Friday, February 27, 2009

HUMPHREY AND POCAHONTAS

I've always had a soft spot for the mentally ill, perhaps recognizing kindred spirits. Nowadays, these poor souls receive professional help with dispatch. Wasn't always that way. Before, when you slipped a gear you'd be slapped in jail. When a psychiatrist showed up, you were loaded down with Thorazine, and sat there for up to two weeks waiting for the commitment hearing, and a reservation for a hospital. By the time you were ready to be shipped, the stay in jail with little processional care had driven someone with minor eccentricities goofier than a Democrat with taxpayer's dollars.

Most returned from the institution as sane as the rest of us.--admittedly, a poor standard. There was however, a flaw in the system. These folks were heavily medicated. The drugs had aggravating side effects like malaise, insomnia, or diarrhea. Soon the patient would rationalize that since they were sane there was no need to take these drugs that made them feel awful. So they'd quit taking them and go nuts again, now not capable of recognizing the medicine kept them sane. It happened repeatedly.

One poor soul who rode this cycle we'll call Humphrey Bogart. A local business man, he'd morph into Bogart when he slipped over the edge. The signs were obvious. First a slight lisp, and talking out the side of his mouth. Then the snap-brim Fedora. In a few more days, the trench coat. And finally, the Colt .45 semi-auto tucked in his belt along with an urge to waste Nazis and bad guys.

We'd sack him up, he'd go through the drill, and in a year or so, he'd come home to stay for a while. But he always backslid. As did many others.

Another problem was transporting them to the care facility. Our two resources were the G. Pierce Wood facility in Arcadia and Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami. No ambulance. No straight jacket*. Just a police car and a prayer the Thorazine would do its job. That didn't always happen.

A beautiful black woman, who we came to call Pocahontas, arrived in Naples fresh out of college. She'd received a touchy-feely grant to teach family values in the ghetto. ( It was the sixties) To do this, she'd taken up residence in the Quarters. We'd warned the gentle, sophisticated lady that she'd be entering a foreign world. A dangerous world for which she wasn't prepared. She would have none of it, saying if she didn't live with her clients she wouldn' be respected. She lasted a week before she was beaten and raped. Then she turned into Pocahontas.

The shrink explained that she couldn't reconcile someone of her race doing this to her so she'd abandoned her race and become an American Indian. In her cell she liked to strip naked and dance, chanting around a fire only she could see. So she was drugged leaving her seldom awake. Eventually, they had an opening at Jackson Memorial.

On the hundred mile ride to Miami, Pocahontas was more alert than usual, but quiet and morose. Her cop chauffeur, J.A. Foyt, was relieved things were going so well. And she remained sedate until they reached downtown Miami. Then she abruptly stripped off her clothes, began chanting, and doing a frantic dance in the back seat. This was an instant hit with most spectators--she was quite beautiful. But Foyt were horrified. He weighed his options. If he stopped and tried to control her, he'd sure as hell be on the evening news, a cop wrestling a naked Indian princess. Nope, not this ol' hoss. Flipping on the siren and lights, he decided to get to Jackson Memorial on the double.

Emergency lights don't give you much of an edge in Miami traffic. Besides, the show was drawing a crowd. Cars following, honking horns, pedestrians trying to keep pace, some now in the street, running around the car for a better look. Disaster would've been eminent if a higher power hadn't interceded. Out of nowhere, a South Florida frog-strangler materialized. Torrents of rain, lightening, the works. It's hard to be a soggy voyeur so the crowd disappeared. Foyt proceeded on to the hospital unencumbered.

Parking the cruiser, Foyt looked back at his charge, who had dressed and was calm. That dance you were doing, he asked. That couldn't have been a rain dance could it?

Pocahontas didn't say a word. Just looked at him and gave him something we hadn't seen before. Something quite beautiful. A smile.

*Trivia note: Since we had no straight jacket at the jail, when someone became violent we'd wrap them up in a wet sheet. Works great!

Thursday, February 26, 2009

WHEN ONLY ONE WORD WILL DO

There are times when only a certain word will do. It's usually an expletive. Here are three examples.

Portnoy the painter, although big and burly, was the victim of spouse abuse. And from a wife who was as petite as Minnie Mouse. She did, however, have a broom and a swing like DiMaggio. She also knew the sweet spot on the broom--where the straws all come together tight and hard at the handle. If Portnoy got too drunk the beating would begin. And the neighbors, hearing Portnoy's screams, would call us.

When you answered these calls, you had to feel sorry for Portnoy. He'd be lumped up, where the sweet spot had connected, and humiliated by having been thrashed again by the tiny Tyson. He'd never consider filing a complaint against his wife--he loved her dearly--so we'd take him to shelter. In his case a fishing shack he owned off Kelly Road. (Since we got snooty, this is now Bayshore Drive)

Driving down 41, Portnoy was in the passenger's seat. There weren't any cages then, so you put someone you needed to watch in the front seat with you and kept one eye on him and one on the road. To my horror, as we approached The Anchor bar, Portnoy muttered Gotta have one more, opened the door and stepped out. While we were going about 45 MPH. In the rear view mirror I could see him doing a series of backflips, like a gymnast doing a floor exercise, culminating in a double high loop that ended with him splattered face down on the asphalt. I decided to mail my badge in to avoid the Chief's rage, but did go back to try to keep the traffic off his corpse.

Waste of time. Portnoy, the benefactor of that magical cloak of protection that shrouds drunks, picked himself up, brushed himself off, and said the word: DAMN!

Then there's Hot Roddy and his Dodge Challenger. Roddy's beast had a 440 with a 6 Pack that could outrun anything we had. This night he'd picked up a caravan of NPD and CCSO cars, that were fading fast as he raced up 41. But, just South of Bonita, he lost control, crossed the highway and smashed into a power pole, ripping the car in half behind the front seat. We expected to see a gory mess. Not so. Again the drunkard's patron Saint had wrapped her arms around her sodden child.

Still sitting in the driver's seat, his hands on the wheel, he looked at his disected vehicle, then us and said: DAMN!

Trivia alert. I was so impressed by the power of this engine I later bought it from the junkyard and installed it in my racing buggy, Super Fuzz.

Now for the grand finale. Mary Jane Hemp was stoned on her favorite herb when she lost control of her Datsun convertible, crossed the divided highway, the drove under the trailer of a long-haul rig going the other way. When we arrived, we could see parts of the windshield and steering wheel which had been sliced off by the trailer. With trepidation, we looked for the driver's head. The car had traveled another 200 yards and was bogged down in the underbrush beside the highway. We approached, again dreading what we'd probably find.

Nope. Mary Jane stumbled out of squashed chariot, tried to focus her eyes on us, and said one word: DAMN!

The drunkard's Saint also watches out for druggies. Mary Jane'd nodded off on the highway, fallen over in the seat, and was below the windshield level when her car went under the trailer.

Having witnessed all these strange events I can close with only one word: Need I say it?

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

CASE OF THE UNTRUSTWORTHY TRUSTEES

Trustees do many worthwhile jobs in the jail. They cook, cleanup, do the laundry, wash cars. Usually it's a good deal, both for the cops and the inmates--who hate sitting in a cell. But, it doesn't always work out that way.

A good example is Larry, who was making six months with us. He'd done six before. And before that. Like many, booze turned his brain into silly putty, winning him vacations in the lockup. Sober, he was smart and a quick study.

He became interested in fingerprints so we showed him how to take them. Having mastered that, he started learning how to classify prints. Soon, he was doing all the fingerprinting and, I expect, there are several hundred fingerprint cards at the FBI in DC bearing his signature as ID Officer.

We had our own darkroom and a few trustees were taught how to develop and print film. This was a big help because a detective, at the time, had to do this work themselves, plus keep up with their caseload.

Too bad they didn't all turn out like that. The County decided that to save money the trustees should reload the practice ammo. Bad move. No matter how trustworthy they seem, some are just working the system and have deep antisocial problems. One such A-wipe hot-loaded several rounds. (Put in way more power than is needed) This resulted in a Deputy's gun exploding on the range and damn near taking off his thumb. So much for saving money,

The worst example has to be Cruckshank the Cook. At the Sheriff's Office there was dining room off the kitchen where Deputies and other cops ate. It was also used by civilian County workers, including Commissioners and Judges. Cruckshank decided that to get back at the system he would urinate in the huge coffee urn. So he did. And did. And did. When he was finally caught, he was in the tenth month of a one year sentence. When asked how long he'd been doing it, he just smiled.

Those of you who wonder why we didn't notice the coffee didn't taste right have never sampled Jailhouse Coffee. Tasted normal to me.


Tuesday, February 24, 2009

FAST TALKIN' WILLIE WALKEN

Fast Talkin' Willie Walken was a minister of the gospel. Or a missionary. Or a deacon. Faith? Baptist, Mormon, Jehovah's Witness, Catholic. You name it, he had the papers to prove it. Problem was the credentials, like Will, were bogus. Will, you see, was a con man.

We first had the pleasure of his company, when we received a call that there was a suspicious minister, trying to cash a check at Gene's Fifth Avenue Florist. He'd bought a bouquet and was asking to write a check for over the amount of the purchase so he'd get cash back. A common scam. By the time we arrived, Will had everyone in the store chuckling, with his warm manner, good looks, and charm. All except the sharp-eyed clerk, who'd noticed that Will's wallet was bulging with ID cards. We took Will aside for a chat.

Will explained that he was a roving minister and made his living by being a guest speaker at local churches. He said it was a nice touch to gift the prospective church with a bouquet. He got a lot more jobs that way. He, reluctantly, showed us the wallet with all the IDs. He said they were honorary, given by grateful denominations. Uh-huh. That made us want to look further.

We asked Will where his car was parked. He pointed outside, where a baby blue 60 Chevy was at the curb. From inside the store, we could see that the back seat was full of bouquets. Looking back at Will, he rolled his eyes, laughed, and said, Looks like the next place I'm gonna be preachin' is at the jail, huh?

When Will's car was inventoried, besides the flowers there were boxes full of diplomas, ID cards, certificates, and check books attesting that Will was in the religion business.

After he'd been bagged, Will was affable, even helpful. He said those certificates were available anywhere. Said he'd made his living being a fake minister for years. Except for periods of jail time. He'd come from Utah, where he admitted he was wanted for parole violation.

He did leave out one small detail. Will had been traveling with a woman. He dropped her off at a beauty shop, with instructions to Give her the works. After he was arrested, he just wrote her off. She was stuck with no money, until the local aid society came to her, well, aid.

Will waived extradition, and the folks in Utah said they'd be down post haste to reclaim the wily William. It took about a week, while Will relaxed in our jail. During that time, he won most of us over. We found a buyer for his car--after verifying it was legit. One cop loaned him money until he was paid for the car. Truth be told, he was so damn funny we hated to see him go.

Just before he boarded the gray Chevy with the Utah Dept of Prisons lettering, Will said, You folks've been real decent to me and I appreciate it. I expect some day I'll see you again. We said that wasn't necessary. We'd probably be better off if he stayed away. He laughed and they were gone.

Six months later, Dave Dampier came into my office, grinning and shaking his head. You're not going to believe this, he said. Parked outside the station was a gray Chevy with Utah Prison lettering on the doors. The ignition had been hot wired. A quick call verified what we suspected. Will had worked his was up to trustee, stolen the prison's vehicle, and driven it across the country to Naples, Florida. And left it where we couldn't miss it, proof that he'd kept his word.

Never got to see Fast Talkin' Willie Walken again. But, for a long time, every now and then I was sure I could hear him laughing.



Monday, February 23, 2009

SGT. C.H.DASHER

Sgt. C.H. Dasher was one of the nicest people you'd hope to meet. And maybe the strongest. Not a shaved, oiled, puffed-up 'roid monster from the gyms. The sloping bear-like shoulders, fence post wrist, wide body type that are born that way.

C.H. was a teacher. Taught me that simple solutions are usually best. And, the power of menacing sound.

Once, in the sixties, an angry crowd formed in the Quarters. Upset over some issue that was important at the time, it was a volatile situation: One spark could set off a riot. While we were standing around deciding how to disburse the crowd without making the situation worse, up pulls C.H.. He gets out of his car, turns on the car's P.A. system and takes out his shotgun . Placing the shotgun next to the mike, he racks the slide one time. There is no other sound like this. It says Shotgun. And that means Wide, Indiscriminate Shot Pattern. In ten seconds the street was empty.

He also had great healing powers. Bozo, a big-mouthed contractor, thought he was above the law. One evening he was D&D: Drunk and Disgusting. He wasn't going to jail, or get in the damn car, or do anything the F-ing cop wanted. Unfortunately for Bozo, the cop he as baiting was C.H. Dasher. That was his first mistake. His second was taking a swing at said officer. C.H.'s counter uppercut couldn't have traveled four inches. But it was bedtime for Bozo. You might say the punch was therapeutic. He enjoyed a restful sleep for several hours and, on waking, the A-hole was instantly cured. We never had another problem with him.

C.H. led by example. We had a dispatcher, Betty Jo, who was popular and, therefore, fair game for cop's pranks. One favorite was to lift the front of her VW over the curb, so she couldn't drive home after work. Course, after a suitable period of aggravation, two or three cops would lift it over the curb and back in place. C.H. thought enough was enough.

One evening, at shift change C.H. announced that Betty Jo's car needed to be lifted over the curb. The officers gave him questioning looks as they hadn't touched it that night. C.H. led them outside and there was the car and it was over the curb all right. But not the light front end. It was the heavy rear end, where the motor was housed that was straddling the curb. C.H. pointed to the car and said, Get busy.

The cops whined. We can't lift that. That's where the motor is. We'll need a wrecker, or something.

C.H. smiled, walked to the rear of the VW, bent and lifted it over the curb. Audible gasps could be heard.

Next time Betty Jo's car gets put over the curb, that's the way to do it, he said. rear-end first. I see it parked any other way, I'm gonna be real upset. Betty Jo's car was never lifted again.

Though long gone, in his own way C.H. is still contributing to local law enforcement. His son, like his father, is an excellent local cop.

Friday, February 20, 2009

DEADLY HUMOR

Medical Examiners have tough jobs. I asked one how he could spend his days cutting up human bodies.Told me the work was interesting, challenging, and important. But if he ever stopped to consider that he was slicing and dicing the remains of real people, he'd go nuts. He also said that, like cops, he'd developed a dark sense of humor.

I first encountered Medical Examiner Fun and Games 101 in Ft. Lauderdale. Attending the police academy, with Dave Dampier, part of the training required us to view an autopsy.

As soon as we entered the autopsy room we knew we were in trouble. On one wall was a giant photo mural showing three medical examiners dissecting burn victims. These "crispy critters", as they're called, are charred black, except for the pink where the examiners had opened the chest cavity. Bad enough, then you notice the examiners were wearing chef's hats, and holding barbecue tools. And, oh yeah, the caption: Steak or Ribs?

There is nothing a medical examiner loves more than torturing rookie cops. If they can't get at least one to pass out, or puke his guts out, the day's been a bust. They don't have many unhappy days.

If cutting off the top of a head doesn't do it, opening the stomach will. The odor is horrendous, especially if the corpse is over-ripe. The examiner makes it worse by probing the contents, and critiquing what he finds. I see our victim had corn for supper, they'd say, or Oh, my favorite, clams. Then, stopping, thinking, announcing, That reminds me, it's snack time. Producing a sandwich, he'd munch away, while returning to the ghoulish work. I can still hear giant cop's skulls bouncing off the floor as they keeled over.

Finally, there's the soup pot. One rookie is directed to a stainless steel pressure-cooker-looking pot. The pot is boiling. He's told to lift up the ladle and see if the soup's ready. The ladle is actually a device that holds a human head, being boiled to remove the flesh so skull fractures can be examined. Usually, just about the time the cook realizes what he's pulled up, it's barf bag time in Sick Humor City.

Over the years, after you've seen all the horrors cops see, you get used to this stuff. Kinda.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

OUR BUDDY SAM

When the NPD was on the corner of 8th and 8th South, we had a neighbor who loved to visit. His name was Sam. He was an English Bulldog, the one's that are pictured in Marine Corps ads. Sam would drop by and spend hours at the PD, bumming snacks, getting scratched, and just socializing.

His favorite game was tug-of-war. We'd get an old pair of uniform trousers out, toss him one leg and a cop would take the other. We never won. English Bulldogs have huge heads, muscular shoulders, and short legs. Once that jaw clamps on something and those legs start churning, forget it.

Except for two small social problems, he was the perfect companion. He was a constant drooler, sometimes requiring a bib. And, he had a gas problem. To be fair, it was probably from all the junk we fed him. But, when he erupted, it would wilt the leaves on a philodendron.

Sometimes Sam would volunteer for patrol duty. His head was a perfect fit for a uniform hat. And you could put a ladies police shirt on him. An unlit cigar butt in his mouth, and he was ready to make the streets of Naples safe.

We'd lean him up in the passenger's seat, just like a human, put on his lap belt, and he'd ride for hours, never moving, except to stare out the side window. Seemed to love it. And he never spit out the cigar butt. It was a sight, prompting many a double take. I've seen some damn ugly cops, but that guy wins the blue ribbon.

The only trouble we ever had with Sam, was partolling McDonald's Quarters, the Black ghetto. As soon as you made the turn into that filthy hell-hole, Sam would go nuts, growling, barking, struggling with the seat belt, trying to get out of the car. It was the only time he wasn't just Good Ol' Sam.

We don't think Sam was a bigot. We like to think he was a visionary, before his time, protesting the abhorrent living conditions in the Quarters.

Miss you, buddy.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

THE HOBO EXPRESS

The City of Naples has always been particular about its image. Anything ugly's taboo. Back then, this included humans--unless they had money. Vagrants had to go. So, we had to develop systems to rid Paradise In The Elephant's Graveyard of this blight.

The Vagrant law was still on the books. If you had no money and could show no visible means of support you were a bum. And, you got the rush. Since the city didn't want to keep bums in jail and feed them, we'd get them on the road to elsewhere as soon as possible. This usually involved sneaking over the Lee Co line and dumping them, or hauling them out US 41 past Everglades City.

Sometimes, when the bum population started to bloom, we'd sent them a message. Knowing they had a communications network, we'd deliver a reminder to stay away.
(Today, we find "The Homeless" with information packets on how to get to Collier County, where to go when they get here, what charities give free pots and pans, where to get free meals, where to flop, an entire vacation program)

To send the message, we'd crank up the Hobo Express. It worked like this. Grab a couple of bums, call Dade County and ask if there was a car available for the Hobo Express. This was usually about 4 in the morning, when calls were slow. That established, we'd drive to the Dade line, transfer our cargo to their car. That car'd take them to Broward County, then into another up to Palm Beach. By sunrise the cargo had been delivered to Ft Pierce, who didn't seem to notice the new citizens. Having been to Ft Pierce, I can understand why.

Cruel? Insensitive? Probably. But we never had burglaries or thefts perpetrated by the "homeless". And, they didn't mug innocent citizens. Didn't murder each other in our city. Most important, we never did it to anyone that was, legitimately, down on their luck and trying to pull themselves out of a hole. It's real easy to tell the difference.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

THE PERILS OF PAULINE?

Best I can tell, Naples first woman cop was hired in the late 60's. Average size and fit she had some experience with the Pennsylvania State Police. We had a Secretary and Dispatcher, June Holzhausen, who was designated a Matron when one was needed for female searches and the like, but the one we'll call Pauline was the first full-time, sworn lady officer.

At the time, lady cops were a novelty, particularly in the South. The predominate feeling was that women were just not built, physically or psychologically, to handle the sometimes grim work. This was a time when there was a height requirement of about 5' 9" and the heftier a specimen you were the better. After Pauline was hired, those feelings manifested in a protective attitude among her fellow officers.

When she was assigned a call, another car or two in the area just happened to cruise by, to assure she was okay. This bubble of security followed her for several months. Until she got the emergency call from the Emergency Room.

An ER sometimes encounters patients who are violent. They can be folks with an adverse drug reaction, drunks, or, more logically, those presented with their bill. Many reasons. When that happens, they call us.

One night a call came in that there was some druggie tearing the place up and the ER people needed help quickly. Pauline immediately radioed that she was just around the corner and was on it. This caused concern as there weren't any other units in service near her.

It took about five minutes--a long time when someone is beating you about the head and shoulders--for help to arrive. The two responding officers could hear screaming and cursing coming from the ER area. Fearing the worst, they moved even quicker to the scene.

On arriving, they witnessed mayhem, alright. But Pauline was on the delivery end. The wildman was on the floor, on his belly, screaming his lungs out. That was because Pauline had him in a bar hammerlock, with her knees in his back. When she saw her backup arrive, she looked up and said, calmly, You wanna get my cuffs outta the case for me so I can secure this a-hole?

The officers looked at each other and laughted and said, Yes, Ma'am. Anything you want.

All good cops watch out for each other. There's a whole lotta them and not many of us. But, Pauline's extra security shield went away. Wasn't needed. In fact, some cops, when they got in a crack, secretly hoped she was right around the corner.

Monday, February 16, 2009

AN ALTERNATIVE LIFE STYLE

One day, when working for the CCSO, my friend Joe and I were walking from the Headquarters Building to the CID Building. A short stroll or, exercise fiends that we weren't, we would've driven. We were behind two young Investigators. One was snorting and fuming. You couldn't help but overhear his rant. I asked Joe to listen.

This feller was railing about queers, and faggots, and crotch cowboys, and rump rangers and all things homosexual. I elbowed Joe and said, Let's have some fun. Joe, wary of my twisted sense of humor, gave me a look, but nodded okay.

Approaching my boisterous fellow travelers, I said, Excuse me, but I couldn't help but overhear your comments. Just wanted to mention that sayin' those things can be very hurtful to someone who enjoys an alternative lifestyle. Like myself.

After eye popping stares, one took off at double time. The other jumped backwards at a height and distance that could have qualified for some Olympic events. Then, he too, cut a choagy.

Joe was about to bust a gut but held it in until they were out of sight, then roared laughing. You don't have brain one, he said.

Ain't it true, I agreed. Now, promise me you won't say anything to spoil this. I want 'em to stew for a few days. It turned out to be so much fun, it lasted much longer.

I could encounter either of my marks on a sidewalk and they would leave said pavement, circumscribing a wide circle around me like I was Typhoid Gary. Or cross the street. Or in a closed meeting room, they'd find the furthest chairs from yours truly. And there was no eye contact, like I might possess some deadly Liberace Laser vision that would put them, instantly, in tutus and instill a compulsion to watch The View and sing show tunes.

Finally, their Captain told them I was yankin' their chain, and ruined the fun. Then, there was a complete switch of attitudes. Couldn't get enough of me. We knew it was all BS. Sure. Didn't fool me. Of course, not. Anyone can tell what a real sissy boy looks like. You bet. And, You sure are funny, Mr. Young.

Sure hope so. Some days are mighty long, otherwise.


Friday, February 13, 2009

PERKY'S PROBLEM

In the 60's, south CR 951, now Collier Blvd, was in the woods. The roadside canal was a favorite spot for snake hunting. Hunter's would stand on the 951 bank and shoot rattlers and moccasins on the other side. Or, since both are great swimmers, pop them cruising in the canal.

One avid hunter we'll call Perky. Tall, handsome, and good humored, Perky was a popular member of the Naples Police force. A lover of the outdoors and hunting, whenever he had time off, you'd find him at the canal. He and his family picnicking on the bank, making a day of it.

On one outing, Perky's .22 snake killer misfired, wounding him in the forearm . Ironically, the bullet targeted a snake tattoo he had on his arm. Rushed to the NCH emergency room by his family, he was admitted, quickly, into surgery. (It wasn't like today. People didn't use the ER as a free family doctor)

Of course, when we heard Perky had been shot, and not knowing the severity of his injury, we gathered in the ER waiting room. The surgery seemed to take forever.

Finally, the nurse ushered a few of us into his room.

Perky was propped up in his bed, making jokes with the nurses. Oddly, he had his hand shielding his mouth like he had bad breath. We asked how he was doing.

Well, the Doc says he has good news and bad news, Perky said with a chuckle. Says the bullet barely penetrated my arm and I'll be good as new. He wiggled a bandaged forearm. The bad is, while they were takin' the bullet out, the surgeon dropped his scalpel in my mouth and knocked my front tooth out.

Whereupon, he took down his hand, revealing a significant space where a front tooth had been.

He what? we wondered aloud.

Dropped the scalpel, took out my tooth, Perky said, which I swallowed. But it ain't all bad. First, the surgery is on the house. Second, they're gonna pay to have my tooth replaced. And, third, and best, I'm just glad the tooth was there to stop that scalpel. Can you imagine swallowin' that damn thing?

Today, we wouldn't have been able to get into the room for the gaggle of personal injury vultures smelling a fat settlement. Perky could have owned NCH. But, I don't think the thought ever crossed his mind.

Just indicative of an older, more honorable, time.

Thanks, Ray.


Wednesday, February 11, 2009

SLICK'S MAGICAL MYSTERY TOURS

With his thinning hair, past forty paunch, and average Joe looks Harold Slick was a lady killer. What? Sure. Cause he had what some women find irresistible: a smooth line of BS.

Det. Ray Barnett was in the room next door to Slick, at the Golfing Buccaneer Hotel, then on Mooringline Drive and US 41. Ray was working a stakeout that had fizzled out. He was about to call it a night when he noticed an attractive lady enter Slick's room. That caused him to recall that he'd seen several ladies enter that room. His cop's intuition got his mind to working.

Maybe the guy he'd seen in there was a male prostitute. Or the women were ho's. But who could handle that much exercise? Maybe he was running hookers, for other guests, Whatever it was, Ray decided he was going to find out.

Grabbing a recorder, with a sensitive pinhole mike, from his car, Ray returned to his room and fired it up. The walls were thin, so he could hear what was going on next door. And what he heard blew his mind. When he finally had it all sorted out, this was the caper.

Slick, who'd been holed up at the Buccaneer for two weeks, camped out in the bar looking for worthy marks. Finding one, all single ladies, he'd buy her a few drinks then go into his spiel:

I work for a very wealthy man. He loves to go to exotic places and enjoys the company of an attractive companion. They travel all over the world at no cost on his yacht, plus he gives them a handsome allowance. My boss is also the friend of many famous people who sometimes travel with him. Movies stars, you name it. I wonder if you might be interested?

That would scare some off. Other's would ask more questions, then leave. But, a surprising number stayed. Slick would continue, I have the applications in my room. What's say we fill one out.

If this didn't drive them away, they'd go to his room where he'd close the deal.

I'm sure you realize, he'd say, my boss would require sexual favors. Nothing kinky, but he is vigorous. And he trusts my judgment to audition, so to speak, candidates. So. . .

Unbelievably, that was it. Short, simple, sweet. Even more astounding, was the number that agreed to the audition. Within minutes, the sound of squeaking bed springs could be heard.

Before we could figure out how to handle him, Slick was gone like a cool breeze. We were left with the tape that some cops wore out trying to memorize his lines. Remembering the number of times he'd audition a night, some of us just wondered what Slick had been eating.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

BAD, BAD, BERTIE AND THE BATTERED BURGLAR

We'll call her Bertie. On this night, though, she earned a more glorious handle.

Bertie, a widow, lived alone on Gordon Drive. A small, mature lady, she looked like a favorite aunt. When the burglar, Wet Willie, first saw her--sitting there in a rocker, with the latest best seller--he had the same impression. That is, after his initial shock of finding someone in a house he thought was unoccupied.

They saw each other simultaneously. She, having heard the sliding glass door open. He, hearing her soft, Who's there? Both stared at each other, their mental computers sorting the data. Bertie's had a faster processor. She sensed danger, that produced rage.

Bertie opened up a can of Whoopass. First she threw her book at him. Then she charged him, hammering him with anything she could use as a bludgeon. This included her foot stool, a floor lamp, and a putter she used for a walking stick. She continued the onslaught until Willie, battered and bleeding, staggered from the house and jumped over the rear seawall. Then, having taken out the trash herself, Mizz Bertie called us.

After we grabbed Willie, we asked Bertie why she'd done such a reckless thing.

I don't know,
she said. I can't imagine me doing that. But, when I looked up and saw him in my home, uninvited, I just lost control. . .him trying to take advantage of a defenseless woman. (Yep, Bertie, defenseless. You and the 5th Marines)

We'd found Wet Willie on the beach, his hands shielding his head, sobbing. When we turned him over he seemed relieved it was just the cops. All we'd do is put him in jail. A better alternative than more Bertie. All the way to the jail he muttered, What's wrong with that woman. I was gonna leave, I was gonna run.

Could be, but tucked in Wet Willie's belt, we found a Ruger Single-Six .22 revolver. Just happened to have it along in case he broke into an empty house and found out it wasn't. A great plan. . .unless you happen to cross paths with a Bad, Bad, Bertie.

Monday, February 9, 2009

THE BUBBLE BUTT BLUES

Creeping Clarence was a burglar. Not a very good one, but he was diligent. When he got out of jail, for one attempt, he'd be back in for another before they'd changed the sheets in his cell. Clarence was stupid. He always confessed. He had no imagination.

For starters, he liked to break into the same buildings, especially those within walking distance of his flop. His favorite was Hartley's Variety Store, then just a few blocks north of 4 Corners. Another problem, his MO never varied--pry open the bathroom window and slither in. When you found these two constants, you knew Creeping Clarence was at work again.

What befuddled us was how in hell Clarence squeezed through those little windows. They were half-size at best and Clarence was no small man. An easy six feet, he was slim and muscular. But the butt was a problem. It was disproportionally large. He was bubble-butted.

I once asked him how he did it--crammed that rear end through the window. He said, Any thang you can gets yo head and one arm through, be big enough for yo whole body.

I told him, Could be, but one of these days you're gonna eat an extra hush puppy and you're gonna get stuck.

He just laughed, and waved me off.

On night, I got a call from a patrol cop asking me to meet him behind Hartley's. There, I found a smiling uniform officer, pointing to the store's bathroom window, on the alley. There was Clarence, wedged, his head and one arm locked in place. He was squirming and grumbling like a budgie bird.

I couldn't resist. Clarence, I said, I warned you about that bubble butt one day gettin' you stuck tryin' to break in a building.

To which my man Clarence snorted, Lot you knows. I's already brokes IN. I's tryin' to breaks OUT.

Did I mention that Clarence was stupid?

Friday, February 6, 2009

GATOR TALES

One of my favorite cops, who shall remain nameless for fear a bunny hugger will burn a lumberjack on his front lawn, was the rarest of all things in Southwest Florida: A native Floridian. Born and raised here.

In his youth, times were hard and his family did what had to be done to get by. That included taking an occasional gator for it's tail meat and hide. When the EPA decided the gators were becoming extinct, we were glad he, with his unique experience, was around.

This was in the 60's and it's still a mystery as to how they came to that goofy conclusion. Anyone who went to the woods (swamps) knew you couldn't take a step without tripping over a gator. They may have been extinct in Washington, D.C.. Here, we were flush with them.

But, gators were put on the endangered list, hunting them was prohibited, and they proliferated, crawling all over the city. The Depot area was Gator Central. The canal behind 6th Lane North, and others, were full of them. And, the abutting yards were full of small children. This caused so many gator calls the wildlife folks were overwhelmed. So, the NPD had to improvise. Enter my associate.

He knew just how to lasso them, secure their killer jaws, and tie them up for portage. We'd hold on to the critters until it was obvious the wildlife folks weren't gonna show. Then, he'd put them in his trunk, take them home, and put 'em in his bathtub. There they rested until he got off duty. Soon they were transformed into prime eatin's. And, the hides were going for $21 a foot.

The same EPA nonsense was applied to eagles, a first cousin of a vulture. When we were supposed to be in dire danger of losing them, the folks at the dump had to run flocks of them off so the garbage trucks could get in.

Your tax dollars at work!

Thursday, February 5, 2009

FIDDLE FUDDER'S FOOD FOIBLES

There was an NPD cop who was about 6' 5" and weighed over 300 lbs. Let's call him Fiddle Fudder. He did play the fiddle, but his real talent was eating. Fudder couldn't get through the night without hitting the Burger Palace for three or four burgers, a plate of fries, and a few Cokes. To him, a hamburger was an hors d'ouvre, eaten, literally, in two bites.

A wide body needs a lotta grub and Fudder was always on the prowl for munchies. One night, he was at 4 Corners, trying to keep awake, when a loaded watermelon truck rumbled by. Fudder's food radar alerted with a loud stomach growl. Firing up his cruiser, he was on the truck like Cryin' Jimmy Sweigert on a hooker, and pulled him over. The driver, innocent of any offense he knew of, asked Fudder why.

Your truck is overloaded, Fudder said. Looks to me about two melons heavy.

The driver nodded, knowingly, climbing up into the bed. Selecting two, prime melons, he showed them to Fudder, who smiled and nodded. The driver then hurled the melons off the truck, smashing them on U.S. 41.

That about right? he said.

He got no answer. Fudder was still standing there, with his mouth open, when the truck drove off.

* * *

Fudder had a German Shepard, Bubba, that was his constant companion. Stopping by the PD to gab one evening, he left Bubba in the car. Big mistake. Fudder never went anywhere without emergency rations and he'd just bought a dozen tasty donuts. They were in the car with Bubba.

Need I say more? Fudder stayed in the station, talking, longer than he'd planned. Finally returning to his car, he found the donuts box empty, and Bubba lying on the seat, groaning. But with a strange satisfied look on his face. Bubba, you see, didn't know the donuts rule; not even a cop should eat a whole dozen. Doing so will make your bowels loosey-goosey and your pucker string unreliable.

Fudder was so upset he gave Bubba a punch. Bubba responded by, uh, spray painting the interior of the car with liquid donuts. This upset Fudder more, and he poked Bubba again. More unmentionable squirting. And so it went.

Over time, Fudder and Bubba forgave each other. And, after Fiddle Fudder's vigorous scrubbing, the car cleaned up and looked presentable. It always had, however, a strange Krispy Kreme/outhouse aroma about it.

Thanks again, Dave, for the help.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

LET SLEEPING COPS LIE Part 2

Some cops like to get comfy when they crib. Chittlins Brown was one. He'd remove his gun belt and accessories, and lay them on the dash. Thus unencumbered, he could saw some serious logs. Sleeping on duty, making yourself a target, was stupid enough. Taking off your weapon? Great Jumpin' Jessie Jackson! Chittlins obviously needed to be taught a lesson. Sgt. J.D. Spohn was just the man to do it.

Early one morning, J.D. found Chittlins snoring on the front seat of his cruiser, in the bushes off 5th Ave North. Approaching with rhino-like stealth, J.D. removed the gun belt and the car keys, that were still in the ignition.

When Chittlins finally made it to the NPD several hours later, he had a lot of explaining to do. Must've had a helluva story, cause he continued to work there for a while. Our next miscreant, who we'll call Beau Dumell, needed a real good story, too.

Beau, a young Deputy with the CCSO, was a legendary lady killer--in his own mind. And shrewd in his philandering. Or so he thought. In fact, the residents at the School for the Deaf and Blind could've told you who Beau's latest conquest was and where it happened. Beau had a big mouth!

Attracting women wasn't a problem. A few ladies have a thing for cops and let them know. They would get in front of a cruiser and alternately blink their tail lights, left, right, left, right. That meant pull over, and lets talk about the weather. I can't vouch for this personally, you understand, but I'm told that would happened. Howsumever, I digress.

Beau's M.O. was to arrange for a sweetie to meet him at a remote location, usually after midnight. Then he'd show up and it was belly rub time!

Beau, a spiffy dresser, didn't want to crumple his uniform, so he'd take it off and spread it on the hood of his patrol car. Along with his drawers, socks, shoes, and gun belt. No problem. He was in the woods and who knew?

Who knew?

Every Deputy on the CCSO and half the City cops.

It was time for some fun. One evening, when Beau was busy in the back seat of his cruiser, a Deputy crept up and stole everything off the hood. Including the car keys. To make matters worse, this time Beau had brought his paramour to the love nest. There was no other car.

Not without compassion, the Deputies allowed Beau to suffer for only three of four hours before they returned his gear.

Thanks, Dave, for the help.


Tuesday, February 3, 2009

THE THREE FOOT CARROT

Miami was having a crime problem. A rash of home invasion robberies had disrupted the regular menu of murder, rape, and illicit drugs. These robberies had the added horror of victim torture and they were getting more frequent and violent. One of the latest outrages involved a wheelchair bound victim being beaten senseless, then rolled into his pool.

To get the scumbags responsible, a special squad was formed. Their mandate was to use any means to bag them. Since regular police work wasn't getting it done, the more innovative the better. And innovative they were.

The a-holes who shoved the cripple in the pool were caught immediately. They'd brought so much heat down on the regular criminals, the regulars ratted them out. But, there were many others. Some were 100% suspects but nothing could be proven. These were treated to a night at the golf course. Snatched up, they were taken to the Doral golf course, roughed up, urinated upon, and told to leave Miami and never come back. And, terrified, they did.

Worse suspects got to meet the big rabbit. One of the squad members was a giant, Hulk Hogan type. Somewhere a rabbit suit to fit him was located and a giant carrot was fabricated with a baseball bat inside. Picture this. A perp is in the interrogation room and demands his lawyer. The interrogator yells, Lawyer. The door bursts open and in comes the rabbit, with his carrot that is applied with vigor to the perp's body. Then the cops says, Okay there's your lawyer, do you want your priest?

The huge cop had another costume: a gorilla mask and a jock strap. Thus, attired, he would respond to the Lawyer call and do what he did best. Few returned to the interrogation room and the northbound lane of the Florida Turnpike was gridlocked with criminals headed for Orlando. Of course, if a weasel did go to court and complain he was beaten by a six foot rabbit with a big carrot, or a gorilla in a jock strap, he was laughed out of the building.

This good work went on for some time. Robbery/torture was eliminated and other crime rates took a nosedive. But all good things must end. Finally, the special squad was disbanded when a judge said that he knew how criminals were wont to be liars, but if he heard one more story about being brutalized by a big rabbit with a three-foot carrot somebody was going to be in trouble.

Monday, February 2, 2009

LET SLEEPING COPS LIE

In olden times, when the bars had closed and all the drunks tucked in, Naples was a mighty quiet town. Moribund. Usually by 3:30 you were slapping your face, trying to keep awake until the Bus Station Restaurant opened and Liz and Bert could cook you a decent breakfast.

I never could sleep on duty. Marine Corps had ruined me. I'd seen what they did to Marines who slept on duty and it'd scared me straight. Think of having your thumb placed in the receiver of an M-1 rifle, and the spring-loaded bolt slammed shut on it. Or worse. Some guys could snooze though, and they just found a quiet spot and cribbed.

In fairness, most cops worked at least two jobs and were always tired. Yet, those who couldn't sleep still begrudged those that could. So we messed with them. One favorite prank was to collect a few garbage cans, and tie them to the bumper of the dozing defender's car. Then we'd get on the radio and make a emergency call to sleeping beauty: Seven-five, 10-19, 10-18. Cop talk for Officer 75, return to the PD quickly.

Sleeping cops can be comatose behind the wheel and still awaken instantly when their number is called. Without exception, they'd roar outta their hidey hole, dragging all the cans behind them. That would usually cure them for a couple of weeks.

Some cases were harder. Ft. Myers had a cop that couldn't make it past midnight, even when activity was hot and he was needed. When the clock struck twelve, this bozo grabbed his security blanket and hit the sheets. His favorite spot was by a remote railroad crossing.

One early morning, cops arranged for the slow-moving morning train to creep up there and stop. Then, they shoved this Rip Van Dinkle's cruiser up on the crossing, directly in front of the engine. On signal, the engineer hit the locomotive's air horn. Van Dinkle was a notoriously sound sleeper, but when that air horn blasted he reared upright in his seat, saw the train and . . . Witnesses say his laundry required some extra scrubbing that week.

Another dumbo in dream land, Shuteye Sullivan, liked to sleep on a dock. It was sturdy, and just wide enough for the car. Making it custom made for his cure. An emergency call ruined his catnap: Sullivan, Sullivan, your car's on fire! Get out, get out! As planned, Shuteye promptly opened the door and took one giant step into the drink.

And some of you must've wondered how the cops stay awake all night.


Sunday, February 1, 2009

HARD TO KILL Part 2

We responded to a shooting in McDonald Quarters. The victim, who we'll call Dew Drop Rhodes, had been shot with a .38 caliber pistol. He'd been taken to the hospital, before we arrived, by friends.

At the hospital, emergency workers said it looked like Dew Drop had been hit five times in the torso. Four were still in him, one having worked its way out while he lay on the gurney.

A detective returned to The Quarters, to work the case. An arrest was made, statements taken, crime scene work done. We'd been there about two hours, when up walks Dew Drop. Said did we need anything. If not, he was tired and wanted to go to bed. We were stunned. This is a man who just a few hours before had been shot five times. Dew Drop said the hospital wanted to keep him overnight, but he'd raised so much hell, they'd let him go home.

I'm okay, he said, taking off his shirt to show us, just a few bandages.

And it was so. He had a few patches here and there, but that was all. I'd seen more damage after a kindergarden rumble.

The ER doc said Dew Drop's wounds had barely penetrated his skin, evidenced by the one that fell out on the gurney on its own. Explanation? Who knows. Might've been old ammo. Defective ammo. It was the same stuff cops were all using: .38 Special, 158 grain, round-nose lead slug. We hated it. At it's best, this stuff wouldn't stop a peed-off gerbil.

This was all the evidence I needed we were underpowered. Although it was strictly against regulations, I upgraded to a custom, hotter load shortly thereafter. Gradually, everyone else did, too. As the old cop saying goes: Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.