Friday, May 29, 2009

HARRY THE HANGER Part Two

When you're a true legend you live in memories well after you're gone. My post on Harry has prompted reports from other cops who remember him.

Dave Dampier reminds me that when Harry went to court for the Road Gang Beer Check Caper he had a unique defense. He told the Honorable Richard Stanley that he'd plead not guilty because it was a post dated check. Post dated checks couldn't be prosecuted under the law. The rational was the writer, when warning not to cash the check until a date in the future, was admitting the check was no good at the time it was written. So the receiver should never have taken it.

The Judge asked Harry how it was post dated. Harry said to "Look in the little fish on top."

At the time, Bank of Naples checks had a fish logo. The judge looked and written in small letters in the fish was post dated. Everyone had a good laugh over that one. Except Harry, who went back to jail.

Then there was the time Ray Barnett used Harry as an undercover operative to make street drug buys in Immokalee. Ray had moved on from the NPD and was an investigator for the CCSO. He had a distinguished career there, ending up as a Chief.

Ray said Harry, with his winning ways, was making buys faster than Slick Willie could catch an intern. Trouble was, Ray found out he was also writing bad checks all over Immokalee at the same time. But what were you to expect? That's what Harry did.

Harold Young reminded me of Harry's crowning glory. That was the time Harry went into a store in Immokalee and cashed a FPL electric bill. Yes, that's what I said, cashed a FPL electric bill. And this, again, was when he was on the road gang. A working convict! Prison clothes and all. Don't ask me how he did it. And we can't ask Harry. He's hanging paper on that big bank in the sky.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

HARRY THE HANGER

Harry was a sho'nuff paper hanger but don't ask him to do your wall paper. Harry's was the kind of paper hanger that's cop's jargon for bum check artists. Worthless check utterer. Forger. And Harry was at the top of his class.

It was an easier and more attractive job in the sixties. Many of the banks were private or state banks, not national banks insured by the FDIC. Rinky-dink operations. Cashing a check was a casual affair. If you'd left your checkbook at home, most stores had counter checks you could use. Counter checks were in a check's regular format, but minus the name of any bank. You just filled in the name of your bank, the amount, and signed it.

A friend once argued that you didn't even need a counter check. You could write one out on a piece of paper. To prove it, we walked up to the Bank of Naples and he did just that. No problem.
Justify Full
So, in this grand world of slack security, Harry made his living. A charmer, with a gift of BS, he was perfect for the job. Seldom was he even asked for ID. And some folks he'd skinned refused to press charges. His problem was he was too honest, many times using his real name, leading to many stints in jail.

Although a born and bred Naples Cracker, we weren't the only ones who got to enjoy Harry. I received a call from a used car dealer in Texas. Wanted to know if I'd ever heard of Harry. "You didn't take one of his checks did you?" I asked.

He had. Harry'd left it for payment on a car he bought. "I don't usually do business like that," the dealer said, "but he was so damn likable. Told me he was driving back to Naples to see his sick mother. Wanted to take her for a ride in a nice car before she died. When I found out the check was no good, I called you."

"What'd you sell him," I asked.

"Can't miss it," the fella said, "Caddy limo, black, 'bout as long as the Orange Blossom Special."

I had to laugh. I'd seen Harry driving it the day before. Gave me a big wave, tooted his horn.

Later Harry was on the road gang, working on Davis Boulevard, opposite the entrance to Brookside Village. There used to be a bar there called the Village Inn. The guard, who sat in a truck out of the sun and half-watched the crew of all trustee convicts, noticed Harry's crew sitting down. He went to check. They were all drinking cold beers. "What the. . .?" he said.

"I bought it at the Village Inn," Harry volunteered. "Nothin' goes down like a cold beer when you're hot and sweaty."

"Right," the guard said, "just walked in there in your prison stripes and he gave it you, you not havin' no money an' all."

"Oh, no," Harry said, "I wrote him a check."

And damned if he hadn't. The bartender, when asked what possessed him to take a check from a convict said, "I don't know, seemed like such a nice fellar."

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

ANOTHER SILLY SALESMAN. AND CUSTOMER

We were besieged by yet another salesman. He was selling this new, powerful, defense spray.

"This product is guaranteed to knock your adversary to his knees," he was blowing, "no matter if he's drunk, high on drugs, or crazy as a monkey on a motorcycle."

"We got that stuff already," I said, "and even when it's new it's doesn't work on most people. And when it gets some age on it, you might as well spray them with milk." It was true. This was just at the advent of defense sprays and they were concocted from tear gas. A good idea but a bad product.

Undeterred, the salesman plowed on. "But sir, this is made from capsicum, chili peppers. Not what you're speaking of."

"You mean like that pepper spray the mail carriers use on dogs? That's no good, either."

"Still not the same thing, this is--"

I was tired of listening to him and decided to embarrass him by showing just how puny his product was. "Okay," I said, "let's give it a field test. We'll go out back and you can spray me with it."

The salesman was aghast. "Spray you? Oh, no, I wouldn't recommend that. No, I wouldn't do that."

Finally I badgered him enough that he gave in. The guy was genuinely trying to protect me but I couldn't see it. Chili peppers? Stuff you can eat? How bad could it be? We'll say it was one of those logical disfunctions that seem like a real good idea at the time.

We went out back, I made ready about ten-feet in front of him and he let go. (I think he used as little more than necessary because I was such an az-hole.) And the next thing I knew I was on my knees, couldn't breath, and my face felt like it had been painted with acid. Some of the worst pain I've ever felt. But, in fifteen-minutes it was over and aside from feeling really dumb, I was fine.

You see, the new amazing product was Cap Stun and let me endorse its effectiveness. Works on most people except an occasion PCP maniac or psychopath. We bought several cases.

The troops, of course, were not satisfied until they'd done their own field tests. It was a bad time to bow up at a cop, all of whom had their finger on the button, looking for an excuse to hose someone down. And on the midnight shift, you couldn't find a possum or armadillo that didn't have their little fists ball up, rubbing their eyes.

Monday, May 25, 2009

THE WILD SWANS ROUNDUP

Down in Port Royal's Lantern Lake area we had a problem. Swans. It was nesting season and swans are particular about where they nest. Like to try out lots of places before they find the ideal one. Trying out involves ripping out and mashing down existing foliage to form the nest. Unfortunately, at Lantern Lake they were doing it in folk's manicured flower beds.

The calls to curtail this vandalism poured in. And, of course, since no one else wanted anything to do with it, they landed on my desk. Not exactly the exciting police work you see on TV but, truthfully, indicative of most of the crap cops have to handle.

I didn't want to involve the troops in this silliness, so I gathered up our animal control dude, one Mr. Clarence Sack, and headed out on our mission. First stop was Jungle Larry's African Safari (Carribean Gardens). We wanted to know if he'd take them after Sack sacked them up. Larry said he'd be glad to, but was busy and couldn't pick them up for a day or two. I told him we were in a hurry and we'd just do it ourselves. Looking back, I'm sure he had a fleeting smile on his face.

We proceeded to Port Royal, located our quarry and Sack moved in. He went at it barehanded and soon found out you didn't just pick up a swan like a duck at the farmer's market. Swans are big. And strong. And they have beaks and stuff. Sack soon fled to his truck and locked himself in.

A crowd had started to form and was enjoying the show. This embarrassed me and I decided to tackle the problem myself. After all, Sack was an elderly, frail cat who could be butt-kicked by an aggressive egret. I was young, big, and strong. This was man's work.

Bad mistake. The swans put such an az-whuppin' on me I was soon scratching at the door of Sack's truck, begging him to unlock it and let me in. While the crowd roared, seeming to enjoy seeing the Chief of Police humiliated by two swans.

When I regained my courage, and the swans had gone back to cruising the pond, I asked one of the neighbors if I could use his phone and called Jungle Larry. I told him what had happened. He asked, innocently, "You mean you're not ready to make delivery?" Then he burst into laughter.

"Thanks a lot, pal," I said. "Why didn't you tell me how mean those suckers are?"

"Well," Larry said, gasping between laughing fits. "I figured you knew, being in such a hurry to pick 'em up and all."

"Obviously I don't. What do I do to capture 'em? Shoot 'em with a dart? What?"

"Naw," Larry said."just get behind them, reach down and grab their wings near the body and fold them back. It won't hurt 'em, or you. You get their wings like that and they lose all their strength.

Damn, if it wasn't true! We captured the birds, delivered them to Jungle Larry, and the rich folks in Port Royal's paradise were as happy as Jimmy Buffett with a cheeseburger. Jungle Larry let me name the two critters, Wayde and Lori, after my two little children at the time.

And it only took Sack and me a couple of weeks to heal up.

Friday, May 22, 2009

ELEMENTARY, WATSON

In Port Royal there were some normal size homes, some cottages really. They were located around Lantern Lake, off Galleon Drive. Half Moon Drive was there. Though the homes were small they weren't indicative of the size of the owner's wallet.

I was working a larceny there. The new owner, Mr Bell, had just moved his furniture into the cottage. When he tired of unpacking, and decided to make himself a drink, he noticed several bottles of scotch were missing.

I asked who moved him and he gave me the name of a nationwide mover. He was confident they were not responsible, because of their name. Said he'd been in the house several days before the movers arrived and the scotch had probably been missing beforehand and he hadn't noticed it. To the contrary, the movers were my first suspects.

Mr. Bell, didn't know that the highly skilled movers were picked up at the local labor shed when the driver got to his destination. In Naples these experts hung out under a shade tree near River Park Apartments. Anyone who wanted a day worker could go by there and pick one up.

I asked Mr. Bell if his milk was missing. He checked his refrigerator and came back with a confused look on his face. "Yes," he said, "it's gone. How'd you know that?"

"No problem," I said, "be back shortly."

Within an hour I had returned most of his scotch and had two moving experts in jail. Amazing detective work? I wish. Just knowing folk's habits.

All the experts at the labor shed were black. Black folks like to drink scotch and, you guessed it, milk. I simply went to the labor shed, found out who'd gone with the mover that morning, found them--drunk on liquid stupid--and sacked up them and the remainder of the scotch.

Mr. Bell thought I was Sherlock Holmes. I neglected to tell him what I've just told you. I did ask him, "All that Scotch was Bell's Scotch. And your name is Bell. You don't own it do you?"

Mr. Bell laughed. "Lord no, wish I did. I just own Bell Aircraft."

Thursday, May 21, 2009

JACK BLISS DOES IT AGAIN

Before Jack Bliss was the NPD's first full-time detective, he pushed a cruiser, just like a lot of us. One early morning he fell in behind a Cadillac, driving fitfully toward the old Beach Club Hotel, near the Naples Pier. The vehicle would speed up, slow down, and ride on both sides of the road. Jack flipped on his siren and red light.

The driver paid no attention and continued to meander down the road. Finally, Jack pulled up beside the Caddy and shined his door-mounted spot light on the driver. The driver uttered some curses and pulled over.

Jack pulled in behind the drunk, and was alighting from his vehicle, when the Caddy took off again. This time Jack forced the car to the berm by wedging in front of it. He approached the car again.

The driver was a distinguished looking fifty-ish gent, in a dinner jack and wilted bow tie. He gave Jack a surly look. "Well," he slurred, "I guess you think you're the big frog in this small pond."

"Let me see you license," Jack said.

The drunk ignored him. "The big law and order man, arrest just about anyone you want?'

"Anyone that needs it," Jack said. "Let me see your license."

"But, I bet you lay off anyone important, has some horsepower, don't you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Jack said. "I've arrested the mayor, a few city councilmen, a movie star once, a priest. . ."

"Yes," the driver smirked, "but I'll bet you never arrested one of these." Whereupon he fished a card from his wallet and handed it to Jack. The card identified him as a U.S. Senator from the mid-west.

"No sir," Jack said, opening the car door, fishing out his handcuffs, and grabbing the driver by the arm, "but it was right at the top of my To Do list."

Jack always was an equal opportunity destroyer.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

RACE ELATIONS

The sixties were a sad time, but humor could also be found. In sometimes unlikely places.

After MLK was killed we had a few disruptions in quiet ol' Collier County. Once Sheriff Doug Hendry deputized all the NPD cops and we went to Immokalee where the good citizens were trying to stir up a race riot. Back then, during picking season, Immokalee was mostly black, not Hispanic as it is today.

We didn't know who to trust. The blacks didn't want us there, and neither did the rednecks, thinking we were in some way helping the blacks. Go figure. And some Deliverance type threw a brick and another took a shot at me. Couldn't see who did either, but their aiming mechanism didn't work any better than their brain. (Later we were able to play a little catch-up so the evening wasn't a total loss)

Back in The Elephant's Graveyard, there was trouble at the W.T. Grant store, then in the Naples Shopping Center. A respectable size crowd of black folks had gathered and were beginning to chant and grumble about not being allowed to eat in the restaurant there. The manager, Jim McGrath, came out and asked, "Have any of you tried?" Uh, nope. "Well, where'd you get the idea you couldn't eat here? I'm in the business of doing business. You got a dime, I've got the coffee. Come on in"

Talk about somebody peeing on your campfire. Dropping your gooey marshmallow in the sand. So much for that demonstration. The stately Mr. McGrath was later a Naples City Councilman.

Then, the best of all. On the day MLK was whacked we were concerned there would be trouble in our ghetto, McDonald Quarters. We didn't want to show up in force and provoke an incident so we sent Det Ray Barnett over to have a look-see. A lttle later, one of the cops came and got me. "You gotta see this," he said, laughing.

We went to Miz Lillie's Green Top Social Palace where voices raised in song could be heard from within. A large crowd was singing an impassioned We Shall Overcome. Directing this impromptu choir was Det Ray Barnett. I gave Ray a questioning look.

Ray shrugged, said,"They didn't know the words."

And, overcome we did.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

THE WRESTLER--NAPLES STYLE

A recent film, The Wrestler, brought to mind the Naples PD's experiences with pound and pretend. To help raise money for PAL, we used professional wrestling shows as one of many sources. The wrestling folks were great to work with. We would supply the place, security, sell tickets, and help put up and take down the ring. We kept the concession money and were guaranteed a certain amount even if the house was empty. They kept the ticket proceeds. Great deal.

Course we were soon insiders and our suspicions were confirmed: pro wrestling was a well staged show. We also found these showmen were tremendous athletes. For example, a 300 lb man on top of the corner post, back-flipping down on a supine associate, landing and not hurting either, required great athletic ability, strength and skill.

The wrestlers were all some of the nicest people you'd ever meet. As with many big folks, that don't have to prove a damn thing, they were, off-stage, invariably gentle giants. Yep, it was just a grand show. But some folks took it seriously.

Once, just before showtime, the manager of The Samoans gave me a desperate call. Their car was broken down just South of town and they needed help getting to the venue. No problem. I sent an off-duty cop and car out to pick them up. When knowledge of this became public, some people tried to put heat on me. Helping these criminals. Should have put them in jail when you had the chance. I tried to explain, without giving out the staged secret, that these guys were the main event and we needed them. No good. So, I just wrote the whiners off as what they were: Azzholes!

The Samoans, you see, were heels, wrestling talk for bad guys. Good guys were called baby faces. Heels were usually the most experienced and controlled the matches. Howsumever, The Samoans were so good at their act that people really hated them. That was common.

Once, before a match, one of the bad guy managers, Sir Oliver Humperdink, came to me several times to insure there would be a cop nearby when he performed all his dirty, ringside tricks. He was genuinely concerned. "Some of these rubes think this is for real. They try to hurt me."

This truth was brought home shortly thereafter. In Ft. Myers, one of the heels, Sonny Big Cat King if memory serves, was leaving the ring when a fan stabbed him in the azz. The cops tried to arrest this fool and a riot ensued. Several people were severely injured and spent time in the hospital. This included a few cops.

Like the man said: "There's no business like show business!"

Monday, May 18, 2009

SEEMED LIKE A REAL GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME

Sometimes folks, without due consideration, do things that seem like a real good idea but lead to disastrous consequences. Former Chief Ben Caruthers reminded me of one such incident.

Naples had a hard-scrabble Cracker family that caused cops to assume a defensive posture anytime they saw one of them coming. The two sons, in particular, were notoriously combative hell raisers and were both unaccountable to any deity of common sense.

One night the eldest, who we'll call Luther, his puny cognitive resources further addled by a gallon or so of liquid stupid, decided that he would benefit from a circumcision. I doubt the possibility that a doctor and hospital should be involved ever crossed his mind. Luther's mind didn't work that way. He was impulsive, even when sober. Drunk, he was Pavlov's dog. So, he went to the beach, took out his Buck knife and began trimming away. This, of course, brought forth a gusher of blood and Luther barely made it to the hospital alive. He did live, of course, protected by the Angel of the Drunk and Stupid.

Later, if asked by hospital personnel what provoked him to engage in such insanity he would've said the magic words: "Don't know, seemed like a real good idea at the time."

I know this will come as a terrible shock, but even cops make bad mistakes. Yes, it's rare but it do happen. Take the case of two from the CCSO who were chasing a speeder out the East Trail. The driver was the then Sheriff. (It was not Aubrey Rogers) He ordered the Deputy to fire on the escaping vehicle. Shoot it's tires out like he'd seen in the movies. This was a time when cops could shoot just about anybody or anything for any reason.

The Deputy rolled down the window, unholstered his revolver, leaned out and fired a round. Anyone who has ever fired a revolver at night knows there is a lotta smoke, fire, and sparks that come out the barrel and cylinder. When you shoot into a wind coming at you at 80 mph it blows back and burns the hell outta your hand. Causing you to want to let go of the thing quickly, which he did. The gun, crashed to the highway, destroying it.

Yes, yes, I know it never happens in the movies or on TV. And on TV little people regularly Kung Fu big bad people, guns have unlimited ammo, and all crimes are solved in an hour. Our Deputy, however, was in the real world and when he retrieved his revolver, the barrel now bent to the Southeast, he must've had one fleeting thought: Seemed like a real good idea at the time.

Friday, May 15, 2009

THE BUM PATROL--Part Two

There's one group of these romantic vagabonds we failed to mention; criminals, psychopaths, every deviate and disreputable on the dodge. Presenting a threat to the public, they could also be deadly to their fellow "campers." Preying on the weak, any loner who hadn't allied himself with another bum, could count on being robbed or beaten at will.

Ever wonder why these folks carry all their clothes around on them, worn in layers, and tote all their belongings in a purloined WalMart cart? Have to. Anything left back at their camp, is long gone.

The most common malady was alcoholism. Every camp we raided featured a huge mound of discarded beer cans. For most, all activity for the day centered around scrounging enough money to buy enough booze to set things right. Begging was popular. One bum, you had to admire, shunned the signs displayed by many: Will Work For Food. (They wouldn't) Vet Needs A Hand. Hungry, Please Help. He sported a sign that proclaimed: Why Lie. I Need A Drink! And he collected more coins than anyone else!

St. Matthew's House had to be the Four Seasons Restaurant of Bumdom. Bums from all over the country could tell you about it and give you helpful hints. There's a field nearby where you can camp. Or just roost in one of the neighbor's hedges.

This generated a minor crime wave. Homeowners near the nests found anything left untethered was soon gone. No bicycle was safe. Mail boxes were raided. Cars B&E'd. And in nearby stores, shoplifting doubled.

Some were entrepreneurs. One character, Frank Allen, was from a reputable local family, but had gone astray in his teen years and gradually drifted from the jail to the woods. Frank set up a clandestine bicycle shop off Halderman Creek, where a bum could buy a stolen bike at a bargain price or have minor repairs made. He would also barter, trading his wares for stolen booze or whatever. He operated several years before he was discovered and added to the jail population.

That was over thirty-years ago. I counted about 1200 critters in the Naples area. Best I can tell, it hasn't changed a damn bit today.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK

Aside from the Councilman's crackpot idea that we patrol on bicycles--for which this series, I'm Peddlin' As Fast As I Can, is named--there have been others gems from the outer limits.

In the late fifties it was decided that the NPD could save money by using Nash Ramblers as patrol vehicles. It would also shut up the local Rambler dealer who complained he didn't get a fair shake with mostly Chevrolets and Fords being used.

Ramblers were cheap, no frills, mid-size cars. They were so underpowered they couldn't out drag a codger in a wheelchair. And they weren't built to withstand rough use, let alone 24-hour-a day police duty. But there they were.

They did have two good features. They sipped gasoline and the front seats folded back into a comfortable bed. The bed was great for civilian use, but in a police car? There are two primary things a bed is used for, sleep and sex, both of which you're not supposed to be doing on duty. But we all know human nature.

The Ramblers began to fall apart before the new car smell was lost in the ambient cop car stench of drunk puke and urine. The folding front seat back had a bad habit of converting into a bed anytime you hit a bump. The thing just collapsed backwards. This could really pull your pucker string. And that of any backseat passenger, too. Talk about texting being a distraction.

The vehicles were so cheaply built that our huge cops, like Fred Scott, just crushed the seats until they were flatter than a cop's wallet. The next guy on duty had to stack up cushions, like a child's seat in a restaurant, to see over the dash.

Durable? A collision with a possum could require a tow truck.

Long-lasting? The poor, feeble engines were history after 40,000 miles.

Then there was the Flash-O-Matic automatic shifter. A push-button device built into the dash, it matched the reliability of the rest of the vehicle. Often, when the button was pushed, it would fall through, and disappear inside the dash. Real handy. . .unless you wanted to change gears again.

Finally, an always enterprising Det Jack Bliss, came up with the answer. By writing the specs for patrol car bids using a normal sedan's wheelbase, the stubby Rambler would not qualify.

And so the cops were able to go back to just worrying about the bad guys trying to kill them. Not their own cars.

Thanks, Ben

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

WHO WAS THAT IN THAT BOAT?

One of the unique things Naples Cops experience is running into celebrities. Naples has always had it's share, either visitors or residents, and the interaction is inevitable. But usually not expected.

Riding with our boat man, Joe LaRochelle, one day I spotted a yacht, that looked to be a 100 footer, tied up off the Naples Yacht Club. It was a beautiful sleek vessel and I asked Joe if he knew who it belong to. He smiled, said he did, and headed that way. Pulling along side we were greeted by a lady I recognized from the movies and TV. She was a singer named Francis Langford. Was on the Bob Hope Show and others. She greeted Joe like he was an old friend and asked if he was ready for his "toddy." Joe laughed like that was a grand joke--though I suspected it wasn't--and introduced me. Then a gentleman stepped to the rail, and after being introduced, I could see why the craft was so splendid. His name was Mr. Evinrude. Yep, the one who owned Evinrude outboard motors.

Another day I was working on a series of thefts in the old boat yard that was replaced by Tin City. I interviewed the honcho, then talked with folks in the yard, working on their boats. In one slip was a large and beautiful sailing yacht. On board was what looked like a scruffy deckhand, attending to the bright work. (To you land lubbers that's polishing the brass) I boarded the craft and, after asking my police questions, mentioned how attractive the boat was, and asked what brand it was. A Chris Craft, the deckhand said.

Surprised, I said, "I didn't know Chris Craft made anything but power boats, cabin cruisers, like that."

"Oh, no," the deckhand said, "if you're willing to pay, they'll make anything you want."

Finishing my work around the yard I walked back to the honcho. "Saw you talking to the deckhand over on the Chris Craft," he said.

"Yep," I answered, "didn't know they made sailing ships."

The boss laughed. "Well, if you own Chris Craft like that deckhand does, they'll make just about anything you want."

Another time we had two itinerant thieves steal a yacht out of Port Royal, sail it to New Orleans, and wreck it. When I was doing the initial report I asked for the name of the vessel.

"Easy to spot," said the owner. "On the transom there's a big Daisy flower painted with the letter "B" on each side. I though a second, then, "Like Daisy BB guns?"

"Yep," he smiled, 'I own Daisy." And so he did.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

THE GIRL BESIDE THE ROAD

Yesterday, I had the honor of participating in a ceremony to remember a fallen officer. His name was Louis Collins and I worked with him many years ago. The ceremony was at the Naples Police Department, my old home, where I had not been for many years. It brought back old memories.

This is the week when we honor our fallen brothers and sisters. And, it has to make you ponder why anyone would choose a profession such as ours. Many years ago, when I had just made Detective, I was asking myself the same question.

Struggling to keep my family together, working two or three jobs to make ends meet, putting in 12-hour days with no overtime, was making me wonder if I'd taken the right path. That was on my mind, one night, on my way home to Brookside Village. My thoughts were interrupted by some movement in the weeds on the side of the road, just before the Royal Harbor entrance.

Pulling the car over, I could hear murmuring from a huddled form in the tall grass. It was a young woman who crossed her arms in front of her face and whimpered as I got close. I held out my badge so she could see it and said, "It's okay now, I'm a cop. I won't hurt you."

She studied me with terrified eyes for a moment then rushed to me and hugged me and began crying in earnest. Tears of relief. It turns out she had been raped and dumped beside the road like one might dispose of an empty beer can. Her assailant had done unspeakable things to her with a broken pine bough.

Standing there with her clinging to me, her horrors for the moment lessened because she knew she there was a cop there, I knew I could never do anything else but this. No matter what it paid. No matter what the hours. No matter what the price.

All cops who stick on the job have this same, private, defining moment. There's a fancy word for it: epiphany. One day a special time with come that will cause you to look back and remember yours. Mine was yesterday. Look forward to it.

'We're gonna get the bastard that did this to you," I said to the girl. "And when we do, he's gonna pay. He's gonna really pay."

And we did.

And he did.

Friday, May 8, 2009

THE BUM PATROL

Once, in the mid-eighties, I was assigned a unique job: The Bum Patrol. I was to count all the "homeless" in the Naples area. The purpose was to evaluate the magnitude of the problem, which everyone knew was growing. It was an education.

First thing I found out was that most of these folks were not victims of the economy or misfortune. They were homeless because they chose to be. They were bums. There was a good infrastructure in place for legitimate homeless people, with the Salvation Army leading the list. Also, several church and privately sponsored programs. Many bums, however, wouldn't go near these help projects because they found something very unsavory about them: they wanted you to work. To help yourself. To hell with that.

And not all were bums, without means of support. A large number were dropouts, folks fed up with everything: family, job, the works. Among these we found two retired cops, on pensions, who lived in the woods because they were sick of society. Seen too much. Another guy was a former chef for the Ritz Carlton. Several had been business people. And many were construction workers who would come to Naples in the winter from frozen-out northern jobs. They lived in tents and travel trailers in the woods to save money. They would set up a respectable, though illegal, camp and never cause any problems.

Naples is a favorite spot for bums. We found several with travel guides they had been given in shelters in Washington, D.C. that told how to find Naples and what to do when they got here. Such as, go the St. Vincent De Paul and get free cookware and a chit for free breakfast at the White House Restaurant. St. Matthews House will give you free meals, no questions asked. You can camp in a wooded lot near there. You can go such and such and get free clothes. Go to the ER for free medical care. And they were provided directions to prime camping areas, such as near stores, beside a beautiful pond.

We found several large camps with fifty or more folks living there. Found out they had homemade warning devices to let them know when someone was coming. This was usually a dried palmetto frond, laying in the path. Stepping on it made a loud crunch. Some used beer cans strung on a fishing leader. Hit the lines, the cans would jangle.

Many were enterprising. They'd steal enough construction materials to build lean-to's. One even had a four-poster bed, a sofa, and chairs. Many had lawn chairs stolen from folk's yards.

But, ah, for the romantic, vagabond life. Well, not quite as we'll see in Part 2.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

THE MIDNIGHT STREAKER

Dollar Down was a Naples car salesman, long ago repossessed by the Man Upstairs. Or, most likely, the Man Downstairs. He loved beautiful, fast, sporty cars. And beautiful, fast, sporty, women. Especially if they were parked in someone else's garage, the danger making the adventure more exciting. Or so he said. One night, he got all the excitement he could handle.

The current object of his lechery was a pretty married woman we'll call Mustang Sally. She was a bad choice since she, too, had a more-the-merrier attitude and her Hubby kept close watch on her. At the time, Hubby suspected Sally was dallying and decided to set her up and see. Told her he had to go out-of-town on business. Wouldn't be back until late the next evening. He reasoned when the cat's away, the mice will get drunk and party naked.

That very evening, Hubby returned, unannounced, and caught Dollar in the front seat of his Mustang, engine revved and locked in high gear. Hubby ratcheted the shotgun he was carrying, and Sally and Dollar both instantly slammed it in Park. And before Dollar could say I've done stepped on my carrot he was outside in the bushes, trying to figure how he was going to make the two miles to his home with no money, clothes, and bare azz naked. You see Hubby had expelled him from his house as he had found him, keeping his wallet, car keys, and sporty car salesman clothes.

That night we received several calls from folks in the area who were sure they'd seen some naked prevert vault their rear fence. Or run from bush to bush across the neighbor's front lawn.

Later that night Hubby called us reporting he'd found clothing, a wallet, and keys outside their bedroom window. He suspected a peeping Tom who'd been frightened off. One of those real sickos who strip down naked while peeping. We took the clothing, found a car matching the keys parked nearby and showed up at Dollar's front door.

He'd just made it home and was a sorry sight. Bedraggled and barely coherent, he was trying to explain to his wife why he'd come home at 4 AM in a towel--he'd stolen off a clothes line--with scrapes and scratches from galloping through the woods, no money and no car. We got him aside and he confessed what had really happen. A later interview with Hubby confirmed his part. Mustang Sally had nothing to say.

Sometimes justice works itself out better than the courts can. Mustang Sally stayed with Hubby, changed her ways and became a happy homemaker. Or, at least she pretended she was. We couldn't find anything Hubby had done wrong. Matter of fact, we admired his MO. And Dollar Down had been punished enough during his midnight ramble and future hell-to-pay with his wife.

We know that because The Midnight Streaker was never seen again.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

RAID ON THE SNAKE FARM

Our narcotics unit had been working jointly on a case with the Feds and CCSO. A LSD lab had been located just north of Bonita Springs, in an abandoned serpentarium. The caretaker of the place was supposed to be a chemical genius. A test tube dude who was cooking enough LSD to have every head south of Atlanta seeing technicolor bunnies in their yogurt. One early morning we moved in.

The serpentarium, never anything but a third-rate sideshow, was just one house-size main building with a few trailers out back. We found the chemist, Karloff, busy at work in his makeshift lab. He was congenial enough but one of those "geniuses" who has all his furniture in one corner of the attic. Chemistry, a whiz. Remembering to eat, bathe, and sleep, dumb as dirt.

As an example, he told us he was being paid $125 a week. That for cranking out a hundred-thousand in dope every few days. But he was content, getting to live in one of the trailers free and, of course, there were all those snakes he could play with. And snakes there were.

Like many snake nuts, he was not too good at keeping track of the critters. All of the cages in the building where open and Karloff was a little vague about how many had been occupied to begin with. They come and go. But out front was the kingdom of creepy crawlies. A pit, about thirty-feet across was full of rattlesnakes. Several hundred. They writhed and slithered and hissed in a giant ball that looked like squirming intestines. It took one of our cops, Ken Ferrell, several hours to shoot them all.

Karloff was mainly concerned that his friend, Clyde, would be well taken care of in his absence. And that we be careful when sniffing around the shed at the foot of a commercial radio tower on the back of the property. The owner of the snake farm still had some stuff stored there. We checked there first.

Opening the shed's door, we found it loaded with crates oozing a substance like honey. It was old dynamite, disintegrating, with the nitroglycerin dripping out. Dynamite in its most unstable form. Fortunately, there were no blasting caps or the radio waves could've blown Bonita Springs off the map. We called the ATF folks, immediately.

Now to Clyde. We presumed he was a pal of Karloff's. We moved to the trailer when Karloff told us Clyde was asleep there, in the bedroom. Entering quietly, we eased open the bedroom door. We could see a huge lump under the covers, and peeling them back found a 300 pound python. He was asleep, having just had a tasty snack, a cow, something small like that. Maybe a Volkswagen.

We had a problem. What to do with Clyde. We tried to find a zoo or someone who'd take him but no luck. And Ferrell was eyeing his gun again. Howsumever, the expeditious federal legal system saved him. Karloff'd been taken to Miami, had a hearing, his bosses posted his bail and he was back at the farm while we were still snake wrangling, collecting evidence from the lab, and helping ATF guys tip-toe around the dynamite.

Karloff went straight to the bedroom, and hugged and cuddled Clyde. Clyde opened a sleepy eye and, I swear, seemed to smile at his kookie keeper. And I got all teary-eyed, being a sucker for happy reunions.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

INCIDENT ON THE PIER--Part Two

Some explanation can be made as to how the shooting on the pier could've happened. At the time, there was a "no azz whoopin'" provision in the State Statutes. This meant that you could use any force, except deadly, to make a misdemeanor arrest. Wounding was okay. If a felony arrest, any force including deadly. Misdemeanors are petty crimes. Felonies are serious, like rape, robbery, murder.

So, because of the brevity of the report, we don't know if our Town Marshall was just arresting a violent subject or he killed him just to keep in practice. It wasn't that uncommon for some thug to get shot trying to whup a policeman.

To protect their health, officers would shoot a violent subject in the leg to take all the fun outta him. One of my best friends had to do this once. Confronting a large, mean, and violent street ape, who could've whupped half the NPD, my pal had to shoot the turd in the leg to make the arrest. Repercussions? None, it was the law. All that was required was a one-line addition to the arrest report: Had to shoot subject to effect arrest. As it turns out the shootee also was armed with a Beretta. I still have it.

There were other wild and woolly times. This next incident I'll relate reluctantly since it was before my time and I didn't see it. But, I've talked to so many that had, I'm sure it happened.

A scumbag had killed a highway patrolman in Ft. Myers. The cops chased him and got him holed up in North Naples, mostly woods at the time. A FHP Trooper went in after him, found him, and you could hear a muffled pistol shot. Then, "Police, halt, halt." When the coroner came and inspected the body, a star-shaped blackened wound was noted on the murderer's temple. This is a sure sign of a contact wound. (The gun placed on or very close to the point of entry)

The Trooper said he'd spotted the perp running away, and commanded him to stop. The perp turned and the Trooper, thinking he was armed, shot him. Uh-huh. However, the coroner looked at the body, shook his head and said, "When are these Az-holes gonna learn you can't run from the police."

I never had to kill anyone but, during this liberal shoot-em-up period, was involved in two incidents where I shot at fleeing felons. One was a drug dealer, the other wanted by the FBI for bank robbery in Ohio. Had to shoot at them because they were both outrunning me in a foot race. And we couldn't have that. Both put on the brakes when the lead whizzed by, deciding they'd rather rot in the jail than in the ground.

Fact was they made bad choices. I was so winded and shaky from the run I couldn't have hit 'em with a cluster bomb.

Monday, May 4, 2009

AN INCIDENT ON THE PIER

It was the seventies. The Naples PD was preparing to move to the new headquarters building on Goodlette Road. We were handling the records personally, to retain integrity for future court use. The old, old records were in our makeshift storeroom, one of the women's jail cells that was never used.

Sifting through the old stuff was as education. Most everything was written in the Blotter, a large bound book like those used in old-time hotels. The simplest of entries were used, complaint number, date, time, name, one-line description of the event, action taken. If further information was needed, you'd find an attached sheet of paper. This system was used until Chief Ben Caruthers, in the early 60's, upgraded to a modern records program.

Reading one of these attached reports--probably from the forties--we were taken up short. It had been written by the Town Marshall, or Constable, or some such title no longer in use. This was before there was a formal NPD. It read, essentially, like this:

Received call that there was a nigger on the pier. Arrived and found subject. He was from a shrimp boat anchored nearby. Nigger was jumping off the boat, swimming to the pier, climbing up, then jumping off the pier and swimming back to the boat. Told nigger he couldn't do that, to stay off the pier. Went back to station. In a few minutes I received another call that the nigger was doing it again. Went back down there and found him on the pier. Shot same.

That was it. No addendum's. No further explanation. No nuttin'.

Of course, at the time, nothing further would have been necessary. It was another time in another world.

More tomorrow.



Friday, May 1, 2009

POLYGRAPH SECRETS

When you run a lotta polygraph (lie detector) exams you hear way more secrets from folks than you want to. And from the honest people, criminals being intent on holding back everything to try and beat you. We call it "puking up your guts," telling any guilty secret you have so it won't influence the outcome of the test. Yep, after a while you start to feel like a priest.

Who they've been sleeping with on the side. What they'd shoplifted from the dime store when they were twelve. Stuff you don't want to know. Then there's the stuff makes you think.

I was doing a head waiter from an up-scale Naples restaurant. Although it had nothing to do with the crime we were investigating, he started relieving his conscience about things he'd done in a restaurant that he wasn't proud of. "When someone would whine about their food not being just like they wanted it, we'd take it back to the kitchen and spit on it. . .or worse."

"Okay," I said, trying to move on, "about the theft. . ."

"Course, it wasn't just me did it. Most of 'em did."

"Well, that must've been before you made it to the class joints, when you were startin' out in the greasy spoons," I offered.

"Hell, no," he said, "the fancier the restaurant the worse they were. Chefs get the big head. Don't want anyone telling them how to cook the food and God help anyone who complains. I've seen 'em--"

I cut him off, not daring to hear anymore since I often ate in restaurants. Fortunately, I'd never sent anything back to the kitchen, having a garbage can gut. And feeling sorry for hardworking waiters who don't cook the stuff but still catch the heat from A-Hole customers.

Always remembered what the fella said. And laugh to myself, in restaurants, when some pompous ass berates a poor waitress because his food doesn't match his delicate sensibilities. Take it back! Makes me hope the Chef gives it a good stir with his Johnson.

I know of one restaurant owner in the sixties--had a very popular place near 4-Corners--who'd start the day cooking a big pot of soup, and spit in it, muttering, "Damn slobs don't know what's good." Never ate there and was glad when he moved on to a much hotter kitchen.

Then there was the cook we had on a Marine base. About 300 lbs--we called him Buddha--cooked with his shirt off, over a grill, sweat dripping down on the food. If he caught you checking him out, he'd grab a ball of hamburger, put it under his greasy armpit, flatten it into a paddy, and toss it on the grill.

So remember, if that steak wasn't just the way you like it and you sent it back. . .Bon appetit!