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.
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.
Love the Blog, Old Cop. I am finally doing the right thing and joining you. See you around for a cup once in awhile. 194
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