Drop the Pen! What Every Writer Should Know About Real Police Work

Stop Making Real Cops Cringe

By D.L. Williams

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I met my wife at a murder trial. She was a journalist covering the hearings of a man who’d blasted a guy and his girlfriend for stealing his favorite gun, and I was a detective who’d worked on the case. I wasn’t the lead in that investigation, but I’d found the bullets matching the caliber fired from the murder weapon, along with a picture of the suspect holding his treasured “street sweeper” shotgun in his best gangland tough-guy pose, while helping out on the search warrant. 

I remained composed during cross examination when I spotted her from the witness stand, but she was flipping gorgeous. It took concentration to testify about the laundry-piled, old shoe-smelling closet where I’d found the ammunition and photograph, all while thinking about those eyes and the cute way her hair was tucked behind her left ear. Police work can be so rough.

Hollywood makes it seem like detectives hang out after their testimony to watch the drama through the remainder of the trial, but reality is that caseloads generally demand we go back to work on that stack of other cases waiting on our desks. That day, however, I stuck around, hoping for a chance to meet the woman taking notes in the second row. She was the consummate professional, however, and would have little to do with a cop involved in a case she was covering. It worked out, though. Sometime later we had lunch…and grandkids. 

Recently we were watching a mystery on one of the streaming services. It was more cozy than thriller, not our usual fare, but we like the lead actress from previous series and decided to give it a try. The storyline follows a civilian employee working for a metropolitan police department who solves a murder case by scrutinizing a conspiracy board when all the cops had gone home for the night. Think of a brilliant but flawed Matt Damon staring at a wall of math while holding a push broom, the only one able to solve the equation in Good Will Hunting. 

The show was fine until the middle of the second act when the protagonist was chastised by her detective mentor for taking items out of an evidence locker without permission, ferrying them to her own home so she could have a closer look, and then allowing her precocious ten-year-old son to help her sift through said evidence to get his take on things. The only question for my wife and I at that point was who was closer to the remote. 

Last year I was asked to read an Advance Review Copy for a mystery/thriller author. The story involved a street-savvy investigator, yet the protagonist routinely performed in ways that made him appear naïve. One glaring instance had him realizing his gun had been stolen, and he presumed the murderer was now in possession of his one and only available weapon. Despite this, he continued on to confront this shadowy menace without backup or a weapon of any kind. We get it; he’s a tough guy who doesn’t need any help and moves faster than bullets. He’s also an idiot. 

That kind of decision is counter to any logical response, yet the character had been nothing but disciplined and well trained up to that point. He was not thinking like a cop anymore, and many regular readers of mystery or real-life criminal justice professionals would raise an eyebrow and move on to the next book in the To Be Read pile. 

Readers and viewers may suspend some disbelief over iffy police or investigative practices for a cozy mystery, less so for darker thrillers, and not at all for police procedurals. It’s perfectly fine to fudge a bit while creating red herrings and crafting unusual characters. What is not okay is to simply omit or obscure good procedure for lack of research or to spackle over a plot hole. Frankly, it comes off as lazy, unimaginative, or a bit desperate. 

Oftentimes this creates work that feels like a copy of a copy, as if the writer learned all they know about police work from other writers of mystery or from watching old cop shows—lots of “just the facts, ma’am,” and “ten-fours,” but very little in terms of well-researched practice. 

This would never fly in historical fiction. Readers of that genre demand well-researched details in novels and films, and they tend to be something of experts themselves when it comes to a specific historical period. Writers of mysteries and procedurals should rise to at least that level of expectation when it comes to their own projects. 

You don’t have to be a beat cop or detective to write good mysteries, but you owe it to the story, your readers, and your own reputation to better understand the culture and practices involved. Unconstitutional searches and seizures, derivative suspect interrogations, and clueless practices by experienced professionals scratch across prose like a record needle bouncing over vinyl tracks. 

Of course, that may be exactly what you had in mind if you’re developing a sinister or incompetent cop character. You may want to portray a detective as inept or corrupt, in which case folding an unconstitutional search or an abusive interrogation into the storyline may be just the direction you need to take. Even then, I encourage writers to cultivate an understanding of how cops think, the mindset of predators, and basic victimology. The result will be more nuanced and compelling character arcs.

I hear from writers across the country asking questions about specific passages in their stories, and I’m always honored to discuss ideas on how they can generate more authenticity into their works in progress. They often lament what they perceive as a lack of resources for learning more about police practices and culture. Many have a great premise but no clear direction on how to make the story ring true. 

There are many books on the subject of professional police work and best practices in criminal investigations. My suggestions for getting started include Criminology Goes to The Movies (Nicole Rafter and Michelle Brown), Walk the Blue Line (James Patterson), and Malicious Intent: A Writer’s Guide to How Murderer’s, Robbers, Rapists and Other Criminals Behave (Sean Mactire). 

Additionally, I encourage you to explore writing conferences offering speakers on topics related to the mystery genre. Time and finances for travel don’t need to hold you back. There are several online seminars devoted to teaching real police work for authors. Writers’ Police Academy, for example, offers an online version of their in-person conference. Better yet, go directly to the source. 

You may already know a cop or have access to one by a degree or two of separation. Set up coffee or lunch and pick that officer’s brain about scenes you’re crafting. Certainly, ask them questions pertaining to your plot, but I encourage you to take things a step further once you’ve developed some rapport. At that point you can try to open them up about their scariest day, a case they’re most proud of, or how they came to the profession. You’re likely to be amazed, and your notebook is going to be filled with new, adventurous ideas on where your story or series can go next. 

Consider riding along with a local police or sheriff’s department. Many agencies welcome members of the community to ride out with a patrol officer or deputy, allowing you to see, hear, smell, and sense real police work up close. The officers picked for such assignments tend to be more experienced, and most have demonstrated a willingness and ability to talk about their profession in vivid and frank terms.

Explore a citizen’s police academy if you want an even more immersive experience. This is a modified version of a real academy where you get hands-on experience with forensic techniques, clarity on constitutional concerns related to policing, a sampling of various services offered by the department, and some self-defense and firearms training. You’ll have a ball, make new friends, and add experts to your writing network.

I was an English Lit major, which means I wrote good police reports (extra points if I could work in a metaphor). It also means I will forever be in awe of great writing. I feel kinship with and reverence for storytellers and want each of us to rise beyond our own perceived abilities. The expectation I hold for myself is that I will treat our craft with the same discipline as a surgeon would for medicine or a dancer for music. That means we’re in a practice, where we acknowledge we will never learn enough, yet we can never stop trying to learn more. 

Writers shouldn’t prescribe paths for other writers. Voice is all about telling our stories in our own cadence and combinations. That said, I’m asking you to honor my former profession by learning about it, then honor yourself and your work by weaving what you’ve learned into extraordinary stories we celebrate and remember. Onward!

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David “D.L.” Williams is a public safety veteran with assignments including paramedicine, patrol in high-need areas, helicopter rescue, mental health liaison, and violent crime investigations as a detective. During his thirty-year career, Williams was twice named Officer of the Year by the Fraternal Order of Police, and he has been recognized by Rotary Club, the American Legion, and the National Coalition Against Sexual Violence for his work with families and children in crisis. He now teaches criminology at the University of Arkansas, and he is the bestselling author of Fighting for Her Life: What to do When Someone You Know is Being Abused and Textbooks, Not Targets: How to Prevent School Shootings in Your Community. He and his family have settled in the Ozark Mountains where they offer a haven for donkeys and horses who previously endured a rough life.

The Writer’s Playbook: When Your Journey Collapses

By Steven Harms

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On March 3, 1985, a severe winter storm of heavy, wet snow blasted Pontiac, Michigan causing the air-pressured roof of the Pontiac Silverdome, home to the Detroit Pistons and Detroit Lions, to concave. 

A year prior to that I began my career in pro sports with the Pistons. When I awoke the morning of the 4th, I had an inkling our home game that night would be cancelled due to the storm. Understatement of the year. Upon nearing the stadium as I drove into work, the sight was incomprehensible. The roof had inverted to such a degree that it wasn’t visible from the exterior. 

I parked and made my way into the offices, proceeding to my tiny cubicle, joining my colleagues as ticket sales representatives. The first thing we all did, including my boss and the rest of the team, was to head across the hall to the Silverdome’s press box to view the scene. That space looks out over the football field and the basketball court positioned in the southeast corner.

The decision was made immediately to postpone the game. Back to our cubicles, we jumped on our phones to call every season ticket holder to inform them of the situation. Side note – there was no internet or cell phones in 1985. A few hours later, unworldly rumbles and corresponding earthquake-like shakes rolled through our offices, taking out the power in the process. We all knew what happened.

Officially, in the southwest corner of the Silverdome, the snow depressed the fabric panels low enough so that the fabric met a steel lighting catwalk positioned just below the inner lip of the roof's ring beam. The hole caused a loss of air pressure, deflating the roof. Eventually the wet snow slid down into the bowl and ruptured more roof panels, collapsing several precast risers in the upper deck, and dislodging chunks of seating areas in the process including some from the upper level that had smashed the lower-level seats upon impact. One of the collapsed panels that fell demolished the Pistons court. For all of you college football fans, Gary Danielson was practicing at midfield with a few other Lions players when the collapse began, but they made it out of there in time. Repair operations of the roof began immediately but were interrupted for over a week due to high winds. In the end, nearly all the remaining panels in the deflated roof, one hundred in all, were either ripped off their moorings or badly damaged.

As for us Pistons staff members, our story continued. We were sent home the rest of that day for obvious safety reasons. Additionally, ten home games were left in the season (including a home game that evening) as well as the high likelihood that we would be in the NBA playoffs at the end of the month. Disaster central.

In the end, we managed through. We returned to work two days later deploying generators to power high blowing heaters so at least we could function. Our phone lines were reconnected. We had to relocate season ticket holders to wherever we were going to play. It became a master class in customer service. Within a few days our president had worked out a deal with Cobo Hall and Joe Louis Arena in downtown Detroit – home of the Detroit Red Wings – to play our remaining games.

The silver lining in all of this was the experience triggered a series of business decisions that ultimately led to the Pistons building their own arena, The Palace of Auburn Hills, a few miles up the road. The Palace opened in August of 1988, corresponding with the Pistons winning NBA Championships in the first two years. The Pistons organization went on to even greater heights, establishing Palace Sports & Entertainment, acquiring the largest amphitheater in the Detroit area, and serving as entertainment managers for a few other facilities as well as starting a popular minor league hockey team, indoor soccer, and a concert venue experience like no other at the time. What the Pistons did with the Palace was groundbreaking in many ways, earning national recognition.

But here’s the thing…

If not for the collapse of the Silverdome, none of what the Pistons morphed into would have happened. The disaster was the catalyst. It birthed a rebuilt organization that achieved heights it never imagined through vision, creativity, innovation, and strategic planning and execution.  

I plucked this experience from my past to shine a light on our author journeys. The correlation between the collapse of the Silverdome and what we process as authors, in every aspect, is a study in heroic pursuit of success. 

For every writer reading this, whether you are published or hoping to be, please take yourself back to that moment you decided to become an author and the first time you took your seat at your keyboard to begin the first chapter. Ahead of you are a thousand challenges. Some are obvious, some are not. Success is the goal, but along the way the pieces you put in place to reach that goal can collapse, fully or in part. Among many, there’s the story you’re writing itself followed by editing and rewriting, and then the rewrite of the rewritten story, and then another rewrite of that rewrite, the agent search and multiple rejections followed by your agent’s pitch (if you landed an agent) resulting in numerous further rejections from publishers, if at all, attaining recognition and sales if you opt for self-publishing, book marketing efforts producing no discernible results, your publisher changing their mind, the toll it may take on your home life as you climb the author mountain, and. . . fill in the blank.

Yet, as happened to the Pontiac Silverdome and its consequence on the Detroit Pistons, the hardships of heavy, wet snow that descends on your author journey can either bury you into a collapsed state or serve as a reagent for you to course correct. Rebuild, transform, innovate, vision-cast. Tap into that glorious attribute ingrained within because the ability to turn a blank piece of paper into a story isn’t at all easy. 

We are authors. Bring on the storm.