Before the R.P.D., Kevin Dooley was a legend in the entertainment industry. He was a premier Hollywood stunt pilot, the kind of man who would thread a single-engine Bell Textron through an alleyway for a three-second shot. He moved to Raccoon City seeking a "quieter" pace of life, trading the flash of film sets for the grit of police work. Within the precinct, Dooley was known as a perfectionist. He didn't just fly the helicopters; he understood their anatomy. He could identify a failing bearing in the tail rotor by the pitch of the engine whine alone.

• The Civilian Liaison: Before the badge, before the hangar at the edge of Raccoon City, Kevin made his living in the air—flying exhibition helicopters, camera rigs, and stunt flights for low-budget films, tourism outfits, and private contracts across the Midwest. He learned early how to keep an aircraft flying on bad parts, bad weather, and worse odds.

Kevin’s life revolved around the R.P.D. hangar, a space he shared with the elite S.T.A.R.S. pilots and technicians.

• The Bond with Brad Vickers: Brad was the "Academy Pilot"—strictly by the book, focused on weather patterns and fuel ratios. Kevin was the "Intuitive Pilot"—flying by the seat of his pants. They were a perfect match. Kevin taught Brad how to handle a bird during a mechanical failure, while Brad taught Kevin the intricacies of tactical positioning.
• The Bond with Edward: Dewey and Kevin were the "Eyes and Ears." Kevin loved the way Dewey could pull a signal out of thin air, and Dewey loved the way Kevin could keep a helicopter steady in a crosswind. They spent long nights in the hangar betting on whether the R.P.D.’s aging Eurocopter AS 350B-2 would make it through another winter.

The Final Inspection: July 23, 1996 18:15 Hours.

The sun was low, bleeding a deep crimson through the hangar’s corrugated metal siding. The air smelled of aviation fuel and heavy grease. In the corner, a dusty radio was playing a low, steady beat—classic rock that Kevin claimed helped him find the "rhythm" of the machinery. Kevin Dooley stood on a yellow rolling ladder, his R.P.D. jumpsuit tied around his waist. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the smoke curling lazily toward the high ceiling, mingling with the scent of the engine oil. His eyes, narrow and focused, scanned the turbine of the Eurocopter. He had a torque wrench in one hand and a shop rag in the other. He reached out, his fingers tracing the hydraulic lines with the delicacy of a surgeon.

"You're acting up again, aren't you?" he muttered to the machine.

He heard the laughter of the S.T.A.R.S. boys outside—the sound of Forest and Chris arguing over target scores, and Joseph and Roy high-pitched giggles. He took a long drag of his cigarette, his gaze softening. He took his responsibility as a pilot with a gravity that bordered on obsession. If those men were going into the dark of the Arklay Forest, it was his job to make sure their "ride" was the one thing they didn't have to worry about. He tightened a bolt on the fuel intake, the rhythmic beats of the music shielding him from the growing tension in the precinct.

"Five by five," Kevin whispered, wiping a smudge of grease from the R.P.D. logo on the fuselage. He hopped down from the ladder, the cigarette still perched firmly in his smirk as he looked at Eurocopter with a proud smile.