A/N: Hello, readers! I know you're accustomed to reading my Monk and/or PoTC stories, but I'm branching out a bit with this one! I recently watched this series, and well, I had my own opinions on what should happen next! Please let me know what you think! I should be good about updating this, so don't fear!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the recognizable characters of the Police Academy (Lassard, Harris, Callahan, Hightower, Hooks, Jones, etc) but I do own non-recognizable characters (essentially, everyone else in the story). I'm not making any money from writing this.
As I was escorted into the police station, I was told it was my last chance. The next time this happened I would be getting hard time and not just a slap on the wrist, my arresting officers informed me. As if they would know. Dumb cops. Busted again for stealing my ex-boyfriend's car—which he most definitely gave to me while we were still together—I stood for my mug shot, rolling my eyes each time the photographer would ask me to turn or that my placard was too low or crooked. Damn perfectionist.
This was the third time I'd be arrested for a crime related to that prick ex of mine, who was happily smiling at my arrest write-up in the paper, I was sure—that is, if he even thought of me anymore. Not that he didn't think of me when he found his car missing from his driveway yet again—but really, thought of me.
I was now 34, largely unemployed, obsessed with the days when I still believed I had a future to look forward to. Not anymore. I did manage to find a place of my own, though it was in a basement apartment and had quite the roach problem. It was damn cheap though and the place was pet-friendly. The roach traps seemed to work fine and because I kept my pantry pretty empty most of the time though—I didn't have money to afford to buy lots of food—I hadn't seen the bugs in almost half a year now.
Yeah, my life pretty much sucked at this point. Granted, this was not the ultimate low point of my life, but it was close. I needed to detach myself from the memory of my hope-filled past and face a stark reality full of disappointment and failure.
I hadn't even been paying attention to the photographer woman during the last couple of pictures she snapped and slowly heard her voice seep into my consciousness as I then realized what was going on.
"Hey, Lady; you deaf?" the lady's nasal voice called out. I blinked several times, turning my head and allowing my eyes to focus on her.
"Sorry," I muttered. "What?"
"I need to get your fingerprints. Make sure you're not Al Caponing yourself. Step this way, Missy."
I rolled my eyes again at the irritating way she addressed me. She knew damn well that my name was April Carnegie (yes, that Carnegie) and that I'd had 'photo sessions' with her before. Was this arrest process supposed to be such a demeaning experience all the time? It was a wonder that more petty criminals didn't try to kill themselves due to their plummeting self-esteem after such a painstaking process.
I underwent the process of the inking, which tends to stain my fingers for days to come. …Not that I should've been aware of that. This time I swore would be the last time I thought of that asshole from my past or did anything involving him whatsoever. I needed a new obsession.
After I made my customary single phone call to my parents, two rather dimwitted cops escorted me to a holding cell, which was thankfully empty. Sadly, I was feeling almost accustomed to this by now, the third time I'd experienced being arrested. My first arrest was for destruction of property. Apparently dumping an ashtray in someone's yard is considered a crime. Who knew? My second and third arrests were for theft of the car.
"Can you post bail?" one of the cops asked. He was rather tall and had these striking green eyes, but there was nothing up in that head of his. Even so, I snuck a peek at his ring finger. No wedding ring. Wait, what the hell was I doing? I was probably five years older than this dumb schmuck!
"No," I admitted, a frown on my face. My parents would let me sit here and stew for a couple of days to 'teach me a lesson,' they had explained earlier over the phone. As if that helped last time I was arrested!
They had been rather uninvolved parents my whole life. I was the middle child in a family of five, and my four other siblings had since moved far away and practically disowned their black sheep of a sister. I had only spent less than a year of quality time with my parents when I was first born, and then they went and conceived yet another sibling only ten months after I was born. Maybe this arrest thing was a cry for attention. It was as if I had no one to genuinely care about me—rather, I had people that were 'concerned' about me. My father had inherited a rather hefty portion of the massive Carnegie estate and they feared I'd tarnish their name. That was the only reason they gave a shit.
Even so, I had to wonder how I'd been caught for the third time. How would I get out of jail this time? I had no real money besides the meager amount I'd earn for part time and temp work, mainly in a kind of janitorial-type or orderly-type job.
I sat in my cell with hands clasped on my lap, staring down the hall at the warmly lit policemen's offices. It was then that a shadow blocked the door, a cop obviously headed out of the office area. He was built rather solidly and wore his hat with pride, though he was at least half a foot shorter than the other cops. He strode down the hall at a leisurely pace, his chin held high, a metal baton in his hand tucked under his left armpit, a clipboard under his right arm. I'd never seen this guy before. He was too old to be new here and yet he didn't seem all that old.
I figured that by the time he came to the T at the end of the hall, he'd turn left or right and completely avoid the holding cell. As he came closer, I could see his eyes wondering about the hall, occasionally focusing on the holding cell, on me. I let out a sigh. Was this meeting of eyes the only human interaction I'd have for the rest of the day?
Surprisingly, he stopped directly in front of my cell, swinging his baton around so that he now held it in both his hands. His head cocked to one side, he eyed me up and down, making me feel kind of awkward in my prison-issued garb, my hair a disaster.
"My name is Captain Thaddeus Harris," he announced, puffing out his chest. "I normally don't interact with inmates but I come to you today after being told that this arrest, Miss Carnegie—" he stated with an air of pride, his use of my name making me uneasy, "—is now your third arrest in less than two years. I see you haven't yet made bail. Are you choosing to punish yourself for awhile here or don't you have the money to get yourself out?"
I paused for a moment, annoyed at his chiding tone.
"The second one," I admitted stoically.
"And you are unemployed, yes?" his dictation perfect. I noticed a hint of stubble on his face, a dabbling of rather deep pockmarks on both of his cheeks. His brown eyes bore into mine, locking my eyes onto his.
"Yeah," I replied, disgusted.
"How do you propose to make bail then, may I ask?"
"My parents will eventually do it," I said under my breath.
"Ah," he stated, his gravelly voice raising a few notes. He promptly stuck the baton under his left armpit again, pulling the clipboard out from under his right arm.
"Your parents are Emma and David Carnegie," he stated, glancing down at the papers on the clipboard. I rolled my eyes. "You're an heiress to the Carnegie steel fortune, am I right?"
"I don't think so," I admitted with a sigh. He looked a bit taken aback at my denial of his statement, but let me continue to speak. "I have four siblings who are all upstanding citizens. Whatever's left after my parents burn though that money will be divided among them. I'm the black sheep of the family."
"Ah. Even so, why steal a Corsica—twice?" he asked rather bluntly, his voice soft yet teasing.
"It was my ex's car that he gave to me when we temporarily reunited last—"
"Oh," he replied thoughtfully, his eyebrows raised to cast light into his eyes, "so you have the title for the car? We can let you out of here right now if you can produce that for us."
"Well, I can't."
"Why not?" he said, his grin knowing, cocky.
"I don't have it."
"Ah," he said, proud of himself. "Well then, it's not your car, is it?"
His voice was thick with irony and utterly dripping with arrogance as he spoke at me. I couldn't really consider it speaking to me being as he acted as if he knew the answers before I even said them. It irritated me to no end and yet there was a softness to his voice, an amiability hidden under all that egotistical garbage.
"Whatever," I said with a sneer. "I'm done with him and his piece of shit car."
"Language, Carnegie," he scolded with a ticking sound, shaking his head. "Just because you're in jail doesn't mean you have to act like you are. How old are you?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Thirty-four," I replied.
"Thirty-four," he responded. "I wouldn't have guessed that. More like twenty-one, I'd say."
I barely stifled a smile. So he was complimenting my looks. I hadn't known cops could do that to the inmates.
"Why?" I said, subconsciously sitting up a little straighter. "Do I look that young?"
"Hell no," he said, exposing a row of straight white teeth as he smiled. "It's just, I thought only teenagers and people in their early twenties were capable of such infantile crimes."
I let out a sigh, hoping he'd go away soon. What more did he need to know? He knew that (a) I was stuck here as long as it took for my parents to decide to bail me out and (b) that I was thirty-four, unemployed, and depending on my parents to bail me out—basically, a loser.
"What do you need a car for if you're jobless?" he added with a sneer. I was beginning to not like him very much… well, not at all, actually. He was arrogant and proud and enjoyed watching me squirm at his questions and comments.
"It's the principle," I replied, looking down at my feet. "But it doesn't matter anymore…"
"Now, I'm going to say this only once," he began, and then stopped talking, waiting for me to look up at him. I did so after the silence continued for several seconds.
"—have you heard of the Metropolitan Police Academy?" he asked, a new fire in his eyes.
"You mean, the one only a couple blocks from here? Yeah."
"I'm an instructor there as well as maintaining a position in this precinct," he explained, looking proud. "The training course just began yesterday, but they like to have us start with a full roster of recruits. We have one remaining position."
"Are you saying that I—?"
"Yes," he said smugly.
"But don't I have to have some kind of prerequisite to—"
"Nope—unfortunately," he replied, looking a bit disgusted. "In many cases we simply find the most worthless, destitute yet potentially redeemable people from this very jail—people just like yourself—and turn them into productive members of society. So, what do you say? Wanna be a cop?"
His words had cut me pretty deeply. It wasn't often—well, it wasn't ever—that people came right out and told me I was worthless. I wasn't the kind of person to cry but after those words had left his mouth I almost felt like doing so.
"A cop?" I replied, attempting to keep my voice as normal as possible. "A female cop?"
"Odder things have happened," he shot back snootily. "Like, for example, a thirty-four year old woman stealing her high school ex's property—twice."
Damn it. I should be livid, utterly pissed off at the way he was talking to me. He had left the thin red line between curiosity and rudeness and firmly planted himself in rude territory. Instead, I found myself in the grips of sorrow and self-pity.
"He's not from high school," I said, my voice quavering. Damn it to hell. My eyes were watering, and this bastard in front of me was gloating in that fact.
"Well then, where's he from? The unemployment office?"
"No," I shot back, revolted by his attempt to make light of my shitty situation. "College."
"Ah, college," he said, at complete inner peace. It was as if his ego was literally feeding off my silent tears. "Dropped out when he broke up with you, eh?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but yes. I went to a small college, and I couldn't stand seeing him every day after that. But he gave me the car years later—"
"I thought you women were supposed to be getting all independent and feministic—this is 1995, after all," he stated, ignoring my last statement. He stopped for a moment, tucking the clipboard under his arm, considering something as I sniveled in my cell.
"What do you want from me?" I suddenly blurted. I couldn't take much more of this no-nonsense ego-bashing. I had a frail enough ego as it was, and this was going to kill me if he didn't stop.
"I want to know if you'd be interested in joining the academy. It's an intensive, 14 week course but then you are a bona fide police officer when you're finished."
"Oh, I'd never even considered being—" I began but was instantly interrupted.
"We'd also pay your bail for you. You wouldn't get any jail time—which is a definite possibility since this is your third arrest. Of course, you'd have to live on campus during your training, but I assure you the conditions there are better than they are here."
"Really," I said in a monotone. They'd pay my bail? That'd be great. That way, I wouldn't have to hear my parents lecture at me on the car ride back to my apartment after they bailed me out. And I wouldn't have to fear any kind of sentencing.
"Really," he replied. "But you'd have to go directly there from here. We'd give you no chance to run away and steal the car again—or whatever else of your ex's you feel entitled to."
I stood up, my 5'5" height putting me almost eye to eye with him. He was not a tall man, but he was burly. His skin was olive toned, making me wonder if he was Italian. I noticed now that his nose was extremely small and that, aside from him being a total asshole, he wasn't the worst looking asshole. Like instinct, my eyes were inadvertently drawn to his bare left ring finger. This guy was smart, yes, but I'd rather have a nice dumb guy than a nasty prick of a smart guy. He looked momentarily unnerved at our closeness in height but said nothing.
"I'll do it," I stated resolutely, my back ramrod straight.
It was then that his downward-slanted mouth morphed into a toothy grin that completely changed the appearance of his face. I had pegged him at age fifty-five or so, but now I wasn't so sure he was that old.
"How old are you?" I blurted, immediately regretting screwing up this dramatic turning point of my life.
Just as I'd predicted, he looked temporarily stunned by the question, his smile disappearing as his jaw dropped a bit, exposing his bottom teeth as he held his mouth open, his eyes studying me suspiciously.
"Why do you ask?" he asked, eyes narrowed.
"No reason," I said, suddenly sounding shy. I could feel my face heating up and knew that I was blushing. I have rather pale skin which blushes ridiculously easy, and so I was certain he could see my embarrassment, more fuel for his fire. I cleared my throat. "Forget I asked."
He glared at me for a few more seconds, and then began nodding his head ever so slightly as if reaching an understanding. His glare was long gone when he spoke again, rubbing his fingers against the end of his baton.
"Is it because you feel that a police captain should be older than I am? That I'm quite young to have a joint appointment?"
So his ego was influencing his assessment of the situation. He smoothly pulled the baton out from under his arm and spun it neatly on his hand, stopping it with his left hand and eyeing me for an answer.
"Yes, that's it," I admitted, feeling a strong urge to roll my eyes but courageously resisting it.
"As a matter of fact I am fifty-one years old," he stated regally, emphasizing the number. "However," he added with a pleased smile, "I was actually promoted to the rank of captain in '86—when I was only forty-two years old." The look he had on his face basically said 'impressive, huh?' and I almost wanted to laugh at him—but then again, he was an instructor at this academy and I might as well make a good first impression.
"That's very impressive," I replied, swallowing all my pride and spewing it onto him. So he's a bit younger than I imagined, a mere sixteen years older than me. Maybe it was his sense of pride that made me feel that he was more seasoned, and thus older, than he actually was. His toothy smile emerged yet again, and he removed a hand from his baton, moving it to his hip to a key ring on his belt.
He looked down at what he was doing as he retrieved the key he needed and slipped it into the door of the holding cell. After the door had slid sideways to open, I stood there in front of him, less than two feet away from him. He held out his hand and I was a bit confused as to what to do. Apparently he wanted to shake hands. I extended my hand to him, my fingertips stained with black, and we shook hands, his grip firm and tight.
We remained standing there for several silent moments with a kind of awkwardness that wasn't present when the bars stood between us. It seemed as if he was trying hard to disguise his eyeing me up and down, which flabbergasted me. I wasn't necessarily bad looking, though I considered myself to be a rather plain, nondescript average-sized brunette with pale skin, brown eyes, and an embarrassingly flat chest. The silence was a bit unnerving, and strange more than anything else. He had been so willing to demean me while I sat behind bars, but now that I was here standing in front of him he was quiet. It was then that he cleared his throat, his hand moving to touch the round silvery tip of his baton.
"Before we bring you to the academy, you just need to sign a couple of forms. Just standard procedure. The tuition for the academy is rather high, but ever since the mayor decided to accept people from all walks of life we have to accept you if you want to join. We have one remaining female room that is only half-filled and so you would stay there."
"Ah, I see," I mumbled. "And the bail—?" I began, but was cut off.
"Don't you worry about that, Carnegie. I think the department can afford $500."
"Thank you, Sir," I replied, giving him a nod of gratitude. He looked pleased by the gesture.
"You may call me Captain Harris," he replied, swelled with utter pride, his chin up, a pleasant smile on his face. "In less formal situations, calling me Sir is acceptable."
"Yes, Captain Harris."
He looked almost happy enough to burst, and we turned to proceed to the police offices.
"Good girl," he said, and with that, he patted me on the back.
All the while my mind was a blur. Did I really just agree to attend a police academy?
A/N: So if you like this, PLEASE review! Pretty please! Even if you see that it needs some improvement before you'd full-out like it, please review!
