Pd Day Quotes

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life.

But what do you believe? I don't just mean religion. What are you sure of?" "That once I was not and that now I am. That one day I shall no longer be.

Early this morning, 1 January 2021, three minutes after midnight, the last human being to be born on earth was killed in a pub brawl in a suburb of Buenos Aires, aged twenty-five years, two months and twelve days.

But then something happened, Ray, something amazing. Something... "That white cop sitting next to me? He took a long look at my mother when she came in, just like, absorbed her, and then without even turning to me, he just put his hand on my back, up between my neck and shoulder... "And all he did was squeeze. Give me a little squeeze of sympathy, then rubbed that same spot with his palm for maybe two, three seconds, and that was it. "But I swear to you, nobody, in my entire life up to that point had ever touched me with that kind of tenderness. I had never experienced a sympathetic hand like that, and Ray, it felt like lightning. "I mean, the guy did it without thinking, I'm sure. And when dinnertime rolled around he had probably forgotten all about it. Forgot about me, too, for that matter... But I didn't forget. "I didn't walk around thinking about it nonstop either, but something like seven years later when I was at community college? The recruiting officer for the PD came on campus for Career Day, and I didn't really like college all that much to begin with, so I took the test for the academy, scored high, quit school and never looked back. "And usually when I tell people why I became a cop I say because it would keep Butchie and Antoine out of my life, and there's some truth in that. "But I think the real reason was because that recruiting officer on campus that day reminded me, in some way, you know, conscious or not, of that housing cop who had sat on the bench with me when I was thirteen. "In fact, I don't think it, I know it. As sure as I'm standing here, I know I became a cop because of him. For him. To be like him. God as my witness, Ray. The man put his hand on my back for three seconds and it rerouted my life for the next twenty-nine years. "It's the enormity of small things... Adults, grown-ups, us, we have so much power... And sometimes when we find ourselves coming into contact with certain kinds of kids? Needy kids? We have to be ever so careful...

If we do not do something to-day, how can we expect to do it to-morrow? If we can do it to-day, we must; nobody can put it off till to-morrow, because to-morrow we could do something else. We always think we have time.

Her aunt and uncle worked fifteen hours a day in their desperate attempt to keep the corner shop in profit, and their Sundays were marked by exhaustion. The moral code by which they lived was that of cleanliness, respectability and prudence. Religion was for those who had the time for it, a middle-class indulgence.

Martina Green: Today is Tuesday, February eleventh, and Zoe Spanos has been missing for six weeks to the day. Last Friday, the Herron Mills Village PD declared Zoe a runaway, and that’s why I’m here, talking to you. Because if you know Zoe, you know she didn’t run away. Zoe Spanos is missing. And we’re missing Zoe

What about his style?" asked Dalgliesh who was beginning to think that his reading had been unnecessarily restricted. "Turgid but grammatical. And, in these days, when every illiterate debutante thinks she is a novelist, who am I to quarrel with that? Written with Fowler on his left hand and Roget on his right. Stale, flat and, alas, rapidly becoming unprofitable..." "What was he like as a person?" asked Dalgliesh. "Oh, difficult. Very difficult, poor fellow! I thought you knew him? A precise, self-opinionated, nervous little man perpetually fretting about his sales, his publicity or his book jackets. He overvalued his own talent and undervalued everyone else's, which didn't exactly make for popularity." "A typical writer, in fact?" suggested Dalgliesh mischievously.

She knew that she should; it was the only way to integrate the nightmares with her logical daytime thoughts. The therapists she had seen in the past talked about exposing her fears to the light of day, desensitizing herself so that she could handle the feelings and work through them.

Without the ginger kitten, she would have been left with her own thoughts all night, worrying about what was going to happen at her police interview the next day. As it was, she seemed to fly from one kitten exploit to another. Was it any wonder that ‘catastrophe’ started with ‘cat’?

You know those FBI shows on TV? Where they do the profiling?” “Yeah.” “Cops hate that stuff. While it's all well and good to sit behind a desk and have assigned characteristics and fancy medical names for criminals,” Jerry said in a prissy voice, “at the end of the day, you just don't know what anybody's gonna do. You gotta prepare for everything. Human beings are unpredictable. After three decades with PD, I still get surprised.

Trixie slept through Jason Underhill's unofficial interrogation in the lobby of the hockey rink and the moment shortly thereafter when he was officially taken into custody. She slept while the secretary at the police department took her lunch break and called her husband on the phone to tell him who'd been booked not ten minutes before. She slept as that man told his coworkers at the paper mill that Bethel might not win the Maine State hockey championship after all, and why. She was still sleeping when one of the millworkers had a beer on the way home that night with his brother, a reporter for the Augusta Tribune, who made a few phone calls and found out that a warrant had indeed been sworn out that morning, charging a minor with gross sexual assault. She slept while the reporter phoned the Bethel PD pretending to be the father of a girl who'd been in earlier that day to give a statement, asking if he'd left a hat behind. "No, Mr. Stone," the secretary had said, "but I'll call you if it turns up.

The car window was open and she was suddenly aware of the hot night air rushing against her face, of the scudding clouds, of the first unbelievable colours of the day staining the eastern sky.

Rolf turned to him and asked, as if he really wanted to know: “But what do you believe? I don’t just mean religion. What are you sure of?” “That once I was not and that now I am. That one day I shall no longer be.

looked more like one of those co-working hangouts that urban hipsters liked than an actual police station. It had annoyed the boys and girls in blue who had taken pride in their moldy, crumbling bunker with its flickering fluorescent lights and carpet stained from decades of criminals. Their annoyance at the bright paint and slick new office furniture was the only thing I didn’t hate about it. The Knockemout PD did their best to rediscover their roots, piling precious towers of case folders on top of adjustable-height bamboo desks and brewing too cheap, too strong coffee 24/7. There was a box of stale donuts open on the counter and powdered sugar fingerprints everywhere. But so far nothing had taken the shine off the newness of the fucking Knox Morgan Building. Sergeant Grave Hopper was behind his desk stirring half a pound of sugar into his coffee. A reformed motorcycle club member, he now spent his weeknights coaching his daughter’s softball team and his weekends mowing lawns. His and his mother-in-law’s. But once a year, he’d pack up his wife on the back of his bike, and off they’d go to relive their glory days on the open road. He spotted me and my guest and nearly upended the entire mug all over himself. “What’s goin’ on, Knox?” Grave asked, now

You can’t answer phones or type, so unless you can use your feet like hands, I suggest you take the rest of the day off. You can make up the hours later.

That once I was not and that now I am. That one day I shall no longer be.

had found it difficult to sleep since my husband had been killed, and now I lay rigid under the canopy of the four-poster re-living the extraordinary day, piecing together the anomalies, the small incidents, the clues, to form a satisfying pattern, trying to impose order on disorder. I think that is what I’ve been wanting to do all my life. It was that night at Stutleigh which decided my whole

Fat bastards, faux titles, and a mysterious case of diarrhea—no two days were ever the same throughout my NYPD career. 

In the vast majority of cases (83 percent), landlords who received a nuisance citation for domestic violence responded by either evicting the tenants or by threatening to evict them for future police calls. Sometimes, this meant evicting a couple, but most of the time landlords evicted women abused by men who did not live with them. ... [A landlord] wrote: “First, we are evicting Sheila M, the caller for help from police. She has been beaten by her ‘man’ who kicks in doors and goes to jail for 1 or 2 days. We suggested she obtain a gun and kill him in self defense, but evidently she hasn’t. Therefore, we are evicting her.” Each of these landlords received the same form letter from the Milwaukee PD: “This notice “serves to inform you that your written course of action is accepted.” The year the police called Sherrena, Wisconsin saw more than one victim per week murdered by a current or former romantic partner or relative. After the numbers were released, Milwaukee’s chief of police appeared on the local news and puzzled over the fact that many victims had never contacted the police for help. A nightly news reporter summed up the chief’s views: “He believes that if police were contacted more often, that victims would have the tools to prevent fatal situations from occurring in the future.” What the chief failed to realize, or failed to reveal, was that his department’s own rules presented battered women with a devil’s bargain: keep quiet and face abuse or call the police and face eviction.

What are you sure of? That once I was not and that now I am. And one day I shall no loner be.

Today. Today was the first day that I was a professional gluten-free baker. The first day that it wasn’t just a hobby, but my job.

We have to enjoy what we have right now, because no one knows what we might or might not have tomorrow. It could all be gone in a day.

First of all, I want to reassure you that the primary way that SARS spreads is by close person-to-person contact, perhaps by droplets when the infected person coughs or sneezes, or by someone touching the surface or object which has been contaminated by infected droplets and then carrying them to the nose, mouth or eyes. It’s possible that SARS might be carried through the air by other means, but at present no one seems sure of that. We can take it that only those of you who came into close contact with either Dr. Speidel or Mr. Dalgliesh are seriously at risk. Nevertheless, it is right that everyone here on Combe should be in quarantine for about ten days. The

The aching in his limbs had persisted all day, and it occurred to him that he might be infectious and, if so, wondered whether it was fair to call on Miss Holcombe. But he wasn’t either sneezing or coughing. He would keep his distance as far as possible,

The last few days had drained her of so much emotion that this final revelation fell like a hammer on wool.

And with that touch the memories came flooding back. The verb is trite but accurate; they came like a full tide, sweeping me back to the same day sixty years ago, December 23rd 1936, the day of the murder.