In the tiny anteroom of the Fairfield Police Department, I scan the ubiquitous posters, brochures, and Xeroxes for a sneak preview of my “ride-along” with a patrol officer. I’m here to get permission from the chief. The wait is brief, but long enough to take in a list of tips on handgun safety, large-font warnings on shaken babies, and a scare sheet on the miseries of OxyContin. Phone numbers are tacked up everywhere: one for reporting domestic assault, another for turning in drug pushers, another for aiding injured wildlife, “especially foxes and raccoons.” The department’s dispatcher, a gray-haired woman with a pleasing, professional voice, runs down license plates on the other side of the glass.

To read more, see the September 2009 issue of Down East magazine.