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.
"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.
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