With the expansion of the city’s borders from two square miles to 130 and a population that topped one million in 1890, the need to extend the force’s mobility led to the construction of a series of large, three-story, brick and stone stationhouses within the forty odd districts served. While the primary way of getting around was still on foot, the mounted police were used frequently for breaking up large disturbances, such as unruly activity during labor strikes. And the advent of the patrol wagon lifted the burden from the foot patrolman of having to drag his prisoner to the main stationhouse or the corner Police Box (a windowless telephone booth type of holding cell) until the wagons’ arrival. Like the colorful police cars of the 1990s, some with extravagant, costly striping packages wrapping around the entire vehicle, the patrol wagon of the 1880s must have been equally conspicuous for its time: a blue wagon body with bright red wheels, led by two harnessed steeds driven by two uniformed cops. The exposed rear section could hold a prisoner, extra policemen, or a patient on a stretcher. The early motorized version, debuting about 1910, looked much the same, though horses were replaced by the motor cab and a tarp sheltered the rear occupants.
The Philadelphia Bureau of Police, and later its renamed successor, the Police Department, was alternately moved, pushed, cajoled, and ordered to adjust itself to the ever changing urban landscape that used automobiles, telephones, and finally computers and helicopters to provide its citizens with the levels of public safety they increasingly yearned for. Two world wars, a failed temperance movement, a depression, and great social upheaval often ushered in modernity and stalled progress. Thousands of individuals pinned on a badge and swore to uphold the standards of law and order amidst this rocky landscape. Some lasted over forty years; a few didn’t last forty days. Some got into gunfights more than once; most never fired a shot except on the pistol range. Some drove a red car, some drove a blue car, the most recent a white one with brightly colored stripes that shone bright at night. Some walked a beat their entire career, others languished behind the walls and desks of a headquarters. Still more found excitement and adventure toiling in the various specialized squads that cropped up as society and the force became more complicated. Others found it on horseback, boat, and motorcycle or in the air at the controls of an infrared equipped helicopter. Most wore a uniform, at the turn of the century a long frock coat and a derby hat; then for many years a grey collared shirt with a smart bowtie and an eight-point patrolman’s hat, followed by the same grey shirt and traditional neck tie; and finally the light blue shirt worn today. Most remained in the lowest rank of police officer, some rose to sergeant, lieutenant, captain, or inspector. A few made it to chief or deputy commissioner; and even fewer made it all the way to the top. If they got into the detective bureau, they hung their uniform in a closet and forgot about it until they retired. Then they found out it wouldn’t fit anymore. If they became a detective, they spent countless hours conducting the most drudged work, often tracing the most miniscule of leads to make a case; to the dedicated investigator this too was adventurous work. Their uniformed counterparts in the cars and wagons spent the same hours engrossed not in one case, but chasing down the multitude of calls they received over the police radio, at one time, unbelievably by today’s standards, confined to only one radio band for the entire city. Occasionally, they found time to eat a quick meal, on the run. Almost always on the run… They all saw the best and worst of life, often the beginnings and ends of it, some naturally beautiful, some of it horribly perverse. When Chief Inspector Frank Canning retired in 1969, he said, “It isn’t always pleasant and you’ll see some miserable conditions and sometimes it really gets you down.” He also saw another side of the job: “But then someone will do something to renew your faith in human nature.” That was nineteen years talking; for Canning, it was enough.
A few years later Joseph Halferty had a different perspective, turning in his shield after thirty-one years: “I had the front seat at the greatest show in the world…And they paid me.”
This is their world, this is their story.
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