Anyway, mermaids. So I figured, well, we’ll finally find out the deal.
It’s just as fascinating that it turns out to be about the
police. You know? Just keep swimming.
The Ride Along
I’ve listened to many writers talk about the lengths they go to
for research — interviews, shadowing doctors in emergency rooms, uncovering
primary sources in far-flung libraries. I felt it was time to step up my game.
Research, after all, gives your story depth and credibility.
Which is how I came to find myself riding shotgun in a police
cruiser on night patrol last summer.
We started with a tour of the police station — booking,
biometrics, holding cells, dispatch, report room, and interview rooms, before
moving on to the cruiser. Within five minutes on the road, the cop who’d been
assigned to me (I’ll call him Bruce) immediately pulled over a car with a
missing headlight. “Situation lights” on, Bruce called in the plates, and
approached the car. I noticed that he deliberately touched the trunk before
walking up the driver. When I asked why, he explained that he leaves his
fingerprints on the vehicle in case he is shot and the driver flees.
Shot? On a routine traffic stop?
Yes, Bruce said. Motor vehicle stops are the most dangerous calls
for a police officer. Drivers with felony outstanding warrants, or hidden drugs
and weapons, have a high probability of shooting a police officer.
And the second most dangerous type of call? I asked.
Domestic violence, Bruce said. Which was our second call of the
night, after only 30 minutes on shift. Bruce hit the flashing lights, pulled a
u-turn, and barreled down the double line at full speed. My adrenaline was
pumping.
When we got to the address, another police cruiser was waiting
with flashing lights. This was a two-man job.
“Stay in the car,” Bruce said as he got out and headed to the
house.
No problem, I thought. Since I wasn’t sure whether the
cruiser had bullet-proof windows, I slunk low in the seat and watched from afar
as Bruce and the other cop diffused the situation.
Next stop was the marina and back alleys where frequent break-ins
occur. Frequent break-ins, I thought. I never even lock my door most of
the time. Bruce was fastidious as he ran a property check, testing doors and
windows, shining a light into buildings. I scribbled in my notebook, writing
observations, jargon, and
asking Bruce questions about chain-of-command, unattended death protocol, and
details that I needed to make the character in my book come to life.
Then we moved onto the residential quadrant where Bruce pointed
out the local crack house, the drug dealers’ houses, and the meth lab they had
shut down a couple months prior.
Crack house? Meth lab??? But we live in a small, safe
town. Nothing ever happens here. There are lemonade stands on every corner in
the summer. You can buy goat manure for your organic garden at the gas station.
Our streets are literally paved in cobblestone. I had assumed it would be a
pretty uneventful night.
As the night wore on, my assumptions were shattered as we made a
routine run of the many, many, many heroin hang-outs around town. We drove the
railroad tracks (me, with the window up, slouching low, and peering into the
dark night with growing concern), through the cemetery, and into empty parking
lots. We checked for signs of gang grafitti behind buildings I didn’t even know
existed. Every time Bruce got out of the car to check on dark pathways, or peek
into “drug tents” tucked into the woods, I could feel the panic rise in my
chest. For the first time, I realized that real dangers exist even in Beaver
Cleaver Land.
In every situation, Bruce was calm. He never raised his voice. He
never got spooked. He was there to protect and serve, no matter what kind
dangers lurked in shadows.
I walked away that night (in one piece, thanks to Bruce) with
much more than a notebook full of characters ideas: I walked away with a
profound respect for the work police officers do every day.
If you could tag along with someone, whose shoes would you walk
in for a day?
HANK: Whose shoes? Ah. So many possibilities. Sue Grafton. Lisa
Scottoline. JK Rowling. (It’d be fun, right?) Anna Wintour. A first-grade
teacher. Do I get to BE them? Stephen King! Meryl Streep. A contestant on Project Runway. Michelle Obama. Ooh, I could think of some
really insider things, too. Ride along
with … ah. Barbara Walters. But what
about you?
**And a copy of The Mermaid's Secret to one lucky commenter!
**************************
**And a copy of The Mermaid's Secret to one lucky commenter!
**************************
Jess Creary fells like she’s drowning on dry land. She’s still
reeling from the death of Kay, her older sister, killed two years ago in a
boating “accident.” Her mother has disappeared, and her father is on her case
to get a real job. The only bright sports in her life are surfing off their
island home in Maine and Matthew, the handsome captain of the fishing boat
where she works flipping burgers.
On her twenty-third birthday, Jess catches the perfect wave — a
wave that transforms her into a mermaid. Under the sea, a startlingly beautiful
dark place, Jess is reborn as a confident, powerful predator with superhuman
strength. Facing down a great white shark, hunting prey, and rescuing a baby
whale trapped in a net — Jess is finally someone to be reckoned with.
Meanwhile, back on land, her relationship with Captain Matthew heats up and so
does her quest to hold Kay’s ex-boyfriend, wealthy summer resident Trip
Sinclair, responsible for her death.
When the strange old Passamaquoddy woman who owns the local
curiosities shop tells Jess the legend of Ne’Hwas, the mermaid, Jess discovers
that she has thirty days to choose between land and sea, legs and fins, her
humanity and her freedom. Who could reject the freedom of the sea? Yet the
ocean is a dark, untamed, lonely place. Will Jess choose family and love,
forgiveness and truth, or will she be seduced by the wild call of the sparkling
sea forever?
Katie Schickel grew up in Ithaca, NY and
graduated from Georgetown University. She's worked as a newspaper reporter in
New York, a scuba instructor in Key West, a magazine editor in Pensacola, and a
dot com writer in San Francisco. Eventually, she moved back east where she has
worked, among other things, as a middle school English teacher, farmer,
fisherman, and silversmith. She lives in Newburyport, MA with her husband and
two children.
