“Don’t seem like a big game when you come in every day does it?” The coffee breath wafted across the armrest to where I was sitting in the passenger seat. My first few weeks on the force had left me excited and every day had been new. I was helping a Sheriff’s deputy do speed patrols late in the night and the county squad car was cold as ice inside, the luminous lights casting a phosphorescent green tinge on our faces. Last week, he and I had chased a small car for eight miles, pushed them in the ditch outside of town, appended a single suspect who tried to flee, and took a million dollars worth of hard drugs off the streets. That’s what the newspaper said. But most of the excitement from the “big bust” was gone. Truthfully, if the guy had just pulled over, we would have told him to fix his license plate lights and let him go.
Now we were sitting in the ice cold squad car, on the side of the frozen highway. The motor burbled almost noiselessly. The fast food coffee was scalding hot even after an hour but my toes were still cold- the dashboard radar gun would pick up the blower fan. As long as there were headlights on the horizon, the blower fan was off and the gun was on. We’d watch the numbers on the gun move up and down. The magic number was 65, as the speed limit was 55. We also watched for cars weaving, or not holding steady speed. Sometimes, after a big line of cars, I could see my breath in the car.
“No it doesn’t seem like it anymore. It seems more like a job.” I replied finally.
“Nope. Just a job.” He agreed, slurping more coffee.
The Crown Victoria we were in was actually the prized machine of the county, Unit number 1, or as a passing joke, Car Ramrod. It had been souped up quite a bit. Normal cop cars were not much different than everyday cars, with the speed limiter taken off and a few modifications to the injectors or the computer, and at times a few suspension parts beefed up. This was the oldest car, but the fastest by far. The Sherriff had let us use it this week after last week’s big bust, as a treat. A local auto shop class had spent 3 years on it and donated it to the county, and it showed up for parades and for the occasional summer motorcycle speed sting. Instead of the traditional 4.6 liter engine, a 5.4 liter engine from a truck had been stuffed under the hood with goodies to boot, with a beefed up racing type transmission that would snap the back tires loose. I was excited for it.
“I hate this car,” groaned Deputy Kazemore finally.
“I think its kina cool…” I mentioned.
“Well, yeah sort of. But she drinks gas. I hate getting gas 3 times a night with it.” He tapped the gas gage.
I laughed a little. “Just another night on the job.”
“No fun and games here, right?” he laughed too.
We were silent for a long while, listening to the radio and officers running plates on parked cars which had a soothing effect after awhile. No cars went past for a time, and being able to use the heater, the car got warmer and warmer. This made us a bit sleepy. My toes thawed out and my coffee was by now cold.
Kazemore shut off the heater blower motor as a pair of headlights came into view. The radar gun slowly settled in on the lights and not on the fan, and even before that, both he and I knew this vehicle was going way too fast. As the lights came closer and the readout on the speed gun read ninety four miles an hour, we both sat up in the seat.
“Unit one to dispatch this is Deputy Kazemore, clocking an inbound on highway 18, mile maker 24 at 94 miles an hour, intend to intercept. Over.”
“Car Ramrod this is dispatch we copy… Units 29 and 42, move in to assist, repeat, Units two niner and four two, move in to assist highway 18, mile maker 24.”
In a way, I wished I could be in the driver’s seat. If there is anything we could have hoped for on this godforsaken, 3am vigil in the middle of nowhere sucking gas to keep from becoming popsicles, was some idiot to come screaming through at 94 miles an hour. A smile spread across my face as the car got closer and closer, and then ripped past. The red and blues lit up on unit one and with Kazemore at the wheel and a mash of the pedal, howling tires spun us the other direction. The taillights already seemed to be in the distance. The front end of the car lifted a bit with a healthy roar from the engine. With a smart “snirk” the tires picked up on second gear and lifted the front bumper again. When I looked over we were going about 75 miles an hour, within the space of seconds. I glanced at Kazemores face and the huge grin was priceless. Looking back down, we were touching 120 and still pulling, and catching up quickly to the car. My heart pounded with excitement, both from fear and in anticipation of the bust.
“Take that back. This car ain’t so bad.” Kazemore mumbled, as he hit the brakes chewing on the edge of 140. The car ahead was slowing down to pull over in the distance. Even though it wouldn’t be a chase this time, probably just some crazy trying to stay awake on a long road trip by speeding, Kazemore shook his head, still grinning somewhat, and talking over the babble on the radio. “Kid I think you are right. This is a game. Cat and mouse… Cat and mouse.” He finished off his coffee, and stepped out of the vehicle into the polar early morning air.
I chuckled, and advised dispatch that the car had been pulled over.