Police Academy Quotes

What have you gotten me into?" I hissed at him. "Me? What have you gotten yourself into? Couldn't I have just picked you up at the police station for underage drinking, like most fathers?

Okay. Now you have to move your arms and legs.” “I know how to make a snow angel.” “Then do it! Otherwise, you’re more like a chalk outline at a police crime scene.

Either greed belongs in a war zone, or it doesn't. You can't unleash it in the name of sparking an economic boom and then be shocked when Halliburton overcharges for everything from towels to gas, when Parsons' sub, sub, sub-contractor builds a police academy where the pipes drip raw sewage on the heads of army cadets and where Blackwater investigates itself and finds it acted honorably. That's just corporations doing what they do and Iraq is a privatized war zone so that's what you get. Build a frontier, you get cowboys and robber barons.

The systematic looting of language can be recognized by the tendency of its users to forgo its nuanced, complex, mid-wifery properties for menace and subjugation. Oppressive language does more than represent violence; it is violence; does more than represent the limits of knowledge; it limits knowledge. Whether it is obscuring state language or the faux-language of mindless media; whether it is the proud but calcified language of the academy or the commodity driven language of science; whether it is the malign language of law-without-ethics, or language designed for the estrangement of minorities, hiding its racist plunder in its literary cheek - it must be rejected, altered and exposed. It is the language that drinks blood, laps vulnerabilities, tucks its fascist boots under crinolines of respectability and patriotism as it moves relentlessly toward the bottom line and the bottomed-out mind. Sexist language, racist language, theistic language - all are typical of the policing languages of mastery, and cannot, do not permit new knowledge or encourage the mutual exchange of ideas. - Toni Morrison, Nobel Lecture, 1993

My instinct was always have your gun in your hand. Especially when you are telling somebody to do something. But, in fact, the police academy discourages this. They feel your gun should rarely, if ever, be brought out of its holster. Most certainly not when children are involved, which is exactly when I saw myself using my gun most often. A truant teenager loitering outside a movie theater is going to be far more motivated to return to school when he has the barrel of a .45 pressed against his cheek.

There was no predicting where life would go. There was no real way for a person to try something out, see if he liked it - the words he'd chosen when he told his uncle Patsy that he'd gotten into the police academy - because you try it and try it and try it a little longer and next thing it's who you are.

During the first few days a total of forty-three officers would visit the crime scene, looking for weapons and other evidence. In searching the loft above the living room, Sergeant Mike McGann found a film can containing a roll of video-tape. Sergeant Ed Henderson took it to the Police Academy, which had screening facilities. The film showed Sharon and Roman Polanski making love. With a certain delicacy, the tape was not booked into evidence but was returned to the loft where it had been found.

I had received a t-shirt from my best friend Veronica at my police academy graduation. It reads, ‘Throw your donut in the opposite direction and the cops won’t get you.’ I love wearing that t-shirt.

What have you gotten me into?" I hissed to him. "Me? What have you gotten yourself into? Couldn't I have just picked you up at the police station for underage drinking, like most fathers?

If you have walked into a museum recently - whether you did so to attend an art exhibition or to escape from the police - you may have noticed a type of painting known as a triptych. A triptych has three panels, with something different painted on each of the panels. For instance, my friend Professor Reed made a triptych for me, and he painted fire on one panel, a typewriter on another, and the face of a beautiful, intelligent woman on the third. The triptych is entitled What Happened to Beatrice and I cannot look upon it without weeping. I am a writer, and not a painter, but if I were to try and paint a triptych entitled The Baudelaire Orphans' Miserable Experiences at Prufrock Prep, I would paint Mr. Remora on one panel, Mrs. Brass on another, and a box of staples on the third, and the results would make me so sad that between the Beatrice triptych and the Baudelaire triptych I would scarcely stop weeping all da

I may not have been to college, he said, "but I have been to the police academy." ... He went on, "What do you think we do at the police academy, surf the internet?" "I can honestly say I never gave it much th-.

Unwinding isn’t just good medicine—it’s the right idea.” It was the very rightness of the idea that made Nelson become a Juvey-cop to begin with. The knowledge that he would leave the world a cleaner, brighter place by dredging the dregs from the streets was what propelled him into the police academy

I did not attend any Academy so it is not my job to police you or try to catch you in any act. If I get to the point where I feel the need to do that, I'd rather just walk away cuz it means you've lost my trust and without that, we have nothing left. Our foundation is cracked and I'm not living in a shaky house.

Could have rolled his sleeve back and touched his arm, but whatever Trevor. I wasn’t the touching police. If the touching police were here, they might have a thing or two to say about it, but that wasn’t anything to do with me.

It was the very rightness of the idea that made Nelson become a Juvey-cop to begin with. The knowledge that he would leave the world a cleaner, brighter place by dredging the dregs from the streets was what propelled him into the police academy. Eventually, though, his ideals were replaced by an abiding hatred for those marked for unwinding. They were all alike, these Unwinds; sucking valuable resources from those more deserving, and clinging to their pathetic individuality, rather than accepting peaceful division.

In, say, the year 1950, only firefighters seemed wise enough to have fire extinguishers in their homes. If you went to the family physician and asked him to teach you closed chest cardiac massage, as cardiopulmonary resuscitation was called then, he would have looked at you as if you were nuts and told you to go to medical school if you wanted to learn that stuff. And if you had asked your local police chief about deadly force against criminals, he might have told you to go to the police academy and become a cop, because that was their province. Today, things have changed.

What have you gotten me into?” I hissed to him. “Me? What have you gotten yourself into? Couldn’t I have just picked you up at the police station for underage drinking, like most fathers?” Mead, Richelle (2010-05-18). Spirit Bound: A Vampire Academy Novel (p. 478). Penguin Young Readers Group. Kindle Edition.

Office Peone looked at John and wondered what mental illness he had. The Seattle streets were filled with the mostly-crazy, half-crazy, nearly crazy, and soon-to-be crazy. Indian, white, Chicano, Asian, men, women, children. The social workers did not have anywhere near enough money, training, or time to help them. The city government hated the crazies because they were a threat to the public image of the urban core. Private citizens ignored them at all times of the year except the few charitable days leading up to and following Christmas. In the end, the police had to do most of the work. Police did crisis counseling, transporting them howling to detox, the dangerous to jail, racing the sick to the hospitals, to a safer place. At the academy, Officer Peone figured he would be fighting bad guys. He did not imagine he would spend most of his time taking care of the refuse of the world. Peone found it easier when the refuse were all nuts or dumb-ass drunks, harder when they were just regular folks struggling to find their way off the streets.

The air, soil and water cumulatively degrade; the climates and oceans destabilize; species become extinct at a spasm rate across continents; pollution cycles and volumes increase to endanger life-systems at all levels in cascade effects; a rising half of the world is destitute as inequality multiplies; the global food system produces more and more disabling and contaminated junk food without nutritional value; non-contagious diseases multiply to the world’s biggest killer with only symptom cures; the vocational future of the next generation collapses across the world while their bank debts rise; the global financial system has ceased to function for productive investment in life-goods; collective-interest agencies of governments and unions are stripped while for-profit state subsidies multiply; police state laws and methods advance while belligerent wars for corporate resources increase; the media are corporate ad vehicles and the academy is increasingly reduced to corporate functions; public sectors and services are non-stop defunded and privatized as tax evasion and transnational corporate funding and service by governments rise at the same time at every level.

We were scarecrows in blue uniforms. After a grand total of five days of blackboard instruction and fifty rounds at the NYPD firing range, my new police academy classmates and I were standing out on the sidewalks of central Brooklyn pretending to be police officers. They gave us badges. They gave us handcuffs. They gave us guns—standard police-issue Smith & Wesson .38 Specials. They told us, “Good luck.” In early July 1966, riots had broken out in East New York, Bedford-Stuyvesant, and Brownsville, Brooklyn. Hundreds of angry young men were roaming the streets and throwing bottles and rocks. Already they had injured police officers and attempted to flip over a radio car. On one corner, police found eighteen Molotov cocktails. The borough commander was calling for reinforcements—and fast.

On the 20th anniversary of the crackdown, when three shifts of people a day were sharing the watching responsibilities, she decided it was too good an opportunity to miss. She photocopied two articles she had written and distributed them to all the policemen and plainclothes agents, telling them, “You guys are the ones watching me, but you don’t know why you’re watching me, do you? I’ll give you this information so you know why.” She discovered that some of them had no idea what had happened on June 4th, and one—a young female student from the Police Academy—even abandoned her post in disgust after discovering the reason she was there. “There is nothing we can do about this,” another watcher told her. “We were sent here by our superiors. They’re all messed up. Their brains are all addled.

Like many in his generation, Billy had grown up playing first-person-shooter video games. He decided to take that experience a few steps further and resolved to join a SWAT team and shoot bad guys for real. He visited the local police station to find out what requirements and training were necessary to become a SWAT team member. He found out that the process was a lot more involved than he expected. He first needed to attend a police academy and become a police officer. Afterwards he would have to work his way onto a SWAT team over time. There were no guarantees. During his visit to the police station he learned that many SWAT members were former Marine Corps snipers. During that same visit the cops ran Billy’s plates through their criminal database and learned that he had outstanding warrants for speeding tickets. They unceremoniously arrested him and tossed him into jail.

Rather, part of the argument is that with so much graduate unemployment, juvenile delinquency and high-school absenteeism, there could be practical alternatives to what we have now. A case could be made for a return to apprenticeships in trades such as car mechanics. Another would be to rearrange our priorities during workplace hiring. Less dependency might be placed on easily-achieved academic certificates - and more public recognition be given to hard-won experience. Other possibilities include early entry into the armed forces or police - via military finishing schools or junior police academies, instead of book-obsessed senior high schools and colleges of the woolly-minded humanities. But, for sure, a campaign of objections to this broader model would be publicly raised by the very groups who stand to lose financially from the decrease in municipal funding. That is, well-heeled academics and comfortably-off teaching unions.

At a makeshift training school in New York, agents were indoctrinated in the new regulations and methods. (Hoover later turned the program into a full-fledged academy at Quantico, Virginia.) Agents were increasingly trained in what Hoover hailed as “scientific policing,” such as fingerprint and ballistics techniques. And they were taught formal rules of evidence gathering, in order to avoid cases being dropped or stalled, as had happened with the first Osage investigation.

The US traded its manufacturing sector’s health for its entertainment industry, hoping that Police Academy sequels could take the place of the rustbelt. The US bet wrong. But like a losing gambler who keeps on doubling down, the US doesn’t know when to quit. It keeps meeting with its entertainment giants, asking how US foreign and domestic policy can preserve its business-model. Criminalize 70 million American file-sharers? Check. Turn the world’s copyright laws upside down? Check. Cream the IT industry by criminalizing attempted infringement? Check. It’ll never work. It can never work. There will always be an entertainment industry, but not one based on excluding access to published digital works. Once it’s in the world, it’ll be copied. This is why I give away digital copies of my books and make money on the printed editions: I’m not going to stop people from copying the electronic editions, so I might as well treat them as an enticement to buy the printed objects. But there is an information economy. You don’t even need a computer to participate. My barber, an avowed technophobe who rebuilds antique motorcycles and doesn’t own a PC, benefited from the information economy when I found him by googling for barbershops in my neighborhood. Teachers benefit from the information economy when they share lesson plans with their colleagues around the world by email. Doctors benefit from the information economy when they move their patient files to efficient digital formats. Insurance companies benefit from the information economy through better access to fresh data used in the preparation of actuarial tables. Marinas benefit from the information economy when office-slaves look up the weekend’s weather online and decide to skip out on Friday for a weekend’s sailing. Families of migrant workers benefit from the information economy when their sons and daughters wire cash home from a convenience store Western Union terminal. This stuff generates wealth for those who practice it. It enriches the country and improves our lives. And it can peacefully co-exist with movies, music and microcode, but not if Hollywood gets to call the shots. Where IT managers are expected to police their networks and systems for unauthorized copying – no matter what that does to productivity – they cannot co-exist. Where our operating systems are rendered inoperable by “copy protection,” they cannot co-exist. Where our educational institutions are turned into conscript enforcers for the record industry, they cannot co-exist. The information economy is all around us. The countries that embrace it will emerge as global economic superpowers. The countries that stubbornly hold to the simplistic idea that the information economy is about selling information will end up at the bottom of the pile. What country do you want to live in?

Wasn't the fight for women's rights based on our demand to be treated the same as everyone else? As we've seen regarding the gay, black and feminist establishment outside the academy's walls, demands for special treatment lead to the marginalization and patronization of the constituency at issue.

But Dragnet evolved slowly. Webb pondered the idea he had received from Marty Wynn and developed it for more than a year. Realism should be the show’s hallmark: the stories should be authentic to the last sound effect. He began hanging out at police headquarters, riding with detective teams on house calls. He attended classes at the police academy, becoming fluent in police terminology and technique. But when he prepared his series proposal, NBC was unimpressed. It sounded like just another cop show, without the contrived thrill trappings. Webb was told to prepare an audition record: he had one week to pull it together. With his audition disc in hand, his next job was to obtain the cooperation of the police. This was essential, for the series Webb envisioned could not be done without it. He wanted to get his stories from official files, to show the step-by-step procedure used by real officers in tracking down a real criminal.

In pre-Indira Gandhi days the IB was basically guided by the ‘ear marking’ scheme. This scheme enabled the IB to earmark certain IPS officers while they were under training in the Police Academy. They were earmarked on the basis of their performance in the All India Services Examination, performance in the academy and confidential reports on their shaping up process. A number of brilliant officers, including the illustrious Directors like Hari Anand Barari, M. K. Narayanan, and V. G. Vaidya were inducted through the earmarking scheme. The humble author of this book was also an earmarked officer. Of course, some officers also were inducted on ‘deputation’ from state cadres. They were later absorbed as ‘hard core’ officers. This system was abandoned after 1970 to accommodate ‘loyal and committed officers’ and also to bring the IB at par with other Central Police Organisations (CPO), like the CRPF, BSF. The IB was opened up as a waiting room for IPS officers from the less glamorous state cadres like Manipur and Tripura, Assam, West Bengal and any other state where the prevailing political culture did not suit certain officers. They used the IB to cool off and to catch up with other opportunities.

judges, for many years, have given police officers encouragement and incentives to engage in all sorts of extraordinary deception when they are interviewing criminal suspects. They receive sophisticated training at the police academy in methods of interrogation that are remarkably successful in getting guilty people to make confessions and incriminating statements.4 You cannot blame them for using such methods—after all, we all agree that guilty people (at least the dangerous ones) ought to be caught and put behind bars—but the problem is that these methods of calculated deception are too effective. They do not merely work on the guilty. At least some of these methods, it turns out, have proven to be just as effective in getting innocent people to make incriminating statements, and sometimes even outright confessions.

her injury was a result of her police academy training, but she doubted anyone would listen.

Your wife?” “Right.” “What does she do?” Tracy asked. “She works for a janitorial company; they clean the buildings downtown.” “She works nights?” Kins said. “Yeah.” “Do you have kids?” Tracy asked. “A daughter.” “Who watches your daughter when you and your wife are working nights?” “My mother-in-law.” “Does she stay at your house?” Tracy said. “No, my wife drops her off on her way to work.” “So nobody was at home when you got there Sunday night?” Bankston shook his head. “No.” He sat up again. “Can I ask a question?” “Sure.” “Why are you asking me these questions?” “That’s fair,” Kins said, looking to Tracy before answering. “One of our labs found your DNA on a piece of rope left at a crime scene.” “My DNA?” “It came up in the computer database because of your military service. The computer generated it, so we have to follow up and try to get to the bottom of it.” “Any thoughts on that?” Tracy said. Bankston squinted. “I guess I could have touched it when I wasn’t wearing my gloves.” Tracy looked to Kins, and they both nodded as if to say, “That’s plausible,” which was for Bankston’s benefit. Her instincts were telling her otherwise. She said, “We were hoping there’s a way we could determine where that rope was delivered, to which Home Depot.” “I wouldn’t know that,” Bankston said. “Do they keep records of where things are shipped? I mean, is there a way we could match a piece of rope to a particular shipment from this warehouse?” “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know how to do that. That’s computer stuff, and I’m strictly the labor, you know?” “What did you do in the Army?” Kins asked. “Advance detail.” “What does advance detail do?” “We set up the bases.” “What did that entail?” “Pouring concrete and putting up the tilt-up buildings and tents.” “So no combat?” Kins asked. “No.” “Are those tents like those big circus tents?” Tracy asked. “Sort of like that.” “They still hold them up with stakes and rope?” “Still do.” “That part of your job?” “Yeah, sure.” “Okay, listen, David,” Tracy said. “I know you were in the police academy.” “You do?” “It came up on our computer system. So I’m guessing you know that our job is to eliminate suspects just as much as it is to find them.” “Sure.” “And we got your DNA on a piece of rope found at a crime scene.” “Right.” “So I have to ask if you would you be willing to come in and help us clear you.” “Now?” “No. When you get off work; when it’s convenient.” Bankston gave it some thought. “I suppose I could come in after work. I get off around four. I’d have to call my wife.” “Four o’clock works,” Tracy said. She was still trying to figure Bankston out. He seemed nervous, which wasn’t unexpected when two homicide detectives came to your place of work to ask you questions, but he also seemed to almost be enjoying the interaction, an indication that he might still be a cop wannabe, someone who listened to police and fire scanners and got off on cop shows. But it was more than his demeanor giving her pause. There was the fact that Bankston had handled the rope, that his time card showed he’d had the opportunity to have killed at least Schreiber and Watson, and that he had no alibi for those nights, not with his wife working and his daughter with his mother-in-law. Tracy would have Faz and Del take Bankston’s photo to the Dancing Bare and the Pink Palace, to see if anyone recognized him. She’d also run his name through the Department of Licensing to determine what type of car he drove. “What would I have to do . . . to clear me?” “We’d like you to take a lie detector test. They’d ask you questions like the ones we just asked you—where you work, details about your job, those sorts of things.” “Would you be the one administering the test?” “No,” Tracy said. “We’d have someone trained to do that give you the test, but both Detective Rowe and I would be there to help get you set up.” “Okay,” Bankston said. “But like I said, I have

After six months in the academy, trainees learn to: Respect the chain of command and their place on the bottom of that chain. Sprinkle “sir” and “ma’am” into casual conversation. Salute. Follow orders. March in formation. Stay out of trouble. Stay awake. Be on time. Shine shoes.

A wise friend of mine, my teacher and mentor at the police academy in Detroit where I got my training, once said that there are three worlds: the world we know, the world we are yet to know, and the world we don’t even know exists. He said a good cop is always looking for that third world.

I told you I had anger problems before. Because of what she said, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t turn into my father, that I wouldn’t be a violent person. But it’s there, deep down, always burning and building, just waiting to snap.” “Because you’re afraid of it!” “Ask Declan,” he said uneasily, and his dark eyes met mine for a moment. “Ask him what it’s like to watch me snap, because he is one of two people who have been on the wrong end of it.” His admission surprised me, and I wondered what they had been fighting over in the first place, but I let it go when he continued talking. “I vowed to myself that I would protect people instead of hurt them. That’s why I became a Marine. That’s why I plan to go through the academy to be a police officer. But the smallest thing could still set me off. Do you know what it feels like to constantly have anger simmering in your veins?” he asked. “It’s sickening, and it’s dark. So, yes, my mother was crazy, but she was right. It wasn’t until one night at a party with the most beautiful girl I have ever seen that I realized that, and finally understood what she meant. Because this anger inside? It’s dark. And you, Aurora? You’re good and you’re light, and I knew that from the moment I saw you; just like I knew what would happen if I was allowed to touch you.” Like he had that first night a year ago, he pressed his hand to my chest and whispered, “My dark would stain your good . . . but I couldn’t walk away from you.” I placed my hand over his, and said, “You’re more afraid of your anger than I ever could be, even knowing what I do now.” Jentry looked like he was going to disagree, so I pressed harder against his hand and spoke over him. “Do you see me?” His eyes searched mine. “I’ve always seen you.” I released his hand to place mine on his chest, and whispered, “Just as I have always seen you. Nothing about what you told me has changed anything.” The

He bogged down in traffic three blocks from the freeway. Yet another apartment building was being framed on a lot intended for a single-family home. A lumber truck was blocking the street as it crept off the site, and a food truck maneuvered to take its place. Locked in the standstill, Scott watched the framers perched in the wood skeleton like spiders, banging away with their nail guns and hammers. A few climbed down to the food truck, but most continued working. The banging ebbed and flowed around periods of silence; sometimes a single hammer, sometimes a dozen hammers at once, sometimes nail guns snapping so fast the construction site sounded like the Police Academy pistol range. Scott

all along the way, a biased media, a morally bankrupt academy, and a clueless Hollywood have abetted this softening. Rugged manliness is denigrated—being “macho” is assumed to be the same thing as being a male chauvinist. Being a thug or an outlaw is cool, while being a soldier or police officer is a tool of oppression. And besides, crime is a result of social conditions, not personal choices. Children are taught that the world is full of dangers—which is true—and that they aren’t capable of handling them without government assistance—which is a lie.

She wouldn’t let me anywhere near Gen either. I went to a homeless shelter and a couple of nuns helped me to set up residence to finish school.” God finally looked at Day, he wasn’t crying but his eyes were glistening and God realized that his eyes burned with unshed tears too. “I made it through school and did one tour in the military before I joined the police academy. Since then, I’ve taken care of her and Gen from a distance. They don’t know it’s me that got them their house and pays for everything they need.” God saw Day put it together immediately. “That’s why you don’t have any money. Because you give it all to them,” Day stated. God nodded his head. “Things may be different now.” God nodded his head again. “I went over there to fix the sink the other week. They came home early and saw me there after not seeing me in years. Let’s just say, Gen was nicer the day he came to my place than when he caught me in their house.” “Your house,” Day amended. “No, Leonidis. It’s their house. I'll take care of them until I can’t anymore.” God looked seriously at his lover, telling him it wasn’t up for debate. “Fuck, babe. Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Day was up and pacing, his mind going a mile a minute. “It’s

Her tactical instructor at the police academy had liked taunting them during early morning drills.

When my mom picked me up, I had her drive me to the LA Police Academy. I had heard they sold a license-plate frame that supposedly was cop-friendly—a cop who saw it might not pull you over for a traffic infraction. In the store I noticed a stack of books: the LAPD yearbook. I said I wanted one “as a gift for my uncle, who’s with the LAPD.” It cost $75 but it was amazing, like finding the Holy Grail: it had the picture of every LAPD officer, even the undercover guys assigned to organized crime.

Diablos: the name given to the igniting of, and ignited, farts. Trevor Hickey is the undisputed master of this arcane and perilous art. The stakes could not be higher. Get the timing even slightly wrong and there will be consequences far more serious than singed trousers; the word backdraught clamours unspoken at the back of every spectator’s mind. Total silence now as, with an almost imperceptible tremble (entirely artificial, ‘just part of the show’ as Trevor puts it) his hand brings the match between his legs and – foom! a sound like the fabric of the universe being ripped in two, counterpointed by its opposite, a collective intake of breath, as from Trevor’s bottom proceeds a magnificent plume of flame – jetting out it’s got to be nearly three feet, they tell each other afterwards, a cold and beautiful purple-blue enchantment that for an instant bathes the locker room in unearthly light. No one knows quite what Trevor Hickey’s diet is, or his exercise regime; if you ask him about it, he will simply say that he has a gift, and having witnessed it, you would be hard-pressed to argue, although why God should have given him this gift in particular is less easy to say. But then, strange talents abound in the fourteen-year-old confraternity. As well as Trevor Hickey, ‘The Duke of Diablos’, you have people like Rory ‘Pins’ Moran, who on one occasion had fifty-eight pins piercing the epidermis of his left hand; GP O’Sullivan, able to simulate the noises of cans opening, mobile phones bleeping, pneumatic doors, etc., at least as well as the guy in Police Academy; Henry Lafayette, who is double-jointed and famously escaped from a box of jockstraps after being locked inside it by Lionel. These boys’ abilities are regarded quite as highly by their peers as the more conventional athletic and sporting kinds, as is any claim to physical freakishness, such as waggling ears (Mitchell Gogan), unusually high mucous production (Hector ‘Hectoplasm’ O’Looney), notable ugliness (Damien Lawlor) and inexplicably slimy, greenish hair (Vince Bailey). Fame in the second year is a surprisingly broad church; among the two-hundred-plus boys, there is scarcely anyone who does not have some ability or idiosyncrasy or weird body condition for which he is celebrated. As with so many things at this particular point in their lives, though, that situation is changing by the day. School, with its endless emphasis on conformity, careers, the Future, may be partly to blame, but the key to the shift in attitudes is, without a doubt, girls. Until recently the opinion of girls was of little consequence; now – overnight, almost – it is paramount; and girls have quite different, some would go so far as to say deeply conservative, criteria with regard to what constitutes a gift. They do not care how many golf balls you can fit in your mouth; they are unmoved by third nipples; they do not, most of them, consider mastery of Diablos to be a feather in your cap – even when you explain to them how dangerous it is, even when you offer to teach them how to do it themselves, an offer you have never extended to any of your classmates, who would actually pay big money for this expertise, or you could even call it lore – wait, come back!

All of them received training and weapons from the United States. Throughout the late 1950s and 1960s, American military advisers helped restructure the Salvadoran police academy. They also wrote a manual for the Treasury Police, and trained members of the National Guard and National Police in riot control.

see if he liked it – the words he’d chosen when he told his uncle Patsy that he’d gotten into the police academy – because you try it and try it and try it a little longer and next thing it’s who you are. One

Her hands went to her hips. “Bitch, I will murder your ass, hide the body in the trunk of my car, and then help the police search for you, I swear to god.

In 1822, the city government, noting the inadequacy of a nightly watch, petitioned the state government for the establishment of an arsenal, or “citadel,” independent of the city’s police force, to protect the white citizens against “an enemy in the bosom of the state.” By 1825, construction was under way, and, by 1841, by an act of the state legislature, the Citadel was established as South Carolina’s state military academy. Cadets from local families drilled weekly under arms in an intimidating show of white force to Charleston’s black community.

The fourth category of sources consists of recollections and interviews of veterans, including Chinese soldiers and junior officers in Shenyang Military Regional Command, NDU, PLA Logistics Academy, and China’s Academy of Armed Police Force.

When investigative journalists David Kocieniewski and Peter Robinson broke the story about the ties between Donald Trump’s incoming national security advisor, Michael Flynn, and a company that sells brain wave technology to governments worldwide, surprisingly few people noticed.66 Serving alongside Flynn on Brainwave Science’s board of directors was Subu Kota, a software engineer who had pleaded guilty to selling highly sensitive defense technology to the KGB during the Cold War.67 Brainwave Science sells a technology called iCognative, which can extract information from people’s brains. Among its customers are the Bangladeshi defense forces as well as several Middle Eastern governments.68 Following some successful experiments at the Dubai Police Academy, Emirati authorities have recently deployed the technology in real murder investigations. At least two cases have successfully been prosecuted.69 In one case, the police were investigating a killing at a warehouse. Suspecting that an employee was involved, they forced the warehouse workers to don EEG headsets and showed them images of the crime. Purportedly, a photo of the murder weapon triggered a characteristic “recognition” pattern in one of the employee’s brains (the P300 wave), while none of the other employees showed a similar response. Confronted with that evidence, the suspect confessed, revealing details that only the guilty party could have known.

police reports were detailed, but like all police reports, they were filled with so many grammatical and spelling mistakes and confusing descriptions that it made you want to tear your hair out. I wondered if it’d be that hard to set up an English class at the POST academy to train officers on the difference between “meat” and “meet”—unless two suspects actually did “meat” at a house on State Street and “meat” was some new sexual act that I hadn’t learned about yet.

Kevin: Fine. You can come. Just remember what I’m trained to do. Jake: They teach you how to plant evidence at police academy?

As my eldest could tell you, tussling with the Dwarf Police Squad is no picnic.

Given that the Arizona Police Academy is just up the street, we get a lot of cops at the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. There’s always a rowdy crew of newbies—the trainees. They tend to show up in groups and hang out together in the bar in the evenings after class. Next come the instructors. They’re mostly older guys, some of them long retired from active police work, who tend to arrive for meals mostly in ones or twos. Not thrilled with retirement, they’re glad to get out of their houses for a while and have a chance to hang out in the restaurant, drinking coffee, chewing the fat, and talking over old times.

Shortly after that, a new batch of police officer recruits turned up at the police academy next door. One day a couple of weeks later my life changed forever when a little red-haired ball of fire named Joanna Brady—the newly minted Sheriff of Cochise County—marched into the Roundhouse, stepped up to my bar, and ordered herself a Diet Coke.

Was it upsetting, bewildering, and possibly traumatic to have four girls from your school - the smart, popular ones at that - disappear to ISIS? No longer sitting next to you in English class pouring over Animal Farm, discussing why the pigs (the girls sometimes spelled out P-I-G when speaking aloud, to minimize its haram grossness) embodied tyranny and propaganda. No longer kneeling next to you on Fridays in the prayer room, pressing their foreheads to the ground. Someone could have helped the students of Bethnal Green Academy to make some sense of it all, but making sense of it, as some students would discover later, was dangerously too close, in the eyes of the police and other community authorities, to sympathizing.

There are many essential police skills they don’t teach you at the Academy,” said Pendergast. “Ass covering, as it is so charmingly termed, being the most important.

If you’re treating me as an interviewee here, and you want me to reveal information, you’re going to have to try harder. I won’t blame you for doing it, but you’re going to need to raise your game if you want to win. OK?” “I don’t remember this coming up in the police academy.” “They were probably teaching you to shoot instead.

In a quick succession of time, he tried many things. He enrolled in a Police Academy, attempted Law School, and even tried his hand as a soap maker, but each and every time he somehow fell short of anything substantial. Unsure of what to do, and what institution to attend, Mao decided to teach himself. He rented out a bed in a local boarding house, and when he wasn’t sleeping, he was at the local library poring over books of history and philosophy.