03x08 - Log 105: Elegy for a Pig

[bunniefuu]

It stars...

The film was produced by...

For the next 30 minutes...

Officer Tom Porter,

one of 6,000.

An ordinary policeman,

but he was more to me.

He was a friend,

and now he was dead.

When an officer is k*lled,

the Chief of Police is
immediately notified,

along with the commander
of the division of occurrence.

He has the responsibility

to make the
necessary notifications.

Telling a policeman's
wife she's a widow

is a job nobody wants.

I never tried as
hard for anything.

He was a friend.

It had to be me.

It had to be me.

I knew Tom's wife when
her name was Anderson,

when she and Tom first
started going together.

But this was two children later.

Marge Porter.

The magazine told us she'd
been waiting up for Tom.

What else could I tell her?

What else could I say?

I was part of it all...

When they met,

when they got married,

when the first child was born

six years ago.

I was part of it all,

a lifetime.

The rain had moved on.

Tomorrow could
have been a nice day.

Yesterday was.

City Hall, Los Angeles.

That's where you apply.

Tom Porter and I
were no different.

For Tom, any job in the
Department would do.

Me, I wanted Motors.

That's where the action was.

I lost,

but we both got what we wanted.

The optimism of
youthful ignorance.

66% of recruits

have been known
to fail a written exam.

15% have been
known to fail the oral.

50% of what's left

can't hack the physical.

That morning at City Hall,

Tom was already figuring

how easy the Sergeant's
exam would be.

I booked a ticket for
the nearest Turkish bath.

The Los Angeles Police Academy.

They have a saying...

The more you sweat here,

the less you'll
bleed on the street.

Sergeant Elroy Carter.

He invented sweat.

Tom made it look easy.

The first five minutes
on that drill field,

I was looking around

for the guy who sold the oxygen.

We were dead even
in one department...

The bookwork.

There's a popular notion

that all an Academy recruit
learns is the following...

How to wear his
uniform properly,

how to keep his
metalwork polished,

and his shoes shined.

How to wear his hat in
the prescribed fashion,

how to write tickets,

and unsnarl traffic jams.

That's all there is to it.

True, but not all.

In 20 weeks, the recruit
gets 800 hours of training.

640 of them are
spent inside a book,

160 in the field.

He's tested on all of them.

He passes, or he's washed out.

And there was always
Sergeant Elroy Carter.

During the first few weeks,

the recruit develops the feeling

that there's a giant conspiracy,

not to get him in...
To keep him out.

Tom didn't know it,

but the rest of us did.

It showed right from the start.

He'd end up top
man in the class.

Tom only had one problem.

He was a slow learner...

About himself.

For Tom, it was a good deal.

He'd trade a button
for a badge any day.

But somehow, you and
the calendar swap 20 weeks.

And there you are.

You and a lot of other guys.

Tom was first in everything.

Marge Anderson.

He met her at City
Hall the day we applied.

He was still making it a habit,

being smarter than me.

Tom and I both knew
that after we graduated,

we'd work together.

He'd be my partner,

I'd be his.

We were both wrong.

Officer Howard D. Brown,

my first partner.

They called him "Brownie."

Somehow the name didn't fit,

but Brownie was
some kind of policeman.

He taught me everything I know.

12 months of probation

and four years later,

I was the teacher,

not the pupil.

He called himself Jim Reed,

but it was me five years ago.

♪♪

Crowd control detail.

It's a routine part of the job,

but it seems to come around

about every 20
minutes these days.

Tom and I kept in touch.

Sometimes it was pleasant.
Most of the time it wasn't.

Tom didn't say it.

He didn't have to.

I knew.

It had already happened to me.

He was sick.

He wanted to vomit.

There's no antidote for it.

He'd k*lled a man.

Tom never made the
same mistake once.

He did everything right.

Two years before,

Marge first
increased the Census.

Tom was good at addition.

This time they
drew a little girl.

I helped deliver the package.

Reed's attention span was
improving by the minute.

He remembered the cigars.

Roll call,

P.M. watch about
to get under way.

Here the police
officer gets the word

on things to do today.

Each team receives the
daily-updated hot sheet.

Tenderloin areas of
patrol are indicated.

Officers assigned to the
basic car plan operation

are briefed on special problems.

New investigative and
procedural techniques

are introduced and discussed.

Here the police officer
refines his knowledge,

his skills, his know-how.

Today was no
different from any other,

except for a new transfer.

Los Angeles has almost 200 miles

of interconnecting freeways.

There's one problem...

Some people want to drive
them before the cement is dry.

And some people
drive in a stolen car.

And some people
run out of freeway.

She was pretty.

She was a model.

It was her boyfriend's car.

She didn't know it was stolen.

She was late for an appointment.

She thought she'd
found a shortcut.

One thing you could
say about Reed,

he was an art lover.

End of watch.

Continuation of paperwork.

Every minute on the clock,
every move in the field,

must be recorded.

They say that in his lifetime,

the words a policeman
writes in his daily reports

could stock a library.

It was always the same.

Tom did more than his share.

He said it every day...

"End of watch...

"two single men could
put the time to better use."

One thing was certain.

Young Mr. Porter would
put a dent in the fried chicken.

Whenever two policemen
pay an unexpected visit

to a fellow officer's home,

it's always a good idea
to carry a calling card.

That way, his
wife doesn't worry.

Not too much.

Marge was grateful.
She'd burned the meatloaf.

Reed could have done ten minutes

on why I insisted on chicken

instead of pizza.

You don't have to be a
policeman to appreciate

the two greatest words
in a child's vocabulary...

"Daddy's home."

Union Block and Cement Company.

It takes a lot of concrete
to flesh out the blueprints

for an expanding city.

The plans did not include

three escaped mental patients.

Somehow they had cut across town

and made their way here.

We had to find them.

And that's the way it goes...

Some days.

The citation read in part,

"Officer Tom Porter's actions

"were in the highest tradition

"of the Los Angeles
Police Service."

The Medal of Valor
is the highest award

the Department can bestow.

Table 32 had a corner
on pride that day.

And just that quick,

it was all over.

He was gone.

A police officer's funeral
is like anyone else's.

He's a long time dead.

♪♪

♪♪

Tonight's newspaper
will report it all.

Old news.

From now on, she'll have
to open her own doors.

Carry her own troubles.

And her children's.

Alone.

From now on, it's
just the three of them,

instead of just the four.

And if there must be

a final postscript
to all of this,

then let it here be noted.

The coffin will soon be buried.

He will be forgotten

except by a very few.

Out of sight,

out of mind.

And strangely enough,

in view of current custom,

no one will raise a placard

to denounce his
senseless m*rder.

No one will raise
indignant cries of protest

at the shedding of his blood.

No one will march in anger

because of his death.

Elegy for a Pig.