Saturday, January 31, 2009

HARD TO KILL Part 1

When most of us are stabbed, or shot several times, we're in serious trouble. Some folks come to mind for which these rules didn't apply.

Cops at the NPD were stunned when in walked a customer wanting an arrest made. He said he'd been drinking in Rabbit's and someone started signifyin' on him.

This was a sure preamble to trouble. Rabbit's was a juke in the infamous McDonald Quarters, a ghetto where most of Naples black folks lived then. It was a bloody bucket, a knife and gun club. The term signifyin' meant bad mouthing. He went on.

The signifyin' led to shoving and then our complainant, being a peaceful man, turned to leave. That's when he was hit in the back. And it hurt, too. Hurt so bad he went to his car to go home, but it was so painful to lean back in the seat, he'd walked to the PD.

It was probably a mile or so from The Quarters, which was in the River Park area, to the old PD on 8th and 8th South. This man must be serious.

He then began to try to reach around to his back, twisting and turning. Damn back itches, he complained. When he turned around, you could see why. Between his shoulder blades, next to his spine was a knife. A knife buried up to the hilt. It was a Texas Toothpick, a single-blade folder with a 5" blade. He was quickly eased into a chair and told not to move. And not to lean back.

EMS responded quickly and he was whisked off to the hospital. After x-rays, the knife was carefully removed. With stabbing wounds, where the blade is still embedded, you should always let trained medical personnel remove the blade. Frequently, more damage is caused taking the knife out than the initial stab made.

Incredibly, except for the skin puncture, there was no damage. Doctors said the blade came within millimeters of his heart. Essentially it hit a hole in his carcass. That same night, he walked out of the hospital with nothing more than a small patch on his back.

The Angels of Mercy must've been working overtime that night.

Friday, January 30, 2009

SKEETERVILLE

An old joke is that when the Army had a base at the Naples Airport in WWII something landed on the runway and a mechanic put 30 gallons in it before he realized it was a swamp mosquito. When the swamps were up close and personal, this story could've been true. Almost.

Except for Everglades City and a other remote areas, mosquitoes today are a mere inconvenience. In the days before the swamps were drained they were intolerable.

To try to fight them, spray planes and the bug trucks were used. A bug truck was a pickup fitted with a device that mixed diesel fuel and bug spray together, converted it to smoke, and blew it out the back. Find a bug truck and you'd see a mob of kids running in the cloud of toxins behind the sprayer. Strangely, I can't recall anyone getting sick from this insanity.

Mike Gideon, a longtime friend and retired CCSO Deputy, recalled that, as a child living in Everglades City, he had to suit up to go out to play. The gear included a long sleeve shirt, long trousers, hat, and a bandanna worn bandit style over the mouth. Properly attired, he could bear the onslaught of the vicious swamp skeeters. Not much fun in the oppressive sub-tropical heat.

Marco Island was infected with not only skeeters, but sand gnats--billions of them. They flew in any open mouth, nested in your ears, and gnawed on your body. Called No-see-ems, they were hard to find. . . until they bit you.

Working as a cop wasn't a lotta fun. The cars had no AC, so you patrolled with the windows down. Once you got out of the car it was worse. I recall making traffic stops and wiping the skeeters off my arms, leaving them covered in blood from the squashed critters. Many a ticket was abandonded and the driver told to move on because you just couldn't take it any longer.

There was some law enforcement benefit. Escaped prisoners were regularly found by the roadway after a short spell in the swamps. They begged to go back to jail--or, on occasion, the hospital for a transfusion.

Another buddy, and retired NPD cop Dave Dampier, reminds me that nobody begged to go back to the Paw Paw Patch. The Paw Paw Patch was the original city jail. It was located close to the 3rd St So area. With no glass in the windows, prisoners could be heard slapping and cursing the little vampires all night long, yelling, Cale, let me out of here. These damn skeeters are killin' me.

(Kale Jones was Chief at the time)


Thursday, January 29, 2009

GOOFY GUNSLINGERS 2

When I was involved with the hiring for local law enforcement agencies, the ratio was about 1 out of 100. That's one applicant selected out of one-hundred applicants. Most cops are some of the brightest folks in the work force. The 10% rule, however, does apply. That being, no matter how diligently you test, screen, or investigate employees in the hiring process, when they are hired 10% turn into idiots. And, 10% will be superior. The old bell curve thing. An officer who we'll call Herbert Brawley was in the bottom ten.

Herbert was wacky about firearms. His duty weapon was a Colt Python, the most expensive revolver Colt made. Most cops couldn't afford one. A beautifully crafted weapon, its precision craftsmanship made it a high failure weapon on the range. We all practiced and qualified with reloads. Reloads sometimes don't have the primer fully seated, causing the cylinder to lock in a precision made gun. The python suffered from this problem.

It was beautiful and Herbert liked to show his off. A cop is never supposed to unholster their gun unless they may have to use it. Herbert had trouble with this concept, liking to take it out and fondle it or show it to the public. Repeatedly warned about this, he continued to do it until other cops derisively mocked his Southern drawl and frequent comment: Do you wanna to see my Piiiithon?

Herbert became an ex-member of the NPD on the sad day he whipped it out, in the old WT Grant store in the Naples Shopping Center, to show to a customer. He accidentally discharged a round into the terrazzo floor, sending chips flying. Two customers received minor cuts and Herbert a map back to Arkansas.

The Sheriff once had a Deputy from Immokalee, that we'll call Big 'Un, who was a crack shot on the street, but couldn't qualify on the range. His worst problem was at the 60 yard line. There, you were required to drop to your knees, draw your weapon, fall forward on your elbows and fire from the prone position. His ample belly may have been the problem. Whatever it was, he just couldn't do it and most cops didn't want to be anywhere near him when he tried.

Everyone had a blanket laid out at their feet to keep them out of the dirt. Big 'Un regularly dropped to his knees, drew his weapon, and shot a hole in his blanket. Once, the slug even set the blanket on fire. God only knows what would've happened if we'd had semi-automatics back then.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

GOOFY GUNSLINGERS

Most gun owners are responsible people. Except for a few buffoons you run into that remind you of an old joke. A gun nut, dressed in full cowboy attire--fur chaps, fringe shirt, ten-gallon hat, two .45's, boots and spurs--jangles up to the Dairy Queen window. " I want a sundae," he says. The waitress asks, "Want your nuts crushed?" Whereby our hero draws his .45's, points them at the waitress and growls: "You want your ass shot off?"

Such a clown came to the Range, at the City Dump beside the Airport, on one of the days we allowed civilians to shoot. Done up like Sunset Carson, and packing a S&W .44 Magnum, he had his lady in tow. When he got to the firing line, he pointed for the girl to stand to the rear and , with a flourish worthy Roy Rogers, pulled his six-gun. You must keep in mind this weapon, at the time, was called by none other than Dirty Harry Clint Eastwood the world's most powerful handgun. And Mr. Eastwood does not exaggerate.

When we noticed the goofy gunslinger had no ear protection and was holding the cannon straight out with a single-hand grip, we knew we were in for a show.

After posing a while, he pulled the trigger, the air split with thunder, and the recoil slammed the pistol backwards until it hit him right between the eyes. Sleepy time for Sunset. The barrel split his forehead open, causing it to gush blood. Fortunately, with this doofus, there was no danger of any brains leaking out. When he returned to the world of the reasonably sane, realizing what an ass he'd made of himself, he wrapped his head in a bandanna and headed for the ranch. We had to remind him that he'd left his magnum and lady, with a wry smile on her face, at the firing line.

Continued tomorrow

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

BED, BREAKFAST, AND BARS

Was a time you didn't have to be arrested to get in jail. Had a friend, a reputable businessman, who was an alcoholic. He was a good member of AA and would go for months, maybe a year or two, without backsliding. But, when the urges got too strong, and he feared he was going to cave in, he'd go to Immokalee and check himself into the jail. Might stay there two weeks or more. Eventually, he'd check himself out and go back to his business until the next bout with his devils.

Back then, that happened. Wasn't even considered that unusual. There were several rounders who used to lock themselves up to stay out of trouble. If no guard was in attendance, they'd get the keys, lock themselves in, and toss the keys over on the desk. And you thought The Andy Griffith Show was over the top! (Wait'll I tell you about some of the Barney Fifes we had)

At the City, we had a very high ranking politician who would get drunk and rowdy. And when he did, he was a load. We'd lock him up until he sobered up, all the while listening to his threats of firing us when he got out. And, he could've. But he didn't. He'd thank us in the morning.

Never happen today. And, there's a real good reason why some of the humane things we used to let happen were curtailed. Like the friendly jail policy. It went on for years. Until , in one of the jails, a drunk locked himself in a cell with a woman and raped her.

Monday, January 26, 2009

NINE ONE WHAT?

First off, did you know that 9-1-1 was initially advertised widely as nine eleven? Call nine eleven for all your emergencies. You might remember that and wonder why they changed it to nine one one. You're not going to believe the answer. Had to change it because too many people complained that there wasn't an eleven on their telephone. If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'.

Before even that happened, in the fifties, Naples and Collier County had their own systems. Naples lone indoor theater, on Third Street South, was owned and operated by Mr. Arnold Haines. He also owned the popular sundries shop, The Beach Store, next door. And, Arnold was a City Councilman, the one selected to be Police Commissioner. That required Arnold to keep track of the cops.

So, a plan was put in place that when things got slow, the cop on duty would go into the movie theater, grab some popcorn, and enjoy the latest black and white Bogart epic. If trouble reared it's infrequent head, just call ol' Arnold and he'd send the usher to get the cop.

Collier County had even a stranger system. In Immokalee there was a light on a pole near the Sheriff's Office. Course the Sheriff's Substation was closed after dark. It was only occupied when the lone deputy assigned duty there would drop by to use the restroom or maybe even put someone in jail.

If you needed a deputy, you'd flick on the light. When the deputy, in the course of his rounds, saw the light flashing he'd know someone needed his services and start looking. The customer usually waited nearby.

Not as sophisticated as today's electronic communications but, at the time, a grand way of doing business.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

THE POOL CAGE CAPER

Responding to a construction accident call in Coquina Sands, I found a backyard pool cage collapsed and three workers checking themselves for damage. All were wet, having landed in the pool. Asked if anyone was injured. The consensus was they were okay. Called the PD and advised that no ambulance was need, then asked who was in charge.

A hefty middle-aged guy stepped forward and said he was senior on the job. Said his name was Lamar. Asked him what'd happened.

Lamar cleared his throat, scratched, blinked, and generally looked like that Governor that got caught with the hooker.

I told him I wasn't leaving until I got a story so he might as well cough it up. He thought about that a bit, shrugged, then said this:

"We had the frame up and were startin' with the screen. LeRoy was on top, I was feeding him the fabric. Then, all of a sudden LeRoy stops, whispers be quite, and waves me up. He's lookin' across the fence in the neighbor's backyard. I figures he's seen somethin' good so I heads up. Sure enough the lady next door is out there sunbathin' in nuthin' but 'er good intentions. An' she's a looker, I wanna tell ya."

I nodded and he went on.

"Well, not wantin' to be selfish and knowin' two of our guys was doin' a job just around the corner, I goes to the truck and gives 'em a call on the radio. They shows up real quick with two others they's called. Then purty soon the boss shows up--guess he heard it on the radio,too--and some other folks I didn't even know. If I hadn't been so interested in that lady next door, I'd never have let 'em all up there. But she do get your attention. So, we're all tuned in and before you know it the cage starts groanin' and there we went. We build 'em strong but. . ."

"How many you reckon were up there?" I asked.

He started counting on his fingers, then said, "Hard to tell. Soon as it give in, most of 'em skedaddled. We must've had eight or ten of ours."

"Of yours? There were others?" I said.

"Oh, sure. There was the guy from next door, and ,uh, the mailman, and, oh, yeah, that Jehoviah's Witness feller, pool's full of his flyer things. . ."

"Got it," I said, "anything else?"

"Yeah, there is," Lamar said. "You know when that cage come down and we headed for the drink I swear I could hear that woman over there laughing."

Sometimes you find out more than you need to know. I told Lamar to never mind, no one was hurt, no need for a report. He breathed a sigh of relief. I went back on patrol.

Had I known they were going to be on the cage that day I could've warned them. The lady next door was famous for her nude sunbathing and, like the man said she was a hottie. I answered a bogus call at her residence once and she answered the door in a towel that , like our budget ,was experiencing a shortfall.

Cops see these teasers a lot. And over the years you almost get used to them.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

LEGEND OF THE LOVE APPLES

In the 60's the intersection of Goodlette Road and Pine Ridge Road was out in the sticks. The N/E corner, in particular, was a barren field bordered by the roadroad track. Luscious, red tomatoes, however, grew there. And, until the tourists came down each year and picked them, there was a bountiful supply. Why? Because the locals wouldn't touch them.

Back then most folks had some kind of septic system. Septic tanks eventually have to be pumped and this was done by what we called the honey dippers. The honey dipper would pump the sludge into the giant tank on his truck and, when it was full, take it to a remote area and dump it. Not all those environmental regulations to worry about then. Just find a remote spot and turn on the empty valve. They did rotate spots, giving one a chance to dry up before they reused it.

That corner on Pine Ridge and Goodlette was such a place. But why did they dump it in a tomato field? Didn't, it was just the opposite. Seems a tomato seed will survive the rigors of passing through the human disposal system. So the honey dippers, in effect, were planting tomato seeds in very rich fertilizer. And a bumper crop always ensued.

Locals never let out the secret about the tomatoes because it was too much fun to watch the tourists going after those dung patch love apples.

Naples was a sleepy little town then, but you have to admit it was a front runner in recycling and organic gardening. And that wasn't the only example of early recycling. The Moorings/Coquina Sands area was once the City Dump. At the time, the city cops found a body there that was never identified. So, must've been a graveyard, too.


Friday, January 23, 2009

BIG JOHN AND THE WALLABY WRANGLERS

Big John, a self-made millionaire, lived beachfront on Gordon Drive. A rebel, he reminded many of a sane Howard Hughes. John liked to drink but not at exclusive clubs that pandered to the rich. John was a common man, and gravitated to The Anchor, a downtown dive since replaced by, what else, a Walgreen's.

Because of his earthy leanings, Big John wasn't a favorite with some of his snobbish Gordon Drive and Port Royal neighbors. And there was another small thing that ticked them off: his menagerie. He'd converted his estate into a zoo, off sorts. He had saltwater pools with Dolphins, sea turtles, and seals. Among his collection was a Galapagos tortoise, a dwarf burro, and a kangaroo type critter called a wallaby.

A lover of children, he opened his estate to families each Wednesday. This alone caused some neighbors to despise him. Allowing the great unwashed masses to encroach on our sanctum sanctorum. These were the crybabies who called us incessantly about people on their beach, or a suspicious vehicle--anything that wasn't a Rolls, Caddy, or Lincoln.

Then there were the seals that barked all night long, prompting enraged calls to the NPD, which caused Big John to laugh and throw the noisy critters another fish.

We, the cops, loved him. There were many good folks in Port Royal that supported PAL and the police. But there were a lotta politically powerful dicks, too, and John stuck it to them when we couldn't always do it ourselves.

Big John's animals had a bad habit of escaping. His swans would magically leave the zoo confines, during mating season, and uproot neighbor's elegant flower beds, making a nest. His burro liked to walk down the beach to the City Pier, munching landscaping on the way. Finally, his neighbors complained to sympathetic puppets on the City Council and pressure was put on John to get rid of the zoo. Bad move!

Shortly thereafter, John went to The Anchor, about midnight, and announced that his wallaby had escaped in Port Royal and he was offering a $100 reward for its return. In five minutes every stumbling drunk was weaving down Gordon Drive. Some stopped off to call their buddies to join the search party. In short order there were more than 100.

Soon, our switchboard was flooded with calls from outraged aristocrats claiming there were drunks in their yard yelling Here wallaby. And some climbing trees, thinking perhaps the Wallaby was a roosting animal. Or searching their cabin cruisers, looking for a nautical species.
It was a very busy evening for the NPD in Port Royal. But we loved it.

Big John kept his zoo until his untimely death. Rest in peace, my hero.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

I'M PEDDLIN' AS FAST AS I CAN

Once, in the 70's when I was Chief of the NPD, I was attending a budget hearing. The subject was cutting costs. One councilman, who we'll call Gerhardt Widget, noted for his nasty disposition and hair-brain ideas, suggested we cut costs by converting to bicycles. This was greeted by muffled snickers in the august chambers. But he persisted, saying he'd read this had been done in some cities.

I explained that those were big cities, and the bicycle patrols supplemented radio car patrols in very dense population areas. In no case were they used in the suburbs.

But Gerhardt plowed on, grumbling,
I just can't see why we can't try it here.

Exasperated, I said: Well, let's suppose we receive a call from your terrified wife who is home alone and says a rapist has broken into your home.

Do you want us to say: Just hold on, I'm peddling as fast as I can.