Baltimore police hot line number connects callers to adult chat
Toll-free number for internal investigations instead goes to ‘America’s hottest talk line’
“A phone number for filing complaints about Baltimore police officers connected callers this week instead to an adult chat line advertising ‘hot ladies’…”
I was able to acquire a transcript of one confusing exchange:
Hot Lady: Hi, gorgeous, I’m Sandy. What’s your name?
Caller: Uh, hi, but I’d rather not say.
HL: Oh, that’s too bad. What can I do to you today?
C: Well, you see, I was going to the 7/11 at the Market Place–
HL: Oh, I love that place. Do they still have those foot-long hot dogs? I could swallow them all, night, long.
C: Dunno’. But what happened was, this officer asked me for my ID–yeah I’d had me a few beers–but I told I didn’t have one.
HL: I’ll bet you have a lot of other things, though. A lot of big things.
C: I guess, but he throws me against the wall and starts putting his hands in my pockets–
HL: Stop, slow down. I’m gettin’ so hot right now. A man in uniform throwing me against a wall and putting his hands all over me. I wish you were that man.
C: I’d never be a cop. No ma’am.
HL: Did he have handcuffs?
C: Uh, I’m sure he did, but he didn’t put them on me. He let me go, but he was so rough and I felt violated.
HL: Did that turn you on?
C: Fuc–I mean, hell no!
HL: It would me. I love it when someone violates me rough. I think I’m gonna’ come!
C: Ma’am, if you have to go, I understand. But could you please put someone else on the line if you do?
HL: You’re so cute. So hot.
HL: Have you ever been rough with anyone?
C: Well, my brothers and me–
HL: Oh, how kinky!
C: Just ‘rassling.
[There is quite a long pause, and when she returns her voice has changed to a serious tone.]
HL: I’m sorry. I–I just can’t do this no longer. Mister, I was abused, too.
C: I’m sorry to hear that, Ma’am.
HL: It was in, in a different way.
C: Who would do that to a nice lady like you?
HL: First my dad, then my brothers–[She begins to cry]–then a couple other assholes.
C: Sure sound like assholes if you ask me.
HL: Where are you now? Can you get any coke?
C: I got some on me now.
HL: Can you make it to Nebraska? We’ll party. I’m done with this fucking job.
C: Nebraska! Maybe in, like, two days.
[Hot Lady gives Caller her address, where he tracks her down four days later. He learns from neighbors that she had committed suicide four nights ago. Despondent, he proceeds to smoke the crack, of which he had brought plenty, in a discrete area he could find near the Greyhound station.
[When the coroner gave his report on our would-be Romeo several days later, he noted, “Technically, I’ll rule this a drug overdose. But, in my nonmedical opinion, our John Doe died of a broken heart.”]