State Troopers Turner Mason and Bob Lepard wheeled their highway patrol car out of the coroner’s office parking lot. “Glad that’s over,” Lepard said. “That guy was totally fubared.”
“That’s what happens when you jump from an overpass into traffic,” Mason said. “Gotta be one of the worst in all my years on–” A radio call interrupted Mason. A young trooper named Mike Harrison advised Central he was back in service. “Hey, pardner,” Mason said. “I got a great idea for that rook Harrison.”
They had been partners for three years and Lepard knew Mason was up to something weird. “I always get a bad feeling when you get an idea, Turner. We’re gonna get in s**t again.”
“It’ll be okay, Bob. Besides, after that fatal accident and our visit to the ghouls in the morgue, we deserve some fun. You in?”
Lepard hesitated. Mason had earned the nickname “Mad Dog” for good reason. “As long as it ain’t too crazy, okay?”
“Trust me, pard. I’m thinkin’ what Harrison needs is a lesson in foot drill.”
Lepard grinned. “That one is always fun.”
Mason picked up the mic and called Harrison in 3B211. “3 Boy 211—Trooper Harrison—this is 3 Charlie 62”
“3 Boy 211. Go ahead, sir.”
Mason raised his eyebrows at Lepard. “Sir? The rook calls me sir? This is gonna be too easy, Bob.” Mason hit the mic button once again. “Roger, Mike. We’re tied up here at the coroner’s office. The autopsy revealed the deceased jumper from that fatal this morning is missing his left foot. The coroner is concerned a cougar or other animal may pick it up. Could you Code 2 out to the scene and institute a search as soon as possible?” Mason knew everyone on the frequency would have heard the call and would be chuckling with anticipation. Rookie drills are always fun.
The radio was silent for a moment. Then Harrison responded. “10-4.”
“Thanks, Mike. The missing foot should be close to the point of impact.”
“10-4,” Harrison said.
Mason and Lepard were in hysterics. They imagined the terror Harrison was feeling speeding out to an accident scene to look for a foot. The rookie was new to highway patrol and searching for a body part wasn’t fun even for grizzled veterans.
“I got five bucks that says Harrison won’t look for the foot,” Mason said.
“You’re on,” Lepard said. “Harrison won’t search too hard, but he’ll at least take a quick look.”
Mason and Lepard exited the interstate at the Glenrose Parkway overpass where the deceased had jumped into traffic. The accident investigators of Charlie Unit had finished processing the scene and were no longer present. Lepard parked the cruiser out of sight on a hillside service road overlooking the overpass and the crash scene. Mason grabbed a portable radio and Lepard fetched the binoculars from the trunk. They walked over to the edge of the hill. Lepard looked back up the interstate for Harrison’s police car. They could hardly wait to see if the rookie would search for the non-existent left foot.
Lepard spotted Harrison’s vehicle approaching the scene with the emergency lights flashing. “3 B 211 on the roof,” Lepard said. “That’s him.” Harrison's black-and-white patrol car whizzed past the scene and continued down the interstate. "He didn't stop! He just kept going!"
Mason couldn’t believe it. “He didn’t even slow down!" Mason picked up the mic. "3 Boy 211–this is 3 Charlie 62."
Harrison intentionally ignored the call from Mason. He hoped the delay would make it appear he had been out of his vehicle searching for the foot. Mason waited a moment and then called him again. “3 Boy 211—Trooper Harrison—this is 3 Charlie 62.”
“3 Boy 211 here. Go ahead, sir.”
Lepard tapped Mason on the shoulder. “I can hear in his voice how scared he is, Turner.”
Mason chuckled and keyed the mic. “You still at the scene, Mike?"
"Negative."
"Roger. Any luck finding that foot?”
“Nope. Never saw it.”
“Not surprised, Mike,” Mason said. “The coroner’s office screwed up. The corpse is missing a right foot, not a left.” Mason paused to suppress a laugh before he continued. “I repeat. It’s a right foot, not a left. You’d better patrol back and take another look.”
After a pause, Harrison responded. His voice gave away his reluctance. “10-4.”
“Thanks, Mike, and sorry for the confusion.” Harrison didn’t answer; he just double-clicked his mic button.
A few moments later, Harrison made a high-speed pass by the scene on the other side of the four-lane highway. He advised there was no sign of a left foot.
“Damn rookie,” Lepard said. He handed Mason five dollars.
They couldn’t stop chuckling on the way back to the station. Even though Harrison didn’t search for the foot, the gag had worked. Everyone on shift had heard their radio calls. Mason figured they would be revered and respected in the department for years. “We’ll be famous, Bob. This rookie drill was one of the best ever. I predict it will be a cop folktale told far and wide for years to come.”
Lepard agreed. “Yeah, but I think Harrison will be even more famous. Hell, he may be our next commissioner.”
District Captain Davidson had monitored the radio and was waiting for Mason and Lepard when they drove into the parking lot behind the highway patrol office. “S**t,” Mason said. “I didn’t know Davidson was around.”
“A little voice told me not to go along with your rookie drill, Turner,” Lepard said. “I’m an idiot for ignoring it.”
They exited the police car and were retrieving their gear from the trunk when Captain Davidson arrived. “You two comedians meet me in the station commander’s office,” he said and stormed away.
“By the look on Cap’s face, we’re in big s**t, Bob,” Mason said.
Lepard turned to Mason. “Gee, ya think, Turner? But all is not lost, pardner. You were right when you said we’d be famous. You and I are about to set a record that will never be broken.”
“A record for what?” Mason asked.
Lepard fixed a cold stare on Mason. “The longest f**king stretch of graveyard shifts in the history of highway patrol.”