History

[TW: murder, violence, and period-typical racism]

Bartholomew Theodore Redd was born to Dr. Theodore James Redd, a physician, and his wife, Phyllis Marie Redd (née Wood). The son of a doctor, Barty was off to a better start than most. At the eldest of eight, Barty had to play father a lot while his father was constantly called away for work. If things had gone differently, Barty might have run with one of the gangs he now polices. He ran with an unsavory crowd when he was young, and despite constantly getting himself into trouble, he managed to help his mother ensure that his sisters were cared for. His grades were atrocious, mainly because he skipped school more than he ever attended. Redd’s father was constantly on him to improve and become a doctor or a lawyer. The world was his oyster; he had to apply himself. The problem was that he did apply himself, but it was hard to focus in school, and the words never looked the same twice. It felt like everyone else understood the assignment, and he was learning it in Greek.

When he was sixteen, he got into some fairly big trouble all to do with the murder of a thirteen-year-old boy. It was never solved, and though Redd did not do the deed, he refused to snitch on the friend who did. Lucky for Redd, when his friends were facing time, he was offered a deal out of respect for his father’s upstanding position in the community. He was permitted to join the Army or the Navy, which was his choice, to keep him away from the people he ran with. Needless to say, the life of a sailor was preferable to being locked up, and his 17th birthday was spent in basic training, and then he shipped off. Nothing about his service was particularly noteworthy. He was suspiciously sent nowhere near combat. If he had to guess, his father had arranged it all.

Dr. Redd was remarkably good at arranging things to keep his son out of trouble. Even when he returned home from his first tour of the Atlantic, Barty was forced to marry the daughter of a family friend. Barty had done well in the Navy, even learned how to read properly under the tutelage of his commanding officer. He learned a few more things, but that was hardly the point. Dr. Redd would not have any rumors about his son or questionable maritime appetites. So, he spent his 21st birthday getting married to Wendy Brown. She was a sweet girl, and he thoroughly enjoyed being newly married. Of course, when he goes away to sea and comes back to a pregnant wife, the math does not add up. And if anyone knows anything about Redd, the man does not react well to being disrespected. It did not go well for Wendy, and he spent his time between their fight and his tour at a friend's place until he shipped out again.

Now, no one could say Barty had a thing to do with his wife’s death. The woman was a sensitive little thing, and maybe the fear of raising the baby alone was too much for her, or if the rumors were true, it was possible that Wendy could not face the reality that the child would arrive looking nothing like her husband. Whatever happened, Wendy’s remains were fished from the Thames a month into his tour. It was eight years and a tour ended in Sierra Leone until Barty married again. Mariatu and Barty were evenly matched. She was positive and authoritative, and put up with hardly any of his nonsense. They had a Vai wedding and always planned an English wedding in London, where she could be properly introduced to the family. When faced with a letter from his son’s intention and a small Carte-de-visite of the happy couple, he withdrew any support for Barty. Eight children, all daughters and one son. Dr. Redd noted in his final letter, “To whom it may concern, I have no son.” The man could stand his son running with a dangerous crowd, even fix his mistakes, and send him money when Barty gambled it all away, but he would not suffer a woman of color in his family. The whole ordeal created a wedge between Barty and Mariatu, and the more insulted he felt, the more he drank. The more he drank, the worse he behaved until Mariatu insisted it was time for Barty to go home and mend things with his family; their short marriage was over as though it never happened.

Barty remained in Sierra Leone longer, living a separate life from his ex-wife until his mother sent the funds to bring him home. His father had passed, and she needed his help. In the summer of 1882, Barty returned to London. A friend from the Navy got him an interview to become a police officer. He assisted the Royal Naval Police, although he never officially joined; however, he had a Sea Gallantry Medal that indicated otherwise. It was documented that he played a pivotal role in protecting a captain who later became an admiral. News of his involvement was greatly overstated. All Barty did was grab hold of the knife of a jealous lover and prevent the captain from being stabbed to death for playing with the wrong young sailor. Barty never once asked for a letter of recommendation. Still, the admiral gave his associate a glowing recommendation for him rather than rehash the event or delve into the particular details. And just like that, Barty found himself serving on the police force with distinction despite whatever else he may have gotten himself into.