup of java and leaned against his desk.

“What’s the job?”

The suit smiled a thousand token, 6 zone, 3rd rail smile. “I knew you’d take it. Now siddown. What I’m about to tell you’s is confidential like. Breathe a word a dis and I’ll have da boys at the DMV muscle your class D into a class G, and I don’t think you got a 16 ton tractor trailer or a novelty Oscar Meyer Weiner mobile, do you?” That stung. “So keep ya mouth shut, Miata. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”

”Good.” The suit began recalling what had happened. “Now you’re not gonna believe what I’m about to tell you’s—“ The suit suddenly paled. “What I’m about to tell you’s is very—“ Again the suit paled. “The thing of which I am about to speak to you’s, it’s, well, it’s—“ The suit was about to pale again.

“That’s enough suspense.”

“Right. We, uh, well, we found someone on one of the cars.”

“What?” Sam choked on his coffee, dropping the cup on the hard wood floor. It shattered. The cup, not the floor. Obviously.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Otherwise, what would Sam and the Suit stand on if the floor were to sudenly disappear? Imagine a world without rules and physical laws. You could not write a story because all sorts of crazy things like this would be happening all the time. No, this is not what the English language was made to conjure in our minds. It was made for speaking and writing, writing wonderful prose works, haunting and daring in their originality, yet not at all propagandist, works that make you see both sides of an issue, even though one side is inherently right due to the over bearing evidence of it benefits to, let's say a large scale city suffering from severe expansion problems but for which a subway may not make sense due to the frequency of earthquakes. The English language is a beautiful thing.

“I told you, you should sit down. Anyway, last night, one of the guys, the Executive Vice CFO of the Token Insignia Redesign and Public Re-education Office, was gonna sit in one of the trains and pretend to take it for a spin, sit in the seat, make choo choo noises, for kicks, see. So he gets in the head car. He stops dead in his tracks and let’s out this scream like he’s seen the head of the Department of Transportation or something.”

Sam pulled on his tie nervously.

“And this guy’s like 300 pounds, 6’5’’, easy, so we know not a lot’s gonna scare him.” The suit stopped abruptly. The pupils on Sam’s Felix the Cat clock made a full revolution before the suit was able to summon back his personal demons. In words. He didn’t actually use black magic to conjure demons that he, personally, was in control of.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: “Summon back personal demons” referred to the fact that the man from the Metro was trying to deal emotionally with what he’d experienced in order to then explain it to Sam without leaving out important details. It’s a figure of speech. Like the cashew thing from before. But not so much like the coffee cup thing. But still beautiful, like English. Or a newly painted GE series 7 52-seat electric-gas hybrid.

“So a bunch of us just drop our sticks in the middle of a very big game in our Subway Series Street Hockey Platform Championship—the Hollywood Exhausters were beatin the North Hollywood Smoggies by like 5 so the game was almost done—but we drop it all anyways and run over to our buddy and he’s just starin into one of the cars, eyes as big and wide as our annual budget, which I should mention we squander on exorbitant trifles and bribes. We still can’t see the big deal so he lifts one hand and points to the window of the car. And there it was…”

The suit started to shake. Sam couldn’t believe it. This guy’s memories were giving him a 7.2 on the Richter, easy. And in case of an earthquake of that magnitude, an underground transit system would be the last place Sam would want to be. The floods, the fires, the rubble….it made Sam shiver.

“And there he was. A passenger.” The suit was terrified. “Mind if I smoke?”

“With the millions of exhaust spewing, inefficient cars on the road, why would one more source of dangerous airborne carcinogens bother me?”

“Good point.”

“Could it have been an EPA spook?”

The suit lit three cigarettes and a cigar.

With LA’s air pollution as bad as it was, it really didn’t matter what people did to their lungs anymore. People thought they had no hope of ever finding an easily accessible and environmentally sensible mode of public transportation anymore. If only more people knew about LA’s best kept secret, the bus system, thought Sam.

“Nah, Christine Whitman’s a personal friend of the Big Man,” said the suit. He meant the head of the LA Metro himself. It seemed the Metro had its fingers in a lot more pies than even Sam had thought possible. “She wouldn’t sick any of her people on us. We got the goods on her and how she called a moratorium on auto industry mileage and road efficiency standards suggested by the last EPA chief. One of the few organizations to raise their emissions standards regardless was the LA Bus System, by the way. So, it’s not them. We got a dozen agencies under our thumb, the DMV, the LAPD, even half the guys on Cheney’s so called Energy Commission which will undoubtedly push for further oil and coal development which means extensive wildlife drilling and a coastal oil spill average of %24 if he ever gets around to informing the public about it, making use of public modes of travel all the more important in the coming years. We got everybody for god’s sake. The only guys we can’t crack are those goddamn unbribable bus system bastards. They’re so self righteous with their fleet of efficient and environmentally friendly gas and electric hybrids, covering the whole of LA county. But no, we checked with a buddy who knows a guy over there and he said it wasn’t them.”

“I don’t get it. No one rides the Metro.”

“Exactly.”

“Then who could it be?”

“We got on the horn and checked with everyone, but no one knew who this guy was. We had to figure he was just a regular passenger.”

“What are the odds? Well, what happened?”

“We had to take him where he wanted, of course. But none of us knows how to operate the trains. So we lied to him, said the steam engines were out or Injuns were attacking or something—what do we know about trains—and he gets this funny look on his face like we’re all crazy. We told him one of us would be happy to drive him but he just asks where is everyone.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, exactly. How do I explain that LA is a city of 18 million people wholly convinced that a reasonable portion of their population rides the Metro subway each and every day and that without that assurance, a wave of guilt would sweep across the city’s millions of lip-service environmentalists and force them into political action, clogging civic leaders with requests for a yet more extensive subway line, one encompassing more than the one stop for every 200 square blocks we have now and forcing unwanted eyes to pry into our ledgers and begin funneling some of our funding, which as I said we squander regularly on the most decadent of bells and whistles for our families and friends like the time I bought a gold mink coat and a diamond coat hanger for my best gal, to those bastards at the LA bus system, adding to their already comfortable and reasonably priced fleet?”

“You can’t.”

“Exactly. So I told him he should take the bus.”

“Sound advice. I still don’t see how I fit into the picture.”

“Well, like I said, you can’t breathe a word a dis to anyone, but we don’t know where the nearest bus stop is. We need you to investigate it for us, and fast.”

”What’s the rush for?”

“The guy’s waiting in my car outside.”

“You shoulda said.”

“Well I just did, Johnny Smartass. Now what are you gonna do?”

“First I’m going to go online to the LA Bus Coalition’s easy to use website and type in our zip code.”

Sam did.

“Then I’m going to click on the icon for the nearest pick up spot. What’s his destination?”

The suit handed him a scrap of paper with a residence in the swanky East Hollywood district. Sam typed it in.

“There, corner of Hollywood and Vermont. If you leave now, you can make the 2:15. But don’t worry if you miss it, because the LA Bus System is nothing if not extensive. Another bus’ll be along every 10 minutes following until 8 pm when the service switches to ‘on the half’ then ‘on the hour’ after midnight.”

“You sure know a lot about the Los Angeles Bus System.”

“Know thy betters,” Sam quoted the old proverb.

“You’re a good man, Anderson. I’ll pass your name along to the Big Man. Here’s your money.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank me later.”

The suit smirked and handed Sam a large, jangling bank bag. He practically blew out the door.

By that, it’s meant to convey that the suit walked out the door in a brisk fashion.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: He didn’t actual detonate a small explosive at the door’s hinges to blow it out into the hallway or that the door was somehow on fire and he extinguished it with his very breath, a literal "super sleuth.". No, no, it’s just more of those wonderful figures of speech.

Maybe things were looking up for Sam. He decided he’d been wasting his time as a PI. It was time to ante up again…but this time he’d be on the right team, a team that cared about efficiency, cleanliness and convenience. The LA Bus System. First thing tomorrow, he’d put in for a job through an old pal's standing offer.

Sam sat down to enjoy some new coffee and count his money. He opened the bank sack.

“Damn.”

The LA Metro had once again cheated a citizen. What’s new about that?

Sam poured onto his desk the thousands of LA Metro tokens he’d been paid with, as useless as the hundreds of empty tunnels spread underneath the thronging metropolis.

“Well, maybe I can smelt them into a likeness of one of LA’s finest. I speak of course of the LA Bus System operators.”

Muffled through his office window pane, the sound of a bus rumbling by brought a brief smile to Sam’s lips. The floor shattered.

A FEW BEST/WORST LISTS

Worst Gangs to Fight in The Warriors Video Game

The Calligraphists

The 3rd Street Good Friends

The A Train Hemophiliacs

The Walter Mondales

The Stuytown Handicapables!

The Very Old Men With Bad Vision

The Secretaries

The Existential Quandaries

The Print Journalism Students Union

The Moist Boyzz

Les Petits Appertifs de Bronx

The Sponge Kittens

Cupcake Lovers Club

Worst Names for Metal Bands

The Monsters of Jaundice

Stül

Vulva Patrol

The Ergonomiks

It’s All Workin Out For the Best

Zest 4 Lyf

Megan’s Broken Law

Enemies of Pollen

Butterfly Dreams, featuring the Sequined Pajama Singers

Worst Ways to Open a Presidential Election Speech

“Today marks the first day of my 24 year Reign of Horror. So buckle up…”

“Black. White. Asian. Hispanic…who cares. You’re all a bunch of pussies.”

“I was trying to lose and you still elected me? Somebody, please, take these peoples’ democracy away—oh that’s right. That’s now my job.”

“The only thing I hate more than sobriety is not having a war to fight, but luckily I took care of both of those ten minutes ago.”

“Typos and leash laws will be my top priority.”

“As promised, the Jewish question is finally going to be answered with my presidency.”

“I, George W. Bush, do solemly swear…”

“I, Bill O’Reilly, do solemnly swear…”

“I, Derek Jemmin, do solemnly swear…” (he used to beat me up in 6th grade)

“Herein, life will officially be considered to have begun at intention.”

“Look, lie detectors make mistakes. You ask a lot of people if they were responsible for a spate of Mid-West killings in the 80’s and I’m sure plenty of them would fail that test too.”

“Herein, you can have roads or you can have electricity. I believe in your right to choose.”

“Guess who’s claiming the right of prima nocte…?”

“Hey everyone, turns out that car that runs on water really does exi--“ (cut off by 25 gun blasts from 25 different angles, no footage survives)

“In the words of the great Cthulu…”

“I hope you all have an incredibly high threshold for suffering and pain, cause you’re going to need it for the next four years.”

“I’m a big fan of the way Mexican prisons are run and I think they’re a great model for our country.”

“I’m pretty sure you’d be a lot better off with the guy who lost, but, hey, your choice…”

“A car in every garage, a cop on every street, and a camera in every bedroom. These are my pledges to you, America.”

“My unyielding, fundamentalist belief in Astrology will not affect my judgment. Unless Virgo is rising. Then some shit’s gonna go down!”

“Everyone who can not conjugate the French verb Perdrer is asked to leave the country.”