Bridging the Badge: Humanizing Police in "The Faces of Unborn Butterflies"

Simons was a veteran of thirty years. He had started working as a police officer right after leaving the Air Force, at the age of thirty-three. He had served at a time when everything was done on paper, and the districts were patrolled on foot. He was of average height, with eyes that always seemed squinted and never betrayed his mood. Whether his lips smiled or not had no effect on the expression in his eyes. This made him a perfect poker player. He said that if he went to Vegas, he would become a millionaire, but he had no idea what to do with all that money. In recent years, he had shared a very simple dream – to retire to the ranch he had bought near Austin and open a shooting range. He tirelessly worked, and the dream had taken the form of a small cabin nestled among tall broad-leaf trees. Parked on the side was his beloved Chevrolet Silverado, and next to it, a shiny Yamaha Raptor 700 R, Sport. According to him, it was the best substitute for a motorcycle for people with hip problems. Of course, he hadn’t given up on his sports Ducati either. He hadn’t ridden it for many years but continued to maintain it with the passion of a lover. ‘One day, when I know the end has come, I’ll find the strength to swing my leg over it one last time!’, Simons smiled while polishing the leather and chrome of the sports beast.

The call came at 10:45 in the morning. Nothing special, nothing alarming. The woman had requested police assistance to retrieve her two children, a ten-year-old girl, and a one- and-a-half-year-old boy, who were currently visiting their father. Notes from the mobile computer indicated that the parents were divorced, and the mother had received a text message from her daughter stating that their father was drunk, and she wanted to come home. The dispatcher reported that they had been unable to establish contact with the children’s father. The mother explained that she wanted to prevent a potential escalation and would wait for law enforcement representatives two houses down the street, in her own car, a Toyota Fortuner. When asked about weapons, she replied that as far as she knew, there were none in the house, and that her ex-husband had not displayed any physical aggression towards the children or herself.

Simons responded to the call almost instantly, even before the dispatcher announced it over the radio. He knew the area better than the soles of his feet. He arrived in two minutes, and immediately noticed the silver Toyota parked on the street. A petite white woman, no taller than five feet six inches, with short-cut, bright-red hair and sunglasses concealing light-blue eyes, emerged from the car. She introduced herself as Linda Williams, and as protocol dictated, her driver’s license was checked in the police system. Simons followed the routine steps by collecting information about the father – name and date of birth – found the number of his driver’s license and retrieved a photo, which he showed to Linda to confirm his identity. He then checked the name in the system and found no outstanding warrants or prior offenses. He also checked the address history, revealing several noise complaints but noth-ing concerning. Linda mentioned that after the divorce, Benjamin (or Ben for short), the ex-husband, had started drinking but promised not to consume alcohol when the children were with him. Linda showed pictures from the previous week, depicting Ben in the backyard of his house, accompanied by two friends, each holding a beer bottle. The two children were also in the picture. Linda explained that their ten-year-old daughter had complained of feeling insecure and frightened when ‘Daddy drinks’ and showed Simons a text message from the girl, dated today, that read: ‘Mommy, please come get us. Daddy is drunk, and I want to come home!’ Linda explained that she had tried calling Ben several times, but he didn’t answer.

Simons approached cautiously, studying the windows of the house: all with closed blinds. He knocked on the weathered blue door and identified himself: ‘Police, open! ‘ No response. He waited a few minutes and knocked again, this time more insistently. Still nothing. He decided to circle around the house and inspect the back windows. The house had one of those so-called ‘open fence yards’, making access to the rear easy. Everything seemed to happen simultaneously, as if an old movie tape had broken, and the scenes overlapped: .......

How Simons' story ends? Want to meet more ordinary people dealing with extraordinary sircumstances?

You can find the book on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Faces-unBorn-Butterflies-Mariela-George/dp/9543503648/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2FQ1X5MXV4T6Q&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.5QZ1lbLN659qdaAq1YpDrQ.mIJZEfD6viHRa6koJ_qJRarw8fjo2fd1Q-xO44c2nTA&dib_tag=se&keywords=the+faces+of+unborn+butterflies&qid=1709066828&sprefix=%2Caps%2C322&sr=8-1