Typical Day
Lauren Thomas rolls into the police station with a large, leather portfolio cover under her arm around 1:00 PM—just when Sgt. Brody asked her to arrive. She spent most of the morning at the park with her dog, Gimli, waiting for his call; the police weren't sure when the final witness would be available to come in until just an hour ago.
"Hey, Lauren," one of the officers calls as she walks through the door. Lauren turns to see Cadet Blackwell shaking a Pictionary box in her direction. His wide, obnoxious smile stretches the width of his dumb little face.
"You're hilarious," she replies through the most authentic-looking smile she can manage. "It was funny the first time, and it's definitely still funny the thirty-fourth." She gives him a quick finger gun, and walks past the desk.
Her comment puzzles him, and he sits back in his chair to think. He looks as if this was the first time he'd ever considered that a repeated joke may lose some of its humor over time.
"Hey, Lauren, we've got you in B-Block," Sgt. Brody says when he sees her. She nods, and joins him across the hall. The officers here jokingly call different sections of the office "blocks," like a prison, but it's actually pretty helpful. Maybe that's why the names stuck this long, she considers.
Lauren is led to a long table with a computer on one end. A young officer sits in front of the screen looking frustrated, while the older woman across from him mutters something that Lauren can't hear from her distance.
"We tried the computer, but—" Sgt. Brody looks embarrassed. "Well, you know how these things are."
She does know. More and more stations are using imaging software to replace the need for people like her. She hates to admit it, but they can sometimes work—just not when you throw some inexperienced beat cop in front of the software and hope she happens to stumble on the right sequence of clicks. In Lauren's opinion, the police will always need an artist's mind ...even if they don't need her hand.
Brody whistles loudly, and the officer who was attempting to use the computer jumps out of her chair. Embarrassed, she scrambles past Lauren and down the hall.
"All yours," Brody says.
Lauren calmly sits down across from the elderly woman, and takes her large sketchpad out from its case. She pulls a pencil from the side pocket, and then smiles.
"My name is Lauren," she says. "And I'm going to try to help us get a good image to work with, alright?"
The woman nods. "I'm Martha," she replies. "And it was horrible. Just horrible."
Lauren turns her head back to Brody. "She was kidnapped. Tied up, left outdoors. Not sure why just yet," he says quietly.
"Okay, Martha, let's start with a basic description. Can you describe his body to me? Was he tall? Short? Fat? Thin?"
"Oh, he was very tall and slender," the old woman replies.
"Good, good."
"His hair was black."
"And what did it look like?" Lauren asks, moving her pencil in tight angles to create an angular outline for the suspect's face. "Did he have any facial hair?"
"I couldn't see the hair on top," Martha says weakly. "He was wearing a tall, black top hat."
"A tall black...top hat?" Lauren repeats, lightly sketching a large cylindrical hat.
"Yes, and he had a small, pointed goatee, and a thin slick mustache that curled up like this." Martha pinches her fingers and draws them up the sides of her nose in a tight spiral.
"Uh huh," Lauren says, starting to see where this is going. "Were his eyes sort of angled down toward his nose?" she asks. Normally, she wouldn't ask such leading questions, but she has a sneaking suspicion it's not going to matter this time.
"Exactly!" Martha says, surprised by the guess. "And a monocle! How did you know?"
Lauren takes a minute to finish the sketch, and then drops her pencil to the table. "Alright, I think we're done here," she says grumpily, standing from her chair.
Sgt. Brody looks concerned. "You got the suspect's picture? Just from that?"
"Tall black top hat, curly black mustache, monocle...goatee?" Lauren replies. She flips her sketchbook around to him and reveals a stereotypical, 1940s cartoon villain complete with a twirled mustache and black trench coat.
Brody's shoulders droop. "Was this the man who assaulted you?" he asks Martha dryly.
The old woman bounds from her chair. "That's him! That's him!"
"So when you said you were kidnapped and tied up..." Brody starts.
"Was it on a railroad track, by chance?" Lauren finishes for him.
"You people are just marvelous. Marvelous at what you do. Yes, out at the railroad track. I'd be run over now if it wasn't for that young hero, who pulled me off just before the train steamed through."
"Later, Brody," Lauren says with a casual wave.
"Sorry, Lauren," he says with an uncomfortable laugh. "I'll call you, okay?"
Lauren puckers her lips into a tight smile, raises her eyebrows, and nods. A few minutes later, she's back in the parking lot, loading her sketchbook into the trunk.
She knows she shouldn't be upset—she'll still be paid in full, per her contract—but she can't help but feel like just a small piece of her talent's now gone forever, wasted on the insane ravings of woman who's seen one too many Saturday morning cartoons.
She sighs, and starts the car. After five minutes of driving, she u-turns and heads back to the dog park...this time without her dog. She spends the afternoon sketching people's pets. Not for money—just for her. By the time the sun drops below the horizon, she feels recharged and refreshed. Tomorrow's another day.