HAPPY HOMEMAKER'S HINT

We dreaded getting calls like this: "We haven't see 'ol so and so in a day or two. Wonder if you'd check to see if they're okay."We especially hated to get these calls in hot weather. Why? Many times ol' so and so had come to an untimely demise and was rotting on the premises.

The worse place to answer these calls was McDonald's Quarters, Naples' shameful ghetto. The shacks, none better than a tool shed, had no air conditioning and on hot days were an oven, hastening the decay. On such a day we responded to a call. Big Bertha, it seems, hadn't been seen by her neighbors in about a week. Bertha would sometimes hole up in her shack for a few days, drunk as a rock star, but never for a week.

Checking out the shack, the window glass seemed to be moving. A terrible sign. That was a thousand flies trying to get in so they could contribute to the putrefaction chain. When we opened the door, a vile eruption that can't be described assailed our noses. It was the kind of instant retching, eye-watering, knee-buckling, foulness that permeates your clothes and can't be washed out. We would've paid a thousand bucks for an oxygen mast but the City didn't see fit to buy them at the time.

Bertha was on her back on the floor, swarming with maggots, and bloated and ruptured around the stomach. We slammed the door and called "Mr. Sears." Mr. Sears was the black undertaker in Ft. Myers that all blacks used. He was quick to respond.

He parked his hearse, opened the back door and took out a coffee can and a frying pan. He greeted us, walked by and set the pan on the stove, turned it on, and poured in about a cup of ground coffee. He came back outside, passed the time of day with us for about fifteen-minutes, then opened the door and sniffed. "Ah," he said, "that'll do." We, reluctantly, followed him inside. Miraculously, the toasted coffee smell had made the air now, at least, bearable. We were able to do our work. A grisly trick of the trade I've always remembered.

So our Helpful Household Hint. Left those steaks in the fridge a week too long? Toilet back up on you? Got a fat dog that leaks more methane than the city dump? Or maybe it's just your fat dog husband, vegetating in front of the TV, starting to smell like a warthog.

Fear not. Get out that ol' fryin' pan, dump in some ground coffee, heat it up and shortly Juan Valdez will've saved the day.

CHRIS-TAL CAPER

At about midnight, Det Jerry Weinbrenner was going off duty. Passing the Chris-tal Market on the corner of 10th Ave So and US 41, he thought he saw movement in the closed store. He pulled over to investigate, causing two burglars to flee out the back door. One weasel ran up 10th, the other toward a green Buick in the rear lot of the market. Jerry took off, on foot, after the one heading north.

Jerry was about 50 feet behind his man when the thief turned and fired over his shoulder, still running at full speed. Jerry felt something hit him in the shoulder. He stopped to inspect. He'd been shot. This really wasn't what he needed after a long days work. He pulled his .38 Chief's Special and fired all five shots. The perp went down like he'd been hit by a truck. Jerry cautiously moved froward. To his surprise, the perp jumped to his feet and took off running again.

Other cars were on the scene, one being Sgt J.D.Spohn. Spohn pursued the Buick, now heading for the Cove area. He fired two shots at the speeding car. The bullets hit the rear window and glanced off, not even breaking the glass. The car sped to the water's edge, the perp jumped out, dove in the bay and began swimming with a frenzied arm thrashing movement.

Spohn, took out his pistol again and waited on the shore. When the swimmer tired, Spohn fired a round close in the water to the slimeball's head, then shouted, "Come back or I'll kill you."

This caused the swimmer to pound the water once more, trying to get away. Soon out of gas, he stopped again. Spohn fried another close-in round. "I'm better at this than you are," he taunted. "Come on back."

This went on for a while until finally the perp yelled, "Okay, you win, I'm comin'." And he did.

Meanwhile, Weinbrenner had gone to the hospital and the CCSO trackers had been called in. The filth that had shot Weinbrenner had circled around and had gone into a vacant field, beside the Atlantic station next to Chris-tal.

The old bloodhound, Belle, was an excellent tracker but refused to let her handler's know when she'd found her quarry. She'd stop, but make no other indication. They were tracking along, when something on the ground said, "Ouch!" At their feet was the shooter, lying on his belly in the weeds. He'd said Ouch because Belle had stepped on his back, in which he had two of Weinbrenner's bullets.

He was cuffed and turned over, and under his body we found his weapon: a miniature .25 revolver, maybe three-inches long. This turd had made the shot of all time, running at full speed, shooting over his shoulder, not even looking and hitting Weinbrenner.

Jerry recovered, but the slug was left in his shoulder, causing him pain when the weather changed. His two slugs in the back of the burglar, who got up and ran around for another fifteen-minutes, were more evidence of our underpowered ammo of the time.

The two Az-Wipes had just been released from prison, upstate, stolen a car, and were after booze, cigarettes, and money in the Chris-tal. They were soon returned where they belonged.

Later, back at the station, Sgt J.D.Spohn was cleaning his .357 Magnum and in excellent spirits. "Damn," he said, "haven't had so much fun since that hillbilly back in Hazard, Kentucky took a pot shot at me. Ever time I'm back up there, I stop by and pizz on his grave."

KEYSTONE COPS REDUX

One day there was a revival of Max Sennett's Keystone Cops on the streets of Naples. It was inadvertent, but anyone who saw it would swear Fatty Arbuckle and his gang were at work. It happened like this.

A recipe for disaster was present. The Trail had recently been repaved and it was summer. And, it hadn't rained for weeks. This allowed the sun to boil oil from the asphalt up to the surface. Then, when it does rain, the water/oil mixture is as slick as the proverbial cat's back door. Traffic accidents quadruple. Although all streets become slicker, some locations are worse than others. I recall crossing the Gordon River Bridge from the east was particularly treacherous. Try to turn onto Goodlette Road and you probably were gonna end up doing a helicopter spin, with no control over your car. Another bad spot, evidently, was in front of the Holiday Inn, then at about 12th Street No and US 41.

We received a call, during a welcome thunderstorm, that there was a Signal-4 (traffic accident) there. Patrol officers then heard a call that now there were two Signal-4's, the responding ambulance having slid into the car who had rear-ended another. The first police car arrived and promptly slid into the ambulance. Same with the second police car. Finally, the Sergeant went to see what in hell was going on and he slid into the second police car, making a daisy chain of the original two wrecked cars, one ambulance, and three police cars.

The Florida Highway Patrol, who did the accident investigation, could've used the same report for all: Hit the brakes and nothing happened. Ironically and thankfully, no one was injured. The ambulance had been called by a passerby and wasn't really even needed. Except, maybe, to make the daisy-chain longer.

Yep, no one was hurt, but three cops suffered several days of wise-az remarks from their associates. And there where some painfully bruised egos.

THE MAGIC SAFE

We all know that a proven way to protect your valuables from theft, fire and destruction is to put them in a safe. The average random burglar can't pry one open. It will withstand the ravages of fire, and is a stronghold during a hurricane. Once, however, we found a safe that would do more than that: it would make money.

A market was a victim of B&E one night. An alert cop saw flashlight beams moving in the closed and dark store, investigated and rousted three scumbags who fled the scene but were soon captured. Since they were interrupted, the thieves only had time to steal two garbage bags full of cigarettes. Or so it appeared. Detectives were called in to work the scene.

During the flight the culprits had dumped their booty along the way so the weight wouldn't slow them down. We called the owner, who we'll call Tubby, asked him to meet us at the store so he could check his inventory for anything else missing.

In his office was a heavy-duty commercial safe with a sign that read: THIS SAFE IS NOT LOCKED. For fire protection only. Just open the door. Several merchants used their safes just for fire protection and didn't want burglars to beat, bang and ruin them trying to get them open.

We asked Tubby to open his safe and see if anything was missing. He said, "Naw, there's nothin' in there."

"How about checking anyway, just to make sure," I said.

"It's okay," he said, causing me to wonder just what he did have in there he didn't want me to see. Finally, I opened the safe myself. Stacked on the top shelf was a sizable pile of cash. Later, when counted, it turned out to be $17,000. "What's that?" I asked.

"What's, what?" Tubby answered.

"The money," I said.

"What money?" Tubby said.

Sometimes I'm a little slow but it finally came to me. "So any money in that safe's not yours. If there is cash in there, someone else put it there. Maybe the thieves, had a guilty conscience. Maybe the Safe Fairy. But it's definitely not yours."

"Never seen it before," Tubby said. "Maybe it's yours," he said, hopefully. But I didn't go for that. Not that I couldn't have been bought but when a cop takes they own you. And it was gonna take a helluva lot more than 17K. (I will admit it was tempting. At the time, I'd just bought a model home in Brookside for $10,999 and had two mortgages on it. That was a lotta money, then.)

So we sacked up the money, and put it in the evidence locker at the PD.

And why didn't Tubby own up to the cash being his? I remembered he'd recently been in trouble with the IRS for skimming off and not reporting profits. And, he was obviously doing it again.

A few months later the court allowed the City to convert the cash to its own use. Tubby never complained or mentioned it. . .ever. You could presume he saw the error in his ways and went straight.

But I doubt it.

RASCAL'S PLAN

Rascal was a big, handsome, youngin' out of Kentucky. I was interviewing him for a job with the Naples Police. Very likable, he'd made good guy points even before I found we might be related. We have common family ties: the Hatfield's of the Hatfield and McCoy Feud fame. During the interview I asked why he'd decided to move to Naples.

"Well," he said in his cornbread drawl, "I'm about marryin' age and when we were down here on vacation I noticed there were a lotta purty girls here."

No disagreement there.

"And, I also noticed there were a lotta rich folks here, too." Another affirmation from me. "That means there should be a lotta purty, rich girls here. So if you're lookin' for a wife and you want a purty one, you might as well get a purty, rich one while you're at it."

I laughed at his logic, figured he was yanking my chain, and later hired him.

Rascal was a good cop. Smart, dependable, fearless. And a better ladies man. In just a few months he told me he'd found his dream girl, was going to be married, and after that was going to retire from the police business. I couldn't believe it; Rascal worked faster than a Fleet enema. But he was true to his word and within a few weeks he was gone.

Rascal married the daughter of a big shot in one of the world's largest corporations. Wedding presents included a Porsche and a house three blocks from the beach. Plus, the best gift of all, his new wife who was not only beautiful but sweet and charming. We guessed Rascal would've married her if she was as poor as Pitiful Pearl. But, she wasn't.

We'd see Rascal around town now and then, but mostly lost contact. Then one day I received a call from him. "You remember when I retired from the NPD you said I was too young and would go back to work? Well, you were right. I did. I'm in the railroad business." He urged me to drop by his house and he'd explain. Who could resist?

His wife greeted me at the door, we exchanged pleasantries, and she, with a smile, pointed down the hallway to Rascal's office. I arrived at a large room that had been two bedrooms now remodeled into one. There Rascal was at work.

The entire space was filled with the largest HO scale model railroad layout I'd ever seen. A dozen trains chugged around the tracks, through villages, tunnels, and over bridges. Rascal sat in a cutout control space in the center, wearing an engineer's cap, bib overalls, and a red bandanna around his neck. "See," he said, "I'm a railroad tycoon."

And so he was. We lost track of Rascal after that but I'm confident he's still working a plan somewhere. I suppose he's right, and that's the best way to go about this life.

But it's much more interesting doing it our way: just bumbling along and seeing what turns up next.

SPONTANEOUS ERUPTIONS

   Some folks, when they're dealing with the cops, say some funny things. Part of the job's appeal, is waiting for them to happen.
 We had a sweet old lady named Mary who was an Olympic level boozer. Sometimes she'd be sentenced to a few days and we'd have to lock her up. Our jail had two wings, with women and juveniles on one side and men on the other. There were seldom any women on their side. When there was, we'd make extra tours there to make sure they were okay, since they were probably alone. (No video security cameras in those days)
 Mary, one day, asked why all the attention. "Just lookin' out for your well being, darlin'," the cop said.
 "Well, that's sweet of you," the old dear said. "But if you find me dead, no fancy funeral, please. Just stick an old bone up my azz, throw me out in the yard, and let the wild dogs carry me off."
 Another winner was a lady who'd come to the station to report a rape. Turns out she was reporting it only because her husband had been told by neighbors that there was a husband-in-law who'd regularly been hammering his honey. The wife claimed it happened only once and it was a rape. The husband said if it was, she'd better damn sure come up with a police report.
 "He forced himself on you?" the detective asked.
"Yassah, he do that." she said. "Comes into my bedrooms, rips off my clothes, and jumps astraddle 'uv me."
 "And this was all without your consent?"
"Show was. . .most of the time."
"Most of the time?"
"Yassah. I kept sayin' no, no, no, til he gots some of it in me then I say, Okay."
Then there was Wingding Whoops, who was known as Who Me? You could call to Wingding standing alone on the pitcher's mound in an empty Yankee Stadium and he'd look left, look right, point to his chest and say, "Who Me?"
One night we caught some thieves in the act of stealing materials from a construction site, a new hospital wing at NCH. We had two weasels in hand but the third had run into the multi-story addition. Since it was dark and the building's interior had been configured into over a hundred rooms, it would take hours and be very dangerous to search. A better tactic was used.
We called in a K-9 officer, Bob Melin. Bob decided to give the culprit a chance before he released his dog for a tasty treat. Turning on his car's PA System, Bob had his dog growl, bark, and snarl into the mike. The amplified sound was terrifying. Then Bob said, "Come out now or I'm gonna turn the dog loose. You hear me?"
From the bowels of the building came the horrified reply, "Who Me?"
After we stopped laughing, we sacked up Wingding when he bolted out the door, eyes as big as two fried eggs, sunny side up.

THE ADVENTURES OF FAST FREDDY-Part Three

Fast Freddy moved to a small, new department near Ft Lauderdale in a city that had just incorporated--Coconut Creek comes to mind. We didn't hear from him or about him for a while although he was still "living" in Naples on his days off.

Then came word that Fred had once again changed departments, this time to Dania. They must have liked him because shortly thereafter was news that Fred had been promoted to Sergeant. Soon after that came more astounding news.

Shirley, my secretary, said I had a call from Chief of Police, Dania. He was on line one. She had a devilish little smile on her face. I picked up the line and was greeted with, "Hey, it's Freddie, what's happenin'?" Shirley started laughing and I almost tipped over in my chair.

Fred explained that he'd just been appointed Chief. But let him tell it. "They go through Chief's over here like they're rolls of toilet paper. Had like three in the last three or four months. Finally got down to me, being the Senior Sergeant." Senior Sergeant? Already? "Anyway I told them no thanks, I needed a steady job. But they told me if I didn't take it they'd fire me. So, what the hell?"

I could understand Fred's thinking about it not being steady work. Later, when I left the NPD, I was the first Chief to have left in good graces. All the others had been forced to retire or fired. A wise Sheriff Aubrey Rogers once told me he wouldn't have a chief's job. "I only have to run for my job every four years. A chief has to every day."

A few weeks later I got another call from Fred. This time he wasn't so jubilant. "They're out to get me," he said.

"Fire you?" I asked.

"Maybe worse. I'm sleeping with a .45 under my pillow. Stepped up security in the office. . .maybe I'm just imagining, but. . ."

After talking to him a while, Fred changed attitude and began joking about what he'd just been so worried about. I didn't know what to think, but was worried. By coincidence, we had a dick going to Lauderdale the next day to do some case work. I asked him to drop in on Fred and see what was going on. Two days later, I got the report.

"I think his ice cap's starting to melt, he's three cans short of a six-pack, know what I mean?" the dick said. "Had to go through seven locked doors to get to him. Seven. Had so many guns in there looked like a redneck barbecue. He's loosin' it."

Seems the job had claimed another good man. Fred was always unconventional. Wild. Erratic. But never paranoid. Yep, he had Chief's Disease. Thankfully, he didn't have to suffer long before they put him out of his misery.

The last time I saw Fred he'd dropped in to see me at the CCSO. Emaciated and feeble, he was dealing with terrible physical problems. But, free of the Chief's job, he was a happy Fred once more. He died soon after.

Miss you, buddy. We won't see any like you again.

THE ADVENTURES OF FAST FREDDY- Part Two

As mentioned before, Fast Freddy operated an auto body shop, along with his job on the NPD. He could be shrewd and industrious, and while the rest of us were living in modest Brookside Village, he lived in expensive Pine Ridge.

Fred's body shop skills were fantastic. He was particularly good at taking two or three wrecks and turning them into one beautiful car. I once helped him do this with a Corvette that had been crushed in a wreck. Fred bought two more wrecks and soon his wife was driving a cherry Vette.

I asked Fred where he'd learned how to do this work. He said, "Working in auto theft chop shops in Chicago, before I became a cop." Then he gave me a little Fred grin. I never knew if he was kidding me or not. And it was usually better not to dig too deeply.

Inquired once why he left the Chicago PD. He said he couldn't save up enough money to make Sergeant. Money? What? Yeah you had to pay the Lieutenant and it was just too expensive. I thought that was a joke until we hired another cop from there and he said the same thing. Rank was for sale. Who knows, but that's an odd coincidence, two guys, same story.

After a big storm once, Fred was elated. He'd found a Chris-Craft cabin cruiser that'd sunk at a private dock and he could buy it el cheapo. Fred had always longed for a Chris-Craft and he jumped on the deal like Porky on a double-cheese pizza.

He spent hours water-pumping the vessel to float it and flushing the engine with kerosene to prevent the salt water from seizing it up. Finally, with it on the surface and Fred totally exhausted, he went home at about 3 AM. He returned the next morning to find the cruiser again on the bottom. He'd forgotten to put in the drain plugs.

Fast Freddy was a little too fast for our small berg and finally the NPD made him an offer he couldn't refuse: they'd quit paying him if he'd quit coming to work. He moved on to the Ft. Lauderdale PD. A buddy of mine, George Huffman, was concurrently on the FLPD with Fred. We heard that Fred was soon up to his old tricks and George confirmed it.

George said Fred moved the Chris-Craft to Lauderdale with him and stowed it on a side street, outside a shop he was renting. (He was living there because he maintained his home in Pine Ridge, and drove back to Naples on his days off. He kept this schedule for many years)

Soon Fred's living on the street-docked Chris-Craft was the source of complaints to the city, it being illegal and unsightly. When the cops came to check out the complaint, they found a clothes line strung the length of the vessel, from mast to rails, festooned with Ft Lauderdale police uniforms. Seems it was wash day. Fred moved on to another agency shortly thereafter.

At least one other time he tried to launch the Chris-Craft in the briny deep. Again the boat sank. Fred'd forgotten to put the drain plugs in again.

In part three we'll see where he ended up. You ain't gonna believe it.

THE MYSTERIOUS GREEN BOX

There was a grand old gent, Harry Varner, who for many years ran the concession and bait shop at the Naples City Pier. He could be a curmudgeon but was easy to like and was a fixture on the pier.

I asked Harry one day what the contraption was that was mounted outside the shop wall, next to the railing. It was an olive drab metal box, securely locked, with a pipe extending down into the Gulf. It had a warning to not disturb, property of the US Government.

"Belongs to the Department of Agriculture, somebody like that," Harry said.

I raised my eyebrows, waiting.

"Don't know what it's for. They come by every so often and fiddle around over there with it. I never paid much attention. Countin' crabs or some such."

My interest aroused, I asked Harry to call me the next time the tenders showed up. In a couple of weeks they did. I hurried to the pier and found a man working with a crank that was in the opened box. Turning the crank raised a box out of the water and up the long pipe. The mysterious box was similar to a crab trap, but much more durably fabricated. After identifying myself I asked what he was doing.

"I'm taking the contaminate count," he said. "Trying to get a handle on how much DDT, fertilizer, mercury and other poisons have made in to the Gulf."

"How's that work?"

"We trap crustaceans in this box. Crabs, shrimp, lobsters, anything with a shell. Then we analyze them and see how many poisons are in their system. Crustaceans are one of the ocean's filters. Anything that goes into them, effectively, never comes out. Dies off in half-lives like radiation. By analyzing them, we can get an idea of how much poison is in the water."

"You mean shrimp and crabs are all full of. . ."

"Lobsters, too. Everything filthy in the ocean. And it stays in them."

"Should you eat them?" I asked.

"You do what you want. Me, if you notice, I have on rubber gloves. . .just to touch them."

I'm passing this on as a Public Service Announcement. Make up your own mind about munching on these critters. We do. Sandy and I celebrated our 39th Wedding Anniversary last week by going to a favorite, The Red Lobster. She had lobster and shrimp.

Being the usual food wussy, I had a nice New York Strip.

LORD CALVERT'S BIG SCORE

The old City of Naples seal used to have palm trees, a pelican, and a boat on it. They left one off. The whiskey bottle. Booze barons were prominent citizens in Naples' history.

While working a burglary at the Swamp Buggy Lounge, near 4-Corners, I noticed a plaque on the wall that astounded me. It read, Largest Retailer, Lord Calvert Whiskey. I asked the owner Nick, it this was a joke.

"Hell, no," he answered, offended. "It's as legit as it gets."

Huh? In the 60's Naples wasn't exactly New York City. It wasn't even Ft. Myers. Sensing my disbelief, Nick explained.

"It's all those folks on Gordon Drive and in Port Royal. Lord Calvert is a good mixing whiskey and they do like their cocktail parties down there. Most homes are good for a few cases a year. It adds up. Adds up enough that, like the plaque says, for two years I've sold more than any outlet in the world."

Should've known. The area was a nesting ground for the Alcohol Elite. Just take a drive down Gordon Drive and and you'd find homes owned by the purveyors of Busch, Miller, Pabst, Schlitz, Smirnoff, Falstaff. Plus family connections to Seagram and Canadian Club. Heublein, who owned Smirnoff, was one of the largest distributors in the world of alcoholic beverages.

Of these, our favorite was the Griesediecks, out of St. Louis, brewers of "Old Greasydick" beer. Answer a call at their residence on Gordon Drive and you'd better not try to get by with a Grisydike, or some other cop out that you could say without laughing. You'd be informed that the name was pronounced Greasydick, and they were proud of it. Good people, these.

And not just the rich folks contributed to record sales of liquid stupid. When raiding a homeless camp (bum's nest) off Airport Road where the poor unfortunates were spending more time breaking into nearby homes, than looking for work, we came upon a monument, of sorts. It was a pile of beer cans easily seven feet tall with a base circumference of about twelve feet. Had to be thousands. Had to've cost thousands.

We couldn't find a plaque.

SWEET HOME ALABAMA

Once, in the sixties at a police seminar, I met two cops from Birmingham, Al and Bama, who were full of good humor and tall tales. A group of us were discussing how many cops rode in a police car in our particular cities. Cops, generally would prefer two, for safety and company. But most cities can't afford that so you go bare azz. The Birmingham boys were quick to point out that in their progressive city two per car was the norm. "That's because they have to be able to read and write," Al explained.

They also passed on a war story. During this time of great racial unrest, Birmingham, a hub of hatred, was experiencing a particularly large, ugly, and dangerous demonstration. The cops were so overwhelmed by the mob that a class of recruits, from the academy, was drafted into service on the lines. They were young folks, mostly, with no police experience.

At one barricade the crowd became violent and a large, mean, protester began shoving a recruit. The recruit, frightened and confused, pulled his service revolver and shot said disgruntled citizen. The mob immediately dispersed in terror and the cops cordoned off the shooting scene, until supervisors could arrive. The first was a Sergeant.

"And what kind of weapon did this thug have?" he asked the dazed recruit. "Gun, knife, brick?"

"Uhhh, I didn't see anything," the recruit stammered.

"Come on now," the Sergeant urged, "he must've had something."

"No. . .I. . ."

"I said think now," the Sergeant said, up close in the recruits face. Then, "You mull it over while I inspect the body."

The Sergeant moved to the face-down stiff, and half-rolled it over, probing underneath.

Then came the Lieutenant, same questions, same inspection. then the Captain, the Major, the Colonel, more and more, questioning and inspecting until the recruit was so dazed he couldn't remember just what he had seen.

Finally the coroner arrived and flipped over the body to inspect for bullet wounds. Under the corpse he found, three revolvers, a switch-blade knife, straight razor, and an ice pick.

Al and Bama swore this story was the truth. But, Birmingham in the sixties? George Wallace's home state? They had to be kidding. . .right?

THE ADVENTURES OF FAST FREDDY-Part One

Our first hint that life with Fast Freddy was going to be different was his first night on duty. Fred, a former Chicago PD cop, came into the station toting a stuffed AWOL bag. When asked if that was his lunch, he opened it for display: his arsenal. Seeing our interest, Fred elaborated.

"This," he said, holding up a Colt Python with a telescopic sight "is for shooting snipers off roofs. And this," holding up a tiny semi-auto Beretta,"fits just right in a crotch holster." He then displayed his collection of throw-downs--cheap, untraceable, pistols used to cover your azz in shootings that weren't exactly righteous. Then the knives, from push-buttons to Bowies. Throw in some brass knuckles and blackjacks, and that was about it.

We laughed, thinking he was yanking our chain. He wasn't. "But, Fred," a bemused cop began, "we don't have a building over two stories in Collier County. Rooftop snipers ain't a big problem. And I don't even know what a crotch holster looks like, let alone how to put one on. . .if I wanted to."

Fred just laughed at our naivete, closed the bag, and went to work. And that was like nothing we'd seen either.

I got to know Fred very well. You couldn't help liking him, in fact, Sandy and I were married in his house. And who couldn't like Big'un, his singing dog. But he had a Chicago way of doing things that took some getting used to.

Once he dropped by my office and asked what I was going on. I told him I was covered up trying to get statements on a rash of burglaries. The B&E's were in the Quarters and we had to get special statements there. You'd talk to a witness and they'd say: I didn't see nuffin'. Then, come court time, they saw everything--that benefited the defendant. So we'd get what we called I Didn't See Nuffin' statements, making it hard for them to change their story in court. In this case there had been several potential witness.

"I can help," Fred said enthusiastically. "Just give me a name."

Fred was a helper so I gave him a name, and told him I had no idea the fella was involved, but I had to clear him.

"No problem," Fred said, and was gone.

About an hour later, I got a call over the desktop radio from Fred. There was a loud, unintelligible commotion in the background. Fred was breathless. "I got this guy here and I think he's clean, but I can work on him some more if you want." Then, I heard a terrified voice in the background, "Please, Mistah Fred, don't hit me no mo'. I don't know nuffin."

When the shock wore off, I told Fred to let the poor guy go and 10-19 (return to station). He did and we had a long conversation about how they talked to suspects in Chicago and how they did it at the NPD.

Fred was industrious. Besides being a cop, he had an auto body shop. His schedule was hectic. Five minutes til roll call, Fred would come barreling in, run to the sink and wash the shop dust and grease off him, then put on his uniform. No one did it like Fred. He had the thing in a kinda blanket roll, with his gun belt wrapped around it. He'd unroll it on the counter, start flapping it like he was dusting a rug, then put it on. He'd look wrinkled but the polyester was forgiving and, in an hour or two, he didn't look any worse than anyone who rolled their uniform up like a burrito.

And that was just the beginning.

OPEN MOUTH, INSERT FOOT

Some fella said, "You can keep quiet and some will suspect you're stupid. Or you can open your mouth and remove all doubt." Words of wisdom verified here.

Det Mike Grimm and I'd been one step behind a slime ball. We wanted to jail him, but everywhere we looked he'd just left. Finally, we got a tip he was at a local boarding house. We beat it over there, met the landlady, and told her who we were looking for.

"He just ran in here, grabbed his belongings, and said he was going on a trip," the lady said.

It was bitter-sweet news. Getting rid of him was about as good as putting him in jail. "Hope you got your rent money," I said. "We've been after him for a while and he's the sorriest, thieving, deadbeat scum we've ever seen. You're way better off without him."

The landlady looked at me in dismay. "But, he's my son," she said.

Open mouth, insert foot.

Then there's the time my associate, Mr. Grimm, was working his part-time job as a barber. The shop banter was centered on sorry human beings. After the list of politicians had been savaged, Mike announced, "I have the world's champion sorry S.O.B. A drunken, lazy, piece of trash a dog wouldn't lift his leg on. Name's Piddlin' Paul Pooper the Plumber. Everyone laughed because Mike was right, Piddlin' Paul was renown for worthlessness. Everyone laughed except Mike's customer, who turned around in the chair and said, "That's my Daddy."

Open mouth, insert foot.

Of course when you're flying on liquid stupid, the brain is disengaged. Two local boozers could tell you all about it. At the time they could've been called Stumblin and Dumb.

Both were at a dance at the Cove Inn when they spotted a Latin gent in formal wear, dancing with a beautiful woman. At the time, Latins weren't as common in Naples as now.

"Lookit that greaseball," Dumb said, "what the hell's he doin' in here."

"And lookit those threads. What's he, the head waiter?" offered Stumblin. "Let's go kick his az outta here."

Staggering over to the dancer, Dumb said, "We 'spect you better get where you belong, before we put you there."

The Latin's eyes flashed just a second before he said. "You men are obviously drunk. Why don't you go on, I don't want to take advantage of you."

"Take advantage of us?" the Dumb said, "You Rocky Marciano or something?"

"No," the lovely dance partner said, "but he is Alexis Arguello, the World's Lightweight Boxing Champion." And so he was.

Open mouth, insert foot.

This wasn't their only really bad mistake. Another night, at the Cove, they perceived that a car had parked too close to them as they stumbled along, on and off the sidewalk. "Watch where you're going," Dumb yelled at the diminutive man that alighted from the diver's side, "or I'll come over there an kick your azzz."

Immediately, the passenger's door opened and out stepped a large human being. "Why don't you pick on somebody your own size," he growled.

Since the two were pretty hefty themselves, this seemed like a real good idea. Later, in the hospital, Dumb said something like a cannon shot knocked him ten feet in the air. Stumblin said all he remembered was being crushed like the garbage in a waste management truck. It was a profitable lesson, however, both quit their drinking and became reputable citizens. . .and my good friends.

Oh yeah, the big guy. Dick Butkus, Chicago Bears.

Open mouth. . .need I say it?

A PRESIDENT'S VISIT TO NAPLES

In the early 60's we had a visit from the Secret Service. The President of the USA, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was going to take an extended vacation in Naples. He was to stay on Gordon Drive, in a Gulf side mansion owned by a nationally known news correspondent. For now, the proposed stay was to be kept secret. At the NPD we were excited. Although Naples being a destination for celebrities was nothing new, we were talking about JFK, here in the Elephant's Graveyard. And whether you liked him or not--many cops didn't--it was still an honor to host the President.

This was going to take a lotta work. Most of it directed toward converting the property so that it afforded maximum protection for the President. We were amazed at what that required. One reason this particular home was selected was that the owner was a friend of the Kennedy family. But, more importantly, it had a huge iron gate, gate house, and an imposing wall across the front. The gate house was large enough to quarter several SS Agents. And the residence was stone, built like a fortress.

Communication and protective systems were other required additions. About thirty telephone lines were installed--this was to be a working vacation--plus a number of antennas, radios, and a state-of-the-art security and fire alarm system. The system included closed-circuit TV, seldom seen at the time.

Then the front gate, already massive, was reinforced. And the rear, Gulf side of the property, was fenced off. Emergency routes to the hospital and for evacuation were mapped out. The files were checked for known whackos in the area. A lotta work!

Over the years, when other Presidents or family visited, we learned that this dedication on the part of the Secret Service was a constant. After all, these are folks who have sworn to shield the President from harm with their own bodies. Stopping bullets and all.

Nothing is left to chance. When Mrs. Mamie Eisenhower visited each year, a special medical device was rented and placed in the NCH in the off chance she would need it for some rare malady she sometimes suffered. Later, a wealthy Naples patron learned of this and bought one for the hospital.

Anyway, finally the work was completed and we awaited the scheduled arrival of the man, himself, just a few days off. He never made it. I'm sure he would've were it not for a scheduled visit he had to make just beforehand.

A short stop over in Dallas, Texas, where all his future plans were abruptly canceled.

HAROLD YOUNG

When folks ask me who's the best investigator I ever knew, I always say his name was Young. That gets a laugh, then I explain. Harold Young. Since it's possible we're related, both coming from the same neck of the woods, we call each other Cuz.

Cuz worked for the CCSO, eventually heading Homicide. He once ran for Sheriff and did very well against the machine. His downfall was that he was too good a cop, too diligent.

Harold has fantastic intuitive skills. I remember one case in which a child had been abducted and its possible location was a large section of woods. While everyone meandered around, Cuz just walked in, went straight to the child and made the rescue. When asked how he did it, he shrugged, said, "Don't know, just knew where she was."

He's so honest and personable that folks he has sent to prison consider him a friend. There would have been no limit to his accomplishments if it hadn't been for the Benson case.

This was Naples biggest case ever. Three major books were written about it. At one time a movie was in the works. It involved the tobacco rich Bensons and a greedy son who blew up his mother and nephew and disfigured his sister with two car bombs.

As an ironic aside, Steven Benson had researched the murders until he thought it was a perfect crime. Read books on bombs, concocted alibis, the works. His gigantic ego led him to believe no one would figure it out. I was working in the office that day, and asked a rookie who'd been at the scene what was going on. He said, "Some A-Hole blew up his mother." One of our least experienced cops knew at first glance who was guilty. Perfect crime. Right.

Still, proving it was another matter. But Cuz worked tirelessly, found where Steven bought the bomb casing, discovered the motive, and had a good case. The State, however, was reluctant to prosecute. Since this was high profile, they wanted a slam dunk. Benson would have high-priced defense lawyers, there would be national exposure, a loss would be embarrassing. So, satisfied they didn't yet have enough evidence, they sat on it longer than Cuz could tolerate. A highly contentious pushing and shoving match ensued. When the smoke cleared, the State had successfully prosecuted the case, Benson was in prison--where we pray he's regularly bent over by the other inmates--and Cuz was out of work.

It was one of those you don't mess with Mother Nature things. His totally unwarranted firing was a dramatic loss to local law enforcement that has never been filled.

Harold's now a private investigator. Again, probably the best.

WHAT'D HE SAY?

When you get in the cop business one of the first things you have to master is how to talk on the radio. Then most agencies used the universal 10 Codes, later popular on the CB bands. The police version was longer and had some additions.

With the 10 Codes, there were the Signals. Basically, 10-Codes described actions: 10-4 (OK, Will Do). Signals described things. Signal-20 (Mentally ill person). The codes were used so often they were usually mastered in just a few days. But not always.

My favorite dispatcher, Sandy, one day received an alarming call from the Chief. "I'll be Signal-7 at the Pier," he said. This meant literally that he would be a dead person at the pier. There was cause for alarm. The Chief was a retired Army office who was in way over his head. He had dermatitis from stress, was buzzed from noon on, and acted irrationally most of the time. Was he sending some code that he'd been kidnapped? Was he going to kill himself? Or, after all these months did he still not know the codes. A officer sent by Sandy to check found it was the latter.

And he never did learn them. Each evening, when he went home, he checked out with, "I'll be Signal 7 (dead)." Not 10-7 (out of service). Then invariably, shortly thereafter would come a transmission from an anonymous patrol car, "Yeah, Signal 7 from the neck up."

Another thing that rookies had to learn was how to read the master index cards. We were computer-less and personal records were kept on 3 by 5 index cards. When a cop on patrol called in a 10-28 or 10-29 asking for a verification of person's identity, the dispatcher searched the files, located the card, and read back the requested information.

This wasn't always easy. Much like the texting shorthand of today, there were contractions and codes used to save space on the cards. A very young Byron Tomlinson, who later became one of the NPD's and CCSO's best officers got tripped up on these one night. When asked for a info on a Wilson, Byron replied "Ronly Oonly Wilson."

It took a minute for the requesting cop, and everyone else who was listening, to figure out what Byron had done. Then the laughter broke out. He didn't know that initials were indicated as initial, then (only). So, R(only) O(only) became Ronly Oonly. A name he had to live with for some time.

SLIPPERY SHENANIGANS, Part Two

She was a young, pretty Dispatcher who we'll call Hope. Catch me, molest me, hope I trip. Hope was very popular because she was a sexual liberal. A serial slut. She didn't discriminate. She wasn't particular. Short, tall, fat, skinny, young, old, Hope was ready to bump uglies with 'em.

When word of her public service finally reached the higher ups--always the last to know--the Perverted Puritan himself, Woody Proboscis, leaped into action.--probably feeling slighted because he'd missed her while carousing, himself.

Woody, at first, tried grilling likely Lotharios, none of whom had ridden in on a melon truck. No luck. In desperation he went to Hope. A pitifully inept interrogator, he talked all around the subject but couldn't get right down to it and never would've had not Hope, herself, figured out what he was fishing for. Sexual relations? Sure. With who? Have to think on that, there've been several. What's the big deal, did it off duty, used birth control pills?

It took some coaxing and a promise she wouldn't be fired, before Hope came up with a list of playmates. About twenty! And she'd only been employed by the NPD two months. When the glaze finally cleared from Woody's eyes, he realized he'd struck the mother lode. But what to do with it? He couldn't fire them all, he'd have to shut down the agency. However, if he caught one in the act and made an example of him the others would be so terrified they'd no longer stray from the righteous path. At least for a few days. So Woody told Hope to keep their conversation a secret and put his plan in action.

Of course, unlike the upper echelon, the lowliest cop knew everything that happened the instant it happened. And it didn't hurt that Hope told them everything she knew and that they should cool it for a while. This caused Woody many lonely evenings hidden in the bushes across from Hope's 10-42 (house) waiting to catch a copulating cop.

So there was a stalemate. Woody wasn't getting his example and the cops weren't getting any. Something had to give. Salvation came in the form of an officer who loved an outrageous practical joke nearly as much as he liked sex. We'll call him the Masked Man, since he was certainly that.

At the time, diminutive motorcycles were popular. An adult could ride one but it looked like a St. Bernard trying to mount an armadillo. This didn't deter the Masked Man. In fact, it enhanced the effect he was seeking. Picture Woody in the weeds, swatting mosquitoes. He hears what sounds like a lawnmower in heat screaming down the street. Then he rubs his eyes in disbelief. There's a large human being, in a gorilla mask and pork pie hat, riding a clown's motorcycle. The gorilla parks on Hope's front lawn, knocks on the door, and is welcomed inside.

From then on Woody's plan was doomed. Realizing the Masked Man obviously knew he was watching and had made a fool of him just took Woody's heart out of the work. And when he found the cops had long ago discovered his surveillance spot and were using Hope's rear door, which was in a blind spot, Woody shut down the operation.

The problem, if there was one, soon solved itself. Hope turned in her resignation stating it wasn't any fun now working for the NPD. She moved on to the Sheriff's Office known, at the time, for their liberal fun-and-games policies.

SLIPPERY SHENANIGANS, Part One

Big Earl was a reluctant Romeo. A devout family man. But being tall and handsome, with a magnetic personality he attracted women like teenyboppers chase a rock star. Or so it was rumored. Earl'd admit nothing and laughed off any allegations. And maybe he was telling the truth. But, the male of the species has a certain weakness. . .

Once a complaint against Earl was filed by a woman claiming to be a spurned paramour. This foolishness was absolutely none of our business but a Lieutenant decided to investigate and because of who the Lieutenant was, Earl could be in trouble. Said Lieutenant we'll call Ed Numnutz, was a nitpicker of the worst order. Too many of his cells had been spent building his imposing body, leaving his brains account bankrupt. He did have the good sense to be born with political connections, hence his rank and comfortable position.

My desk was right outside the Lt's then and Earl walked by me on the way to his lynching. He gave me a shrug and a tight smile. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the office, gave me a thumbs up and a sly smile.

He was followed by Lt. Numnutz, who sat down at the chair beside my desk and shook his head, obviously distraught. "I feel like an A-hole," he said. I fought an urge to tell him I could see how that could happen, kept quiet, and listened.

"I call poor ol' Earl in there and start gettin' on him about the woman chasing thing, and he breaks down, almost in tears, and tell's me it has to be a lie because he's hot even capable of anything like that. His equipment was blown off by a hand grenade in the Korean War. I just feel so bad, embarassing the poor damn guy."

I almost strangled choking back laughter, excused myself and went into the restroom to let it out. Had it been anyone but Numnutz, they might have questioned a few inconsistencies. Aside from the fact that Earl was in the Navy, where they throw few hand grenades, his service was after Korea. Then there were his three children, of which one son could've been Earl's younger twin. And you might wonder how in hell he passed the police physical with no landing gear?

When questioned later, Earl said, "He must've heard me wrong, I'd never claim that. Only a fool would believe it." Then that smile.

He had one more in him. Another high ranking officer, Woody Proboscis, heard that Earl was a Cooter Cop. He called him in for a dressing down, or worse. This was ironic because Proboscis was a notorious midnight creeper, hammering his secretary with great regularity. I overheard this conversation so can vouch for it.

"The word's out you spend a lotta duty time chasing women," Proboscis said.

"Who would say that?" Earl asked, seemingly devastated by the accusation.

"Well, rumor," Proboscis admitted.

"Rumor? Oh, hell, then I won't worry. You hear all kinds of rumors. Why I even hear a rumor the other day that the troops kept a log on you, where you spent your lunch hours, late evenings. Some place down off Broad." (Where Proboscis' secretary lived)

The color left Proboscis' face. Earl continued, "Course that's just a rumor, one I immediately discounted knowing it had to be BS. And I'm sure you've dismissed the one about me, too." Whereupon, Earl got up and left, leaving Proboscis looking like he'd just stepped barefoot into Sylvester's litter box.

Again, that choking sensation, causing me to retire to the restroom before the roaring laughter took over.

MY FAVORITE DISPATCHER

Dispatchers have a tough job. They have to learn how to speak in an arcane tongue. They must be able to deal with frenzied people on the phone, who are in life-threatening situations, and give them sound, protective advice. They coach mothers with unexpected deliveries. And, they bear the wrath of A-holes who got a well-deserved ticket.

Another thing they sometimes deal with is boredom. This leads to pranks.

We had an crotchety, old dispatcher named Nick. Nick didn't like many folks, but he despised our new Chief, a retired Army colonel who was a pompous turd. And the feeling was mutual. We'd just had a new five-button phone system installed, providing four more separate lines. When a call came in for the Chief, the dispatcher would put the party on hold, call the Chief and tell him what line to pick up. Call for you, Chief. Simple enough, huh? Not if Nick had your number.

Course, Nick would do it when there was no call, just a lit button on the line he'd punched. He'd listen for the Chief to pickup, then he'd begin tapping the buttons machine gun style. The Chief, trying to follow the lights, went insane. You could hear him bellowing down the hall. Finally, to cover himself, Nick would complain to the Chief that the new phone system sucked. Then, privately, have a good laugh.

But paybacks are hell and Nick had his own nemesis to deal with: a fella named Bob. Bob was even older than Nick but with the exact opposite temperament. While Nick was loud and volatile, Bob was calm as a clam. For some reason Nick disliked him almost as much as he did the Chief.

Our swivel chairs then, didn't have a simple lever to adjust the seat height. You had to get down on your knees and spin a wheel on a threaded post until it was the height you wanted. Bob made sure that the seat was lowered to the bottom just before Nick went on duty. This put Nick's chin at desktop height. Nick would be infuriated. Being old, and a little rotund, he couldn't bend over that easily.

We had a middle-age gal named Dorothy who was a smoking fiend. But, she only smoked at work. Never at home or anywhere else. When asked why she just didn't quit all together, since she didn't smoke most of the time, she'd say, "I'd don't need it at home."

And there was Betty J0, a hard-worker who struggled for years making ends meet on a dispatcher's salary. Until she married a rich man.

And we had June Holzhausen, who we'll feature some time in a special entry.

Then, there is my favorite dispatcher. The first time I saw her, literally, I knew she was going to be the most important part of my life. She was a petite, lovely little woman and an excellent dispatcher. She could handle the most distraught callers and had an encyclopedic memory for names and people. Perfect for the job.

Course, in just a few months I had to fire her. They had this rule, nepotism, in the City, that relatives couldn't have a worker/boss relationship. The rule also applied to wives and husband. So when we were married. . .

That was many, many years ago and she's still my favorite. . .everything. Sandy. Her picture is at the top. See what I mean?

Photo by Ray Barnett

THE SHORT REIGN OF THE PORNO PERUSER

Naples once hired a retired Army officer as Chief of Police. His military service record was brilliant. His list of commendations, illustrious. His bravery, unquestioned. He lasted six-months as the Chief. We'll call him the Colonel.

In a month, the stress of the job had given him such severe dermatitis that his hands looked like pink oven mitts. Then his cocktail lunches stretched to most of the afternoon. His love of liquid stupid finally led to his premature downfall. Loaded, while speaking at a local women's club, he salted his address with raunchy officer's club humor, using all the filthy language in a soldier's arsenal. Next day he was gone.

One of the things that drove him over the edge was that he couldn't separate political rhetoric from genuine vows of intent. When the movie Deep Throat was screened locally and all the Council members ranted about how deplorable that was, the Colonel though they were serious. He immediately instituted a crusade against porno.

To advance this war he sent me to the Book Nook, on 5th Ave South, to buy a copy of every adult magazine in the place. The Book Nook wasn't a porno shop, but a complete magazine store with a huge inventory. It was a downtown landmark and meeting place. Speaker of the House Tipp O'Neill, during his frequent visits to Naples, hung out there. They did have girly magazines, but discreetly displayed in the rear of the store, in an Adults Only alcove.

When I came back with a stack two feet tall, the Colonel was elated. His suspicions had borne fruit. The filth was ubiquitous. Now he had to study these vile publications and determine if they met the standards of pornography. And study he did. Until the pages were as fluffed open from frequent turning as a Sears catalog in an outhouse. And there were always several open on his desk.

To make matters worse, he kept them stacked on the front of his desk, where anyone siting in the visitors chair had to look over them to see him. At the time, being Assistant Chief, I shared his office. It was great fun to see how long it took a visitor to notice that they had to peer over a copy of Naked Nubile Nymphs to talk to the Chief of Police. This went on until the City Manager happened by one day, took the chair, looked down and erupted into a giant um pah storm.

The knockout blow for the porno war came when Judge Harold Smith reviewed the affidavits for a warrant to arrest the owner of the Gulf Gate Theater for showing Deep Throat. The Judge, a man of common sense and earthy wit said, "Where's the warrant for the other fella?"

The prosecutor was confused. "What other fella?"

"The one who held the gun on these people and forced them into the theater to watch this thing." Case dismissed. (It was rumored that the good Judge had personally evaluated this film. Several times)

We did learn from the Colonel. The porno law required that you use the community standard to determine what was acceptable in your town and what wasn't, Miami probably being different from Gobbler's Knob. Determining that demanded a lotta study. We would study the subject matter, particularly 8mm films, for hours trying to classify them. It was grueling work but somebody had to do it.

My favorite was the one with the dwarf and the fat lady. It was titled Where There's A Woodie There's A Way.

Thanks, Cuz.

GRAVE ADMISSIONS

The Naples PD never scrimped on schools. I was sent to Homicide school at the Univ of Louisville. Polygraph school in New York City for six-weeks. And Investigators school at the Univ of Georgia for two weeks. This was an excellent school. We were taught by true experts in each field. Most classes were overseen by federal agents, but the actual techniques used were demonstrated by felons who had gone straight. Safe cracking was taught by a safe man. Residential burglary, by a burglar. Counterfeiting by a counterfeiter. And so on. The absolute best way to learn the business.

We each had our own room on campus and the tuition was zero. The adult education building and classes were funded by Kellogg's, the cereal maker. The excellent meals were free. Really first class.

We had cops from around the country. In the evenings, it was common to gather for bull sessions. There was always lots of liquid stupid (booze) present. War stories proliferated. As an example, I told how we would catch a suspect, put them in the front seat of the cop car, wrap the mike cord around their arm and tell them they were hooked up the lie detector. Whenever they lied, the red light on the box would come on. This was really just the transmit indicator on the radio that came on when we surreptitiously keyed the mike.

"Did you break into that building?"

"No, Suh."

Key mike, light comes on. "You're lying to me."

"Well, uhhhhh. . ."

This, believe it or not, was very effective and not much of a departure from how the real polygraph is sometimes used by inept examiners.

Two detectives from New Orleans, however, took the tall tales gold cup one night. We were talking about how frustrating it was to know someone was dirty and not be able to make an arrest. Perhaps a burglar, who escaped your grasp for months, stealing thousands of dollars worth of property while you built a case.

One of the dicks from NOPD said they had the same problem, but, fortunately, they had the stupidest thieves on earth. They were often found, drowned in Lake Pontchartrain, after stealing more chain than they could swim with. A great quip. We all laughed.

I remember this several years later when the FBI conducted a massive investigation of the New Orleans PD, charged with gross corruption. The list of crimes was endless. What caught my attention were several bodies of missing criminals that turned up in Lake Pontchartrain. Wrapped in more chain than they could possibly swim with.

It seems that once again, at the school, the real experts had spoken.