GRANDMA

   We all called June Folsum "Grandma." I was responsible for that moniker. June loved it.

 Had the pleasure of working with her at two agencies. First, the NPD where she was June Holtzhausen, married to Don who owned a music store. June was a dispatcher, secretary, matron, and, in reality, the real honcho of the outfit.

 She was smart, remembered everything, and had a punch like Marciano. Once, I said something that displeased her and she gave me a sample. I listened to tweety birds for several hours.

 June was a daughter in the House family, old-timers in Collier County. Dan House Prairie, in the Big Cypress is named after her father. Her family once ran the old Gulf Hotel on 5th Ave South.

  When I was a young Detective, June was the secret of my success. If something happened she'd say, "Ol' so-and-so is probably good for that one." When I asked where Ol' so-and-so could be found she'd give me a look like I'd never heard of The Three Little Pigs, then the address, and say,"Everyone knows where he lives. He's lived there for 30 years.

 And poor, ignorant me would explain that I'd only lived here two.

June went on, like so many, to the CCSO where she became the Records Supervisor. Again, June claimed all the ground she stood on and was a superior Deputy.

  Grandma left us all too soon. To the regret of many.

  Photo courtesy of Chester Keene

TIRE WEASELS

   An agitated citizen stormed into the CCSO lobby wanting to show something to a Deputy. The duty officer, Capt Crunch, said he'd take a look, seeing it was the only thing except mace that would calm the citizen down.

 Outside, the man, D.S. Gruntled pointed to his car parked at the curb. "The tires," he said, "just look at those tires."

 Crunch did. "What am I looking for? They look new, right out of the factory."

 "They are," D.S. said, "that's the point. I just bought them two days ago at Camelot Tires and I've been ripped off."

  Crunch studied the tires again. "I'm gonna need a little help here or I'm goin' back inside."

  "Look at the tires on this side," D.S. said, "then on the other. You'll see. It took me a couple days to figure it out. Knew something was wrong but couldn't pin it down."

  Crunch took a walk around the car--twice--before he saw it. Then he tried to suppress a laugh, and failing miserably, covered it with a cough.

 "It ain't funny," D.S. Gruntled said. "I got a car that's got whitewalls on one side and black walls on the other."

 Crunch choked back another spasm. "Did you take them back?"

 "Sure. And the salesman said to fill my order--bein' short on tires--they'd had to use two whites and two blacks. What's worse, he says "What's the big deal? You can only see one side of a car at a time."

 Crunch could stand no more, retreating back to his office, D.S. Gruntled in hot pursuit.

 After regaining his composure, Crunch made things right with a phone call to Camelot. At first, the salesman was reluctant. But Crunch reasoned with him, explaining that if he didn't straighten this crap out, his weasel ass was going to be looking at only one side of the scenery at a time. The side you could see out of a jailhouse window.

GRUMBLIN' ROADS

  In the 60's there was a southbound strip of Highway 17, near Zolfo Springs, that talked to drivers. Sort of. Ken Mulling showed me the rumble strip type surface one day when we had case work over around Arcadia.

 The idea, Ken explained, was that if you drove too fast over the strips they would vibrate up through your car the admonition: Slow Down. We tried it several times and were only able to coax out an unintelligible grumbling sound. It was a sound, however, that like the rumble strips that jolt inattentive drivers on highways, would get your attention.

 After I asked several other old cops if they remembered the thing, and got negative answers, I looked it up on the wellspring of all knowledge, the Internet. Wikipedia says the strip wasn't unique. There have been Musical Roads in Denmark, Japan, South Korea, and the USA. They would hum, when driven over at highway speed, everything from Mary Had A Little Lamb to The William Tell Overture. So, maybe I'm not fantasizing.

 Studying on it longer, I seem to remember that after we'd driven back and forth across it a dozen times or so something did finally rumble through my unreceptive skull. It sounded a great deal like: Get a life, stupid.

THE TONY LEMA BOYS

From left to right:  Bill Padgett, Lloyd Sisk, Steve Hornsby, Acey Edgemon, Dave Johnson and Byron Tomlinson.

  End of the day for the security detail of the 1977 Tony Lema Golf Tornament on Marco Island.  It's always what the photos don't show that tells the story--like the empty Michelob bottles on the ground from a case donated after they went off duty.

 Of course the Deputies had good reason to be in such high spirits. They'd had a good time that day.  Hanging out with members of the championship 1972 Miami Dolphins and listening to Jackie Gleason crack jokes was pretty darn good duty. 

 Thanks to Tom Smith and Dave Johnson

THOSE SNEAKY CHAIRS

  Dave Johnson strikes with yet another diabolical chair chiller. As Dave tells it:

  We had a secretary with a ponderous posterior (big butt).  She was a sweetheart, but cops can become predatory when there is an opportunity for humor.      

  We noticed she didn't have a lot of side clearance with the arms of her office chair.  It was the old sturdy steel frame kind that lasted for generations.  We decided we would psych her into going on a diet by making her think she was gaining weight.

  I brought in some large screw clamps and we began squeezing in  the arms, a little each night.  This went on until she damn near got stuck in the chair --and almost fainted from dieting.  

  Then we reversed the process!  Using a spreader bar, we pushed the arms back out a little at a time until she was comfy again.  She thought her diet had worked and all returned to normal.  

  She later found out what we did but, being the sweetheart she was, never held the station house humor against us.

THE SCENT OF SANTA

  Chester Keene reminded me of a tale of Christmas Cheer--Cop style. The officers at the NPD decided it would be a nice gesture for one of them to be Santa Clause for the PAL kids. But who could portray the jolly ol' elf?
 There were a couple of requisites. First, one of our most likable officers had to be selected, since they'd be working with children, many of whom are afraid of the fat man with a beard. (Some of our cops were gruff and broadcast menacing presence that would  terrify Lucifer) And, most importantly, the cop had to fit in the Santa suit. 

 The obvious choice was a cop we'll call Rumple. Rumple had a grand sense of humor, liked children, and the Santa suit fit him perfectly. Rumple's only possible drawback was that he was a tippler and liked his tan and foamy. But, he wasn't a drunk, and who would know?
 At the gala event, the line of children was long and eager, each with a Christmas list. All went well until one wary child climbed on Santa's knee, looked Rumple up and down, took a whiff, and bellowed, "You smell like beer!"
 We suppose Kris Kringle slid down that child's chimney early Christmas morn. But Rumple sure as hell didn't.
 

COP OUT

   We'll be away until next Thurday 23.  See you then.

SLIPPIN' AND A SLIDIN"

  Yesterday's blog brought remembrance of more slick stuff by the NPD cops. Dave Dampier recalled when we wore synthetic fabric uniform pants, that had no traction in the rear quarters, and all the patrol car seats were vinyl. You had to make sure your seat belt was buckled or braking put you into the windshield.

 To make matters worse, some joker sprayed the vinyl seat of one officer's cruiser with silicone. When he slid in, he, literally, slid to the passenger's seat.

 Chester Keene remembers when the rear seat in the cruisers were replaced with fiberglass models, to hold down the wear and tear by unruly arrestees. For those, taken into custody, who demonstrated they were true A-holes, a dose of silicone was applied to the seat, making the prisoner a ping-pong ball at every stop, start, and corner.

 This calls to mind the old platitude: When you get in a peeing contest make sure it ain't with a skunk.

OLD ROCKIN' CHAIR'S GOT ME

  When she was a rookie at the NPD, my Favorite Dispatcher--later my wife, Sandy--was the victim of dark cop humor. That was a good thing since cops don't tease folks unless they like them. Sandy was a victim of "the chair."

 Dispatchers ride a chair almost their entire shift and we tried to buy the most comfortable one our meager budget would allow. But, hoisting butts 24/7 caused them to wear out faster than a fat guy's enthusiasm for marathon running. Until we could get a new one, we made do with regular office chairs. 

 When Sandy came to work one day, one was waiting for her: a straight-back oak office chair. Since, all the offices were locked for the night, she had to use what had been provided. And she tried.

 The cop she was working with, Earl Perkins, was recuperating from a broken leg and had been assigned dispatch duties. He had a slightly better chair, but needed it because of his fracture. 

 Sandy tried hers, and it was terrible. The seat was hard as a hooker's heart and you seemed to have to brace yourself to keep from sliding out. She brought in a cushion from home and tried that, but it kept sliding out. But being a tough little woman, she kept at at. For almost a week before Perkins confessed.

 Sandy had been provided the chair from the interrogation room. This chair had been modified to put the interrogatee under pressure. The front legs had been sawed off a half-inch and the oak seat waxed.  You couldn't see the alterations by looking, only by sitting. And then you didn't realize what was being done to you.

 After she worked there a while, Sandy found out cop humor is usually a pain in the ass for someone.

WHEN YOU KNOW YOU'RE IN TROUBLE

  When selected to attended Dick Arther's polygraph (lie detector) school in New York I felt fortunate. Mr Arther was the best in the business. How good? The government had him on an airplane to Dallas to polygraph a fella named Lee Harvey Oswald when Jack Ruby cancelled out the appointment. At the time, he trained most of the CIA and FBI examiners. So you did exactly what Dick taught you to do if you wanted to be successful in the truth verification business.

 I found out right away what was important. About one week of the school was devoted to how to use the instrument (polygraph) and five weeks to interrogation techniques. The polygraph was just a doorway to the truth. The truth was obtained with interrogation.
 We learned how to meticulously set the stage to induce confessions. To put so much pressure on a suspect that they fell apart like a Chinese automobile. And most of the time it worked. But, there were times when all your devious work failed, and some cool customer was rubbing it in.

 Such a slick dude we'll Cue Kumber. Ol' Cue was a suspect in an aggravated assault--a little rowdiness at a local Knife and Gun Club. Everything was going just to plan. I had Cue trapped in the small interrogation room, his chair wedged in a corner, physically, where he couldn't get out except thru me. He was beginning to sweat. The questions were coming fast and pointed.

 One such was, "Have you ever been in the joint, Cue?"

 "Yep," he said, "but I was innocent."

 "What was it alleged that you did?"

 "They said attempted murder. . .that I stabbed a guy."

 "How'd they get that idea?"

 "Well," Cue began, "I was standin' on the corner, mindin' my own business, cleanin' my fingernails with my pocket knife, when this clown comes runnin' 'round the corner and runs right into my knife."

 "Uh-huh," I said.

 "Ran into it fifteen times," Cue said, giving me a sly smile. "Fifteen times, right in the back."
 Cue then gave a bigger smile and said, "Say, you don't have any coffee do ya? I'm as dry as a camel's cod sack."

 I hoped the coffee pot was full cause it was gonna be a long night.

IN THE COMPANY OF BUD TINNEY

  Bud Tinney was a part-time sports reporter for the Collier County News. (Naples Daily News, now) And a part-time sports reporter for WNOG. Fact was, Bud would tell you, he was part-time at most everything.

 Born under fortunate circumstances, his family owned the island they lived on in New England. Bud still lived there, occasionally, when it got warm up north. He said he spent his youth on the amateur tennis circuit, until his dad decided a reluctant Bud should really go to work and bought him a seat on the New York Stock Exchange.  He tried stock brokering a few months--until he found out how valuable the "seat" was--and promptly sold it. Since then he'd been part-timing it.

 When I first met him he had to be in his sixties. Small and wiry with a nose like Elmo, and dressed in outlandish golf garb, he was hard to miss. And harder yet not to like. Bud would've fit nicely in any Damon Runyon story.

 Bud, and other reporters, liked to hang out at the NPD and we enjoyed having them. There was a desk set aside for when they actually took notes from the reports for a story, but mostly they drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, and BS'ed with the officers.

  Bud came in one day with a photograph of him and Richard Nixon. It was taken on a local golf course during one of Tricky Dick's visits and was one of probably a hundred Nixon had taken with anyone who wasn't  ashamed to be photographed with him. Bud wanted to borrow an envelope so he could mail it off to Nixon and have him sign it. When he received an askance look, he said, "Dick's an old friend of mine."   Uh-huh.
 "I'll call him in advance and tell him it's coming," he explained.
 "That's the White House," I said.
 "I have another number," he said.
 Bud was alway telling how many celebrities he knew. Said he'd met them when he was a hot-shot tennis player. We chalked the Nixon thing up to that kind of polluted air.
 Until, a couple weeks later, when Bud returned with the photo and an inscription from Tricky Dick about how much he'd enjoyed talking to Bud on the phone, and how much he missed him.
 Later, Bud brought in an album with photos of him with the "A" list of Hollywood. After the Nixon thing, it looked good to me.

SANTA'S ELVES IN BLUE

  One Christmas long ago, two desperados were caught in the act of larceny. The culprits: two elderly ladies. Their prize: a Christmas tree.

 It was 11 PM on Christmas eve when the two were collared, at a tree lot, surreptitiously stuffing a prime pine into the trunk of their station wagon. The two, short on funds, but brimming with Christmas spirit, were going to deliver it to a nursing home. Explaining the theft, they said they figured, due to the late hour, the remaining trees were going to waste anyway. 

 Chester Keene was one of the cops who caught them. He, too, was overwhelmed with their misdirected good intentions. After talking to the lot's owner, he struck a deal on a reduced price, the other working cops chipped in, and the ladies were given the tree as a present and sent on their way.

 Chester said, looking back, it was one of his best Christmases ever.

 Who said Santa's elves all wear red and green?

DOOBIE CANES

  Lila Zuck, local historian and author of "Naples Oldest Tradition, Swamp Buggy Days" reminds us of a stunt pulled in 1977 to promote marijuana legalization.

 Lt. Paul Sireci was opening his morning mail, just before Christmas, when he discovered in a bulging envelope, an extra large, candy cane shaped marijuana cigarette. He wasn't alone.

 A group calling itself the "Naples Buffalo Association" mailed the festive doobies to several well known area residents, including the Mayor. They said their purpose was "to show our total disregard and utter disrespect to the antiquated and unjust marijuana laws, we have taken our time--and reefer--to share with these select people in this holiday season, a chance to experience before they condemn."

 Getting sent marijuana cigarettes during the holiday season was nothing new, but these candy cane doobies were a unique twist. Problem was cops don't write the laws we just enforce them, some of which we don't agree with.

 Paul Sireci laughed, and sent his to the evidence locker. I kept mine for New Years Eve.

 Nah, you know better than that.

 Thanks to the Daytona Beach Morning Journal. 

BUDDY'S GIFT

 Nothing to do with the cops. Just a story I like to remember at Christmas time.

 Buddy dreaded this time every year. Christmas time. Time for you to give a gift to the student in your class whose name you drew. It wasn't that he was cheap or didn't like Christmas. It was that Buddy was poor. So poor he wore clothes that, though impeccably clean, were patches upon patches. Wore shoes with the sole taped so it wouldn't flap.

 Most of us were hard up back then, the end of the depression, the war and all, but Buddy made us look like Hiltons.

 Buddy drew my name that year, in the third-grade class in Spring Hill, W.Va., and when gift time came he proudly placed a cigar box on my desk. It was not wrapped, festive paper being a luxury he could not afford. 
 I opened the box and was stunned. It was Buddy's collection of marbles. A collection he loved. The most beautiful aggies he'd won in the marble rings scratched in the playground dirt. And he'd given them to me.

 Even at that young age I knew I'd received a special gift. While the rest of us gave something, Buddy had given all.
 And, knowing their worth, they were a cherished possession. For about two weeks. The time it took for him to win them all back from me.

A FRIEND IN LOW PLACES

  An attractive paradise like Naples has always been a haven for the rich and shameless. Captains of industry. Corporate heads. And,  to the captains of other forms of skullduggery. Gangsters. Mafia chiefs--all "retired", of course. In truth, they were retired while living in Naples, adhering to the old mob adage "you don't crap where you eat." 
  One such baron of the bad guys we'll call Tony Bandana. Tony had been a kingpin in the Detroit Mafia. Some law enforcement agents, familiar with Tony's Detroit operation, said he ran the place. That no ongoing criminal enterprise in the Motor City survived without Tony's sanction and tariffs.

 The FBI regularly visited Naples to keep an eye on Tony, parking near his house in nondescript cars, keeping track of the comings and goings--particularly when there were meetings with out-of-town-not-so-retired associates. In short, he was a major crime figure and it was no secret.

 Ray Barnett remembers one afternoon, when Tony was at the Bank of Naples attending to his accounts. Leaving, he put his attache case on top of his Lincoln while he unlocked the door. And, like the rest of us sometimes do, he drove off, leaving the attache case at the curb after it slid off the roof. A good Samaritan reported the found case and Ray was called to the scene. He opened the case, to ID the owner, and was able to determine the owner was Anthony Bandana.
 How could he miss. Inside were two, personalized, 8 by 10 photos of a couple of Anthony's admirers: Former President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his Eminence the Pope.

THE SEVEN SHOT REVOLVER

  Bad Boy John Boom may've been the worse shot with a revolver in CCSO history. He was so inaccurate, when annual qualification time came Deputies tried to find out what time he was qualifying. Then make sure they were elsewhere.

 You could count on him putting several of his shots into the targets on either side of his. And he once set fire to a blanket placed on the ground--to be used in prone position firing--by shooting a hot round into it. His gun was likely to go off at anytime in any direction. But, Bad Boy had other uses for a revolver. Dave Johnson remembers one.

 As the story goes, one hoppin' Friday night Bad Boy checked out at a Juke, one of the finer establishments of the day off South Boston.  He spotted a miscreant that was wanted for petty thievery and ordered him to come hither for some up close and personal John Boom love. 

The culprit declined and turned rabbit. Bad  Boy started after him.  Trouble was John was built like a kettle, not exactly an attribute of  track stars.  He knew he couldn't outrun his prey, so he pulled out his nickel-plated Colt Diamondback and, still at full gallop, started shooting. 

 Now, John had this particular habit that did not bode well for accuracy.  He shot a revolver with a technique which resembled someone trying to sling something nasty off their trigger finger.  Needless to say, John hit everything that night but the object of his intention. People and stray dogs scattered like flies. 

 Bad Boy, however, was not to be denied and, after his sixth and last shot, threw the empty revolver at the thief and brained him with it.  He finished up the job with a few good licks of his trusty slapper, then hauled the desperado off to the jailhouse.

 Only in Immokalee, only when Bad Boy was the Big Boss-Man.  
 Editor's Note: Bad Boy wasn't the only cop who found secondary uses for the tools of their trade. A Sergeant with the NPD and later the CCSO, who we'll call RD, was as accurate throwing a six-cell flashlight as an Aborigine with a boomerang. RD didn't like to run either and those who fled him regularly heard a whoosh in the air behind them--just before they were knocked silly--that wasn't the bird of paradise.

FASHION STATEMENT TWO

   Chester Keene remembers a morning when he was working in the Bailiff's Bureau of the CCSO. One of the Deputies had showed up for work in sunglasses. Seems they were required by his eye doctor because he'd had a minor procedure. He took his place in the jury box where all the other Bailiffs were awaiting their court assignments for the day.

 The Lieutenant, upon entering the room, spotted the glasses immediately. 

 "What's with the shades?" he said, "We all wear uniforms in this outfit. And they're called that for a reason. It means we are all dressed the same: uniform. Get it?"
 The bespectacled Bailiff explained why he was wearing them and the Lieutenant responded with a non-apologetic grunt. This rude abruptness caused the other Bailiffs to suspect that their supervisor's personnel skills needed a little touching up. And they decided to do just that.

 The next morning, at roll call, every Bailiff wore a pair of shades. And when the Lieutenant arrived he found, just as he had demanded, each Deputy uniformly attired.

 The photograph of this fashion statement is above, taken by Chester whose vacant chair is visible in the middle. He said the picture would have been a little better but his shades got in the way.

DIVORCE BAD BOY STYLE

  John "Bad Boy" Boom had other unorthodox talents that came in handy in the Immokalee ghetto. Ray Barnett remembers one of them. As he tells it:

 After I'd left the NPD and joined the CCSO, I witnessed Bad Boy performing one of his famous divorces. He split the possessions--better then any court--and told the male partner what he had to pay in child support, and when he could visit. 

  I was told that at times he would make them swear on his badge.  The divorces were handled faster and better than the courts. And because they were a Bad Boy edict, no one with half a brain would violate them. Incidentally, there was no fee for the legal or medical services. This worked well, too, since his clients were usually short on the long green stuff. 

 We used a similar system in McDonald's Quarters in the City. When it became obvious that a couple needed to be separated before they separated each other via murder or mayhem, we'd divorce them.

 The ceremony involved having them jump backwards over a broom on the floor. This voided a marriage that had been made by jumping forward over a broom, one of the "old ways" of doing it.

 Then the cop, with fitting solemnity, would place his hand over his badge and recite, "By the power vested in me by the State of Florida, I pronounce you divorced." A return visit was seldom necessary.
 A strange way to do business? It wasn't for all, but for those who believed in mojos, black cat bones, and possum pecker good luck charms it worked just grand. 

  

BATTLEFIELD SURGEON

 Immokalee in the 60's was more labor camp than town. There were a few stores and decent homes but you didn't stray far off the main highway. Filth and squalor dominated the environs. 
 That's because Immokalee existed for farming--tomato and watermelon, mostly. And the product had to be picked. And that required hundreds of migrant workers--blacks at the time--who were herded up elsewhere by a "Straw Boss" and bused in. Here, they lived under conditions that made Naples McDonald's Quarters ghetto opulent by comparison: three and four families to a motel-room-sized hovel  fit for a gulag.
 Degradation, despair, and hopelessness are always fertile ground for violence and that was a prime crop in Immokalee, too. Cuttings, beatings, shooting were on each day's agenda. A murder was no more remarkable than the 98 % humidity or a sweaty shirt, sticking to your back, in the 100 degree heat. 
 Someone had to police this mess, and that fell upon the CCSO. The job required someone with particular talents. Although there were decent family types among the migrants, the roving, no-questions-asked lifestyle--like a carnival-- was a magnet for low-lifes and scumbags on the dodge.
 The man selected to keep the lid on this garbage can was John Boom. Called Bad Boy. With good reason. A thick and gruff man, his reputation as someone you "bess not mess wiff" was well deserved.  Bad Boy was fair and helpful--in his way--but demanded compliance to his version of law and order and had unique methods to make sure that happened. Today's FBI would've had to set up an Immokalee field office just to handle the civil rights violations he perpetrated.
 Ray Barnett remembers being in Immokalee during the MLK riots. Still an NPD cop, he'd been loaned to help quell the violence. He was in the small Immokalee Sub-station, with Bad Boy and Immokalee Investigator Don McCarty, when an elderly black man stumbled in. His face was covered with blood. He went to Bad Boy.
 Bad Boy inspected him, found the injury, and took out a pocket knife. Using it as a scalpel, he cut out a .22 cal bullet lodged between the skull and skin, poured alcohol on the wound and sent his patient home.
 Ray gave McCarty a quizzical look. 
 "You ought to see what he can do with a needle and thread," McCarty said.
 More to come. . .

LET'S SUE SOMEONE!

  Once you retire and get a good dose of daytime TV, you discover there are some troubling constants. First, there's little on except "court" shows. Then there are the commercials, the majority pleas from slimy personal injury attorneys to sue someone. Everyone. Or collect Social Security you are not due. Or other dubious deeds that have caused these crooks to be held in such low regard. And I just read we have more than all the other countries in the world combined!

 Now, let's get this straight. I have nothing against the legal profession. Some of my good friends are attorneys. People I admire that perform a necessary service. It's the weasels I have trouble with. The ones who make a living by suing every doctor, drug company, automaker--you name it--on ludicrous claims. Spilled hot coffee at McDonalds stuff. 
 I've being going to doctors for a long time and I can't recall ever contemplating a law suit for damages. Nor, can I think of anyone who has. This malpractice stuff is rare. But the manufactured fake claims support an industry.

 It's no wonder drugs, medical care, and auto insurance cost so much. And Social Security is in jeopardy. Throw all these bums out!
 Yep, I had it all figured out. Then, I read in the paper this morning that a federal study found that 1 in 7 Medicare patients are harmed in the hospital. That means either hurt or die from sloppy hospital habits. That almost 100, 000 die each year from preventable medical mistakes. That it cost us $4 billion in extended hospital stays. So much for malpractice.

 Then, I remembered giving a polygraph test to a man we'll call Carl Candor. When strapped to a "lie detector" some develop a phenomenon called by cops "puking their guts up." They tell you the truth about everything. Even things not related to the issue in question. Things you don't care about. Carl was such a subject.

 During the preliminaries, to calm him down, I made light conversation, asking him what work he did. He said he was an insurance adjustor. I asked exactly what that entailed.

 He said, aware he was attached to a polygraph, "Well, first I try to screw the other company's client. And if that doesn't work, I try to screw our own."

 So maybe we should thin the personal injury field down a bit. But not eliminate them, entirely.

FASHION STATEMENT

This is the CCSO Criminal Investigation Division from the mid-1980's, probably about the time of the nationally famous Benson murder trial. Harold Young, in the center was the lead investigator on that case.

 For some reason the gang is all sporting "Clarence Darrow" type suspenders. Usually when something like this happened it was better off not to know why.

 Pictured left to right, are Mike Gideon, Bill Stiess, Scott Barnett, Jackie Kline, Jack Gant, Harold Young, Chuck Campbell, Tom Smith, Gene Brown, Mike Koors, Tom Storrar, and Dave Johnson.

LAST MAN STANDING

   Some folks that listen to my yarns give me a certain look. A doubting look. A Anyone that can pile it that deep and keep a straight face oughta run for office look. These doubters are always civilians. Cops, who are usually the worst skeptics, are seldom surprised. They've seen so much the bizarre is common place. That said, I'm warning everyone in advance this one is going to be hard to swallow. But, it was related to me by Ray Barnett (right) while in the company of other old-timers who'd also been witnesses and verified it. So, here goes.

 The "drunk tank" was a common fixture in all old jails. In smaller jails, where there were just a few cells, many times all the cells were designed so they could be tanks. The tank was an oversized cell, bare except for maybe a toilet, and a bolted- down iron bench or two. There was also a drain in the center of the floor.

 A trip to the drunk tank put many an errant youth on the righteous path. One Saturday night of being packed in with filthy inebriates, who puked and pissed on each other--and you--did not beg for a repeat performance. Worse still, to get them all spiffy for court, some time in the early morning the Jailer would turn a hose on the lot, using the floor drain to dispose of the filth.

 After one boisterous night in Immokalee, the little jail was packed full. Standing room only. Inmates clustered in tight packed groups, tighter than the illegal alien benefits line at the Social Security Office. When the door was unlocked, to sort them out, all passed out of the tank except one who stood alone for a second, then toppled over like a chainsawed pine. On inspection, it was determined he was dead. Signal-7. And, from his condition, had been for some hours.
 Ray says that he can still hear Joe Cocker singing "I get by with a little help from my friends," every time he thinks about it.
 Photo courtesy Chester Keene

DIVINE INTERVENTION, TOO

 The Reverend was telling me his problems. We'll call him Reverend Most. He was pastor of a well-healed congregation in fat and frilly part of North Naples. Most was an acquaintance I liked to talk with. I didn't go to his church, either. Nor anyone else's. We never talked about religion.

 "Problem is," he said, "the congregation thinks that I require a new car every couple of years. That either I do, or the wife. And they buy us one. Big, expensive ones."

 "Geez, Most," I said, "that's awful. Wish I had your problems."

 "I know," the Reverend said, "it sounds silly but it's awkward. Every two years a new Caddy or Lincoln shows up. And I still have the old one to get rid of. They never trade it in. I've told them I don't want a new car, but it does no good."

 "Problem solved," I said. "Next time it happens, find yourself a deserving soul and exercise a little Christian charity. Give them the old one. Some deserving soul like a hard working public servant."

 He laughed, and we moved on to equally frivolous conversation.

 About two months later Rev Most gave me a ring. "How would you like to have a slightly used Caddy Sedan de Ville?" he said.

 I was stunned, then remembered our conversation. "I was just teasing you the other day. I couldn't take something like that."

 "And I couldn't give it to you," Most said. "But I could sell it to you at a heck of a price." And he did, doing both of us a favor.

 It was a 1971 aqua Caddy, one of the big four-doors. And it was loaded. A honey. Sandy and I at the time were driving a Volkswagen Carmen Ghia that would have fit in its trunk.

 But the venture was star-crossed from the beginning. I'll always believe the car had a mind of its own and knew it had been traded-down to drivers beneath its station. The problems started immediately.

 It was 1973 and within two-weeks the phony oil shortage started. Gas shot up to prohibitive levels--if you could get it. And here we're sitting with a hog with an almost 500 cubic inch motor that was always thirsty.

 Next, a visiting friend, backing out of our driveway and not realizing how long tour parked Caddy was, bashed in the rear quarter-section.

 Then there was the trip to Atlanta to visit Sandy's grandma, Big Mama. On the way up, we were nearly capsized when the left front tire blew off the rim. Before we got to A-Town, two more had done the same. (Radial tires were new at the time and less than perfect)

 On the trip back, the automatic temperature control went goofy and wouldn't blow anything but cold air. And you couldn't turn it off. This was during a December cold snap with the air as frigid as GM's heart. When we got back we found the repair on the thing would cost a fortune. I went to Bob Taylor's Chevy and traded it in.

 "Don't make many deals like that," Bob said. "Most folk don't trade in a Caddy for a pickup truck."

 "Just goin' back where I belong," I told him, serious as a case of crotch crickets.

DIVINE INTERVENTION

 Reverend Walter Lauster wasn't my preacher. I wasn't a member of The Church of God, on 10th Street North, of which he was the minister. Not a member of any church for that matter. Fact was, my relatives in West Virginia would've called me a backslider. Don't know if the good reverend knew that as he never asked my religious affiliation or anything about my beliefs, if any. That's one of the things I admired about him.

 Our only dealings were tied to the police business--answering calls at or about his church. We did get an occasional call from neighbors about what they perceived to be an over- enthusiastic church service. I'm told Rev Lauster could shovel the fire and brimstone with great vigor but have no personal knowledge of it. I always found him to be a straight-forward gent who didn't try to save the world but might've been able to if he set his mind to it.

 Those were the circumstances of our relationship. So I was mildly surprised when he showed up at my office, shorty after I was appointed Chief of Police, concerning a personal matter. He came right in, we shook hands, and he gave me my instructions. "Chief," he said, "we're going to kneel down and pray. I'll do the talking, you just listen."

 I was really surprised by then and my face had to have shown it.

 "Come on over here and kneel down," he commanded. "You may not realize it yet, but with the job you have you're gonna need some help." And his manner was such I did what he said.

 Turns out, he was right. And every few months, usually when I needed help the most, he'd seem to know, show up, and give me a "booster" prayer. I never questioned his visits. They just seemed a natural thing, like taking a handful of aspirins when you have a headache. Or a cool breeze when it's too damn hot.

 Hope he knew how much he helped me.
Ray Barnett reminded me that I wasn't the only one he helped. "He helped a lot of cops and criminals and did it anonymously. He really practiced what he preached."

LUXURY PATROL CARS

  For a time, Ford owned a test track in Golden Gate. (Now owned by Harley-Davidson) It had a huge, paved, track and several shop-type buildings--the complete deal. And the Sheriff's Office was a grand benefactor.

 Ford was looking for someone who could put miles on their proposed models and engines under rigorous conditions. Since no cars are more put to the test than police vehicles, we were a perfect match. So, they'd give us vehicles to test and we put them on patrol. It was a great deal for the taxpayers, but there were some odd caveats.

 On some, we weren't allowed to lift the hood, look at the engine. Others, a Ford rep would supervise oil changes, maintenance, etc. The rules were understandable since Ford was trying to keep this info secret from competitors.

 And, some folks would see vehicles with shape altering appendages driving on the streets of the Elephant's Graveyard. They were just another proposed model with a new look Ford was trying to hide.

  Aside from the free vehicles, we got to test some unusual ones. Years ago, we tested total electric Ford Rangers. We had these pickups for several years. Everyone loved them. They would out-drag any police car and were quiet as a muffled mouse. It makes you wonder what the big deal is on getting them on the market now.

  Sometimes, Ford's benevolence caused unforeseen problems. Once, Ford delivered five new vehicles for us to test. They were big and they were beautiful. And comfy? They should have been, they were Lincolns. Problem was, as soon as they hit the street with Sheriff's markings the phone started ringing. No damn wonder are taxes are so high, driving Lincolns for patrol cars.

 It took a little explaining on that one.

CONVOLUTED LOGIC

 Ray Barnett, my detective partner at the time, and I had a problem. A merchant on 5th Ave South was boosting profits with a bookie operation. Generally, since it wasn't a crime of violence, we put moral crimes low on the priority list. But, this guy was operating so blatantly, he was probably going to take out an ad in the Yellow Pages next. So, since he was uncool about it, we decided to ice him down. And that presented a problem.

 The hurdle was that much of these operations are by phone and we had no bugging equipment. Stuff like that was out of our budget range. So we improvised, and rigged a common portable voice-activated tape recorder to tap the store's telephone lines, hiding the recorder in the store's overhead, drop ceiling. (Don't ask how we got in the store to do it)

 Since there was no way to monitor the recorder, we'd go back each night and see what'd been captured on the tapes. One evening we listened to an interesting conversation between the owner and his wife. It went like this:

 Wife: "I'm worried about the gambling thing, taking bets. We could get caught, put in jail."

 Bookie: "I tol' you not to worry, the cops ain't gonna bother us."

 Wife: "Why not? It's against the law."

 Bookie: "True, but the cops know you can't stop people from gambling, and whoring, and takin' dope. So it's low priority. Besides, if we don't do it the Mafia will. Don't you think they'd rather have decent folks like us be the bookies, than some crooked Mafia thugs?"

 Ray and I laughed, then looked at each other, realizing he was absolutely right.

JUDGE JUDY

  Don't know how long Judge Judy has lived in Naples but she does. Some of the cops have met her and say she's a sweetheart, not like the tough judge with the smart mouth on TV. I never watched Judge Judy until retirement, and she was one of about fifty that permeate daytime TV--the court shows and those personal injury attorneys trying to get folks to sue everyone. No damn wonder health and insurance care is so expensive.

 Howsumever, if you watch Her Honor a few times you'll see why she's number one. Judge Judy is the antithesis of political correctness. She says the things we would all like to say and to the folks who need to hear it. She calls it the way she see it. As an example.
  To a man who'd been collecting disability for ten years for a bad back and yet had a furniture moving business. You are a thief, a scammer. You should be in jail. And to his wife when she tried to intercede, You're a thief too, you knew about it.
 Then to a stay at home dad who'd been on public assistance for as long as he could remember. You're a lazy bum who produces children we have to pay for. You should get another hobby.
  And to a young couple who moved out of their apartment after trashing it and leaving it filthy with rotting bags of garbage. You're not even human. An animal wouldn't live like that. And it's not that you don't have the time to clean up. Neither of you work, and we're paying for you to be slobs.
 One of the great things about being a cop was you could tell it like it was, too. Or, at one time you could.

THE HIGH COST OF VOTE BUYING

  Watching all the election shenanigans makes you wonder why someone would spend $120 million, of their own money, for a job that pays a couple-hundred thousand. And who is contributing all that money for candidates and causes.

 Working on the Sheriff's Department up in Foggy Bottom, Tennessee I got the answers real quick. Old Foggy was a dry county, no hard liquor. You couldn't go into a friendly bar and get a quick snort. And just about every election there was an amendment to do away with that stupidity. And it always failed. Why? Cause there were huge dollars spent to insure that it did.

 Most of this money was put up by the churches. Understandable. One could see why hard shells would be against imbibing the evil brew. But the churches did really put up the money. The money was given to them by the bootleggers.

 Since we dumped prohibition, you can hardy find a bootlegger anywhere. Except communities that never got the word that prohibition didn't work and is over. But in up-tight communities, the bootleggers can thrive and have a vested interest in keeping a county dry. They know folks are gonna drink anyway and they can supply all they need. If suddenly you could buy booze anywhere, who'd need them. So they shoveled out money to the churches for them to do their good deeds for them. And it worked. Maybe still does, I don't know.

 Kinda makes you wonder who put up all that money in California to insure the defeat of the marijuana legalization law. Let's see, who would have the vested interest. . .