He’s the reason it all started. Dean Savage.
Not the paperwork. Not the fallout. Not the whispered warnings taped to my name. Him.
He never kicked down the door. He didn’t have to. He just walked in, smiling that smug Midwestern grin, trailing cheap cologne and unresolved childhood trauma like a cologne sample nobody asked for.
I should’ve seen it coming. Everyone should’ve. The man hits on everything with legs. Sergeants, prosecutors, court clerks, crime analysts, civilians, wives, rookies, toys, captains, supervisors, suspects’ moms—you name it. If it walks and breathes and vaguely responds, he’s got a pickup line and a hard-on for it.
He’s not charming. He just plays the part so many times, people assume he must be.
I wasn’t the first. I wasn’t the only. I was just one of many, but I was the one he decided to drag through hell.
Case File: Walking Dick (unofficial)
– Background: Midwestern rot. Grew up around violence, dysfunction, and alcohol—decided to make that everyone else’s problem.
– Diagnosis: Sexually impulsive. Emotionally vacant. Addicted to attention. Fakes connection with intense eye contact and bullshit childhood sob stories.
– Method: Seduces, uses, discards, denies. Then plays victim when confronted. Then seduces someone else.
– Behavioral Pattern: Hungover on Mondays. Hero on Wednesdays. Victim by Friday.
He doesn’t even like women. Not really. He likes domination—the idea that he can still charm someone new when he’s already rotting from the inside out.
And I fell for it. For five minutes. For one moment of weakness, one fraction of a second.
But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at his reflection in my attention.
Now I carry the consequences. He walks around untouched. Telling stories. Smiling. Still hitting on interns like time stopped just for him.
He doesn’t remember what he did to me. He doesn’t remember what he did to other people. But they do.
Ask around. People know. Most just won’t say it out loud.
“Dude’s a walking ghost,” one officer told me. “Just floats through his shift doing nothing but managing impressions. You think he’s your friend until he leaves you holding the bag.”
“I’ve seen him lie without blinking,” said a sergeant. “He lied to me, lied to a judge, lied to a victim. And the way he talks? You want to believe him. He’s got that I’m-just-a-good-guy-from-nowhere voice.”
“I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to get dragged into anything,” a civilian employee said. “But he created a fake Facebook account and tried to hook up with me. I ignored it. Then a while later he made another fake account and did it again. That’s when I told him to fuck off and said I’d tell his wife if he didn’t stop. After that, he disappeared.”
One high-ranking detective remarked to me, “He…looks like he smells.” I couldn’t help but laugh at that. Apparently, this detective had witnessed him eat food off the floor like a dog during work.
Someone had mentioned his name to people who used to work with him, and they just laughed and said, “Yeah, of course. We warned him about that shit. Told him he was gonna get in trouble if he kept doing it. He hit on everything—no respect for women, no respect for rank.” Like it was just known. A pattern.
And then there’s the quiet one. The one who worked with him for a decade and never raised her voice.
“He uses people,” she said. “That’s it. He doesn’t work. He doesn’t care. He just wants power. He cheats on everyone. He lies to everyone. I don’t even think he finished high school. He just figured out how to fake smart.”
“But somehow,” she added, “he fooled everyone. Even the women in charge. They knew. One of them told me straight-up—he’d been accused of sexual harassment. HR report, formal interview, everything. And not even six months later, she gave him stripes.”
“Why?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Because he gave her what she wanted for a moment. And because she wanted to believe he was the guy he pretended to be.”
Illusion is his only skill. And apparently, it’s enough.
But the rest of us? The ones who knew? We were just collateral. And yet, the people I pity most are his wife and son—forced to live with the man behind the mask. They’re the ones serving the life sentence.
