Tuesday, June 30, 2009

JD AND THE MACON MOW DOWN

Interstate 75 South was built in segments over a number of years. For what seemed like forever, we had to drive to Tampa to get on it then get off at Macon, Georgia, where it ended. One summer JD Spohn took it on his way to a vacation in Kentucky. The evening after he left I received a call from him.

"Got in a little scrape," JD said, "some guys tried to rob me up here in Macon."

"Rob you?"

"Ya, at gun point. Three of 'em. We got lost looking for 41 after I-75 ended and pulled off the road to look at the map. Next thing I know, here's these A-holes pointin' a gun at me."

Now, if I was gonna rob someone I'd pick maybe, Dirty Harry, the 5th Marines, somebody easy like that. Not JD Spohn. There was a joke around the PD that there was a standing reward for anyone who could catch JD unarmed. Once, I thought I had him. Driving by his house in Lake Park, I saw JD mowing his lawn. He was wearing typical JD attire: a 10 gallon hat, no shirt, Bermuda shorts, and cowboy boots. I pulled into his driveway and approached him. "Looks like I got ya, JD," I said.

"How's that?" he asked.

"Caught you without a gun," I said.

"Don't count on it," JD said, producing a .38 from his boot and a Derringer from his back pocket. That was JD. And this is the same fella three fools in Macon, Georgia decided to rob. Another Seemed like a real good idea at the time.

"So what happened? You okay?"

"Oh yeah. I just reached down and got my .357 off the seat beside me and shot 'em. Here, the local cop wants to talk to you."

An officer, who identified himself as a Lt. from the Macon PD came on the line, confirmed JD's story and added, "We're gonna have to hold him here until we finish the investigation. Got three of 'em here with bullets in 'em. But, it shouldn't be too long. I'll call you back."

Then the phone went dead and I began to wait, fearing the worst. Georgia was the same state that locked up one of the CCSO Deputies in the same cell with the prisoner he was transporting until Sheriff Doug would wire them the $1oo bogus traffic fine. 

But, I didn't have to wait long. In less than two hours JD was on the phone again. "Every thing's okay," he said. "Here's the LT."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Looks like your man did the right thing. All checks out. But it makes ya wonder when these Nigrahs are gonna learn you can't rob white folks and not pay the price."

And with that the incident was over. JD went on his way and had a grand vacation. He wasn't the kind to worry about a few perforated bodies. He did ask me not to talk about the incident as he was afraid the City might not understand. I didn't, until now. JD is long gone and part of NPD history.

Monday, June 29, 2009

BE REAL CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

We once had a local merchant, Wilbur Whinesap, we just couldn't please. Although his business was on 5th Ave South, one of the most highly patrolled streets in the City, there were never enough patrols. Response time to his numerous, petty, complaints was never fast enough. He appeared at City Council budget hearings complaining the cops were overpaid and there were too many of them. In short, he was an Azwipe who needed an attitude adjustment.

One early April morning, about 2 AM, I was doing a plain-clothes bicycle patrol of 5th Ave So. We'd had some trouble with attempted break-ins to the rear doors of the businesses and wanted to put the turd responsible where he belonged. Under the jail. 

Cruising silently down the alley behind Ingram's Hardware I noticed a rear door cracked open at a nearby business. A wedge of light was spilling out in the alley. I got off my bike, took out my revolver, and crept up to the door. I would've called in on my handheld radio for backup, but we didn't have such toys at the time.

There's an old adage: Be careful what you wish for 'cause you just might get it. The truth of this was about to be demonstrated. 

Looking through the crack in the door, I could see a seated W/M hunched over a desk. He was diligently sorting through a stack of papers. And I recognized the man. Not a hoped for burglar, but maybe better. Wilbur Whinesap.

As it turns out Wilbur was working late to beat the deadline on filing his income tax. Engrosed in his labors, he had no idea I was there. So I crept up behind him, stuck my gun in his ear, and shouted "Don't move or I'll blow your head off!"

Mr. Whinesap complied, becoming rigid as a cadaver in a crypt. Nothing moved. Except his bowels, which after a great rumble filled his drawers. I said, "Oh, Mr. Whinesap, excuse me. Saw the door cracked open and thought it was one of those burglars you're always complaining about." Then, the stench in the room unbearable, I beat a hasty and happy retreat.

Wilbur, on the other had, was evidently pleased that his wish for better police protection had come true. We never heard from him again.

Friday, June 26, 2009

AIR DOUG Two--FLYING CIRCUS

Sheriff E.A. "Doug" Hendry wasn't the only winged warrior who could make you want to keep your feet on the ground. Over the years there've been several.

One, we'll call Flip Flanagan, loved air searches. Flip liked to fly low so he could get a good view of the ground. Trouble was, one day he concentrated too much on the objects on the ground and not the tall things he was flying over. Like trees. He dipped his wing, to get a better look at something, caught the tip on a tall pecker-pole pine tree, and did a series of cartwheels with the Cessna. Had it been a gymnastic completion he'd probably earned 10's. But it wasn't. He ended up with a lengthy stay at NCH and the CCSO bought a new single-winger.

Flip had another plane crash on the runway. Who taught Flip how to fly? Good ol' E.A., himself.

One of my favorite pilots, Sonny Smirnoff, was probably the best I've ever flown with. A Vietnam vet, he could control a copter like no one else. I flew with him countless times, and was always comfortable that a talented master was in control. To my recollection he never had an accident.

Not all were so thrilled with him. Sonny, you see, was a notorious boozer. And he liked to warm up his personal engine, pre-flight, with a tankful of his own high octane joy juice. Said he got the habit in the war zone where he not only had to worry about keeping his bird in the air, but dodging enemy rockets and bullets at the same time. Yep, that'd sure put me on a barstool. 

About the time Sonny was doing his thing there was a scandalous story in the news about airline pilots. It seems that after their regular re-certification test, one airline had required their pilots to take a surprise breathalyzer test. An embarrassing large number failed. They had, however, flown the prescribed test route perfectly.

Then, the airline had retested them, making sure they were sober. The same bunch now couldn't pass the test. They could do it drunk, but not sober. 

So maybe Sonny knew what he was doing.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

AIR DOUG

You had to call Sheriff Doug Hendry a good pilot. Meaning his number of landings equalled his number of take-offs. No crashes. Yet, some of those who flew with him might take exception with that evaluation. And, in fairness, Doug was Evil Knieval in a cockpit.

I worked up the nerve to fly with Doug twice. No, that's not exactly true. Doug told me I was gonna fly with him twice. You didn't argue with E.A.

The first time we were trying to locate a Signal-10, stolen car, that'd been dumped in the woods off Airport Road. The thief had described where it was, but we couldn't find it. Doug decided we'd locate it by air, and Chuck Whidden would take our directions and lead the ground search team. Doug put his big paw on my shoulder and said, "It's your car. let's go."

It was a city case, but the CCSO had caught the perp. We worked very closely together in those days. Strength in numbers. So, I couldn't very well refuse without sniveling and groveling and begging in plain sight, so, trapped I climbed in the little Cessna and we were soon over the scene. 

The car was easy to spot from the air and we tried to explain to Chuck how to get there. But the path was a bit convoluted and Doug finally announced over the radio, "I'm gonna spiral down over where it is. Let me know soon as you can figure out where I'm pointing to."

That said he dipped the nose of the plane, and began a corkscrew spiral over the area. We kept getting lower and lower. Nothing from Chuck. Still closer to the tree tops. I began searching for a parachute or some toilet paper. Still nothing. Finally, to keep from screaming in terror, I gasped, "Isn't there a limit how far you can dive down like this and still pull out of it?"

"Yup," Doug said.

"And how far is that?" I wheezed. 

"Oh, hell, we got another 20, 25 feet left." Then, he laughed and pulled the plane up, the engine shuddering nearly as bad as my body. Had I not asked, and allowed him to give his punch line, I'm convinced we would have made a much bigger impression on our target.

Another time, we were looking for an escaped prisoner in the Naples Manor area. Neither we, nor the ground search team were having any luck. Doug decided we needed to regroup. "I'm gonna take 'er down," he announced and I anticipated a turn toward the airport. Not so. He was gonna land it on the streets in Naples Manor.

Still silently cursing myself for being fool enough to go for a second ride with him, I asked, "What about those power lines down there?"

"No problem," Doug drawled, "you just fly over some and under the others."

And damned if he didn't.

Friday, June 12, 2009

THE GREEN BAY PORKERS

In the mid-sixties the wives of PAL coaches or mothers of players held a football game against the Barnett Bank of Naples softball team. So it was a softball team, close enough. Ours, was no team at all, just a bunch of wives in PAL uniforms. The cheerleaders were the men, dressed in wigs and cheerleader dresses. What parts of them that would fit in. It turned out to be a vigorous  and enjoyable contest.

Concurrently, the City had been on the cops and firemen to improve their physical condition. Most of our folks were strong as grizzlies, but some were a tad round. Inspiration hit. Why not have a football game between the NPD and the NFD. A great way to exercise and have fun at the same time. The game was on.

We were practicing at Cambier Park one evening when a group of thugs from East Naples approached us. How would the bad ass cops like to play some real men? Bring 'em on was the immediate response. We needed a tuneup game anyhow before we tackled the Firemen.

The rules were to be regular flag football rules. No tackling. Blocking was fair. The play was dead as soon as the flag--a rag type thing--was stripped from the runner's belt.

We kicked off to East Naples, and a runner broke down the sideline. That is until Byron Tomlinson hit him with a vicious tackle. Whoops, this was flag football. But, we knew all these jerks from arresting them and didn't like any of them. And they weren't big fan's of ours. So the fight was on.

I noticed C.H.Dasher with a thug under each arm, banging their heads together. Barrie Kee, a giant, was sitting on two more, squashed under his bulk into the dirt. He was alternatively selecting body parts of the two and twisting until they screamed like sirens. Man-to-man scuffles prevailed all over the field. Finally everyone ran out of gas and the East Naples Thugs limped home. So much for tuneups.

When time for the real game arrived the rules were the same as the practice game. Our team was named the Green Bay Porkers, with our lovely wives as cheerleaders. We also had a real pig named Arnold as a mascot. And after the kickoff the game proceeded pretty much as the rules defined. Our offense was built on a running back who'd played college football, Charles Barton. Charles was so fast we relied on two plays: Charles Left and Charles Right. No one could catch him.

Soon the blocks became a little more vigorous and flag was forgotten and tackles began. Although no fights occurred, it wasn't for sissies.

Some of casualties were our kick-off artist, Ken Claveau, who charged the ball, gave a mighty kick, and missed the ball. This hyper-extended his knee and he was on crutches for some time. Richard Aldacosta got his back knocked out of whack and walked for months with his chest seeming to be six-inches East of his rear end and legs. Byron Tomlinson busted his knee, requiring surgery to repair. There couldn't have been a contestant who wasn't hobbled for a few days.

When the bills for our game came in, the City lost interest in exercise programs. As I recall, they were over 60K, a lotta money for the time. That didn't count lost recuperation time and worker comp.

There was never a rematch.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

COPTICAL ILLUSIONS

We were getting complaints that there weren't enough cops. Or they weren't patrolling like they should be. You never saw one. Must be asleep at the station house or dunking donuts at some fat factory. I wasn't true. We had, in fact, more uniformed officers than we really needed and they patrolled with regularity. But, when you live in a town with folks with lots of time on their hands, be prepared for nit-picky complaints. I wasn't quite sure how to correct the false perception.

Then, there was a story on the evening news, about how the police in Japan were using marked cars with dummies in them, dressed as cops, to slow traffic. They were relying on what's called the cop business the halo effect. The halo effect is what causes drivers to be on their best behavior for about 15 minutes after they see a police car. The Japanese figured out that the mere sight of the seemingly occupied car would slow traffic on speedways, and placed them, accordingly.

The concept is still in use. Many times the car you see parked in the median of a busy highway is empty or may have a dummy in it. There are those detractors who say that anytime you see a cop car there's a dummy in it. But they don't say it to our face.

Then there's the Sheriff's eye-in-the-sky thing you see parked sometimes in shopping center parking lots. The giant preying mantis-looking contraption may or may not be occupied, but what auto burglar or mugger is gonna risk finding out.

Howsumever, the Japanese thing got me thinking and I made one small change to the appearance of our marked cars. And, it wasn't a month until the accolades starting coming in about how much better our cops had been patrolling. You saw them everywhere.

How'd we do this? Our cars were marked with silver badge insignia on each front door. It was about 16 inches tall and you couldn't read the lettering  a few feet away. So, we added 10 inch letters down the side that read POLICE. Something you could see. And folks did, and the halo effect kicked in.

Just a few Coptical Illusions. 

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

ALWAYS WANTED TO BE AN ENGINEAR AND NOW I ARE ONE

We had a Councilman once who considered himself a traffic expert. And a law enforcement expert, once telling me that he had no actual experience but had watched every episode of Dragnet and Kojak on TV. If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'. Fact was, if you put his brain in a mosquito it'd fly upside down and backwards. 

The Honorable Numnutz had come up with a new plan to control the raging traffic problem in sleepy Naples. Make every intersection a 4-way stop. It was his most imbecilic suggestion to date. 

The City Manager sent it to me to review for the next council meeting. He told me, privately, "This is ridiculous, but it's gained favor with the council members. Sounds good and they don't want to explain why they didn't vote for it. But I'm not about to spend thousands of dollars erecting unneeded stop signs that people will want taken down in a week. See what you can come up with to dodge this absurdity."

I told him thanks a lot and broke out the safety manuals and state statutes, hoping to find salvation. And, I found it in the most unlikely place.

At the next council meeting, I gave my report. "According to traffic engineering manuals, the 4-way stop is a control option used only as a last resort. They are confusing--no one sure who goes next--and slow traffic to a crawl, infuriating motorists." 

 Numnutz roared into action. "You read traffic engineering manuals? A cop?"

"Not just a cop," I said, "I'm also the City of Naples Traffic Engineer." There was a rumble in the chambers, before Numnutz retaliated. "Ridiculous! We have a City Engineer but no Traffic Engineer."

"According to Florida Statutes you do," I said. "They read that if a city has no Traffic Engineer the Chief of Police shall inherit those additional duties." And it was true. So the proposal died on the strength of the Engineer's recommendation. Seems if someone gives you a title, you automatically become an expert. That or own a brief case, suit, and are from another town.

I acted as Traffic Engineer until the city hired one. Made many rulings that were never questioned. And never got one damn cent for holding down two jobs.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

GREAT WHITE HUNTERS--BAD BLACK CAT

Jungle Larry gave us an urgent call. One of his black leopards had escaped from his cage at the African Safari, now the Collier County Zoo. Some of the fences were only eight feet high, an easy leap for such a cat. Escape could have deadly consequences since the property was bordered by residential neighborhoods. 

We gathered up every available officer, and after raiding the armory, headed to Jungle Larry's, loaded for leopard. Some CCSO Deputies joined us. Once there, Larry gave us a profile of what we were after. This caused some of our hunters, who were used to whacking out animals who couldn't fight back, to have second thoughts about our impromptu safari.

Black leopards, Larry warned, were incredibly dangerous. They liked to leap from trees on their next meal and once on you, owned you. They could run about 35 mph. They were so stealthy, when stalking, they were virtually silent. They could hide in the foliage within inches of their prey and you'd never know it. And if we didn't capture the critter before dark came--it was late afternoon at the time--their black coat would make them invisible.

Larry showed us the leopard's cage, which had been baited with meat and other goodies to try to entice it back in. He again warned us to be very careful. And thus, scared to death, we broke up in three man teams and began a search of the preserve. 

Jungle Larry's had been Caribbean Gardens, a botanical show place. A virtual jungle, there were acres of green stuff where the leopard could hide. We headed out on the defined paths, keeping our eyes open and our pucker strings tight. But after a few hours of plodding along, with great trepidation, the cop's perverse sense of humor took over. One of the group would grab a vine hanging from a tree and give it tug, causing the leaves to rustle, terrifying his partners. Another would throw a rock in the underbrush, sending cold chills up backs. Or a joker would make low, growling noises.

One Deputy took a break and, unknowingly leaned up against a lion's cage. The lion roared in protest and the Deputy had extra laundry that week. 

It was getting close to dawn and, with no luck, we regrouped near the leopard's cage to decide what to do next. Standing there talking, someone yelled, "Watch out Ken!" Ken Ferrell spun around and faced a snarling black beast charging out of the bushes. Ken leveled his riot gun, and blasted off a round, knocking the leopard butt over bucket. But the cat regained its footing, and streaked for its cage, where Jungle Larry quickly slammed the door.

Ferrell's double 00 buck load had, thank God, stopped the cat in mid-leap. Yet, the cat had run away. You just don't run away from a direct hit from a shotgun loaded with double 00 buck. On close inspection, Larry found two pink skin marks on the leopard's head where pellets had bounced off him. Otherwise he wasn't even scratched. The leopard remained at the zoo for many years and bore the two white skid marks on his beautiful black hide until his death.

We took the shotgun shells to the range and found that at a distance of about 10', Ferrell's range to the cat, there was a hole in the shot pattern. A hole just right for a PO'd black leopard to slip through. 

We changed brands of ammo real quick.

Monday, June 8, 2009

JOE HUNTER

Florida once had the Constable/Justice of the Peace system of law enforcement, especially in rural areas. Collier County was divided into three JP Districts, each with a Constable and Justice: Naples, Immokalee, and Everglades. This was a fee system, in that what pay the Constable and JP made was predicated on fines, and fees collected for serving process.  The obvious fault was if you were arrested by a Constable you were damn sure gonna be found guilty by his JP or neither got paid. The shameful system had pretty much died out by the late 70's in Florida along with municipal courts and jails. It was used longer elsewhere.

Collier County wasn't as crooked as most, with stop signs behind bushes or traffic lights hidden in trees. And unlike Georgia, a Yankee license plate didn't guarantee a traffic citation.

One of our last Constables was a colorful gent named Joe Hunter. Joe's law enforcement career included stints as a wildlife officer, Constable, CCSO Deputy, and Detective with the Ft. Myers PD. The character actor, Warren Oates, always reminded me of Joe. Both had a Depression era look about them. Tough, shrewd, enduring.

Joe was a teller of wild tales, usually about himself and always true. He once, while a wildlife officer in Everglades, was forced to transfer to Monroe County to escape the Seminole Indians. It seems Joe had become amorous with an Indian maiden, making him very unpopular on the reservation. Joe told me they were gonna capture him and take him to the Green Corn Dance, a powwow where important matters were settled. Among them justice for offenders. "Hell," Joe said, "I was afraid they were gonna stick-roast me like a possum, something like that." So he lit a shuck and beat it to another county until the war drums quit beating.

Most of my dealing with Joe happened when he was a detective with the FMPD and I with the NPD. All were entertaining and unique. 

As an example, I was working on a B&E and had a suspect in Fort Myers. Calling Joe, he erupted, "I know that bunghole and he's probably good for it."

I caution that he was one of several suspects, but Joe advised me to scurry up to Ft. Myers and we'd talk to the rascal. There, Joe walked up to the front door, kicked it off its hinges (first time I'd ever seen that done) and strode inside. He grabbed a terrified man up from in front of the TV, talked to him until the suspect collapsed, then began a search. His search technique involved turning every thing in the house upside down. Everything!

Finally, panting from the exertion, he turned to me, said, "He don't know nuthin' or he'd have coughed it up by now," and he started out the door. I looked around in disbelief at the tornado-like destruction and the lumped up suspect. "Don't worry," Joe said, "he ain't sayin' a thing or he knows I'll come back. Would you want me to come back?"

I had to admit he had a point.

Friday, June 5, 2009

WILD BILL ON THE TRAIL TO MIAMI

 Before there was an Alligator Alley most traffic from the Southeast Florida used US 41, the Tamiami Trail. And sometimes folks, for any number of reasons, used it to try to outrun us. Go barreling down 41 with us in hot pursuit seeing who either blew an engine, ran out of gas, or wrecked first.

It wasn't unknown for a NPD or CCSO cruiser to chase a culprit all the way to Krome Avenue (Highway 29) in Miami where they were greeted by an FHP roadblock. That's if they could get by the most formidable obstacle in their path: Dep. O.B. "Bill" McCrea, stationed at Everglades City. Bill owned the South Trail. And if he was on duty, no one got by him.

One evening, after midnight, I was on the east Trail, just beyond Boat Haven. I heard a rumbling engine sound coming up beside me. It was a new Mach 1 Mustang being piloted by a young rascal in a Marine uniform. He looked over at me, smiled, and insolently flipped his cigarette at my open driver's window. Then he burned rubber and took off like Uncle Dudd when he got caught in the Widder's bedroom. Bap, zoom, gone.

Well, I couldn't have that so I showered down on the Dodge 440. The car wasn't sickly by any means. A local FHP Trooper, Ed Crawford, had souped his up until it ran over 140 mph. But in mine it was boys versus men racing the Mustang, which  was soon a diminishing  dot on the highway ahead. Time to call for reinforcements. Radioed Dispatch to call the CCSO and see if Bill was on duty. 

Soon he was on our channel with his distinctive voice, flat, deep, and loud. Had to be. Bill drove at horrendous speeds with one hand on the wheel and the windows rolled down.  He had to talk loud to overcome the wind rushing by in the background.

I explained to Bill the situation. He said, "I'll be waitin'."

About twenty minutes later Bill radioed a short message, "He's here when you want him."

I hurried on down to the Everglades substation in the old Courthouse. I passed the Mach I parked beside 41, steam wisping from under the hood.

The Marine was handcuffed to an oak chair, shivering like a dog passing walnut shells. "Heeee shot at me," he whimpered, "shot my new car."

"My car was parked aside the road," Bill drawled, "in plain view with the lights flashin'. You didn't slow down so I had to get your attention."  And that's Bill had done. Stood out in the middle of US 41, cranked a round into his Winchester Model 94, put one right into the radiator of the speeding Mach 1.

Remembering back, at the time we didn't even think that was such an unusual thing to do.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

WHO CHECKED THIS CHECK?

Ray Barnett reminded me of one of our favorite cops whose son, at an early age, made his mark on the other side of the law. The teenager, who we'll call Smoothie, like all good con artists was likable to a fault. And, very convincing for a high school age youngster. Had good taste in automobiles, too. Liked the sporty models.

Smoothie was also enterprising. Being a cop's son, with meager financial resources, didn't pose a problem. Not when he found out about checks. To Smoothie checks were money you printed yourself. So, one day he walked into a local car dealer, selected a new sports cars, paid for it with a check, and drove off.

That worked so well, he went in the next day and bought a brand new truck. With another bogus check. He didn't get to put many miles on either vehicle before the local constabulary put him back on his bicycle.

My wife Sandy, who worked in local banks for years, called to mind a fantastic dude called Mr. Ouse. This slippery gent, in one day, passed over twenty bogus checks on 5th Ave South. Dapper, in a golfer-outrageous sport coat and slacks, with a brilliant smile and slight Irish accent, he could bilk a leprechaun out of his pot o' gold.

We became aware of Mr. Ouse only after he had passed a dozen or so worthless checks. This was after one of the victim merchants actually looked at one of the things. Detectives prowled 5th Avenue looking for a man in golfing togs which was like identifying one particular petunia in a patch. Back at the station, clerks were on the phone, alerting merchants to the scoundrel.

 Had not a teller, at Naples Federal, finally looked at  what she was asked to cash, he could have done his work and left town. Which, being an itinerate thief, was his plan. The teller looked at the check, said You've got to be kidding, and called the cops. We were nearby and arrested Mr. Ouse before he could scamper away.

And how had our check artist signed these checks that had been so widely accepted? Mickey M.Ouse. The NPD detectives and alias Mickey Mouse had a good laugh over the caper down at the station house. Just before we locked him away.