1          ONE TIME TOO MANY

It was hot in Fort Worth, Texas, in August. The temperature hadn’t hit below one hundred degrees since late June. Some folks might even say it was too hot. But the alternative would be to live up north in one of those godforsaken cities with all the snow, wind chills, and crime. The criminal activity might be okay because it would keep a Detective Second Class busy, and that’s what he would be as soon as he aced the exam. What a strange way to think. It must be the building anxiety.

Blake Franklin, son of Fort Worth Police Chief Kent Franklin, was just an hour from sitting down with the detective’s examination for the third time. Passing would move him from patrol to the Detectives Bureau. This was a stepping stone necessary to move up into administration, like his father had. After that, who knows?  Maybe he would jump into politics. He had plenty of time to plan his next steps, but this one was “in the bag.”

Blake, a thirty-six-year-old with nine years in patrol and four years in the Coast Guard after college, was behind on his life goals by about five, so the day was exhilarating. It was one hundred-six degrees outside, but the exam had no sweat. He had the knowledge and experience to pass it with flying colors. His friends asked him questions about interviewing techniques designed to elicit confessions, all the nuances of case law about police work, and how to investigate crimes so that arrests could be made and felons could be prosecuted.

Blake knew all the answers and was more ready than ever. He couldn’t figure out how he bombed the first two attempts, but to his embarrassment and amazement, he had. If only he had the actual tests to go over, he could see where he messed up, but department policy required the tests be electronically shredded.

Blake dressed in lightweight khaki pants, a sports coat, and a tie; he even polished his brown loafers to look like a Detective. He checked himself in the mirror before heading out. Other than the growing bald spot on the crown of his head, he felt he looked decently ready for prime time. The important thing for Blake now was to look like a Detective and think like one.

He brought a uniform to change into after taking the test, and hung it from a plastic hook in the back of his crew cab. Then he climbed into his Ford pickup truck to drive from Euless to the testing center in downtown Fort Worth. The metal tip of the seatbelt was as hot as a branding iron, and it was only eleven. Blake pressed play on his MP3 player so George Strait would serenade his twenty-minute drive.

He showed his badge at the parking garage and found a spot on the top deck where he wouldn’t have to repeatedly pull in, back up, pull in, back up, and back up to park straight. He was still getting used to the long bed of his new truck. His ex-girlfriend, Mindy, was the reason he changed from a Honda Civic to a truck like any true Texan would. Then she dumped him before he had time to master parking the damned thing.

Blake exited the elevator on the fifth floor and made his way down a long hallway to the testing center. He made the trip too many times already, and this would be the last.

“Morning, Ms. Leach,” Blake said cheerfully. Tristan Leach, a training specialist in charge of implementation, was sitting at her desk reading whatever was on her computer screen with great interest. She looked to be a few years shy of thirty and was very fit, blond, and blue-eyed. She carried herself like a woman in charge, and she was. She looked up to see Blake standing just inside the door.

“Please find a seat…Bret, isn’t it?”

“Blake. Like Blake Shelton or…” Blake couldn’t think of another famous Blake at the moment.

“Blake. I got it. Officer Franklin, please sit at any station and let me know when you can commence. I’ll explain what you can expect during the testing.”

“Oh, I’ve been here before. I think I know what to expect.” Blake couldn’t wait to get started. He knew the test would be administered in five sections on a PC and that each question would be multiple choice or essay. Each section would take no more than forty-five minutes. All Blake had to do was click a little radio button or key the answers that came to his mind first.

He sat at the back, well away from the four others who had started testing earlier. Three female officers and another guy, who appeared slightly younger than Blake, were concentrating on the monitors in front of them. This was a big and important step for them as well. He removed his jacket, hung it over the back of his chair, and said, “I’m all set.”

Tristan walked back to his station and logged in to the PC. A large gold detective shield appeared on the screen. She had Blake enter his badge number and date of birth, and the instructions for Module One appeared on his screen.

“Let me know if you have any questions or problems. Remember, anything you write down has to be left behind, but there are pens and paper in the basket at the end of the table if needed. Good luck.” Tristan was walking away and heard Blake say, “No problems here today.”

The great thing about using PCs for testing is that the system scores the completed tests immediately and enables the testing coordinator to hand a pass or fail to the candidate as they exit the training center. There was no mystery or anguish, wondering if a candidate would be moving forward. They were told the testing was just one part of the interview process and that no one step was more important than the other, but Blake didn’t know of anyone who failed the test and went on to be interviewed by command.

Blake finished each module ahead of the allotted time and was sure he was taking a big step toward his goal with each one. So when he signed off the PC, he stood and stretched, put his jacket on, and walked to the front of the room with a spring in his step. An in-depth interview with a Detective Supervisor would be next.

Failing had delayed his rise in the department, much to his humiliation since his father was Chief of Police for Fort Worth. He had never tried to use his dad’s influence, but at this point in his career, he wouldn’t mind if it positively affected the process—just a little.

Tristan talked with another candidate, so Blake hung back a little to give them privacy. The young woman fist-pumped Ms. Leach and thanked her for a large yellow envelope she was carrying. Blake moved up to the coordinator’s desk. The printer was humming as it came to the end of a print job when he arrived. Tristan reached beneath her desk to pull a piece of paper up that Blake knew would be his passing certificate and his passport to the future he had planned. Tristan looked at it and then picked up a large yellow envelope, but before she could slip the certificate inside the envelope, Blake asked,” Can I see it first?”

Tristan stopped and handed him the printout, which wasn’t a certificate. It simply said across the top of the page, Candidate Failed.