The time was 0700 hours, in late October. A bright sun peeked up over the horizon. Inside the police substation, roll call was about to start. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing its rich aroma filling the air. A large box of donuts, half eaten. Sat beside it.
Day-shift patrol was reporting for duty. The squad room was packed with weary officers whose eyes looked as though they were still asleep–too many extra jobs with little or no rest, not to mention administrative changes, low pay, lack of support, citizen complaints, and all the usual crap officers had come to expect. It had gradually taken its toll. The old adage rang true; "A policeman's lot is not a happy one."
The supervisor in charge checked his roster and called out each name. All present. After receiving their unit numbers and patrol assignments, the sullen group of uniformed guardians was ready for work. Sensing their lack of enthusiasm, the sergeant decided to lift their spirits and said, "By the way, in case you're interested, last night three of our brother officers responded to a silent alarm and blew up two members of the 'Bandido' motorcycle gang burglarizing a local sporting goods store on the city's south side."
"They were stealing rifles and shotguns, and attempted to ambush the officers as they entered the building. A gun battle ensued and both suspects were rendered dead right there. None of our guys were hurt."
A raucous cheer went up around the room, followed by hoots, hollers, and thunderous applause. Then, as the noise died down, the sergeant said, "And on that bright note, y'all hit the streets. Have a safe day."
The troops shuffled out the back door toward the parking lot, but with a little more bounce to their step, ready to face the daily perils they might encounter and better prepared to serve and protect. And who said sergeants don't care?