Contents Under Pressure Read Online Free PDF Page A

for TV reporters who like to shoot their interviews in front of it.
    I settled down at a desk and sighed. Police reports were far more fun to read when the officers wrote them by hand. Computer programs do not provide for unusual color, details, or theories, or the personalities of the writers. These reports all read alike, gray and uniform. What a pity.
    Several still managed to pique my interest. More Miamians had been left in the dark by people who stole the copper wiring out of streetlight poles. The thieves invaded the maintenance boxes, snipped the wires, did the same at the next light, and pulled the loose wires through the underground tubes between the poles. Then they stripped off the insulation and melted down the copper wires to sell to scrap metal recyclers. You would think thieves so savvy and industrious would be capable of landing real jobs, I reflected as I read. But more than $154,000 worth of wiring had disappeared, and nothing seemed to cut the losses. As a last resort, city administrators had ordered the streetlights left on all day—a shocking waste of city money, I thought. But forcing the thieves to tamper with hot wires seemed to be the only way to stop them.
    There were reports of more robberies by police impersonators, which was old news by now. The criminal element among the most recent tidal wave of refugees was thrilled to discover that police supply stores would sell uniforms, walkie-talkies, and handcuffs to any one who walked in off the street.
    The most intriguing overnight robbery report was a new assault by the biting bandit. He had struck again, savagely tearing off a victim’s right ear with his teeth as he robbed him. The MO was familiar. In at least twelve attacks in recent weeks, victims had lost wallets, jewelry, and chunks of arms, hands, and shoulders. One lost a ring finger.
    I called upstairs to robbery. The detective was still there, with an artist who was preparing a sketch of the bandit. If it looked good, we could have it for the early edition, he promised. The investigator sounded grim. “He’s still out there, and we think he’ll bite again.”
    They had a few new clues. A forensic dentist had examined the victim’s wounds, and concluded that the robber had a severe overbite. He would be able to match the bandit’s incisors to tooth marks he left behind, but they would have to catch him first—then pry open his mouth to take a wax impression. Little tasks like that make me glad I’m not a cop.
    I forged around and found the Sunday night log. The entry for D. Wayne Hudson’s case looked ordinary. A 317 (an accident with injuries), involving one car. A black, male motorist fled from the police, crashed, and was taken to County Hospital for treatment of his injuries. He had been charged with traffic offenses and fleeing the officers. Curiously, the log didn’t mention any stolen car or “armed and dangerous felony suspect.”
    I returned to the accident bureau, still manned by the same officious cop, and asked again for a copy of the report on D. Wayne Hudson. “As I told you before,” he said, “I’m not authorized to release a thing.”
    “Can I talk to your sergeant?”
    “He’s still unavailable.”
    “When will he be back?”
    “No way to tell.” The smile lurked on his face. He was enjoying this: Some people love to say no. I stomped heatedly out to my car in the parking lot, fished a public records request form from a folder I keep handy in the backseat, filled in the blanks, and stalked back inside. “This is for you,” I said, presenting it to him with a smile of my own.
    He looked puzzled, studied it, and no longer seemed so pleased with himself. Florida has one of the best public records laws in the nation. Bureaucrats who refuse to provide documents that are public record face suspension, removal, or impeachment, and can be charged with a first degree misdemeanor. The language on my form said as much, and definitely captures the attention of