murdered by pirates is good

"Sixty-four thirty-one."

Garvey listens to ten seconds of silence, then keys the mike a second time: "Sixty-four thirty-one."

More dead air. The detective cranks the volume control on the Cavalier's radio, then leans over to check the frequency indicator on the front of the seat. Channel 7, just as it should be.

"Sixty-four thirty-one," he says again, releasing the key on the hand mike before adding the less procedural "oooh, yoo-hoo . . . Anybody home in the Western? Helloooo . . . "

Kinkaid laughs from the passenger seat.

"Sixty-four thirty-one," repeats the dispatcher, acknowledging the detective in a mumble that suggests only mild irritation. It's a known fact that those assigned to a police communications unit are carefully screened to ensure that they will sound as if they've been watching televised bowling tournaments for a month. Perhaps it's the job, perhaps it's the metallic squawk of the broadcast itself, but the speaking voice of the average police dispatcher falls somewhere between tedium and slow death. In Baltimore, at least, the world will not end with a bang, but with the weary, distracted droning of a forty-seven-year-old civil servant who will ask a patrol unit for the 10-20 on that mushroom cloud, then assign the incident a seven-digit complaint number.

-David Simon, Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets