From the elevated vantage point, the city appeared much smaller, with its activity seemingly contained below the haze. The hills offered a comprehensive view: illuminated grids, widespread development, and an apparent sense of order. The Westside Division distinguished itself by handling fewer calls and managing more complex cases. People used to make fun of the Westside—called it “West Latte” like it was some soft assignment, a place for the laid-back or the lucky. But it was more than that. It was a hidden gem. The cases might not have been loud, but the people were good. Thoughtful. Kind. Real. That’s what I remember most when I think back on those days—the people who made the quiet count.
I still fondly remember three wonderful people after all these years. His name was Thomas Duncan. He came from Chicago, built like a professional basketball player but calm in a way that made noise unnecessary. Most people that size take up space; he didn’t. He blended in, carried himself lightly, like a man who’d already figured out what mattered and what didn’t. His hair was sun-bleached, his eyes the color of the Pacific, and if you passed him on the street, you might mistake him for a surfer or a coach, not a cop. He missed his calling as an NBA player. He probably knew it too. But somehow, life rerouted him to Westside where he met his wife, an ER nurse. You’d think a guy like that would be too laid back to run a division. But that was the trick—he didn’t run it with pressure or politics. He ran it with clarity.
Duncan served as a supervisor who managed the theft table, an important part of the division associated with high-net-worth residents. When he asked me to take over the Financial Crimes and Elder Abuse section, it indicated trust in my capabilities, as he was selective with opportunities. My work in that section marked a significant stage in my professional development. He was the best supervisor I ever worked for because he understood the one truth most people in leadership positions never grasp: trust brings out the best in people. He didn’t hover. He didn’t lecture. He didn’t make you prove your competence every week just to feed his ego.
During his supervision, I developed professionally. My caseload involved complex cases, including one concerning the heir to Snap-On, a tool company established in 1920 and valued at over $4 billion, who experienced financial abuse by her caregiver. These cases resulted in me being named Detective of the Year. He gave me that space. He gave me that trust. And that made all the difference. He didn’t play favorites. Under Duncan, attention-seeking didn’t translate into influence. There were no attaboys for theatrics, no gold stars for urgency without substance. Working under Duncan taught me something I didn’t realize I’d been missing: the absence of favoritism is a form of respect. No one had to compete for approval. You just did the work. Duncan trusted work, not performance.
When I think back to those days, what stands out isn’t the awards or even the cases. It’s the feeling. That rare sense of being trusted—of knowing that someone above you believed in your judgment. Duncan was the kind of supervisor who didn’t need to make every decision himself. He wanted to see what you could do when left alone with a problem. And when you delivered, he gave you the credit. That’s what real leadership looks like.
My friend Brent Hilliard was a former journalist who dressed like Sherlock Holmes and investigated like him too—calm, deliberate, sharp as glass. He never judged, never followed the crowd. There was something deeply decent about him, like he carried an invisible code of fairness wherever he went. His wife was a crime writer, which somehow fit perfectly, and together they were that rare couple who made intelligence look romantic. They have a little girl now. Brent moved on to fight sexual assault—a heavier calling—but it suits him. It’s exactly the kind of work someone like him should be doing.
And then there’s Charlotte Kowalski—my classmate from the academy. She’s still there, still Westside. Same gentle spirit, same quiet humor that sneaks up on you. She always reminded me of someone out of Little House on the Prairie—strong but soft around the edges, the kind of woman who’d survive anything without ever hardening. She married well, to a man with money, but she never stopped showing up, never stopped serving her community. Two kids now, a boy and a girl. She’s the same Charlotte I knew back then—steady, grounded, good.
Not every division is toxic. It’s the people who make it that way. You can take the same structure, the same policies, the same building—and under the wrong leadership, it’ll rot from the inside. But give it to someone with integrity, someone who doesn’t crave power but respects it, and that same place becomes something worth belonging to. That’s what Westside was. A hill above the noise. A place that reminded me what police work could be when politics got out of the way.
Whenever I drive through those hills, I think about that division—about what it felt like to be part of something that worked. The city below still hums and burns and fights with itself, but up there, for a brief stretch of time, we built something that made sense. Westside might not have had the noise or the headlines, but it had heart. And for a while, it felt like home.
