The Judges Christmas Balls!

THE CASE:

There was a serial rapist preying on young women in our city. He would stalk his victims to make sure they were alone in their homes.  He struck in the wee hours of the morning and would put a pillow case over their heads to protect his identity and add terror.  He would borrow a butcher knife from their kitchen just to add torment to their terror. 

His attacks grew more violent as his confidence grew.  His 'MO' or signature was grape jelly.  He would spread it on then lick it off.  So it was quite  incongruent to have such a violent act combined with such an apparently childish act.  (Unless you have studied sexual deviance. School is good).

He was apprehended after a particularly nasty rape where the victim had an infant in the room with her.  He had no compunction about making threats to kill the baby if she failed to comply with his demands.  Her experience left her with permanent psychological damage.  Today they'd probably label it PTSD.  And that would be an understatement. 

The case drew a lot of media attention and was followed closely.  Especially when it went to trial.  The clearance of numerous cases attributed to him hung in the balance as well as some modicum of justice for the victims.

I decided to attend the trial for a number of reasons. Not the least of which was to see justice done and watch how the wheels turned.  You can learn a lot about how to investigate, how to write reports and how to testify by watching a good defense attorney try to tear the investigation apart.  Attending one good trial is worth more than taking a dozen classes on case preparation and presentation.

Despite her traumatic experience the victim managed to muster the courage to testify against assailant. I was very ispired and moved by her courage and fortitude.  It was a testament to her mother instinct and the will to triumph over evil.

THE JUDGE:

The case was presided over by a lady judge.  She was really old.  She must have been one sharp cookie in law school and a crack lawyer (no pun intended) when she was coming up to have been a female judge in the 1960's.  A rare bird to say the least.

Her upward climb in the profession was behind her.  Her days of being interested in her cases were behind her. The days of just going through the routine were behind her. 

She had seen so much and been on the bench so long none of it meant much to her in the way of paying attention to anything more than being a referee.   And seeing the rules were followed to preempt appeals. She didn't display a smidge of interest in the 'case' itself.

But she was very good and  she was a hoot.  She had a tiny frame, couldn't have weighed 100 lbs.  She was obviously in her late 60's or early 70's, though I doubt anyone was brave enough to ask.  In her robes she looked like a puff of black smoke.

She wore a short, dark brown wig that was one or two sizes too big.  When she bent her head down the wig would slip down on her brow. When she looked up she'd have to push it back on her head.  This aroused chuckles and smirks constantly through the day. Some times she'd over correct and push it back too far - funny was an inadequate description of her wig management.

As you are well aware the design of the judge's bench includes a small parapet in front. One of its purposes is to prevent prying  eyes from seeing items on the desk. These days she was addressing her boredom by engaging in a hobby to pass the time.  Behind the parapet she was working on making Christmas decorations.

Her project du jour was Styrofoam balls.  She had a tray with a supply of pins, sequins and beads.  She would gather a few beads followed by a sequin and poke them into the ball to make a sparkly decoration resembling a giant snow flake.  It filled her time I guess.

THE PROBLEM:

Being old school I doubt she ever truly got used to the new fangled electronics.  This would include the microphone on her desk.  Some how the thing was picking up transmissions from the Sheriff's Department radio and she swore she could hear it.  She complained several times to her Bailiff that she wanted it fixed. 

Never mind that every time she  stuck a pin into the Styrofoam it made a rasping scrape noise like fingernails on a blackboard.  The sound was picked up by the mic and amplified to the courtroom.  The audience, attorneys, witnesses and jury were subjected to the annoying screeching noise with every pin jab.  Not one person was willing to complain to her about it.

AND AND THEN:

The noise created by her torture of the Styrofoam ball didn't seem to phase her, but the transient interruptions of the faint radio transmissions across her microphone really got to her.  She would send the jury into the jury room then complain to the bailiff to 'get this damn thing fixed!' 

The bailiff, who could not work magic, would say 'yes ma'm' and whisper to his subordinate who would attempt to do the bidding of the court.

Court resumed and the questioning of the witness on the stand continued.  It was punctuated by the constant screeching of the pins poking Styrofoam, the judge readjusting her wig and deputies talking to their dispatcher in the distance.

A maintenance man walked into the courtroom and was discreetly trying to examine the equipment. At that moment a transmission from the Sheriff's radio came over the speaker. 

 Clearly annoyed, she snapped her head up to address the maintenance man.   She'd been so  wrapped up in decorating her balls,  she completely forgot that the jury was in the room.   Her wig was almost completely over her eyes as she glared over the cheater glasses perched on the tip of  her nose at the Bailiff and the  maintenance man and declared -

"I TOLD YOU THIS FUCKING THING WASN'T WORKING RIGHT!"

GOD I LOVE COURT!

PS.  He got 99 years.  He was convicted in 1982 and scheduled for release in 2038

Timmy's New Night Stick

If you ever wanted to head out your door to  work and found your way blocked by an alligator on your front porch, you'd know how the guy who called one morning felt.  He opened his front door to find a hissing, smiling, tail flicking spitfire about 3 ft. long. 

Not a big gator but still it had an attitude that kept a wise person from tempting fate. Just enough to get the rookie's feet wet a little. They carry a bacteria in their mouth that can cause serious infection and death.  So even a small scratch from a seemingly small gator can be lethal.  And it would hurt too!

We had just finished our coffee and donuts when the call came out.  I was training a recruit and I was gleefully looking forward to seeing how this Polish kid from the outskirts of Chicago would do on this call.  I had been an FTO (Field Training Officer) for about 10 years.  In that time about 20 recruits had passed thru the front seat of my cruiser.  I'd guided, trained, coached, scolded, counseled, evaluated and critiqued. 

The success rate for a recruit  was about 50%.  My flunk rate was a bit higher.  My reputation as being the Axe Lady was notorious at the academy and every recruit dreaded being assigned to me. 

Little did they know I was not so much an axe wielding man slayer as a good evaluation writer.  The recruits that had already been anticipated as not having the 'right stuff' were usually assigned to me because management knew my daily observation reports (D.O.R.'s) would stand up if the recruit challenged their termination.

But, about half the recruits I worked with were destined to be very good cops.  Timmy was a good kid, smart, nice, and possessed the three most important qualities a police officer needed in those days.  Honesty to a fault, abundance of common sense and a sense of humor.  He was a bit naive but definitely a keeper. 

All he needed was exposure to a variety of calls and some orientation.  A gator on the porch would be good experience.  If he could get this one I knew he could handle the snakes, rats, cats, dogs, tarantulas, raccoons, possums, and all the other fuzzy, furry, reptilian,  hissing, pissing, biting animal calls he would some day have to handle.

When I attended the academy we had to pass a gator trapping exercise, the gator we practiced on was about 6ft.  It takes two or people, a rope, a long pole like a broom handle, duct or electrical tape and handcuffs to secure a gator of that size on dry land.  If they are in the water it's time to call the Frog Marshall.  It's really not complicated when it goes right.

• First you get them to bite down on the broom handle;
• Second you get the rope into a noose around their snout until you can tape it shut;
• Then you either tape or cuff their front legs behind their back;
• And last but not least -  Road Trip!  Some where out in BFE.............

I had the rope and  tape in the trunk.  It was up to Timmy to find the broom or  appropriate substitute and take the 'business' end of the gator.

When we arrived the gator was waiting  in full gape, hissing, bowing and displaying for us as we approached.  I might have only been 3 ft. long but like a Chihuahua that thinks it's a German Shepard, this little guy thought he was a bad ass.

Timmy asked me what to do. I suggested he break in his brand spanking new night stick. (The department used to issue hickory, then ash or oak, but recently a load of soft light weight wood sticks had made it into circulation, which is what had been issued to him).

He mustered his wits and his courage and put the stick out.  The gator lunged and clamped down instinctively.  I noosed it's snout and wrapped the rope around it until we could get him taped up.  There was only one problem for Timmy.  Now he had to get his stick back.

That brand new, gleaming, shiny, perfectly stained mahogany red stick had to be pulled from the vice grip of the thoroughly pissed off gator.  It took some doing but it came forth with a multitude of scratches and scrapes.  Timmy's bottom lip pouted out as he saw his new stick was marked for life.

"Cheer up kid, those are battle scars."

After that he proudly displayed his skinned up stick for days.

From time to time over the next few years I would  see Timmy  at shift change.  I'd check to see if he still carried the same stick.  He would grin and display it for me.  I think he was proud of those scars and glad they were on the stick and not him.

He became such a good officer the department gave him a Harley Davidson Street King, complete with lights and siren to play with.  I was very proud of him.

I hated it when they took the sticks and replaced them with ASPS.  Those things are worthless.  Some times new is not better.

O Hell No!

Everyone thought it was so great when they came out with ‘OnStar’.  If you were lost a bitch-in-a-box could tell you where you were and where to go.  Not that all bitches wouldn’t accommodate telling you where to go.  And it would rat on burglars or car thieves by phoning ‘home’.

But, like all things, unforeseen problems are part of the deal.  Unforeseen problems are like turds, they roll down hill and cops are always living in the valley.

One night the dispatcher sent me to an ‘onStar’ activation.  Seems someone was tampering with a purdy new Cadillac.  I smelled the turd  the second she finished dispatching me. 

The closest they could come to the location was an intersection.  It so happens that on one side of that intersection was the CADILLAC dealership and on the other side of the street is a shopping mall.  The mall lets the CADILLAC dealership park it’s overflow inventory on the back side of their parking lot.  (for money I’m sure)

Me:  “On scene, headquarters, can you give me the tag number?”

Dispatch:  “No tag available”.    -Saw that one coming,  Duh - new cars but I had to ask.......

Me: “Can you give me a vehicle color?” 

Dispatch:  “No color available”.   -  I shoulda known better but had to ask…

Me:  “How about a model type?”

Dispatch: “No model available”…  –  I shoulda known better…

Me:  “Can they flash the lights or honk the horn?”

Dispatch:  “Negative”.    -  I shoulda known better…

By this time I had scanned all 100 cars at the dealership and was cruising up and down the aisles of the 200 Cadillacs at mall.  No human activity, it was 0300.  No sparkles of broken glass on the ground. 

Sitting silent with engine off, not a noise except for a crotch rocket winding it up in the distance.

“OK radio, what do they want me to do?”

“Ascertain the vehicle and the problem”……….

I am thinking WTF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  

But I’m a pro, no snotty radio procedure….(you believe that don’t ya?)

“Radio, there are about 300 Cadillacs here and I don’t see any problem.”

I advised back in service, no problem found.

Dispatcher:  “We have a VIN number can you check?”

Screw it, professional is no longer an option  -  in the snottiest tone I could muster:

“You have to be kidding Radio, didn’t you just hear me say there are almost 300 cars here?”

{ Are you Shitting me?}

10-8!!!!!!!!!!!

It’s a good thing I was the shift supervisor that night,  I would have had to give myself a reprimand for wanting to choke out the dispatcher and nuke the OnStar brain trust………

THE APPEALING DEFENDANT

If you want some 'reality' entertainment, just take a seat in the peanut gallery at your neighborhood traffic court hearings.  When ever I had a case I would arrive early and stay late just to see the show.  Of course winning is fun too, but that's fodder for another day.

One day I was waiting for my case to be called and snuggled up in my seat to watch the case that was called before mine.  The officer was someone I had attended the academy with. 

He was very smart, highly educated and sickeningly self confident.   The defendant was an older fellow,  not 'old' but older than middle-age.  He appeared to be someone who had bullied his way through life, backing everyone down- until he came across my fellow officer. The clash of ego's must have produced near nuclear fission!

The judge always starts court with a few instructions on courtroom decorum and how the case will be presented. Officer presents the case first, the defendant is given the opportunity to present their side, and cross examine or rebut the officer.  Then the officer gets to rebut the rebuttal.  The judge then makes a ruling. 

On this day, before the judge could finish his spiel the defendant butts in, "I want an appeal!"

The judge says, "sir, you have not been found in violation yet. The officer needs to present his case."

Defendant glares at judge then officer.

Judge,  "officer, you may proceed."

The officer explains how the defendant, who had grown impatient on a side street waiting for a gap to pull on to the main road, stuck his arm out the window, waved frantically hoping someone would slow down then pulled out violating the right of way and causing a driver to swerve and slam on brakes to avoid sending him to the next world."

"I want an appeal!"  the bully says in a snotty tone.

Judge, "sir, you can appeal if and when you are convicted."

"All you guys are crooked, you're both in this together! I demand an appeal."  claims the defendant.

Judge, "sir, you may present your defense now, I suggest you do."

Mr. Attitude, "you're just trying to trick me, I have rights, I don't have to tell you shit!"

Judge, "sir, no need for profanity, I will find you in contempt if you continue to use inappropriate language.  You have a right to remain silent but you requested this hearing.  Please present your side of the case."

Mr. Attitude, "I ain't telling you shit!,  He'd just lie  (pointing at the officer), and you'll believe him, all judges side with cops!   I WANT AN APPEAL!"

Judge,  " I must remind you sir, that an appeal is only available if you are found in violation."

Mr.  Attitude, "Fuck You (pointing at the judge),  and Fuck Him (pointing at the officer).  I WANT AN APPEAL!"

By now the bailiff and clerks are holding their hands over their mouths to keep silent and the audience is totally suppressing the urge to roll on the floor laughing at this clown, the judge, however, is not so amused.

"Very well sir, I find the officer has presented a prima facie case, I find you guilty as charged." 

Then the judge turns to the clerk and says,

• "maximum fine, ($500) 
• $500 contempt
• long driver improvement school  (a 40 hour week school, not the 4 hour Saturday afternoon refresher----FYI that school has a $250  tuition plus state fees)
• Complete retesting (written, driving & eye test)
• full points
• minimum 30 day suspension, not to be reinstated untill all provisions of this ruling are satisfied

If this idiot had just said 'no contest' his fine would have been $25 and $2.50 court costs. If he'd been contrite and asked nice, the judge would have withheld adjudication (no points).

The judge turns back to the defendant locks eyes with him, slaps the gavel down and says

"you wanted it, you got it,  'appeal this!'  "

You just can't fix STUPID!

Be careful what you wish for you just might get it.

Sex on the Beach aka Geschlecht auf dem Strand

                                                                         Before

One of the zones I regularly patrolled is simply called 'the beach'.  At roll call the Sergeant would announce the officer(s) name and zone assignment.  When my name came up his voice would drop and say 'the beach.'  THE BEACH was generally considered a rookie zone since there was little in the way of criminal activity. 

It had a Ritzy shopping area where old ladies would regularly lose their Cadillacs, jump to the conclusion it was stolen and call to report it as such.  The officer would drive the baffled complainant around the area until the hiding car and its baffeled owner are reunited.

It had a strip of three to five star hotels with their pampered guests who thought they were in sugar sand heaven.  A whole lot of expensive condos and homes, many of which had even fancier yachts parked out back. 

And finally a few luxury marinas.  The public beach went on for miles along the front of the variety of hotels, condos and homes, ending in a dead end point of protected land that was completely isolated and accessible only on foot.

This beach became infamous as a nude beach and 'hook up' heaven for nudists and the gay community.  The word spread rapidly in the back of gay magazines circulating in the clubs all over the southeastern states.  Any attempt to enforce the completely ignored public dress code laws quickly resulted in loud and raucous protests. 


The cowardly reaction common among cities sharing this problem is to turn a blind eye.  The myth
that it was an official 'nude' beach was perpetuated in the sunbathing community by their publications.   The  information even found it's way into European travel buochures.

One day I was patrolling a lonely stretch of 'access' dirt road up into the nether lands of bun beach when I saw an arm waiving me down from behind a bush.  I stopped to lend assistance and found, much to my amazement a young couple, Adam & Eve if you will, using a bush to cover the private parts of their complete nudity.  They were from Germany and spoke little English.  I gathered from my rudimentary German skills that they were on their honeymoon and selected our beach for it's European (nude) appeal.

They had walked up the public beach from their hotel, clothed and carrying their beach needs, lotion, hats, flip flops, soft drinks, towels, blanket, wallet, purse, money, passports,etc.  When they arrived in the area secluded enough to meet their honeymoon needs, they set up camp, stripped down and began to frolic in the surf.  They made love in the ocean and headed back to their 'stuff'.  Only to discover all their 'stuff' was gone.  Hence, they hid in the bushes until the answer to their problems drove up in a Polizeiwagen (police car but you knew that).

Lucky I had a Hiway blanket  (the kind you put over corpses on the highway so the rubber neckers don't get a total thrill).  I put them in the back seat with their blankie and drove them to the nearest thrift shop.  I sized them up, went in and selected a nice Jimmy Buffet shirt and shorts for der junge Mann; (the young man) and a nice beachy style shift for die Seenymphe,(Sea nymph).  Two pairs of flip flops and up to the register.

The clerk, somewhat bemused at a police officer shopping for luau outfits asked me about my purchase.  When I told her about the blanke Deutsche im Aut, she just laughed and said, 'on the house'.

I delivered the haute couture to the much relieved couple who dressed quickly under their blanket.  I took them back to their hotel.  I'm guessing between the hotel concierge, the German Consulate and

ihre reiche Mamma und Vati, (rich parents) ~~~~they got home O.K.

I often wonder how that story is told over Christmas or Anniversary dinners;  How a plan to have Sex on the Beach turned into getting Screwed at the Beach!

                                                                               

   

Chris Rock - How not to get your ass kicked by the police!

PROLOGUE~ cops are people too

>>>(o)(o)<<<         PROLOGUE          <<<(o)(o)>>>

COPS ARE REAL PEOPLE TOO

YA KNOW.......

Well, I guess I already screwed up since a Prologue by it's definition is something that comes first, but hey, when I reshuffle these pages later who's  the wiser?  As some ancient smart ass put it so well, 'better late than never'.

The point of this prologue is simply to advise you, the reader, that I do not hold a single experience I share up as anything special or unique.  Every cop on this planet has a litany of stories that are funnier, sadder, grosser or more poignant than mine. 

Talk to any cop and he will regale you with the shit he's seen and been asked to do on your behalf.  They just don't feel like, or haven't gotten around to putting it in a blog.  A few have written best sellers but for all the stuff 'we' have seen and done, not enough of it is shared. 

Oh, TV Cop shows have their niche, but remember, those are active cases and the officers know they are being taped.  Their actions and most importantly, what they are really thinking and they feel about it are filtered through the eye of political correctness.

The purpose of telling about honest reactions and thoughts of the events in my experience is to share what no politically correct 'reality' show can do.  The TV cops are under scrutiny to be total robots cranking out widget answers.  The fact is they are human and there is more behind the 'Sir, stop resisting', the 'please step out of the car' and 'how can I help you?' dialogue.

Police are not heartless, expressionless, humorless, cold hearted arrest machines.  It comes off as that because we are not allowed the luxury of participatory reactions.  What I mean by that is sure we think it's sad when Uncle Joe gets creamed in the family Taurus but if we bled for every Uncle Joe we would be useless when the shit hits the fan.  The public doesn't need another crying bystander, they need a detached,cool headed person who can do the thinking and acting while THEY lose it.

It's not that we don't care or are cruel, it is just that we can't allow ourselves to care too much and we have to see the gallows humor in these pickles or we would all end up at the front of the rubber room intake door. 

It's training,  professional detachment and the ability to function under stress that separates the emergency worker from the victims and general public.  We simply can't hurt for every hurting person, bleed for every bleeding person, cry for every crying person, care for every person who needs to be cared about.  It would drain the officer to the point of insanity, and often does.

So we make jokes and smart ass remarks to maintain our mental detachment,  it separates the shepherd from the sheep and keeps us both protected from the aftermath of shit that happens.  Being forthright about this kind if stuff is some times politically incorrect, can open you up to a law suit or simply hold you up to a level of scrutiny no person should endure simply for being ready, willing and able to help people who can't help themselves.

So please, if you ever saw a cop do his job and thought to your self, what a cold SOB, just remember he's trying to keep his sanity so he can think when you might not be able to.  And if you are still so thick headed you can't see my point, go read the liberal press for your self gratification.

And if you are a cop with a story you been itching to tell but want your privacy, email it to me and I'll post it.  And I promise I won't take credit for your 'good deed' or the 'blame' you if you screwed up!

What Will They Think of Next!

The aftermath of 9/11 and the anthrax attacks left every citizen thinking ‘they’ personally would be the next target.  No odd thing that appeared in their environment went unsuspected.

We ran from call to call responding to the most bizarre scenarios. Suspicious cars, suspicious packages, suspicious people, suspicious envelopes; it went on and on.  We were exhausted to the point of giddiness getting run around town on wild goose chases.

So it was that a passing motorist felt compelled to call 911 to report a suspicious object on one of our drawbridges.

The responding officer dutifully responded to inspect the bridge.  He cruised it slowly both over and back.  He didn’t see any suspicious packages or objects on the bridge.

The only thing he found was the bag and wrapperes from a fast food breakfast.

When it came time to advise the dispatcher of the results of his investigation he announced over the radio in a mildly acerbic tone,

“every thing is 10-4 radio, just
 ‘Osama-been-litterin’.”

Road Kill???

From time to time police officers are offered training in a variety of topics.  Anything from sign language (and I don’t mean giving the ‘bird’ at a passing motorist who tried to run you over) to Serial Killers & Lust Murders.  One of the myriad of courses I took was to be able to operate breath testing equipment for DUI.

As a breath testing technician I was called to booking to operate the machine for other officers.  One particular test I performed sticks with me to this day.

It was a dark and stormy night (really) when I was summoned to booking to run the machine.  It takes a few minutes to fire it up, run some blanks and fill in the log. 

The arresting officer usually takes this time to complete a report called an A-I-R ~  Alcohol Influence Report.  It has a series of nonsensical and mundane questions for the impaired driver to answer. 

The purpose of the questions is not got get a real answer, although they come in handy too.  It is designed to lure the uninhibited/smartass into making stupid or angry remarks that can come back to haunt them if they foolishly decide to have a jury trial.  Many a giggle has been evoked from a jury upon hearing some of the A-I-R responses.

This particular night the suspect was an elderly black gentleman.  He was in his mid 60’s, with an average build.  He was balding and had kind eyes, like Santa Clause eyes.  He had a cheerful nature and when his lips drew back into a wide smile it exposed a gap between his otherwise perfect teeth.

What a sweet guy I thought as I prepared the machine for his test.

The arresting officer began the A-I-R interview. Among the questions asked a few still stick in my memory.

Have you been drinking alcoholic beverages?   “oh, yeah”

When did you start drinking?  “lemme see,  um, when I was 12”

When was your last drink? “jus a fore you pulled me”

What were you drinking? “Colt”    (refers to Colt 45 malt liquor~ A cheap, overly strong beer, often found in poor neighborhoods in 40 oz bottles. Can occasionally be good; usually isn't)

Where were you drinking? “in da ca”

When was the last time you ate?  “suppah time’

What did you eat?            

His mouth drew into a wide smile, flashing that pumpkin gap in his teeth as he recalled the statisfying meal.  His eyes twinkled and spoke in a contented tone……

WAIT FOR IT………………………..

     “A possum sammich and sweet patayta pie!

Sorry, Cinderella

Graduation from the Police Academy was a very happy day.  So I invited my mentor, the Sergeant in charge of sheparding recruits, and his wife to a BBQ and pool party for a small celebration.  

We told 'academy' stories and laughed alot. He and his wife were just a lot of fun. We'd polished of  a couple bottles of wine and had a little buzz going as we jumped into the pool/

 We all played a game of Marco Polo and every one was having a good time.  As it got later into the evening we relaxed on the steps of the pool he says to me, "So, when is your first shift?"

"Tomorrow." I replied.

"What shift did you get assigned to?"  he asked.

"Midnights."

So he says,  "Well isn't that in a couple hours from now?" 

Holy crap!  Here I was partying and I had to report to my first squad meeting in less than 3 hours! 

That buzz burned off real quick as I rushed to prepare for my first shift meeting.

When we walked out the cruiser my training officer asked me if I wanted to drive.

"Naw,  think I'll pass tonite if you don't mind.  I didn't think that was such a good idea.  I was not under the influence but I didn't want to take any chances.

A few hours into the shift we responded to a hit and run crash.  The remaining vehicle was so heavily damaged and there was a lot of debris from the car that left the scene.  We looked through it and there on the ground was a magnetic 'hide-a-key' box directly below where the 'run' car would have been,  inside was an ignition key.

We followed the leaking fluid trail about 12 blocks and found a car with extensive front end damage.  The driver, a woman, was passed behind the wheel.  She denied being the other half of our hit and run, but her goose was cooked.

Sorry, Cinderella, your key fits!  Duh....................

I learned a couple lessons that night:

• Pay closer attention to my schedule. 
• Never party a few hours before work
• There is no substitute for good friends who've got your back
• To err is human, to forgive is not department policy
• and there but for the grace of luck went I.

I never did that again!

(well, maybe a couple times, but I'm just sayin')

"BUT SARGE-----"

When you are a rookie it’s a good idea to attend as many calls as possible to swiftly build on your experience.  So even if it’s not your call you stop by and observe.  Key word- observe-.  No one wants to hear anything you have to say and you certainly don’t have any business butting in.  But your attendance is tolerated because everyone knows you have to learn.

I was still working for Gunnery Sergeant “OooRah” when the call went out.  There was a dead person in a decrepit old house in the poorest part of town.  It was in an adjoining zone so I decided to go slide by and observe.  I needed all the experience I could get.  Only the assigned zone car was on scene when I arrived.  They were already in the house.

It was an old wood frame Florida ‘cracker’ house.  It had clapboard siding and sat on concrete piers.  It had to be at least 100 years old.  The white wash paint was weathered down to that silver patina old wood gets. 

The linoleum was caked in dirt, yellow from time and peeling up everywhere except where the trail of heavy foot traffic had worn all the way through.  You had to be careful where you stepped as the floor boards were rotted to the consistency of sponge.  As I walked it bounced like a trampoline.  Breaking through and breaking a leg was a real possibility.

The whole house had the unmistakable smell of death.  It’s a stench that cannot be expressed on paper.  If you have ever had a snoot full of ripe road kill multiply that by 10 and you have the idea.  I tried to make like a fly on the wall as I knew my presence was barely tolerated.  My eyes could soak up the experience but I was expected to keep my trap shut.

The officers whose call it was had quickly sized up the situation by looking into the bedroom and pronouncing death from the door jamb.  She was a very old lady, looked to be in her 80’s or more.  Just her head protruded from under what appeared to be a pile of rags.  She was just a rack of bones really.  She couldn’t have weighed 90 lbs.  Kind of a fresher version of Norman Bates’ mother.

About this time Gnny. Sgt. ‘OooRah’ arrives.  He swiftly inspects the scene and assumes command, barking orders and instructing the dispatcher to send a removal team.  He notes my presence with a begrudged glance and quickly ignores me.  My presence is now accepted so I peruse the entire house.  How awful to be so alone, so poor, so neglected.  I went in to take a closer look at her and she winked at me.

I was stunned.  I had to be wrong.  It was kind of dark in there as the windows had about a hundred years of dirt on them.  The smell was overpowering but I got closer and looked into her face.  Her eyelids were fluttering!  I leaned in fighting the urge to hurl and checked her carotid artery for a pulse.  She had one!  Oh, my God- She’s alive! 

I had to say something but my job was to stay back and stay quiet. I just couldn’t do that. I knew it was gonna piss him off royal to hear me but I HAD to tell the Sarge right away. 

“Sarge,” I said.

“Not now.” Came the response.

“But Sarge….” I tried to get him to listen.

“NOT NOW!” he said, clearly annoyed with the obnoxious rookie.

“But Sarge, she’s not dead” I blurted the information quickly before he scolded me again.

“You shitting me?   You better not be shitting me!” he grumbled – as if it was my fault this thing was getting complicated.

He checked her and began barking orders for an ambulance into the radio.

Turned out she had no friends or family.  She'd had a stroke and was paralyzed.  She had lain in that bed for God knows how long in her own body fluids, which was the source of the odor.

The  EMT’s arrived and quickly attended to her.  (If there are angels walking the earth they surely drive ambulances).

I was just about to drive away when the Sarge walked past my car on the way to his, “Good job”, he muttered, glancing at me as he walked.

I don’t know which shocked me more, finding an alive dead lady or getting a compliment from my Sergeant.

Either way it felt good!

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

It should come as no surprise to anyone that shit always rolls down hill.   This applies to the workings of police departments everywhere.  The irate citizen shares his grievance with the City Manager or a member of the city’s governing body.  They contact the Chief of Police wanting the problem to go away. 

The chief calls his minions together for regular staff meetings and tells  the patrol commanders what the issues du jour are and orders them to take care of the problems.  The commanders disseminate the recent wish list to the sergeants who are responsible for delivering the news to the troops and cracking the whip. 

Finally, living in the valley of the shadow of shit, are the patrol officers whose job it is to actually go out and get their hands dirty- thank heaven they 'fear no evil'.

And so it was that the stinking collection of rag tag winos and weenie wagers came to be confronted on the lovely shores of our beautiful quaint fishing village’s bay front.  They had taken up residence under a visqueen tarp just above the high water line. 

Their waterfront condo with the million dollar view was barely 100 yards from a popular tourist attraction and within 50 feet of a sidewalk that was popular with joggers and cyclists.  A park with a wading fountain for children was within eyeshot, too. 

Lacking the usual amenities of their high rise neighbors, these street urchins would have to settle for a mangrove bush as their latrine.  The unsuspecting biking and jogging citizenry were often treated to an unwelcome mooning, or worse.

These gents got their daily exercise strolling over to the local soup kitchen for their breakfast. Then they'd stop by their favorite convenience store to shoplift their daily ration of MD 20-20 or beer on their way back ‘home’. 

Their tent site was afoul with broken and empty wine and liquor bottles, beer cans, rotting clothing and the smell of trench warfare.  Not to mention the flurry of 'indecent exposure' complaints they had generated over the past few months.

The shift meeting started out with the usual.  Roll call, people making sure they got their vacation and holiday requests approved.  The BOLOs were read.  Then I broke the news that hobo evictions were on the daily to do list. The supply of rubber gloves was refreshed and a suggestion to carry some kind of squirt hand cleaner was made.  The pissing and moaning feedback was shared and we headed out to clean up our little corner of the city.

The upper command of a department usually only visit street activity if it is a major scene, like homicide, a hostage situation or unruly crowds.  Shift commanders will usually take a morning spin around their territory on their way to breakfast, before they spend their day at a desk putting out fires. 

Sergeants on the other hand are expected to be everywhere at once.  In the office reviewing and correcting officer’s reports and returning phone calls from people who just want you to know what that mean officer said to them.  All the while monitoring their radio and running to the car to get to hot calls.  A good sergeant can listen to two radio frequencies, talk on a cell phone, listen to music, type on a lap top, drive fast with the lights and siren, take notes and not spill their coffee – all at the same time.

It so happened I was grading papers in the office when the bum camp sweep started.  Two of my best guys spotted the camp had occupants and stopped to deliver the ‘time to move on’ lecture.

While cell phones were not provided to any department members below the rank of sergeant most of the men carried their own. Consequently mine rang constantly through the day, officers preferring to circumvent the party-line environment on the common radio channel.  They could be less professional than the radio required, using colorful language, expressing opinions and describing their situations in real talk, not something welcomed on a radio meeting FCC rules and regulations. Not to mention the fact the radio transmissions are all taped for CNN.

The officers made their way thru the bushes to confront the occupants of the visqueen tent. Upon contact the residents were highly indignant at the prospect of leaving their luxury accommodations and demanded to appeal the matter to  their supervisor. Well, my guys knew me like a book so they were more than happy to offer the gentlemen the opportunity for direct communication with me. 

My cell phone rang and I answered it.

“Sarge, we’re out on the hobo camp.  They don’t want to leave.  They want to talk to you.”  Of course my men knew they could have just loaded these guys up, they just want to have a little fun first and I knew it.  So I decided to play along, hey, Sarge needs entertainment too........

“Really?”  I said in a gleefully sarcastic tone.  “all rightey then, let’s just put them on speaker phone”.

I was going to get to have fun too and I didn’t even have to un-ass my desk chair. 

“So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

“You the boss?” one asked.

“Yeah, I am – I understand you are looking for a second opinion,”  I said.

“Well these guys want us to pack up and go somewhere else”, the man replied.

“You are correct sir”, I said trying to sound like Ed McMahon on Johnny Carson.  I could hear my men giggling in the background.

“Well, tell them we can stay”, came the response.

“Sorry, no can do, you guys have to leave, that’s private property and it's go away or go to jail.” I told him.

“We ain’t leavin’, we got rights”!  I could hear a couple of them saying.

Man, I wish I’d run over there, I soooo wanted to be there in person.  But I’d just have to settle for phone gratification.  “Well fellas, just want to make sure we understand each other, can you hear me good?”

“Not too good, the traffic is noisy” came the reply.

I waited a minute 'till it sounded quieter, “can you hear me now?”

“Oh, yeah.” Came the response.

“You’re all under arrest!"

 "Load ‘em up”.

Thoroughly delighted, like little boys burning ants with a magnifying glass, my men did their job.

I walked across the street shortly thereafter to greet their arrival at booking.

We all sleep under the blanket of the protection my men provide.  These guy's get a blanket, a delousing, a shower, 3 hots and a cot, indoor plumbing  and a portrait. 

And I got to arrest three boneheads without leaving the office.

Damn I love this job!