Dear Fred, Daphne, Velma, and Shaggy
I would like to start off by saying that I commend your sense of justice and your passion for community activism. The entire force and I would like to express our gratitude for your whimsical, freelance investigations that so often bring a wrong-doer into the light of the law. That being said, I would like to also formally request that you leave a couple of these zanier investigations to us police officers once and a while. In a world so often filled with violence and an endless cycle of thuggery, it would be nice for me and the boys to get the occasional nutty case looking for ghosts in an old mansion. It would really allow us to blow off some steam and have some good, old-fashioned laughs.
I can’t remember the last time I laughed. You know, really laughed.
I don’t know if any of you are considering a career in law enforcement, but let me tell you: it is very different from the kind of work you’ve been doing. The last guy I busted had a freezer full of blood. Just bags and bags of blood in there. My next three weeks were spent trying to find whose blood it was. Those aren’t phone calls that are fun to make.
God knows where you get your tips, but you guys always seem to be at the most enigmatic locales in this town. The Old Hadley Mansion? I’ve been looking to investigate something up there for years. Do you know how many times I wish there was a secret staircase or revolving bookshelf in the places I get called to? Nope, instead it’s always heroin stored underneath some false floorboards or a chemically imbalanced man who has locked his entire family in a secret dungeon in his basement. Let me tell you, those kind of cases do not get easier the more you do them.
We always get called in at the very end, after you’ve spent the better part of a day having fun and solving a campy crime. All we get to do is take the criminal away and do paperwork back at the precinct. Do you know how much paperwork I have to fill out? Sometimes that’s all I do for weeks on end. It’s starting to feel like it’s the only thing I do anymore. And you probably think we incarcerate all of these guys, but in reality our success rate is pretty low. The legal fees alone trying to nail a senior citizen for disrupting the peace are vast. And usually they get off on a technicality like temporary insanity, private property trespassing, or the fact that amateur teenagers handled the bulk of the investigation.
Old Man Stewart? Old Man Jeffries? Old Man Sullivan? We’ve been trying to bust these wacky criminals forever. Somehow you kids just waltz up for an afternoon and fancifully catch them. We did nab Old Man Billings once, but it wasn’t in a haunted castle, it was in a brothel coked out of his mind chasing a prostitute around with an old hammer. Not the same experience.
I’ll admit in my darker hours I have even suspected you four of running some sort of crime syndicate and framing various senior citizens for your illicit activities. God knows this is the kind of seedy town where you can get away with that kind of thing. “But why?” I thought. “What is it? Drugs? Sex? Political influence? It can’t be!” I thought. “It doesn’t add up!” But you’re always there before us. And your fingerprints are everywhere. Everywhere. And then I shake myself out of it saying “Don! What are you thinking? They’re just four fresh-faced youngsters!” Maybe I’m getting too old for this.
You kids have a 100% success rate. Whenever there is something spooky going on at the abandoned amusement park or a cantankerous ghost causing trouble at the wharf or capricious spirits reported in a secluded cabin you are the first ones there. But when there’s a double homicide, you’re nowhere to be found. Maybe the next few domestic violence calls I get I’ll forward right on to you.
Of course I’m kidding about that last part—I would never send teens on a call like that. Wouldn’t think of it. But it’s just something to keep in mind. Just because we’re adults doesn’t mean we don’t like have a little fun too. I knew when I signed up that part of my job would be picking up severed limbs and chasing deeply-evil men down seedy alleyways that seem to lead to the very blackness of the human soul itself. I’m not complaining about that. But if I got to pull a sheet off an old man dressed as a ghost whom my best friend and I just tricked to fall into a big net even just once a year, I know that’d go a long way in persevering my sanity before I can retire from protecting this hell-hole.
Sgt. Don Mercer