After two decades on the force, Officer Barney Doyle reflects on his first interrogation — and the humbling lesson that followed. This story has everything: pawned power tools, a poetic sergeant, and one deeply bruised ego. Oh, and a cameo by the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile.
A sharp, funny, and unexpectedly touching piece on learning when to lead and when to listen.
After almost twenty years in law enforcement, it is with some shame, I inform you that I have been moved from the street into administration.
I know what you’re thinking, “it took twenty years for this bozo to get promoted? Maybe he’s not so great after all.” Hogwash. I have signed affidavits from my mom and my dog proving that I am a wonderful man with thoroughly adequate hygiene. And that affidavit from my four-year-old nephew is perjurious slop from a sore loser who shouldn’t play poker if he can’t afford to lose.
No, this transition has nothing to do with my skills as a crime fighter. I’m afraid it’s something much more sinister. At this advanced age, I just no longer have the looks to compete with those darn firefighters.
It’s competitive out there in the emergency services game. Why is anybody going to call chubby old Barney Doyle when there is a fire station full of underwear models right down the street? It’s time for a newer, sexier, generation of law enforcement to strap on the duty belt and seduce those cats out of those trees.
When the end is closer than the beginning, be it in a career or eating a pizza, a man gets a little introspective about what he’s done. Ordinarily I don’t like to tell these kinds of stories because it feels dirty to betray the confidence of the victims (and I am not the type to shower any more than necessary). But it was a minor crime and I don’t think the victim would mind. Just to be safe, I’m changing all the names and locations. Plus, I’ve had enough head injuries in my life, I’m probably changing a lot of the facts too.
Let me set the scene. It’s almost two decades ago, in the mid 2000s. I’m fresh out of the academy and halfway through field training. I’m handsome as a fireman, confident for no real reason, and certain that I can solve all of society’s problems with a pair of handcuffs and a smile.
And I’m about to conduct my first interrogation.
Prudence would dictate that a rookie officer take a veteran into the room with him for his first interrogation. I don’t know who Prudence is, but she doesn’t tell 25-year-old Barney Doyle how to do the job. I had one hour of interrogation training at the academy, and I was ready to work my magic.
Plus, I had an ace up my sleeve. I was a newspaper reporter before I became a cop. I knew how to ask the tough questions. Like, what’s the gameplan next week, coach? How did you grow that pumpkin so big, Mr. Anderson? And what’s for lunch at the Senior Center this Wednesday, Ms. Thompson? You’re darn right it’s meat loaf. Nobody lies to Barney Doyle.
The Sergeant was filling in as my training officer that particular day, and he was suspiciously eager to let me fly solo. Sergeant was a man of sophisticated tastes. He watched artistic movies. He knew everything about luxury cars. He drank the finest wine a city policeman could afford. And he feasted on the humiliation of cocky young officers.
The suspect had stolen some power tools from his employer and pawned them in his own name. It wasn’t a complicated scheme and we certainly didn’t need a confession to prosecute it. But I was going to get one anyway. I gave the suspect everything I had. I was charming. I was funny. I was empathetic. He cried on my shoulder. He told me about his gambling problem. He told me about his drinking problem. He told me every rotten thing he’d ever done in his life. But when it came time to tell me about the stolen tools? “Nope, it wasn’t me.”
We danced this dance for a solid hour until I cornered him with my last, best accusation. But again, “nope, it wasn’t me.”
There was a knock on the door, and the Sergeant let himself in.
“Excuse me Officer Doyle,” he said before he turned to the suspect and said, “you did it. You know you did it. He knows you did it. Quit screwing around and tell him what happened.”
The suspect stopped crying. He looked at the Sergeant, then looked at me.
“He’s right. I did it.”
I’ve had a lot of success in my career. I’ve solved tough cases. I’ve helped a lot of people. I once saw the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile in person. But I promise there is not one thing I’ve accomplished in my career that I enjoyed as much as the Sergeant enjoyed that moment.
He left the room without saying another word. He never brought it up again, and he didn’t have to. I got the message loud and clear. He was a better cop than I was, and he always would be.
The Sergeant retired from law enforcement altogether a couple of years back. I’ve still got a few years ahead of me. Wherever he is, I hope he understands how much I appreciate everything he taught me.
Namely, soften the suspect up with a handsome young officer then shock him with the aging mug of grizzled old Sergeant and he will confess to anything.
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