SILLY SALESMEN

Mike Grimm and I were sitting in the Detective's office, trying to write reports. Our office was a converted 6'x9' closet. We each had a small desk against one wall. When the guy in back wanted out, the guy by the door had to get up and go out in the hall. But, since there is no cheese, I won't whine.

In Sam Bass the Chief's office next door, a salesman, Wilson Weasel, was jabbering so loud we couldn't work. I instinctively got up because I knew Mike was gonna do something about it. We wandered into Sam's office, who rolled his eyes, pleading for some relief. Sam was a true southern gentleman and he'd put up with a lot before he was rude to someone, no matter how obnoxious.

The Weasel was touting a revolutionary new raincoat, miracle fabric, lets the air through and keeps the rain out, you name it. He handed one to Mike to inspect. Mike looked at it and inquired, "There's no stitching around the sleeves. How's the sleeve gonna stay on during rough wear?"

"Glad you noticed, that," Weasel yammered, "that was my next point." He turned the raincoat inside out, showing the arm-to-coat seam. "This, my friend, is another unique feature of this coat. The sleeve is welded to the body with a laser gun. They're melted together. No amount of force can pull them apart.

Mike's a big guy with a grand sense of humor. And he loves to let the air out of the overinflated. "Welded, huh," he said.

"Certainly," Wilson said, " give it your best shot.

Mike clenched his big hands around the coat, gave a vicious jerk and the sleeve tore away from the body. He tossed it to the salesman, "You musta brought the wrong sample."

Wilson Weasel murmured something about having a pressing call he must make.then beat a hasty retreat. Mike winked at Sam and we went back to more mundane duties.

Another time, Shirley, my secretary came into my office and said, "There's a guy out there wants you to shoot him."

"Look like he needs it," I said.

"Probably," Shirley said, "he's a salesman."

Turned out it was the inventor of the Second Chance bullet resistant vest. His gimmick was to go to cop shops and demonstrate his product my having a cop shoot him in the chest. I declined this foolishness, so he offered to shoot himself as he had done at several other agencies. He showed us a purple chest to prove his point. We passed on that, too.

The vest was a new product, much lighter than those previous. It became police standard issue in many agencies. His unique advertising campaign read: Shoot the man who shot you and win a .44 magnum, or something along those lines. The idea being if you were wearing the vest the assailant's bullet wouldn't kill you so you'd have a chance to kill him. And the company did give you a reward if that happened.

There were some odd cats selling police equipment.

BIG'UN AND THE MAN IN BLACK

Big'un was Fred's German Shepard watchdog at the body shop. Fred was a NPD cop who, like most cops, had something going on the side so he could afford the little extras in life: food, and shelter. He was a talented mechanic and auto body repairman. I sometimes worked for him in the evenings and on weekends.

Fred was a fantastic dude himself who we'll feature in another entry. This one is about Big'un, whose picture should've been on the Warning Bad Dog posters. Big, with bear-like fur, he was scarred from his encounters with just about anything that moved. He looked at you like a dieter eyes a Krispy Kreme. He was malevolent, too. Most watchdogs start barking when they hear someone trying to break into the property they're guarding. Not Big'un. He'd be deadly silent, wait for the culprit to get inside, then attack. A Big'un attack wasn't like when Granny's spoiled Schnauzer nips your ankle. Big'un could put you in the hospital.

So, I'm working alone in the repair shop one evening and Big'un is locked up in the office for my protection. This is not without great trepidation on my part. Especially, after Fred says when I leave to just unlock the office door and leave it shut. If Big'un hears an intruder later, he'll just bust the door down and get them.

I'm keeping one eye on that door, not confident that the ten-cent lock is gonna keep Big'un in there if he really wants out. Then I remember the Fred said Big'un was a music lover. And mounted on the wall is one of those 8-Track players of old, two large speakers, with a tape already inserted. What the hell, couldn't hurt. I could use a few tunes myself.

Turning it on, it's Johnny Cash. John starts rumbling his I Walk The Line. One of my favorites. I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. . .then there's this Hummmmm. What's that? That's not on the recording. I keep my eyes wide open all the. . .Hummmmm. There it was again. And it's coming from the office. And the only one in the office is Big'un.

The humming continues through the entire song, in perfect tune, and in just the right places. When the song ends, the "backup singer" quits, too. I'm dumbfounded. Must be over-tired. Didn't really hear that. Better go home, get some sleep.

The next day, I make an anxious special trip to see Fred. He's behind his desk, shuffling some papers. I can't wait to ask him: "Does Big'un sing?"

Fred looks up. "Sing? Nah." he says. "He does hum a little. But he only knows one song, I Walk The Line."

I know. I know what you're saying: He's been into that cheap booze again. But, it's all true. Think about it. Who could've made up a story this wild? Bottom line, Big'un was a baritone.

THE WATER PISTOL SALESMAN

One day my partner, Dave Dampier, smiling, came in my office and said, "There's something out here you need to see." Since Dave knew me better than most, I knew it must be a treat. It was. Out in front of the PD was a parked car with a plastic gun on a chain tied to the rear bumper. I looked at Dave, said "What the. . . ?" Dave nodded to an exuberant fella near by.

"Hi," he said, "I'm Harold Huckster and I'm gonna show you the most revolutionary handgun ever made."

I looked at the black plastic, water pistol-looking thing again. "Our work generally requires we use real guns," I said.

"Oh, it's real enough," Harold said. And it was. It was the 9mm Glock 17 semi-auto, now a police standard, then something from outer space. Glock, knowing that the S&W or Colt revolvers were the police guns, figured they were going to have to come up with some innovative marketing to interest cops in this new, funny-looking semi-automatic.

Harold's act worked like this. He'd drive into a PD's parking lot with the Glock on a chain, dragging behind. He claimed it'd been there since he left Miami but who knows. The gun was scruffed up but still in one piece.

Then came his spiel. "This gun is made in Austria from the finest steel and a new, miracle nylon polymer. It's virtually indestructible. Won't rust. And to prove that, I want you to put this one in a bucket of salt water. I'll be back in about three weeks. If that Glock doesn't fire I'll give you nine free ones."

The saltwater soaked air in South Florida is hard enough of firearms. Blue steel rusts easily without constant attention. Total immersion in salt water, for that long, would turn most weapons, even stainless steel, into a corrosive green lump. We laughed but took him up on it, mostly to get rid of him. Our range officer, Jim Spohn, duly took the gun and drowned it in a five-gallon bucket of briny liquid.

When Harold returned, we quit laughing. Taken out of the bucket, wiped off, loaded, it fired an entire seventeen-round magazine. And, there was no rust. That day began the evolution from the old "wheel guns" (revolvers) to semi-automatics. It has been so total that when I retired from the SO I was the only cop that still carried a revolver.

Still do. To me, whenever I see a Glock I expect to see a stream of water squirting out of the barrel. Besides, Dirty Harry wouldn't be caught dead with something as ugly as that.

STOP GAP MEASURES

When folks consume enough liquid stupid, or narcotics, they do some dumb things. Especially with sharp objects.

In McDonald Quarters there were two prescribed ways to fight with a knife. First, go for any slash or stab that will put your opponent away. The second, is meant to punish, but not necessarily kill. The blade of the knife is held with about a half-inch exposed beyond the fingers. The adversary is stuck, or jooged, with the knife and a slight, shallow wound results. After one has had enough, the fight is ended.

Problems can arise. We worked one homicide in which the deceased had been jooged over a 100 times. The cuts had been made with a 3" Case pocket knife. But, the multitude of cuts had allowed the stuckee to bleed out. He had, in fact, gone back in the Juke, and had a couple beers before he fell over. When he did fall over, he was dead.

That was one. An alert girlfriend prevented another. Willie Wazzup, after being stuck, again over 100 times, had fallen to the ground, dripping blood from each hole. His paramour, Florence Nightenhen, knew he'd never make it to the hospital. So she improvised. Finding a newspaper, she tore off little pieces and stuffed them into the cuts with a Popsicle stick. When Willie was suitably patched, she rushed him to the ER.

The ER doctor was impressed. He said, "I'm an MD, supposed to know it all, but faced with the same situation, and without my tape and bandages, I wouldn't have thought of this. That woman saved his life." And so she did.

Another case involved a half-dozen college kids, in a house near Royal Harbor, who took bad trips on LSD. All in attendance were stoned into another dimension. One, Timothy Bleary, was having terrifying visions. There was some horrible beast in his stomach trying to rip itself out. No, problem, another of the buzzed ones allowed. He'd operate and remove the monster. And operate he did, with a hunting knife, while Bleary lay squirming on the living room floor. Satisfied the beast must have escaped, and noting a copious amount of blood, the "doctor" removed his T-shirt, stuffed it in the six-inch slice in Bleary's belly and left the operating room.

The least stoned, a girl who remained naked though the whole affair, thinking her clothes were feathers and it was molting season, had enough sanity remaining to call EMS. We arrived before EMS, and noted Bleary, strangely serene on the floor, content that the monster had been released. He felt no pain and didn't remember the "operation."

The surgeon was still so stoned he didn't realize what he'd done, but, in reparation he had, by plugging the wound with the T-shirt, probably saved Bleary's life. Another victory for the Angel who protects the stoned and stupid.

STUPID SNAKE LOVERS

Recently,pythons in the Everglades proliferated until they're a menace to other wildlife. The rangers are now hunting them. Pythons? How'd they get there? By dumb-az pet owners turning them loose after they got tired of them. Same thing with piranhas. They're not indigenous. Stupid pet owners have dumped them there after they bit off their finger tip and swallowed their pet guppy. Cops have to deal with these idiots. Two come to mind.

The first Bozo lived in Royal Harbor. We got a call that his python had disappeared. On entering the house, you had to walk by homemade screen cages full of snakes, his "pets." Several of the doors were unlocked or ajar. Some of the ajar ones were empty. "These supposed to be empty?" I asked.

"No, but they're not poison snakes. They're around here somewhere."

No comfort there. What snake lovers don't realize is that to the rest of us all snakes are repulsive and poisonous. We don't want to be in the same state with one. He moved to one of the cages that was unlocked, "Probably ought to latch this. Copperhead."

His problem, aside from being stupid, was that he'd just fed his seven-foot python and he couldn't find him. Said the thing would hole up for weeks now since it'd been a big meal. I didn't ask what that meal was but hoped it was one of his off-spring who were snake nuts, too.

So we're crawling around looking for this critter and I'm as jumpy as Jessie Jackson at a grand jury investigation, thinking there's a snake under every tea cup. I get tired and sit on the couch. Something under me moves. I jump up.

'Oh," Bozo says, "why didn't I think of that?" He tips the couch back and part of the ticking has been pulled loose. And here's this nasty damn thing interwoven among the springs. Bozo was ecstatic and profuse in his thanks for my help. I got the hell outta there.

About six months later I returned to his snake's den. "Missing a snake?" I asked.

He got a sheepish look on his face and said, "I was just getting ready to call you. . ."

"Car just ran over one, about six-feet long, two streets over," I said, "thought it might be yours."

"Oh, no," he whimpered, "my new boa. He wandered off and. . ."

We'd contacted the animal and wildlife people before about this clown but they could do nothing. Finally, he got tired of the things and got rid of them. I suspect by dumping them in the Everglades.

Another dope, used to carry his seven-foot python around in public. We were always getting calls from terrified folks he'd encountered. "It's perfectly safe," he'd say, all the while wrestling the thing to keep it from coiling around his neck. One day he brought the snake into the Sheriff's Office lobby causing me to have a meaningful dialogue with him, explaining how he could avoid incarceration and his snake an untimely demise. He was duly terrified and we had no calls about him for almost a year. Then he stepped on his carrot again.

He'd taken the thing to the mall. There, he was showing it to a frightened mother and her two-year-old baby. Without warning, the beast unhinged its jaws and clamped them over the head of the child. It took some effort to pry the monster loose. The baby suffered bites on the top of her head and chin from the snake's teeth. And long-term psychological damage.

The turd went to jail for a time but wonderful retribution came a few years later when a civil jury wiped him out financially.

THE ROPED ROMEO

Enforcing homosexual laws was low priority. But, sometimes, we'd get so many complaints about aggressive male homosexual activity we'd have to do something about it. One location was the Men's Restroom at the City Pier.

The City tried, since the Pier was its crown jewel, to keep it in good repair. One problem was homosexuals liked to bore holes in the divider partitions like woodpeckers, woodpeckers being a propitious term as you will see. The holes were bored at waist level adjacent to a urinal. This allowed a latrine Lothario sitting on the toilet to place his eye up against the partition and check out the equipment of someone taking a leak.

Might not sound like a fun way to pass an afternoon, but it was popular. Soon as the holes were patched, they'd be re-bored.

The other type of hole was bored in the thin divider between two stalls. This allowed two folks to engaged in oral sex by one placing his, uh, serious intentions through the hole so the other fella could. . .well, you get the point. Hence the term, woodpeckers.

Had these gents been particular and kept their games to those who appreciated them, there wouldn't have been much cause for our grief. But, they didn't. We'd have reports of someone enjoying a relaxed sit-down, in one of the stalls, when suddenly a one-eyed worm would wiggle through the wall. Or through the eyeball hole by a urinal.

As mentioned, we didn't have a lotta time to waste on this foolishness and thank Heaven, American ingenuity solved the problem. Some good citizen, evidently a victim of probing penis syndrome, decided to take matters into his own hands: literally.

One night, we received an anonymous call referencing a something suspicious in the men's restroom at the pier. At first we though it was a joke because the caller was laughing. We did, however, in due time respond. Our officer, on entering the restroom heard a muffled "Please help me" coming from one of the stalls. Opening the door, he saw a man with his belly flush up against the partition. The man gasped, "The other side, the other side." Opening the door, the cop saw what caused him to roar with laughter. This in turn making our toilet tryst seeker to yell, "It's not funny!"

Someone had tied a slip-noose in a piece of rawhide, which in turn, was tied to one of those green concrete sprinkler donuts. It seems that when the wandering wang poked through the hole, our hero slipped the noose over it and snugged it and the donut up tight, thereby trapping the prober.

We called an ambulance for the roped Romeo--none of us were about to undo that thing. He was taken, with his now blue magoo, to the ER where he was treated and release. We didn't have any charges we cared to press, figuring nothing worse could happen to this guy. And we never found the problem solver.

Nor did we look very hard. There was a rumor that it was an off-duty cop but we discounted that as totally ridiculous.

IT AIN'T THE MAYO CLINIC

Naples once contracted the job of City Doctor. The duties included giving physicals, treating injured workers, and attending to the Jail's medical needs. Usually with a young doctor, just starting their practice. Since the contract was essential income, some were too protective of the City's interests.

One sawbones, who we'll call Dr. Cash R. Check, sometimes went overboard. When I was in the Marines, if you got scruffed up in a bar or barracks fight, an officer might inquire as to what happened to you. "Tripped on a locker box, Sir," was the correct answer. No one, officially, really wanted to know so that answer served the purpose.

Dr Check was probably a former Marine. Whenever a prisoner had been battered in the course of effecting an arrest, the medical report read: Tripped on stairs in Jail. To anyone who really cared, this answer might've been suspect. There were no stairs in the Jail.

We once jailed a huge brute, a Bluto, who'd fought our own huge brute, Ed Jones, when Ed tried to arrest him. During the fight, he wrestled Ed's .41 revolver from its holster and Ed had a helluva time staying alive. Finally, Ed twisted the arm holding the revolver up in a hammer lock, got his finger on the trigger, and squeezed off two rounds into the A-Hole's back. Shoulda killed him. But, as with many primitive life forms, the bullets did little damage and Bluto was put in jail.

In retaliation, he'd rip the bandages off, and gouge the wound until it started bleeding, requiring us to call the City Doctor. After Dr Check had made his third visit to tend to this turd, he asked Bluto why he was doing it. Bluto said: "Because I like pain."

"Oh?" said Dr Check. "Then this should tickle you to death," thereby forcing his index finger into one of the gunshot wounds, and giving it a few spirited twists.

Turns out Bluto was a liar. He didn't really like pain. So indicating, by giving a soprano-like scream and passing out. And Dr Check's innovative procedure cured Bluto of self-abuse. He never pulled the dressings off again.

Another time our City Doctor was working the ER room. In came an unruly arrestee who'd been in a knife fight in McDonald Quarters. The victim, dripping blood, was so combative that two of our cops had to hold him on the ER table.

Dr Splint told the dumb-az to hold still as he was going to need many stitches. Still no surcease. So the good doctor started to work anyway, and without a drop of pain killer, sewed in over 300 stitches. Some required sub-surface, deep stitches and, after the first few, the curses turned to screams. Then to groans and moans. He was thereafter, however, a righteous patient.

Not exactly the Mayo Clinic but an excellent example of government provided, free medical care.

SMOOTH OPERATOR-Part 2

Chief Ben Caruthers was the first Chief to bring modern methods to the NPD. A graduate of the FBI Academy, he instituted a comprehensive report form system, used standardized tests to select applicants, and provided training to us superior to what is available today. If the subject was Counterfeiting, Ben arranged for the Secret Service to do the instructing. Narcotics, the Bureau of Narcotics. And on down the line. This was at no cost to the agency. Out-of-town Feds loved to relax in Naples. And the FBI, who provided training, photographic supplies, and training ammo, viewed their help as a pay-back for using our firearms range.

Ben had worked hard to nurture these relationships and we all benefited from it. You have to remember this was a time when, under state law, it was not even necessary to send recruits to a police academy. And most agencies didn't. We went to the Broward County Police Academy, recognized as a premier one in the state.

Anyway, having so much federal training under my belt, and respecting their offices, I always took advantage of an opportunity to learn, when working with them. Once, a US Postal Inspector from Miami, who knew our family--my father was the Postmaster--dropped by and said he had a problem to take care of. Would I like to go along? Certainly.

The problem was a family we'll call the Burrs, who were a constant problem to us, as well. They lived in a filthy hovel in the boondocks and socially were below white trash. If anything was stolen in their neighbor, you need look no further than the Burr's: father or one of his gaggle of children. The immediate problem involved a violation of Federal Law.

The Inspector, let's use Jake Wayne, was a big man, confident in his authority and ability. He was easy talking and I'd never seen him get the least bit upset. I was anxious to see how he'd handle the Burr's, who could've given Buddha apoplexy.

We arrived at the Burr's nest and knocked on the door. Ma Burrs asked: "What is it now?"

Wayne ID'd himself, then, "I'm afraid we have a problem, Mrs. Burrs. It seems your children have been stealing US Mail, and destroying mail boxes." (Mail was stolen for the money people sometimes foolishly enclosed)

She put her hands on her hips. "Say's who?"

"Says our mail carrier, who saw them, tried to intercede, and was rocked for his trouble."

"Huh, that's his tale," she said, "I'm sittin' on mine."

The conversation with the sullen bitch went on a few more minutes before Wayne, seeing he was getting no where said, "Could I see Mr Burrs, please?"

A nasty dirtbag, who'd obviously been listening around the corner, appeared in the doorway. "What the hell's this all about?" he demanded.

Wayne looked at me, shrugged, grabbed Burrs by the throat and lifted him outside. Not letting him down, he said. "Listen to me, you inbred idiot, if you don't stop this thievey, I'm going to come back, beat you till you blubber like a baby, kill your dog, rape your wife, burn down your house, and anyone that happens to be left, put them under the federal prison. Understand?"

After several gulps, "Yessssss, Sir, Surrrrre do." And he did. No more mail was ever violated in his neighborhood.

And I learned a valuable lesson from a smooth operating fed. Sometimes it's not just what you say, but how you say it.

DETECTIVE TRAINING

Det Jack Bliss was a big help to my career. Early on, he told me that some day soon the NPD was going to need two detectives and that job would go to the person who had some experience doing the work. He said that if I was interested he'd show me how to work cases and do the reports. I'd have to do this off-duty, but I jumped at the chance.

One early morning, Jack called me and said he had a gunshot suicide and could use me. I was just getting off the 11 to 7 shift, so I responded immediately. When I arrived I saw the most gruesome site I'd seen up to that time. The deceased had sat down on the floor, with his back to a corner, put a shotgun under his chin, and pulled the trigger with his toe. His entire head, in gory chunks, had been blown up the corner walls, ricocheted off the ceiling and splattered the room.

Glad I hadn't eaten breakfast yet, I helped Jack photograph the scene, do the evidence collection, and write notes for the report. When we'd completed, Jack told me to photograph the outside of the house. I complied.

When I returned, Jack, excited, said, "There's a rare creature over there. Go take its picture."

I looked at him, questioning his request.

He pointed to the headless body, still sitting in the corner. "Cyclops," he said.

On closer inspection I could see that there was a single eyeball, balanced on the remaining spinal stalk. Jack busted out laughing, grabbed the camera and started taking photographs. This work of art had required him to fish around in the goo until he'd found an eyeball, then delicately balance it on the spinal stem.

The resulting photo bounced around the PD for years and caused many a rookie gastric distress.

* * *

Another time we were at the funeral home and Jack was showing me how to fingerprint a corpse. This can be quite a trick, especially if it's during a period of rigor. This one, a mature, heavy, man, just required that we break loose several of his fingers. There was a device , called a spoon, to help you obtain the print, but it didn't work too well. You got a better print if you just cracked the finger loose from it's curled position, and rolled it on a regular pad and card.

I was thankful that this wasn't a floater. The water so shriveled their skin, that you had to cut off the fingertip skin, flatten it in saline solution for a while, then place it over your own finger and roll out the print.

Howsumever, our gruesome work was interrupted by a thunderous fart, obviously from Bliss. But he wasn't going to take credit. Cradling the deceased's chin in his big hand, he tilted the head and looked into its half-open eyes. "If you're that damn lively," he said, "you can fingerprint yourself."

By that time, I'd been around awhile and discovered that dark humor could keep you reasonably sane. I joined Jack in healthy laughter.

RIDING THE RAILS

We've talked before about how tough it is to stay awake on slow nights. Everyone has their own tricks. One Sgt was a stargazer. He'd sit for hours staring at the heavens. Trouble was, he stared so long he became convinced he was seeing flying saucers and became a nut on the subject.

Sleepers have been mentioned. Others rigged up portable reading lamps in their cars. Some ate till they earned nicknames like Roundy and Bucket Butt. Then there were the one's who were truly inventive. Sam Bass was the Tom Edison here.

Sam, then a Sgt, later the Chief, gave me a call one dreary night. "How 'bout you 56 (meet) me over at 5th Ave North and the tracks." I complied. (The railroad tracks then followed, generally, Goodlette Road, to the north, until the road ended at Pine Ridge Road)

Sam motioned me to park my cruiser off the road. He had his car turned sideways in the road, sitting on the asphalt crossing, aimed up the railroad track. "Ever ride the rails?" he said, flashing that wonderful Sam Bass grin.

"Nope," I said, wondering what he had in mind.

"I found out if you line these Chevies up just right the tires hang over the rails, keeping the thing in place and you can ride it like it was a train."

"Huh?"

"No stuff," Sam said. "Wanna try?"

If this worked as Sam said, there was little danger. The train only ran once a day, in the afternoon. And it just crept along, since we'd given it a ticket for speeding. No kiddin', we did. Had to, couldn't keep the engineer from speeding through the uncontrolled crossings.

Anyway, I helped Sam line up the car just right, got in, and away we went. It was the best automobile ride I've ever taken.

Never had a smoother ride. And, it took very little engine power to propel the car along, so there was no noise. Sam, of course, didn't have to steer. We cruised at about 15 MPH--didn't want to get a ticket--up to the Pine Ridge crossing, and got off. After that night, when the city was dead asleep, we took many rides, sometimes going as far as Bonita. I even learned how to do it by myself.

What a waste of time, you say. Jackasses at play! Maybe, but there was benefit from the training. We'd received a call one morning that a burglar had just been routed in a North Naples home, and was running away up the railroad right-of-way. Since there was no parallel road beyond Pine Ridge, officers were trying find a motorcycle or something to give chase. My partner, Ken Mulling, and I heard the call, radioed to never mind. We'd ride the rails.

We put our car on the tracks at Pine Ridge, and began the chase. No one could've been more surprised than our desperado when, some miles up the tracks, he looked back and saw an unmarked police car, blue light flashing, closing on him. So surprised was he to see the unique method of transportation, that he just stood there, stupid and staring, until we put him under arrest.

Always wondered what he told his fellow convicts in prison about how he got caught. "Guess you might say I got caught by detectives in a loco-mobile."

SATURDAY NITE FIGHTS Part 2

The Anchor Lounge was another favorite venue for the Saturday Night Fights. Their constant barmaid, Inez figured in a lot of them.

Inez was middle-age and stout with beautiful white hair, that she had professionally set every day. It was her trademark. That and her Don't Mess With Inez reputation. She could handle most unruly customers herself and when she had to call us, we knew it we were going to earn our money.

Sometimes the customers called us on her. Once a responding cop found a drunk standing outside the entrance, with the rear end of his trousers soaked in blood. The cop inquired and got this:

"I wuz leaving and was gonna take two for the road. They wuz outta plastic cups so I just got two drinks in regular. Knowin' you ain't supposed to leave with their glasses, I snuck 'em in my back pocket. Was almost out the door when Inez stops me."

There was a quiver of terror in his voice when he mentioned her name. He went on.

"She spins me around, pushes me up against the wall and says 'No glasses out of the building'. I say I'd don't have any. So she says, 'Then this won't hurt,' and puts her hands on my hips and shoves me into the wall, bustin' the glasses and doin' this." He pointed to his ragged arse.

"So what you want me to do?" the cop said, "You want to press charges?"

"Holy Christ, no," the drunk babbled. "And get her pissed off."

* * *

At about 3 AM, one Saturday night, an officer was cruising by the closed Anchor when he heard muffled screams. On closer inspection he could tell they were coming from the lounge area, someone screaming "Oh God, help me, I'm blind." The cop radioed in to have dispatch notify Bill, the owner. Shortly, he arrived on the scene.

"What the hell," Bill said, unlocking the door. Inside the screams were ear-splitting, "I'm blind, I"m blind." Bill turned on the lounge lights. Under a corner-booth table they found the screamer, Six-Pack Slocum. He was in the fetal position, and drunker than Hogan's wife.

"Open your eyes," the cop ordered.

Slocum eased open his eyes, looked around, and weeping, said, "I'm healed. Thank you, Jesus. I'll never drink again."

Two miracles? The blind healed? More impressive, Slocum giving up the booze? Hardly. He was drunk again before noon. And the healing miracle was short-lived, too.

Turns out Slocum had decided he was gonna do some az-kickin' that night, just before closing time. This is a common side-effect of drinking too much liquid stupid. Staggering out on the dance floor, he made a terrible choice of opponents. It was NPD cop, Jack Bliss, who was big, strong, and ex-Airborne. One punch and Slocum went skidding on his back, across the slick dance floor and up under the booth's table. There he remained, passed out and overlooked when the bar was closed. He'd awakened in the dark lounge and, in his stupor, thought he was blind.

Others who'd been KO'd by Jack Bliss could attest that he could sure do that to you.

MO HO, HO, HO'S

An old cop joke was that there was no prostitution in Naples because hookers couldn't compete with free enterprise. Truth was, we did have a few then. No escort or massage services, like today, but prostitution is always ubiquitous.

Lulu Loosey, a real sweetie, was operating out of The Cove Inn. We, the cops, hadn't received any complaints on her and, if a hooker was running a legit game, she was low priority. She must've, however, tread on somebody's carrot cause we got word from above to shut her down. Wasn't gonna be easy.

Lulu had tricks to entice customers and detect cops. Ever hear the one about catching monkeys by filling hollow coconuts with rice, and cutting a hole just big enough for the monkey's hand to get through. Once it grabbed the rice it wouldn't let go and the closed fist was too big to come back out. Lulu must've heard that yarn.

Soon as the John entered her room, she'd hit that button hooker's have on their costume that makes it fall away, instantly. Then she'd yank down the customer's fly, insert her hand, grab ahold, and not let go. This, all the while rubbing her bountiful boobies in their face. Legit customers, of course, loved it. Cops, it put in an awkward position. Some forgot why they were there. Or would have a hard time testifying in court. Defense attorney: And just how long did you stand there, with the defendant, allegedly, holding your, uh, credentials, officer?

See what I mean? We needed a plan and just the right officer.

We selected one of small stature who didn't look like cop. Since we knew that Lulu was too smart to talk about money until she had you in her grasp, we told him to stand with his back to the door, try to ward her off until she set the price, then, kick with his heel on the door. We'd be right outside and bust in. We were Det Ray Barnett and yours truly.

Our cop, who we'll call Donnie Dumplin, was reluctant. "Don't know if I can do it," he said. "Woman get's her hand on me like that, I might cave in."

We talked it over and Donnie was the only guy we had that didn't look or talk like a Joe Friday. So, he agreed, with great reluctance, and the assurance we'd be right outside the door.

That evening everything was going like clockwork. Donnie took a seat in the bar, and before he had one sip of his ginger ale, Lulu was beside him. Twenty minutes later they were headed for her room. Ray and I followed, discretely, and when they went inside we positioned ourselves, as promised, just outside the door. In less than a minute, there was woodpecker-like hammering on the door.

Then that unexplainable quirky cop's sense of humor kicked in. Ray looked at me, I looked at him, and we both went and had a beer.

Later, we told Donnie we'd received a 10-18 and had to leave. Donnie, who didn't ride in on a rutabaga truck, said nothing happened. Lulu was suspicious and wouldn't say the right words to allow an arrest. Uh-huh.

Still under pressure, we had a meeting with Lulu and explained the facts of life to her. She said it was getting warm up north anyway, so she'd venture back to New York. And all was well. Crime was quelled in the big city, and the gentle citizens of Naples were safe once more.

Donnie Dumplin never mentioned the incident again. But, he always smiled when he drove by The Cove Inn.

PROSTITUTES IN PARADISE

Prostitutes in Paradise? Trollops in the Elephant’s Graveyard. Say it isn’t so.

My first encounter with ho’s while on the job happened when I was a rank rookie in 1963. The newest cop, I hadn't even been to the academy yet and was acting as Duty Officer/Dispatcher. About 11 p.m. two lovely young ladies, in revealing dresses and showgirl makeup, sashayed up to my desk.

“Help you?” I asked.

One was Barbie blond, the other had long, dark hair like Cher. Barbie answered. “We just wanted to let you know what a lame-ass town you live in—if you don’t know already.”

“It ain’t New Orleans,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” Cher said, “and we just wasted an evening's wages findin’ that out.”

“How's that?”

“Case ya didn't know, we’re workin’ girls from Miami. We read about the Pet Milk convention over at the Beach Club and decided, havin’ heard so much about Naples, to come over and have a nice little vacation and turn a few tricks."

I'm sure my eyes lit up at this blatant admission.

"Didn't work out that way. We lost our ass. If one of those old codgers had ever had a bone, some dog had carried it off and buried it.”

“Yeah,” said a pouting Barbie, “We could've gotten more action with a bowl of wet noodles.”

I laughed.

"So, we already have our room rented for the night, and we decided to drop by to see if maybe we could perform some public service. Unless the cops over here are all relics, too. Prices slashed. . . and maybe. . . if you show us a good time. . ."

Being a rookie, I was stunned. Having served a hitch in the Marines, I was conversant with the concept of prostitution. And I knew that in big cities the cops had special arrangements with hookers. Maybe Miami was like that and that's why the girls were so open about their proposition. But it was supposed to be illegal and I probably should be doing something about it.

I said “Excuse me a minute," and went to the back room to consult with the Sergeant who was in the office preparing for shift change at eleven. I told him about what was going on and that I wasn't sure how to proceed. He peeked around the door frame, to check out the two ladies, and said. "These vice things are tricky. Better let me handle it. Send 'em back."

After a few minutes I could hear the girls high pitched laughter. Then the room was filled with cops going off duty and cops coming on. Really loud laughter, now, male and female. Soon the Sergeant and two off-duty cops in civies came strolling by the duty desk. The girls smiled and Barbie blew me a kiss. The sergeant turned, and winked as they left the building.

The next evening, before his shift started, the Sergeant came up to me. "Appreciate that deal last night," he said. "You done good, real good."

"I'm just glad you were able to get those girls straightened out," I said.,"didn't have to put 'em in jail."

The Sergeant looked at me a few seconds, then roared with laughter. "You've got a helluva sense of humor, kid," he said.

After a few months, when I'd seen how the real world worked, I realized just what he'd thought was so damn funny.

MORE DOG TAILS

We enjoyed a rover in Naples whose name was Bonaparte, Napoleon, or the Little General, depending on who you asked. He was a kinda Basset, and belonged to Naples icon, Jack Breeden. (Jack's a guy you could see around town driving his Model T Ford) Napoleon roamed the city at will, collecting treats, greeting old friends, seemingly taking in the sights. Much like Jack.

One day we were in Cambier Park, doing our P/E program. I was the leader that day. Standing in front of the reluctant group, I was surprised when everyone began laughing. Looking down, I could see why. Bonaparte had expressed his opinion of exercise programs by peeing on my sweatpants clad leg.

Then there was the lady who walked her Poodle each day down to the PD at 8th and 8th South. This was her dog's favorite toilet area--again probably expressing an opinion. For such a small beast, it left prodigious piles of umpah. On day we mentioned to her that she should do something about the messy operation. She did. From then on, after the daily dump, she wiped the dog's rear end with a Kleenex.

Jack Bliss, then a Captain, had a large German Shepard named Prince. Prince had a game, each day, of racing Jack to work. Jack lived West of the hospital, and it took him but a few minutes to get to the PD. But, Prince, who knew all the shortcuts, would leave at the same time and beat Jack to work. Evidently he could tell time, too, as he'd appear after work to race Jack home.

One day we noticed that Prince's jaws were puffed up. He was holding something gently in his mouth. We wondered what until he lowered his head and spit out a baby duck, a little fuzzball that he'd come upon. Prince would stand guard while the little fellar foraged or did what little ducks do. But if a perceived threat presented, the baby would run to Prince's open jaws. Prince brought the duckling to work with him until it was just too large to carry.

Detective Ken Mulling had a big Shepard, too. Ken stopped by his house one afternoon to check on a birthday cake his wife Donna had baked. He placed the masterpiece on the kitchen table. Then he remembered they needed ice cream. On returning from the store, Ken could hear groans from inside the house even before he opened the door. There he found his trusted friend, lying on his side with a huge distended belly, moaning. And on the kitchen table, was a cake plate licked dishwasher clean.

(Ken recently left us. He'll be missed. God rest his soul)

Thanks Dave and Ray

SMOOTH OPERATOR -Part 1

When I was a rookie, a veteran Sgt. Robert Dennis, became my tutor. At the time you could work months before you went to the academy, so someone had to show you the ropes. When Chief Ben Caruthers hired me, he gave me a gun and a city map, showed me where the law books were, and said go get 'em, hoss.

Sgt Dennis was a smooth operator. Slow-talking, even-tempered, and a treat for the ladies. One evening he was showing a rookie how to handle people who were drunk and disorderly.

"Never hit a drunk. It is not an opportunity to play catchup for having a bad day. Don't know about you, but I've been drunk myself and done some dumb things. I appreciated when people overlooked and didn't take advantage. If you handle yourself properly there is never any reason to hit one. I have no respect for cops that do." It was good advice.

"Now," he said, "the Cardinal rule; never, never, ever, hit a woman. Never. No way you can win. She can be as big as King Kong, and twice as smelly, but you lay one finger on her, in the eyes of the public you're wrong. You understand?"

The rookie nodded yes.

"That's never," he said, making eye contact for emphasis.

Just happened they were dealing with a woman. A respected member of the community, an architect's wife. We'll call here June. Well liked, respected, she was into charities, lived in the right neighborhood, and knew the best people. She was also a binge drunk, who'd been picked up stoned in her Caddy. And when she was drowning in liquid stupid she wasn't worth a damn. Filthy-mouthed, demeaning, unruly.

That night, they'd taken June into the front office and were trying to contact her husband to come get her. She wouldn't sit still, finally jumping to her feet, crashing through the front door, and falling off the porch with a grand thud. Fearing she'd hurt herself, they rushed to her and lifted her up. The angel of drunken mercy had saved her--no damage. And her mouth was working perfectly.

"Like to touch me, huh? I knew it. I saw you staring at 'em. Well, here," she said, ripping off her blouse and pulling down her bra, "have a good look."

Sgt. Dennis tried to pull up her bra, or get her blouse back around her, but that wasn't working. The rookie was frozen stupid, not knowing what to do. Wrestling June, Dennis lost balance and fell into a chair. June mounted him, smothering his face with her, uh, accouterments, and humming what, to the rookie, sounded like the kid's tub tune, Rubber Ducky.

Dennis pushed her off, but she charged again, this time landing a healthy haymaker on his honker. He muttered an oath, and delivered a short karate kinda chop to June's neck that put her to sleep. Instantly.

It turned out, June wasn't hurt. She didn't even remember what'd happened. Her husband arrived, took her home, and they were done with her until the next time. That left just the sergeant and rookie. The rookie looked at him.

Dennis shrugged, said, What?????"

"The never, never thing. . ."

Sgt Robert Dennis smiled. "That's never, never . . .unless they start actin' like a man. Then, it's the Bap, Zoom thing," imitating Jackie Gleason's famous to the moon, Alice gesture.

"And, the last rule, one I forgot to tell you," he concluded, "don't let anybody see ya do it."

SATURDAY NIGHT FIGHTS

Each weekend, what we called the Saturday Night Fights took place. These impromptu fisticuffs were held at the Anchor Lounge or more often, at the Burger Palace, a 24-hour joint in the wedge formed by Davis Blvd and US 41. One of the frequent gladiators was a maggot we'll call BO Splatt.

When BO got enough booze guts he had to pick a fight. An expert at the sucker punch, he was so obnoxious he didn't need to use it to work up a good punch-out. His problem was, he wasn't much of a fighter. Oh, sometimes he'd win if his opponent was drunker than he, or crippled, or a woman. But generally he was awarded a much deserved az-whoopin.

Sam Bass, who was once Chief, taught me how to work a BO Splatt fight. If BO happened to be winning, you'd plow right in, grab BO and do as much damage as possible placing him under arrest. If he has losing, you'd just stand there and say in a relaxed voice, "Come on boy's, let's break it up," until BO's face was beaten into blueberry cobbler.

One night BO got in a shoving match inside the Burger--we called it Burglar--Palace. During the scuffle he was shoved into one of our giant retired cops, Fiddle Fudder, who was at the counter enjoying a dozen or so tasty burgers. You didn't interrupt Fudder when he was eating. He responded by grabbing BO by the neck and grinding his facing into the plate of food. Ferd then told the waitress, "Give me some fresh burgers and give this A-hole the check."

One night BO had taken his act to the Anchor. Drunk and wild, he'd backed up to a wall, taken out his knife and was slashing at the air, shouting, "Don't touch me, I'm crazy, I'm crazy."

Det Jack Bliss, who'd slipped up beside him, took out his revolver, screwed it in BO's ear and said "Bet you're sane now." And miracle of miracles cured he was, being calmly led away in cuffs to the derisive laughter of the bar's patrons.

Finally BO became so persona non grata at his regular haunts, he moved on to new ground, The Royal Castle, on 41 at about 12 Ave No. Maybe there was someone up there he could whip. Didn't take long to spy a likely opponent--The One-Armed Man. Hell, one arm how tough can he be? It was a choice that probably gave BO nightmares in the future during his long prison nights. (His regular occupation was sneak thief and burglar. He was also a rat for the Sheriff's Office)

Anyway, The One-Armed-Man had, well, one arm. He was medium height, stocky, of pleasant disposition, and seemed to have no special physical talents. But, Lord-A-Mighty could he fight. He used a technique that nowadays is called the spinning back fist, where he spun on one foot, his lone arm extended. The attached fist, propelled by centrifugal force, cracked into skulls like a sledge hammer. One of those skulls, of course, belonged to BO Splatt.

Byron Tomlinson, a cop who witnessed the carnage, said BO was knocked cross-eyed, literally, from the punch, and for several hours couldn't remember his name, number, or nomenclature.

It's these ironic little moments of justice that can make life so sweet.

TRAVELS IN STUPIDVILLE

Ever think back on stupid things you've done and wonder why you did them. Answer's easy: Seemed like a real good idea at the time.

After work, I was headed home up Goodlette Road. Had the weekend off, kinda, and was as happy as a fat kid with a chocolate bunny. Kinda, because being one of only two Detectives I was on call-out. But it was the summer and business was slow so maybe I'd skate.

Up ahead a young, red-headed W/M, in a green shirt, bolts across Goodlette and heads into the auxiliary City Dump, south of where the PD now stands. I was wondering what was chasing him when a BOLO came over the radio. For a young red-headed W/M, in a green shirt, who'd just robbed a merchant on 10th Street South. Caution was advised as the perp had brandished a revolver.

So I said to myself, Self that sounds like the dude that just ran in front of you. Maybe you better check this out. (An example of my keen perceptive powers, and relentless pursuit causing criminals to jump in my lap) I accelerated and notified dispatch of the situation.

Pulling into the small dump, I could see the man struggling to climb over a pile of trash. He'd take two steps, lose footing, and fall back three. I stopped the unmarked Chevy and reached for my duty weapon, a Colt Detective Special. Whoops, since I was off for the weekend, I'd locked it in my desk. No problem, there was an extra revolver, for just such occasions, in the glove compartment. Keeping an eye on the suspect, I fished around blindly in the glove compartment. Nothing there. I looked to be sure. Nope, no gun. Turns out my partner's pistol was at the gunsmith's and he'd borrowed that one.

Now what?

Just then, the perp turned and I could see his face. I'd arrested him before. Knew him. And he knew me. I couldn't see a gun in his hands. Not having many options except getting the hell outta there, I decided to try and bluff him. Opening the door, I stooped down behind it, and pointed my finger at him like kids do when they play cops and robbers. And hoped, at this distance, he thought it looked like a gun.

"Okay, Roho," I yelled, "you know the drill. Toss the gun, on your belly, hands behind your head.

Roho looked at me for what seemed an hour, then lifted his shirt, and reached toward his trouser's waistband.

I was sweating now. "Don't be stupid Roho. Don't make me shoot you. Take out that gun, with two fingers on the grip, and drop it."

He responded with, "I'm doin' it, I'm doin' it" and did just that. And, like a good dog, he flopped down on his belly. I moved on him quickly and picked up his gun. It was just an old Saturday Nite Special but, at that moment, it felt very welcome. Pointing it at him, I got him up, and walked him back to the car where there was a set of handcuffs hanging on the emergency brake lever.

On the way to the station, Roho got religion and started confessing. "Knew it was a bad idea but did it anyway. Before I leave the house, my wife says, 'don't do anything stupid.' She knows me. Shoulda listened. But, no, put the gun in my pocket and start walkin' around, no place in particular. Come on the store, some reason it looks good. Then, I start to think maybe not. Come an ace of not goin' in. But I did."

"Yep," I muttered, not wanting to slow him down. (We didn't use Miranda back then or other asinine warnings that slow confessions. Ignorant us, we thought cops were supposed to get confessions.)

Roho went on, "Things had been different, not an assed up deal to begin with, I might not've been so easy to bring in. The gun, it's empty. I forgot to load it. If I had . . ."

Long as it was confession time, I probably should've told Roho the truth. But I didn't. Truth was, it was a day for dumb plays. A dumb robber. And a dumb-lucky cop, arresting thugs with a .38 caliber finger.

But it did seem like a good idea at the time.

A REALLY BIG SHOPLIFTER. REALLY!

Maxine Gluteus was a big shoplifter. In every way. She made big hauls. She carried out big items--so large they appeared impossible to hide. And, she was a big woman. At five-ten, Maxine weighted in at an enormous 400+ lbs.

Maxine's methods were unique. She covered her mountainous brown bod with a Hawaiian muu'muu, that hid everything but her feet. In that flowery tent she looked like Mt. Kilauea decorated for a luau.

She'd modified the dress by sewing fishing weights in the front hem. She could jerk up the front, hide her loot, and drop it in an instant. Under her dress she wore a giant pocket made from a butcher's apron. The pocket had a wire-reinforced top to keep it partly open. And, for large items, the choice spot. In between those garbage can thighs. That's why she moved with a slow shuffle, her feet just scuffing the ground.

Maxine was rarely caught. We had her in jail only because a store clerk, on her way to work at the Kwik-Chek, saw her surreptitiously unloading her haul into her car. The clerk first though she was watching a magic act. One of those where the magician keeps making stuff appear from their bare hands. Except Maxine's act was far more impressive. From under that robe-thing, she was hauling out six-packs of beer, canned goods, bread, and, from between her legs, a twenty-two pound turkey. (Why not? She'd been doing her Thanksgiving shopping)

Hell, that was nothing. Once, in a jewelry store, she absorbed five Rolex watches, ten jeweled bracelets, sixteen rings, and a box of silver service for eight. In clothing stores she could steal enough threads to clothe Diana Ross and the Supremes--and their band. Probably a VW dealer wouldn't have been safe.

Once in jail she was a model prisoner, her only problem not getting enough to eat. But, she did pose a different problem one night when a guard, walking by her cell, heard a baby crying. Looking closer, there it was, balanced on Maxine's belly, wet, gooey and still attached to its mama.

"What the . . .?" the incredulous guard said.

"Don't as' me," Maxine said, as befuddled as the guard. "It jus' come."

Fact of the matter was, Maxine was so fat and so ignorant she didn't know she'd been pregnant. And, when she started getting cramps she thought it was because of those belly robbers in the jail kitchen starving her.

Much later, a hearing was held to try to figure out what to do with her. By that time the jail diet had slimmed her down to a svelte 300 lbs. When asked by the judge who the father was, Maxine broke up the court by saying, "I don't be knowin'. yo' honor." Then giggling and saying, "They wuz always three or fo' of 'em at me."

ORDER IN THE COURT? Part Two

Judge Richard Stanley wasn't anyone to mess with. A WW II paratrooper, he had a gravel voice and a icy stare that could turn a big-mouth lawyer into a stuttering wimp. And, he carried a .45 Colt under his robe. He could be so tough and mean, in some quarters he was known as Wretched Stanley. (The Judge knew this and loved it!)

He held Juvenile Court for many years. The juvenile justice system back then was not well defined. Judges could do just about what they pleased. And they did.

If a juvenile denied the charges in court, they were immediately given a lie detector test by the examiner assigned to court that day. I know, I was one of them. The terrified delinquents usually cracked when they just looked at the polygraph.

Sentences? The judge regularly put them on a diet of Gerber's baby food and water. And, he liked to lock them in a cell that had no light. Total darkness. They normally lasted about two hours before they were born again, on a righteous path.

Those who had traffic accidents got off fairly easy. Before sentencing, they only had to look at a series of 8x10 photos showing the most gory wrecks ever seen, with the judge doing the play-by-play. See that Son? That's where the driver's head used to be. They keeled over like French soldiers confronting the enemy.

This was a time of abundant hirsute adornment. The judge hated long hair on males. One of our cops, Mike Grimm was also a barber. The judge would have Mike use his shears to turn long-haired hippies into Parris Island recruits.

Have a child you couldn't control? Judge Stanley would command one of the cops in attendance to give the incorrigible turd ten good ones with that special piece of equipment. That equipment being the 3" leather gun belt we all wore. The juvenile would be bent over the defense table and justice would be applied.

I know, I know. Barbaric. Inhuman. Maybe, but it was a rare juvenile that ever returned to Judge Wretched Stanley's court. Makes you wonder, if we'd done things that way longer how society would be today.

When the Judge moved to Misdemeanor Court, he was still a tough customer. Once a gang of shoplifters, out of Miami, had been bagged and were on trial, defended by their Miami attorney. The gang would raid a store en masse, divide up so they were impossible to monitor, and go to work. They could steal merchandise worth thousands in one store.

After the prosecution presented its case, Judge Stanley, enraged, broke in and said, "It's obvious what's going on here. You think you can come over from the big city and rob us yokels. Well that's damn sure not the case. I find each of you guilty and sentence you to the maximum in the County Jail." (One year, at the time)

Astounded, the defense attorney jumped to his feet. "Your honor don't I even get the opportunity to present the defense's side of the side?"

Judge Stanley gave him that stare and said, "Can if you want, but I don't think it's gonna do any good." And it didn't.

Oh, for the good ol' days.

ORDER IN THE COURT? Part One

When the County seat of Collier was Everglades City, our County Judge was the ornery SS Jolley. There's some dispute over whether he was an actual lawyer, but that made little difference at the time. If you lived in a small county, anyone could run for the job. Or, you could be a Justice of the Peace without being a lawyer. The bottom line was SS Jolley may not've been a lawyer but he was damn sure a judge.

He was an expert at using innovative methods to get the job done. If the court had a full docket for the day, he'd use his Right-Left justice system. It went like this. The Judge would say, "All you folks who want to plead Guilty get up and go stand on the right side of the courtroom. All you that want to plead Not Guiltily, go stand on the left." The cases could include any misdemeanor: petty larceny, DWI, drunk and disorderly, the full gamut.

Now," he'd continue, "all you folks on the right are fined $25.00. Pay the Clerk. Let's hear the first Not Guilty case." And so it went.

He also didn't let the lack of one of his laws being on the books deter his rulings. Once a scalawag from Miami brought his lawyer with him to insure he'd beat the rap in the Cracker Court. At the end of the proceeding, when it was time to rule, Judge Jolley found the rascal guilty. The lawyer was aghast. "Your honor," he said, "there's no law like that on the books that I'm familiar with."

"It's one of the Ochopee Statutes," the judge responded. "Next case."

The Ochopee Statutes were what the Judge called justice tailored to the crime. When the written law didn't cover the circumstances, he'd make something up that did. And he got away with it for years.

Yep, he's the one they named the Marco Bridge after.

JIM PEACOCK, FHP

At one time the Florida Highway Patrol had no station around Naples. We let them use a desk at the NPD and worked closely with them. One of my favorites was Trooper Jim Peacock--his real name. Jim, a Clint Eastwood type, had a soft voice and an infectious grin. He'd grin all the time he was being berated by an irate motorists. Grin and just keep writing that citation. And, if you bowed up at him, grin all the time he was kicking your keester. I can only recall one occasion when the grin faded.

The NPD, CCSO, and FHP were all out in force looking for an escaped prisoner. As I recall, he'd cut a prison guard's throat and escaped from a work party. The search had gone on for hours and we were about tapped out. The fugative seemed to have evaded us. Peacock was particularly tired, having been on duty most of the day, and now all night. The sun was just coming up and Jim, far east on US 41, decided it was time to grab a coffee and some breakfast before he resumed the search. And he needed to make a long due rest room stop.

Jim found a side road through the palmettos, pulled in, and parked the cruiser. Selecting a likely clump of bushes, he headed that way, unzipping his fly. At just that moment, up jumped the murderer from behind the bush, screaming, "Oh God, don't shoot. Don't shoot." It so shocked Jim, he almost wet himself.

Peacock later reflected that, considering where he had his hand then, he wonder just what the convict figured he was going to shoot him with. Anyway Jim quickly grabbed his real gun, and took the A-hole into custody.

Jim never gave anything but a factual account of how he'd bagged his game. Having a keen sense of humor, he reveled in its irony. The press, however, is always on the lookout for heroes and Peacock fit the bill. He made every rag in the South. This eventually culminated in a story in the men's adventure magazine, Saga. Jim Peacock, Law of the Everglades. It was a romantic accounting of Jim's relentless pursuit of the criminal using all his police tracking skills.

When we ribbed him about it, he'd just say the more he read it, the more he believed that maybe that's how it really did happened. And then he'd grin.

IS THAT THE WHISKEY TALKIN'?

Once we did a study to find out what caused folks to call the police. Over 80% of the time there was booze or drugs involved. Mostly, alcohol. Here are some examples of just what liquid stupid, in excess, can do for you.

A frequent flyer was pulled over for driving on both sides of the road. We all knew him. He was hump-backed from getting in and out of police cars. The kind of numb-nuts who'd fail the oral DUI test: Was Mickey Mouse a cat or a dog?

At the driver's window, I asked for his DL. He looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said indignantly, "You got a helluva nerve. You took it away from me the last time you arrested me."

The man had a point.

Wasted Wally was particular about what he drank. It had to have alcohol in it. Paint thinner, mouthwash, wood alcohol, any number of cleaners and disinfectants. You name it. He was so addicted his wife made him use Brylcreem cause it was the only hair tonic he couldn't drink.

Wasted Wally forgot that you can't have this much fun and not rot your brain. The booze was getting to him. He spent more time in jail than the cockroaches and every time he was locked up he was more frail and feeble. Then, when he'd start to dry out, he'd get the DT's. With his pickled brain and delusions, there was no predicting what he was likely to do.

Once Assistant Chief Dave Dampier was making the rounds in the jail and noticed that Wasted Wally had ripped up his mattress and was stuffing the cotton up his nose. Prodigious amounts of cotton. Some prisoners do rip up their mattress. None pack their snout with it. This peeked Dave's interest.

"What're you doin' Wally?," he asked.

Never missing a beat, Wally snorted a nasal, "Eatin' tater salad." And, in his poor demented mind it must've been tasty as he went right back to it in ernest.

Then there was Little Alph. Alph was a politician's son who we'd watch grow up. Though intelligent when sober, drunk he had the brains of a hemorrhoid. He'd go on binges and violate his probation. Or drive on a suspended license. Or collect a nice DWI.

During one stay in the jail, he was selected to be the benefactor of a new scheme being tried to cut down the jail population. This is an ongoing activity as the jails usually fill faster than you can build them.

The judge explained the deal to Alph. "You have thirty days left on your sentence and your conduct has been commendable. I'll let you out of jail today if you agree to reimburse the County $75 a day for each day you were incarcerated. That's what it costs to feed and house you."

Alph stared at the judge as though he'd morphed into an articulate jackass, then said, "Seventy-five dollar a day? That's robbery. Hell, Judge, $75 a day I could lay up in the Holiday Inn with a case a beer and a whore."

The courtroom exploded with laughter. Except for the judge. He decided that, on second thought, Alph probably should make that next 30 days. Plus an extra 10 for his keen observations.