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assisting with the evacuation provided a welcome break during my four years of doing traffic patrol. I had arrested nearly two hundred impaired drivers and was getting great feedback from my bosses, but the routine was starting to get to me and I had the urge to try something different. Vacant constable positions, usually in small and remote northern Ontario towns, were regularly displayed on the office bulletin board, but I was twenty-five, single and enjoyed the social opportunities I had living in the Toronto area. One day a new position was posted to work in the Toronto office of Special Services Division. They were looking specifically for an unmarried female constable who would have the ability to travel throughout Ontario for two years. I applied and got a job that would never make me feel like I’d had “just another day at the office.”

OUT OF THE BLUE
“If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?”
—T.S. Eliot
    THE NIAGARA FALLS RESTAURANT was a dive just as I expected. When my potential new boss called me on the telephone the day before, he told me he had received my application in the mail. He also said that he could tell by the sound of my voice that I’d likely be good for the job—whereas his voice sounded like he’d just awakened from a three-day whiskey bender. We agreed to meet the next day at two o’clock.
    What to wear to a job interview is always a crucial consideration. For this one I went with a low-cut tank top, jean jacket, tight skirt that barely covered my butt, black stockings and black high-heeled boots. I teased my blond hair and piled on the makeup, going heavy on the black eyeliner, red lipstick and nail polish.
    I saw a booth in the back of the restaurant and walked past a table with two guys eating lunch. One looked up and smiled as I walked past, but no one else seemed to give me a second look. I sat down facing the wall. Like all cops, I didn’t like not being able to see what was going on in a room but today I wanted this guy to come looking for me.
    He found me easily enough and looked pretty much as I expected. Short, fat, unkempt. He got down to business right away.
    “You Katie?”
    “Yep.”
    “So, why do you want to do this job?”
    “I need the money.”
    “Ninety percent of my customers want to go all the way.”
    “I got no problem with that.”
    He asked me if I had a car and told me how he’d assign me my calls, which he said would take me an hour to an hour and a half. It was a cash-only operation, and I’d be busiest between four and eight o’clock. “Weird stuff”—men who were into cross-dressing, for instance—would be twenty-five dollars more. I’d split whatever I made with him. We also covered the price for orgies and how I’d get his money to him. He said if he wasn’t at home, to give it to his wife.
    The whole conversation lasted ten minutes. He told me he might even have a call for me that night. I slid out of my seat and left, surprised the interview was so short, and relieved there was no request to complete any kind of practical skills exercise as part of his applicant selection process.
    I drove for several blocks, making a few turns along the way to ensure the pimp wasn’t following me. I turned into the back parking lot of an office complex where I met with my cover team, the two guys who had been in the restaurant. I pulled off my wire from underneath my jean jacket and handed over the evidence they needed. They told me the conversation I’d had sounded good and that I’d gotten them everything they needed. We said goodbye with my promise that I would have my Crown brief statement to them in a few days.
    It had been two years since I transferred to the OPP’s Toronto Drug Enforcement Section to work as their first female UC (undercover) officer back in 1981. I was sent on courses, conferences and seminars, but it was the guys in the office, who collectively had worked hundreds of UC projects, that taught