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Authors: Margaret Truman
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given their lives in the performance of their duties appeared below, starting in 1901 with an officer named Harry L. Fender and continuing through more recent years. Brixton had stood before that statue on the first day he’d reported for duty as a Savannah cop and silently hoped that his name wouldn’t be added to the roster.
The entrance to what the cops called “Metro” was covered with a portico supported by columns. A large blue sign with gold lettering announced that this was the SAVANNAH-CHATHAM METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT , the result of a merger in 2003 of the Chatham County Police and Savannah City Police. Brixton entered the reception area, where the desk was manned by a pair of formidable female uniformed officers, one of whom Brixton recognized.
“Hey, Detective Brixton, how are you?” she asked.
“Not bad—and don’t ask what happened to my face.”
“Won’t say a word,” she said, laughing.
“Is Detective St. Pierre in?” Brixton asked, aware that the second officer was eyeing his bruises.
“I think so. He expecting you?”
“Expecting to hear from me. Thought I’d drop in instead of calling.”
“I’ll see.”
St. Pierre appeared minutes later. He took one look at Brixton, cocked his head, and said, “I suppose the other fellow looks worse.”
“I wish that were the case, and let’s skip the clichés. Got a minute?”
“For you, Bobby? All the time in the world. Come on back.”
St. Pierre shared an office with another detective, who was out investigating an armed robbery. Brixton took a chair and said, “Two reasons for my being here, Wayne. The first has to do with my face. I was jumped on my block last night by two goons. They stole the attaché case I was carrying, which contained an expensive digital camera and tape recorder. I had photos in the camera from a surveillance job I did last night.”
“Following some misguided wife or husband?”
“As a matter of fact that’s exactly what I was doing.”
“You waited until this morning to report it?”
“I was in no mood last night to hassle with it. I’m reporting it now.”
“That’s good of you, Bobby. I’m sure that the second reason for your visit is what happened at your office night before last.”
“You were there,” Brixton said.
“Ah certainly was. Made a mess of your door, didn’t they?”
“That they did.”
“Your lady-Friday said she didn’t think anything was missing.”
“She was right. You pick up on anything while you were there?”
“Can’t say that I did. We dusted for prints.”
St. Pierre sat back and made a show of scrutinizing Brixton.
“I know,” Brixton said, “I don’t look so good.”
“Ah wasn’t admiring the handiwork those two fellas did on your ugly face, Bobby. What I am wonderin’ is why a nice fella like you wants to waste his time like a character in a Raymond Chandler novel. Hell, you could get yourself hooked up with some respectable company here in Savannah, head up their security department and spend your sweet days watching shoplifters on a monitor.”
It hurt when Brixton smiled. “I can’t imagine a worse way to spend a day,” he said. “I might ask you the same question. With all your money you could be spending your days mixing juleps and charming southern women with your wit and good looks instead of sitting here.” He indicated the cramped, cluttered office with a wave of his hand.
St. Pierre laughed. “You miss the point,” he said. “Being an officer of the law gives me a certain cachet that other handsome, wealthy Savannah gentlemen lack. I’ll get you a report form for last night. No, better make it two. Seems like your troubles come in pairs.”
When St. Pierre returned, Brixton asked whether he’d had a chance to run the plate on the red pickup.
“As a matter of fact I did. Seems it’s an old discarded plate taken off a vehicle that was junked.”
“But the pickup wasn’t junked.”
“I’d say that the fella
The entrance to what the cops called “Metro” was covered with a portico supported by columns. A large blue sign with gold lettering announced that this was the SAVANNAH-CHATHAM METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT , the result of a merger in 2003 of the Chatham County Police and Savannah City Police. Brixton entered the reception area, where the desk was manned by a pair of formidable female uniformed officers, one of whom Brixton recognized.
“Hey, Detective Brixton, how are you?” she asked.
“Not bad—and don’t ask what happened to my face.”
“Won’t say a word,” she said, laughing.
“Is Detective St. Pierre in?” Brixton asked, aware that the second officer was eyeing his bruises.
“I think so. He expecting you?”
“Expecting to hear from me. Thought I’d drop in instead of calling.”
“I’ll see.”
St. Pierre appeared minutes later. He took one look at Brixton, cocked his head, and said, “I suppose the other fellow looks worse.”
“I wish that were the case, and let’s skip the clichés. Got a minute?”
“For you, Bobby? All the time in the world. Come on back.”
St. Pierre shared an office with another detective, who was out investigating an armed robbery. Brixton took a chair and said, “Two reasons for my being here, Wayne. The first has to do with my face. I was jumped on my block last night by two goons. They stole the attaché case I was carrying, which contained an expensive digital camera and tape recorder. I had photos in the camera from a surveillance job I did last night.”
“Following some misguided wife or husband?”
“As a matter of fact that’s exactly what I was doing.”
“You waited until this morning to report it?”
“I was in no mood last night to hassle with it. I’m reporting it now.”
“That’s good of you, Bobby. I’m sure that the second reason for your visit is what happened at your office night before last.”
“You were there,” Brixton said.
“Ah certainly was. Made a mess of your door, didn’t they?”
“That they did.”
“Your lady-Friday said she didn’t think anything was missing.”
“She was right. You pick up on anything while you were there?”
“Can’t say that I did. We dusted for prints.”
St. Pierre sat back and made a show of scrutinizing Brixton.
“I know,” Brixton said, “I don’t look so good.”
“Ah wasn’t admiring the handiwork those two fellas did on your ugly face, Bobby. What I am wonderin’ is why a nice fella like you wants to waste his time like a character in a Raymond Chandler novel. Hell, you could get yourself hooked up with some respectable company here in Savannah, head up their security department and spend your sweet days watching shoplifters on a monitor.”
It hurt when Brixton smiled. “I can’t imagine a worse way to spend a day,” he said. “I might ask you the same question. With all your money you could be spending your days mixing juleps and charming southern women with your wit and good looks instead of sitting here.” He indicated the cramped, cluttered office with a wave of his hand.
St. Pierre laughed. “You miss the point,” he said. “Being an officer of the law gives me a certain cachet that other handsome, wealthy Savannah gentlemen lack. I’ll get you a report form for last night. No, better make it two. Seems like your troubles come in pairs.”
When St. Pierre returned, Brixton asked whether he’d had a chance to run the plate on the red pickup.
“As a matter of fact I did. Seems it’s an old discarded plate taken off a vehicle that was junked.”
“But the pickup wasn’t junked.”
“I’d say that the fella
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