Officer James Dreg – Violating the Captive's Wife [#1] by SK999

Black. That was the color of his car’s ceiling. He had stared at it countless times and yet still found it more intriguing than what happened outside the window, which was basically, nothing. This beat was the most tedious he’d ever gone through. After all, you couldn’t expect much to happen in a block full of senior citizens. People didn’t even argue, much less stir up trouble, since; every raised voice would be inevitably followed by a hacking cough or in some cases, wheezing to death with a 50-50 chance of seizure.

Tearing his gaze from the enchanting ceiling of his squad car, he looked down at the batch pinned to his left breast pocket.

Officer
James Dreg
NYPD

He had worked so hard to be promoted from Officer to Detective, had dreamed of a hardcore job in the Homicide department, earning a nice, four figure salary, going on nice, bloody crime scenes, cashing in the jealousy of his fellow batch mates. But instead, here he was, still working the streets like a common beat cop.

A loud knock on his window startled Officer Dreg out of his reverie. Looking up, he saw a couple of white teeth encased in braces, and, after a few moments, recognized the face accompanying them. Rolling down the window, James grumbled, “What now, Ted ?”. The teenager brushed back his disheveled red hair from his eyes and grinned even wider, “NOW can I take a look ?”.

The Officer sighed.

He had met the kid on the first day of his patrol. Well, arrested actually. What he had thought to be cocaine, turned out to be talcum powder.

Driving slowly down 5th on Brook, he had spotted a red-haired teen sniffing some white powder off the back of his palm behind a dumpster. Visualizing it as the first link in a chain that would invariably lead to an urban drugs operation, he had leapt from his car and cornered the kid, cuffing him to the dumpster’s handlebar before whipping out an evidence bag and scraping some of the powder into it. He hadn’t been sure whether it was cocaine or heroin from just a look, so had raised the plastic bag for a sniff . . . sneezing uncontrollably a moment later as he recognized the smell that hung about his boss every morning like a pestilence.

A bit miffed, he had nevertheless apologized profusely to the boy, whose name he had acquired later, as part of a pretense to write ‘an official letter to Mommy about how her son pretended to take drugs behind a dumpster’. Ted had been sorry then. He was cocky now.

An hour ago, James had sent the boy running to investigate a ‘mysterious bout of coughing’ some houses down the road. That was just to get rid of him. Since discovering Brook Avenue to be the most peaceful work area in the world, Officer Dreg had taken to parking his squad car in front of a Donut shop, with the added advantage of being in the center of his assigned block in case an emergency arose . . . like ferrying a dying old geezer to the nearest hospital. Now Ted had returned and, as always, was demanding a look at his handgun. James sighed once again, pulled the gun from its holster, checked to see if the safety was on and handed it to the over-enthusiastic teen through the open window.

A moment later, James couldn’t help smiling as Ted ran down the road shooting imaginary bad guys, ducking for cover behind trees and bushes and talking in military lingo, which sounded more like a foul-mouthed offspring of Star Trek and Police Academy.

Watching Ted take down imaginary snipers with a handgun, James couldn’t help but think. If only actual police work were so glamorous. While he had been a lieutenant, James had enrolled for a two-year course at a local gym, building up those biceps and abs for the grueling jobs that would follow his promotion. Grappling with murderers, punching goons’ faces in with his bare hands and being the fittest in his team, had been on the top of his to-do list.

If he had known he would end up back on the streets, keeping all six feet of him rippling with muscle cooped up inside a tin box all day, getting married wouldn’t have seemed such a bad idea. God knows his parents had pestered him enough about it.

“You’re 27, James, it’s now or never”, his father used to say, “Look at me, I married your mother at 19, and what a beauty she used to be . . .”, then he would slap his wife’s buttocks.

James winced as the memory flashed through his mind. His parents had moved to Minnesota to take care of the family farm a year ago, selling his apartment behind his back and naming him the owner of their previous home, quite a big house over on 6th and Dale.

Now, sitting in his car in front of a donut shop, daydreaming was all he did. Like he was doing now. Shaking his head, James focused on the steering wheel. Ted. He was nowhere to be seen. In a panic, he fumbled for the door latch, pulled it and was about to get out, when he noticed the handgun lying serenely on the dashboard. The idiot kid must have been trying to skip another meal back home, without success, apparently. With a relieved sigh, James holstered the gun, got out anyway and strolled about a bit, working the chinks from his limbs.

Turning around, he caught sight of himself in the side-view mirror and bent down to take a better look. He was a handsome man by any standards. Had a strong jawline, blue eyes and wavy black hair. Had been a real chick magnet in high school. But here and now, he was just another beat cop.

Running a hand through his hair, James straightened with a scowl, ‘I swear, if I have to lead another day of this kind of lifestyle, I’ll plant a few drugs on some poor bloke myself, just to have the pleasure of arresting him’.

At noon, when his shift ended, he got back from a stroll, climbed into his car and drove to police precinct over on Central. Turning in his car, James walked back to his house, just a couple of blocks away. He threw his uniform on the bed, prepared a mug of coffee, and watched a movie . . . something about mercenaries who take control. Perfect.

He rarely slept at home, got enough shut eye on the job. Later, he cleaned his pistol, badge and baton, laying them out neatly on the side table. Brushing down his uniform, he thought about calling Cathy, but then remembered her expression when he’d proposed a different plan than hers . . . and it hadn’t exactly ended in a friendly handshake.

A week ago, Cathy had mentioned getting married. That was the time when James had still been gearing up for promotion and expecting a glittering career ahead. Of course he had turned her down, and, as expected, his sentimental girlfriend hadn’t taken it well. Then, to his eternal regret, he had mentioned taking a break. She had been out the door in an instant and hadn’t called since.

James spent most of the afternoon watching TV, lounging on the couch and wondering if becoming a street artist would have been more entertaining. Finally, the clock struck midnight and James donned the dark blue trousers and shirt, pinned his badge on, hooked the holster onto his belt, slid the baton into its strap, ran a hand through his hair . . . and sighed. His life had become one big sigh now.

He drove the squad car to brook avenue and parked once again outside the donut shop, settling in for the 7th most boring night of his life in a row . . . or so he thought.

As Officer Dreg turned off the ignition and the headlights of his car began to die down, an ear shattering sound broke the tranquility of the neighborhood. James was alert in an instant and brought his car to life. In the distance, coming closer, was a pair of headlights. Revving the gas, he turned on the turret lights, screwed his eyes against the bright light . . . and that was all it took. The headlights were past him, speeding down the road. James floored the gas pedal and maneuvered his car in a tight turn, shooting after the rogue vehicle.

Soon, the trees racing by were a blur, the accelerometer was just shy of 120 and he was drawing closer to the vehicle. This was what he had joined the police force for; apprehending criminals after midnight car chases at break neck speeds . . . okay, not really, but it was still better than sitting on his rump in a parked car outside a donut shop, half a day.

With his headlights illuminating the rear of the speeding vehicle, he could see it was a Toyota registered in Virginia. Fucking tourists. Honking like crazy, the car had skidded onto the intersection at Central, heading downtown. James’s hand automatically went to the radio, but then he realized that with a full squad chasing after the speeder, his name would once again be discarded on the sidelines once the arrest credits were handed out. Gritting his teeth, James floored the gas, bearing down on the gray Toyota. But just then, the speeder turned a corner. James went into the turn too fast, going into a sharp skid, trying to maintain traction with the road, his tires spinning wildly. Wrestling with the steering, he punched the brake pedal in short, quick bursts, gaining some control over his car before steadying the wheel and shooting after the Toyota, which was rapidly disappearing down Mason street.

Then it struck him.

One advantage of living alone was that he had a lot of free time, with nothing to fill it. More often than not, he’d climb up on his bike and drive down one street or the other. By now, he could draw an accurate street map of New York in under 5 minutes, knew every lane like the back of his hand, remembered every street sign decorating every corner . . . and in this case, a little detour sign at the end of Mason, with an arrow pointing left, towards Grove.

James turned the wheel sharply and brought his car onto a narrow, paved street which, quite conveniently cut through the back of a dozen houses and ended up on Grove a few hundred meters from the detour sign. Roaring down the pavement, he hit the road, spun the wheel to his right and slammed on the brakes. He could smell burning rubber as the handbrake engaged, fighting for domination with the wildly spinning wheels. The car spun around amidst a cloud of smoke, ending up facing back the way he had come, blocking the way of a certain Toyota which visibly struggled to slow down as it approached the one-car blockade.