Project Purple

3 - The Detective

Rigor's Lieutenant called the new program IDC, or inter-departmental cooperation.

"We're going to start sharing responsibilities around here, get everyone rowing the same way."

The IDC, some new theory from abroad, was designed to commingle the different sections within the precinct, so that everyone would have a better idea of what everyone else did. In the Lieutenant's mind, this would, "get everyone rowing the same way."

The man was an idiot. And he didn't know a metaphor from a meteor; why would they be rowing boats in the middle of the Mojave Desert? They were now six weeks into this IDC program, and Rigor had received zero help in Missing Persons, though he had a stack of unattended papers on his desk that teetered forlornly in another room, while he mucked about elsewhere.

"We'll be done in just a minute, then you can go have a seat with your friends," he told the hooker sitting across from the desk.

The hooker sneered over at the other women, lazing in chairs against the wall, "Are they my friends?"

The other cops seemed to feel there was something naive about Rigor, because he wasn't busting psycho perps, or crazed druggies. Unless you got a little blood splattered on your shirt now and then, you weren't part of the team.

"I'm going to drop a turd right here, unless I get an ashtray," the hooker said, her cigarette ash about to fall onto the floor.

"There's no smoking in a police station," he admonished, pushing an ashtray over to her.

The hooker snickered, then dropped her ash on the floor, anyway.

Rigor pretended not to see, swiveling in the chair and glancing around the large room. The desks of the other detectives turned away from each other in some muddled configuration that made no sense to him, as if the cops were all pissed off and wanted to be left alone.

Rigor didn't care for anyone who had come on board in the last five years; they were all so smug, so certain of themselves, like ID theft only happened to the hapless who didn't know how to look after themselves in this sly, new techie world.

The fiasco of the last month didn't help to bolster his macho-status with all the gym rats that now permeated the department-Somehow, thieves had swiped Rigor's credit card number and purchased over eight thousand dollars of merchandise, in several states, over a two-week spree.

As a police detective who also counseled others on how to avoid identity theft, Rigor wished he had taken his own advice. Like all cops, Rigor just figured he was exempt from all the identity theft going on; like nobody would dare target the police.

The videos of the Goatwench hadn't stopped, either, and deep down, Rigor sensed there was some connection between these incessant clips of the whipped young woman speaking archaic English, and his ID theft-But this was something he wouldn't confess to anyone, not even Doogan.

He glanced back at the hooker across the desk, and the woman beat her lashes at him. Now that was a prostitute. This goatwench woman was no prostitute; Rigor knew the difference. That was his job. A good cop could size up a whore in an instant, and sharp outfits never disguised what Rigor called 'the hurting' in their eyes.

Was this Goatwench possibly, probably, partaking in some twisted web clip promoting some sadistic gentleman's club-one that welcomed flogging? - No doubt, right here in Sin City, too. The strip... It was just the place for these warped adult role-plays.

"Are you booking her or setting up a date?" came a taunt from one of the hookers by the wall, and they all cackled like hens.

Rigor went back to the dreary paperwork, but he could now empathize with the thousands of folks who had gotten Internet scammed-Oh, yeah, he was familiar with that, all right. Now he was banking on-line, and no account information came through the mail. And he also began running a semi-annual credit report to look for other shenanigans, while using cash as often as he could.