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EDMONTON — With beers in hand, Darren Detlefsen and Tim Legall relax on a step in front of the Boyle-McCauley Health Centre.

As a news crew approaches, they look up and offer a warning.

“You’re in a combat zone,” Detlefsen says.

It’s not meant as a threat, just a caution for a pair who appear out of place in the gritty, central-Edmonton neighbourhood.

Moments later, beat constables Curtis Maron and Christopher Weir show up.

Detlefsen and Legall know the drill, emptying their beers onto the ground. Neither seems too upset. In fact, both say they welcome police visits.

“These gentlemen are cool, bottom line,” says Legall. “Escort the riff-raff out,” Detlefsen chimes in.

But asked if they would ever seek out the police and a confused look appears on their faces. “What you do know can hurt you,” Legall explains. “So it’s better off not to know anything.

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“You start to go around and tell the cops everything, you might as well put a sign on your forehead saying, ‘Go ahead, kill me.’ “ Tweet This

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” Detlefsen adds. “There’s a reason for that. That’s how [we] stay safe. This is the Vegas of skid row.”

The code of silence that governs these streets drew attention a few weeks ago when Nadine Skow was stabbed to death in her home in nearby Central McDougall. Neighbours heard her screams yet nobody called 911.

At the time, a veteran homicide detective, Staff Sgt. Bill Clark, said he was disappointed but not surprised. “They hear a lot of things and, I hate to say it, they almost get used to it.”

Maron and Weir say the community’s reticence can make their jobs difficult.

“It’s frustrating but you sort of get used to it, I suppose,” says Weir.

Later in the evening, the constables come across a middle-aged man in blue work coveralls, sitting alone. He’s an addict, focused on the rock of crack cocaine in his hands, and seems oblivious to the officers until they’re right above him.

Weir and Maron aren’t out to arrest the man; they want to know who sold him the drugs. They ask, but as usual, receive little information.

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“Nobody wants to come to court, nobody wants to complain about it,” says Maron. “… I’m actually surprised when people do come back and make a complaint and actually tell us stuff. It doesn’t happen very often.”

Weir is more philosophical: “My co-workers [and I] do the best we can to be police officers and we just understand — or at least I understand — I’m just a small part of a big picture.”

Edmonton Police Chief Rod Knecht focuses on the bigger picture. Safety isn’t just a police issue, he says, and stresses the importance of “community engagement.”

“We need community support. We need community trust. If we get that, and we have that support, this’ll be a safer city. But 2,400 [city police staff] aren’t going to change that. A million people will change that.”

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There are those in central Edmonton working for change. Miranda Ringma co-owns Zocalo, a flower shop and boutique on 95th Street in Little Italy. She and her family live nearby.

“It’s my ‘hood,” she says. “It’s a beautiful place to live.”

To make the area even more beautiful, she puts baskets of flowers out on the street, and works closely with neighbours and police. She knows she can’t change everybody’s attitude, but she tries to lead by example.

“I think art and beauty and vitality and all those great things take the place of anything else we don’t want around.”

Back on the street, it’s clear change will be slow to come.

Tom Fitzpatrick stops to chat with Maron and Weir, then, as they walk away, he shouts, “Thank you for being on the streets. I appreciate the work you men do.”

But asked if he would ever help police, he replies firmly: “I am not a rat.”