Unrevealed

give a classroom career-day lecture at one of the public middle schools here in Denver. If you knew me, you’d know I am not the person to be sent out to a goddamn school
to talk to these annoying midgets about my job. But, like I said, I drew the short straw.
    So I get to the school for my 2:00 p.m. appearance, and I’m greeted by the effusive female principal who chose to wear her red power suit and four-inch black heels that day. And here’s me, in my denim jeans, cowboy boots, light blue poplin shirt and leather jacket. I felt like the dyke who came to dinner standing next to her. After she shook my hand with her firm grip, she leaned forward and sniffed the air around me.
    “You smoke?” she asked me.
    “Yes,” I admitted, “but I won’t pass them out to the kids.”
    She got that deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face, not sure if I was kidding. She suggested that I take off my jacket, hoping that would erase the scent of tobacco, but I assured her that the nicotine was deeply embedded in my cell structure and probably had penetrated my DNA, so it was useless to remove my jacket. I then moved my jacket just far enough to reveal my Glock, which I always keep in my shoulder holster when I’m on duty. I thought she was going to fall backward on her four-inch FMPs when she saw it. She asked me to remove my service weapon, but I was getting pretty pissed by this point and told her that if the Glock left the building, so did I. I was actually hoping she would take me up on that offer because I really didn’t want to sit in front of a bunch of jacked-up munchkins and field questions from them.
    Unfortunately, she asked me to follow her into a sixthgrade classroom, where I was met with thirty pairs of gawking eyes. She introduced me as “a female detective” from the Denver Police Department, which I certainly thought was obvious since I do have shoulder-length brown hair and
enough of a chest to not create confusion as to my sexual identity. But this broad seemed to want to make sure the kiddies knew I was a woman who was also a cop. Boggles the mind, eh? I guess that’s because Cagney & Lacey was way before their time.
    I had just been asked to sit on a wooden stool in front of the class and start my talk (which I hadn’t given any thought to) when another teacher entered the classroom accompanied by a kid who looked about fourteen. He was taller than the other dwarfs in the room, and he was dressed like a junior anarchist, complete with black trousers, combat boots, Matrix jacket and T-shirt that sported two words in red block type: Question Everything! A quick glance at the powersuited principal told me that she wasn’t happy to see the kid joining the class. All the pint-size members of the classroom turned around to gawk at the kid, who returned their stares with a crooked smile and a raised eyebrow. Even though he was led to a seat in the rear, I could see that there was something wonky with his left eye. He looked like he’d been bashed around too many times and had suffered some sort of facial trauma.
    Irritation filled the space around the principal, who clicked her heels across the vinyl floor toward me and spoke in a hushed tone she usually reserved for admonishing wayward students.
    “Looks like we’re having an unexpected extra member of the class today,” she whispered as a low murmur rolled across the classroom from the pre-pubescent pack. “His name is Fletcher. He’s…um…how do I say it?” She searched valiantly for the proper PC term but came up short. “Special needs,” she settled on. “He’s been held back a couple years,” she motioned to her own head, rotating her index finger around her temple in the universal hand gesture for “fucking
nuts.” “Sometimes we don’t know where to put him. If he starts to get disruptive, we’ll pull him.”
    We’ll pull him ? I thought. It sounded like code for “We’ll take him out and ice him. Eighty-six him.” Then I wondered if the poor son-of-a-bitch had any clue how many people looked on him as a pain in the ass.
    I no sooner thought that than Fletcher yelled above the din, “Pain in the ass,” and let out a cheeky chortle.
    The principal shot Fletcher a look that would melt steel while I looked at him in stunned amazement. It was just plain odd. But maybe it was a coincidence. Yeah. Right. How many times had I used that old saw of an excuse to rationalize an occurrence that defied reasonable