THERE'S SOMETHING ROTTEN ABOUT HIS CASE

  Old-timers remember when the airport, then entirely at Radio Road and Airport, was not just a terminal but a cluster of one story, barracks-type buildings. They'd been left there from WWII and afterwards used for most anything they could accommodate. Some folks even lived there. Gradually, they were torn down. During this process, one of my old associates and retired cop Chester Keene was sent there. It went like this, in his own words:

  Someone had called in a Signal-7 (dead body) at the airport. I arrived at the location and found an old aircraft being stripped down to be part of the off-shore artificial reef. Sitting about midway back was what appeared to be a corpse. It was sitting up, wearing a trench coat and ball cap. The cap rested atop a rotting head, the meat falling off and flies feasting. The detectives had already been there and the plane was fenced off with yellow crime scene tape to protect the evidence and keep people away. That was fine with me. The smell was horrendous.

  We waited for the Medical Examiner, Dr Smith, to arrive so the next steps in the investigation could proceed. On scene, he hastened to the corpse, began picking at the head, then backed off and roared laugher.

  "You have something dead here, alright? he said, " a dead chicken."

  "What?"

 "A dead chicken. Someone has a strange sense of humor."

  And he was right. On closer inspection, we found a rotting carcass sitting on top of the propped-up coat, and hidden by the ball cap. We wondered what was going on until we started filling out our report.

  First line, Date: April 1st. We'd been had. April Fool's Day.

FLIP, FLOP, AND LIE

  The recent completion of work around I-75's Golden Gate interchange caused me to recall when it should've been completed. How about the early 80's, over twenty-years before. So what happened?

 Original plans called for an interchange exactly where it is now, with connecting roads exactly where they are now. In conjunction with this project, it was recommended, by the State and federal traffic engineers, that parking on US 41, in downtown Naples, be eliminated. This, because engineers knew that I-75 would draw much more traffic to Naples and US 41 would need the extra lane created by removing parking. Pretty sound thinking and seemingly a done deal until some of our inglorious leaders got hold of it.

 The NPD worked closely with the State in planning the project and one engineer, who we'll call Mac Grader, made many trips with extended stays working on same. Our first problem came with an explanation of the project to the City Council. It became obvious early that there was going to be opposition, led by a local "civic leader" we referred to as B.S. Overload.

 B.S., and his misguided retinue, reckoned that we didn't want an interchange at Golden Gate because it would just funnel more folks into Naples. And Naples, at the time, was an advocate of the Reverse Field of Dreams dictum: If you don't build it they won't come. Let 'em get off in the County. Let them deal with 'em.

 The County, being much more progressive at the time, heartily agreed. Glad to accommodate!

 B.S. also argued that if the G Gate interchange wasn't built, there wouldn't be any need to ban parking on US 41. He was against that plan because it would create a "speedway." And the merchants needed the parking for customers.

 Mr Overload was such a pain in the rumble seat, we scheduled a meeting, to try to better explain our proposition. He readily agreed.

 Mac explained why the project was needed, and if not now, soon after--at much greater expense. B.S. would have none of it. As the meeting was breaking up, he took me aside and said, "You better get your partner to change his plans or I'll change them for him." That was it.

 Mac, of course, would have none of that. Besides the money already invested it was just dumb thinking. Two days later he changed his mind.

 Mac came into my office and dropped into a chair like a load of wet rocks. "Where's Palatka?" he asked. "Somewhere in Poland?" 

"Don't know," I said, "maybe up around Jacksonville someplace. Why?"

"Just got a call from my boss. I've been transferred there. Effective immediately."

 And he was. And the interchange was eliminated and parking remained on US 41.

 Sometime later I inquired of B.S. just what he'd done. He smiled, said, "Just takes one phone call, son. If you have the right number." And that was it.

 But even the dumbest student is no longer left behind and, a few years later, B.S. realized he was wrong and reversed his position, leading the fight to remove parking from 41.

 Then, he ran, successfully, for City Council, touting "Elect the man who removed parking from US 41." 

 Evidently, having no shame is a political asset.

COUNCILMAN SPEAK WITH FORKED TONGUE

 The recent sleazy, partisan, national politics surrounding the Health Care bill calls to mind some weasels we had on the local level. And there were/are several. Some of their acts so blatantly two-faced you wonder how they get away with it. But, they do, relying on the short memory of the voters. 

 One "lifer" County politician used to laugh at the voter's stupidity, saying their memory was only six- months long. He'd say he could take a crap on the Courthouse steps, in front of the Girl Scouts, and in six- months it would be forgotten. He may have had a point.

  Another barfbag, showed total disregard for the public's ability to even recognize his disingenuous rhetoric. He was a City Councilman and we'll call him Ol' Split-tongue. 

  At the time, the union pot was boiling: to the workers making a hearty soup; to the City a witch's caldron. The City worker's doing the cooking were the police officers. Tired of the City's arbitrary and unfair policy regarding tenure, a strong pro-union push was underway. 

  The movement's momentum had grown until the City had to recognize it. A public forum was held in the City Council Chambers. Because of the overflow crowd, space was reserved for the "public." Police officers had to stand outside. Even those who lived in the City and were taxpayers and, therefore, the "public."

  During one of the vigorous exchanges, Ol' Split-tongue reckoned that the City should identify all those cops pushing for a union and fire them, forthwith. This, of course, was the main reason a union was needed because such firings were, indeed, possible.

  Howsumever, not ten-minutes later the meeting recessed. Ol' Split-tongue chose not to use the rear chamber exit and walked directly out the front door into the angry crowd. There had to be many there who, even though being locked outside, had heard what he'd said. But, standing on the top step, pumping his fist in the air, he shouted., "Give 'em hell boys, I'm with you." Then he gave a mock salute, and ambled away. Before the stunned crowd could compute what had just happened he was gone.

  Ol' Split-tongue went on to win several more terms at this office and that and was never called into account for being a frequent, notorious liar. 

  The shame in this country is we have come to expect politicians to act in this manner.

   

KING OF THE PACKRATS

  Dick Cooper, a cop I had the pleasure of working with at the NPD and CCSO, received a call from a concerned neighbor in Royal Harbor.  Something was amiss with the man next door. Arriving on the scene, Dick saw the man in his yard, on his knees, behind a cheap push mower. His hands were still holding the mower's handle--a neat trick since he was stone dead.

  Cooper made the appropriate calls, then went to see if there was anyone in the house. Opening the door, he could see into the kitchen. The kitchen table was shoved into a corner and on it was piled money, so much that some had slid onto the floor. Cooper entered.

  The house was found to be vacant, and what Cooper discovered inside still, to this day, blows his mind. In the bedroom, the dresser had five dollar bills stacked on top. Opening the drawers, he found them packed full of fivers, rubber-banded in bundles, and marked as to amount. And that wasn't all!

  The closets and dressers throughout the house were similarly packed. Shoe boxes in the closets stored tens, twenties, up to and including $100 bills. The final total was well over $800,000 dollars. Cash money! Ms Mamie Tooke was called at the Bank of Naples and arrangements made to store the load. Dick says it took a van to carry it off.

 When Cooper checked the garage, he found the deceased also had a fondness for canned goods. Stacked up to seven-feet high, and sorted by contents, were tomatoes, peas, beans, you name it. All seemingly purchased when on sale and some stored so long the cans had rusted out and were seeping juice.

  Not much was ever found out about this strange customer. No friends, family, known source of income.

  The money was eventually converted to government use, none ever put to the arcane purpose for which it had been hoarded. 

Thanks to Ray Barnett and Dick Cooper

VOODOO? HOODOO? YOU DO?

  Everyone knows that Voodoo is just something scary in the movies. Right? That it can't hurt you. Keerect? That's true. Unless you believe it. Then it can kill you. A death spell placed on a true believer can cause that cursed soul to wither and die. Happens with regularity.

  In our office, at the CCSO, Roger Fussell and I had displayed some artifacts taken from a Voodoo grave discovered in some remote area of Golden Gate. We had the small statue of Chango, who--if properly plied with sacrifices--will intercede with the divine gods that allow you into voodoo heaven. We also had a voodoo doll, a statuette of a black, female figure, some dried fruit and lizards, and the letter to Chango himself. All this had been sprinkled with chicken blood. (Our lab folks had checked)

  There were people that came into our office who would take one look at the display, and do one of those feet don't fail me now moves. Some were police officers. One of the officers would, thereafter, cross the street if he saw me coming. He told other cops I was a devil. He was terrified of me.

  In South Florida, people on the street that are practitioners of Santeria--Haitian Voodoo--are common. A ubiquitious mojo found in a bag tied around their necks is the forked bone from an possum's penis--a fertility enhancer. 

  And I know that some of us cops--and other bureaucrats--are called zombies. But a cop believing in Voodoo?

  How do folks get in such a condition? What's the appeal? I just never could understand the fascination of Voodoo. Build a big fire, do the naked zombie dance with a bunch of lustful, writhing Voodoo priestesses. Guzzling aphrodisiacs until everyone ends up bumpin' uglies in a squirming orgy. Who would that appeal to?

THE HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMP OF NAPLES

  In the late 1950's Scruff McGullis was the undisputed heavyweight champion. Of Naples. On Saturday nights. At The Barn, and other watering holes where fights were common, he reigned supreme.
  Scruff wasn't particular. Every customer was subject to his abuse. And, if he wasn't too drunk, he was tough. Fisherman tough from a lifetime of pulling the nets.
 On this evening, Scruff was disappointed. Try as he might he hadn't been able to provoke even a spirited shoving match. But, salvation was at hand.
  He would’ve been much taller, the fella that walked up to the bar, maybe six-feet-three, if he wasn’t so stoop-shouldered. His walk was splayfooted and his arms hung loose like broken lanyards. Right comical he was, too, with a shock of dark hair drooping over his forehead, a big nose, squinty eyes, and a mouth as wide as an Okeechobee bass. A perfect opponent!
  Scuff leaned over the bar and asked the tender if he knew the stranger. ”One of them actor fellas,” the bartender replied. “Been in here a couple a times. Down here working on some TV show about cops in Tallahassee.”
  Scruff ordered another beer and stomped down to his proposed adversary.
  The actor wasn’t sitting on a stool, just resting his elbows of the bar casual like. Scuff preferred to attack someone while they were sitting. But, he figured he could whip this clown on roller skates in a phone booth.
  So, he made his overture: “Say, I hear tell you’re one of them actors.”
  No response.
  “I said,” this time a little louder, “I heard you're one of them Hollywood actors.”
  The actor turned to Scruff, gave him a squint-eyed once over and said, “Actually, I’m from New York, and there are those in the business who would debate you on my acting prowess.”
  Big words. Big, fancy words with a Yankee accent. There was nothing that riled Scruff worse than fancy talk, unless it was a Yankee accent. He was really gonna enjoy this.
  “I heard all you actors were queer,” he said. “Queers or pre-verts, like to help sheep over the fence, and like that.”
  The actor sighed, put down his beer. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve all enjoyed your witty repartee. Now, why don’t you let me finish my drink in peace, and I’ll be on my way.”
  Scruff laughed. “Bet you would, ‘bout now, like to be on your way. But that ain’t gonna happen ‘less you go through me.”
  The actor smiled, “That being the case, perhaps we can engage in some genial conversation. Maybe you can answer a question for me. One that always arises when I meet a gentleman such as yourself.”
  Scruff frowned. “What kinda question?”
  “I was just wondering, do little town’s hire buffoons like you to be the village idiot, or do you volunteer as a public service?”
  Scruff didn’t know what a “buffoon” was, but he was damn sure familiar with “idiot.” Rage rolled over him like a hurricane tide. He snorted, cocked his big right arm, started to fire it and . . . his lights went out.
  Eyewitness accounts vary as to just what the actor hit Scruff with. Some say a left hook, others a straight right, still others the ol' one-two. All agreed on one matter: the punch had been fast and devastating. One second Scruff was in front of the actor, bowed up, ready to unleash lightening, the next second he was on his back, eyes wide open but seeing nothing. They also remember the actor’s departure, gesturing as though tipping a hat, saying “Ladies, gentlemen, a fond adieu, and goodnight.”
  Scruff would later claim that it was a sucker punch—and a damn lucky one—that had put out his lights. In truth, he knew he’d been poleaxed with a killer blow delivered by someone who knew exactly how to do it.
  Fact of the matter was, Scruff was right. It hadn’t, from the start, been a fair fight. Although he didn’t look it, the actor had been forged from premium ore, polished by tenacity, sweat, and grit.
  A Jewish Russian immigrant at age three, with an unpronounceable, fifteen consonants, and vowels name, he grew up poor, hard, and tough on the mean streets of the New York’s Lower East Side. He’d lettered in six varsity sports in high school, was a decorated veteran of WW II, and had once managed a gym, being expert enough a boxer to teach the sweet science to policemen as part of their self defense training.
  Few are left who remember the momentous night. The Barn has long since succumbed to the developer’s blade, the site, near the intersection of Davis Boulevard and US 41, now an auto repair shop. Scruff is a ghost in the fog of local folklore.
  And the New York actor fella who whipped Scruff McGullis? His role on the TV series Tallahassee 7000 was the break he needed to make it to the big time. And hit the big time he did. After a career that lasted over fifty years, he remains one of our most beloved actors. A winner of the Academy Award, Golden Globe, and every other accolade Hollywood has to offer, his biographies always overlook one other achievement. The obscure yet absolute fact that at one time, long ago, in a small Florida town, he was the heavyweight champion. One Saturday night. At The Barn. This, rumpled, stooped- shoulder gentle giant with the wry smile, twinkle in his eye, and thunderous fists we remember as Walter Matthau.

ORKIN, COME QUICKLY by DAVE DAMPIER

  One early morning, after the bars had closed, we got an urgent call from The Roach--Royal--Castle that a fight was in progress in their elegant establishment.  I arrived and entered to find a fellow down on top of Mr. Geek Splatt, a local thug, stool pigeon, and barfbag. He was applying a heavy fist quite forcefully to Mr. Splatt’s head.  

  I attempted to break them up, which I think Splatt would have been thankful for at that point.  But, the combatant with the upper hand, or should I say fist, would not cease his rapid application of said fist.  

  We hadn't been carrying “Mace” on our belts long at that time but I quickly thought of it and did thereupon retrieve the canister from its new shiny holster and applied a healthy spray to the faces of both combatants.  They immediately became disinterested in the manly arts, disengaged from each other, and began rubbing their eyes and crying like infants in need of a good burping.  

  This, however, was just the beginning.  It was a rather warm and humid pre-dawn and the air conditioning system was trying hard to cool the building full of an after hours breakfast crowd.  Too many bodies, too much air circulation, and a tad too much “Mace” precipitated a chaotic exodus. Even the hired help--cook and waitresses--abandoned the joint. 

  I even had a few tears myself--some from the Mace and some from laughing at how effectively the chemical spray had fumigated The Roach Coach.

JUDGE JOLLEY by MIKE GRIMM

  I was in Judge Jolly's courtroom in Everglades one time back in the 1950's, waiting for a traffic accident case that I was to testify in and enjoying the parade of cases prior to mine. In one, a man from Everglades had been hauled in for gambling and maintaining a gambling establishment.
  Deputies testified that they were called on a noise complaint by a neighbor and upon investigation, found a large group of men in the defendants house, shooting craps, drinking, shouting and generally having a good ol' time. When the deputies came in through the front door, the gamblers went out through the back door, windows, and a large hole in the floor, like rats deserting a busted bank . The only one they caught was the defendant, who had no where to run.
  When it was the defendants turn to testify he rendered the following tale: "Your honor, I was sitting peaceful on my front porch just minding my own business when this bunch of fellers came up and said they was gonna shoot some craps in my house.  I protested and everything but they went on in anyhow. I was afraid if I made too much fuss they might mess me up, so I just sit on my porch and stayed out of it. Then the deputies come and didn't ask or nothing but they come up on my porch and went right in the house and busted up the game.  But they didn't catch nobody and they was pretty mad about that, so they arrested me.  And I wasn't even in the game, your honor. I don't know a thing bout gamlin', and that's the truth."
  Judge Jolly eyeballed the defendant for a minute without speaking. Then he smiled, looked him in the eye and asked, "How do you make a five the hard way?"
  The defendant busted out laughing and declared; "Yes sir Judge, that's a good one."
  Jolly banged his gavel and said, "Guilty! $35 or 30 days! Next case."
  And that's the truth.


  Editor's note: All you decent folks out there, who don't know about Craps, would have looked the Judge in the eye with a blank expression. Not so our defendant, who knew you can't make a hard five in Craps. Hard means the two die have the same number. Two threes equal a hard six. Two fours a hard eight.
  Thanks Mike for the tale.

REST FOR THE WICKED

  Beginning Monday, the blog will have some new blood to splatter around.  There will be several blog entries by my friends and partners in crime, Dave Dampier and Mike Grimm. Plus some of my own. I have some other matters to attend to for a couple of days.

  Enjoy.
 Incidentally, how many of you remember the old Caribbean Gardens/ Jungle Larry sign bird?

  GDY

AUBREY ROGERS

  The first time I met Aubrey, and Chuck Whidden, I was a civilian--having too much fun. Living at the time in one of the first Brookside Village homes, and working at the Tracking Station on Marco Island, we were throwing a house warming party. Or TGIF party. Or whatever excuse we could come up with party. It got pretty wild and I was not too surprised the next morning when Dep Rogers and Dep Whidden tapped on my door. The visit was not for what I had expected.

  After confirming who I was and that there'd been a party there last night Aubrey asked, "Did anyone give you anything?"

  Had to think on that a moment, then said, "Some folks contributed a few bottles of booze."

  "Was any of it champaign?"

  "Yep, it was," I said and it's still under the sink there. I won't touch the stuff, have a taste for Jim Beam."

  "Mind if I look at it?" Aubrey said.
  I told him sure, opened the cabinet and started to pick it up. He stopped me. "Let me," he said, "taking out his handkerchief and lifting the bottle from the very top. Just like Jack Webb did on TV. Caused me to wonder.
  "We'll need to take this with us," Aubrey said.
  And I said, "Whatever suits you tickles me to death." And that was the first time I met him.
  Seems two of my guests, who I barely knew, had stolen the champaign from some rich guys house, a stupid thing to do in Mr Roger's territory.
  Today, I'm thinking of the last time I saw Aubrey. We were at some department function, and Aubrey was already long retired. We, as old guys do, were talking about the old days.
  "You know when I was driving in today," Aubrey said, "looking around at what a beautiful town we have, I remember all the things that went into the making of it by a lotta folks. And I like to think I was one of them. And that we did a pretty good job."
  Correct on both counts old friend. A fitting epitaph and rich legacy you've left behind.
  Aubrey Rogers. A true original. The likes of which will seldom pass this way again.

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

    Years ago, along with the good the Civil Rights movement did, there was some attendant overkill. The liberal courts moved to the side of the criminals, with The Miranda Warning, and other asinine mandates that made our job much more difficult.

  Included under the Civil Rights rulings, were provisos designed to halt the bad 'ol cops from picking on the poor, defenseless prisoners. After all, they hadn't done anything but rob, steal, rape,  murder, and prey on decent folks.

 Prisoners soon learned how to file a Civil Rights Violation against a cop, which could make them a little money, get the cop fired or jailed, and mitigate whatever slimy deed they'd perpetrated to get our attention. And, they were good at it.

 We had an expert in our jail, who I'll call Terrance Turdbowl. Turdbowl decided he could use a big helping of that civil rights relief stuff and decided JD Spohn was just the man to serve it up. Every time JD would walk by his cell, he'd make a nasty comment. Here comes fat ass. There's ol' sh-t for brains. But JD, normally as volatile as Jake LaMotta, played it cool. Nothing worked until Turdbowl spit through the bars on JD. JD, immediately, opened the cell and gave him an open-hand slap across the mouth.

 Turdbowl picked himself up, smiled, and said, "Now I've got your ass. I've got a dozen witnesses (other inmates) and I wanna use the phone to call the FBI."

 Within a week, an Agent from the Miami office arrived to investigate the complaint. Investigate may not have been the proper verb. The FBI didn't like this crap any better than the cops and would help you sweeten your testimony. If you'd let them.

 The Agent asked, "Sgt Spohn, didn't Turdbowl make some threatening move at you, causing you to defend yourself?"

 "Nope," JD said. "Somebody spits on me I'll gonna jack their jaws."

 "Perhaps you didn't understand me," the Agent said. "Did he made a sudden move at you that you thought was aggressive. . .?"

  "No, I just give him what he deserved."

 This went on for a while, until the Agent looked at me in exasperation. I said, "Let me try. JD and I speak the same language."  I turned to JD. "Either your damned memory improves or we're gonna be in deep Umpah!"

 JD, surprised, stared at me a moment then the lights came on in the empty stadium. "Oh, yeah, I remember now. I went in there to council him, and he started to cock his right and I had to defend myself. Didn't want to hurt him, so I just gave him a little slap."

 Everyone was happy--except Turdbowl--and the Agent returned to Miami, No Cause For Complaint form in hand.

 Those times are long gone. Cops get a civil rights complaint filed against them today, they are in deep Umpah.

NIGHTMARE ALLEY

  Once answered a call on 3rd Ave South, or one of those avenues near the beach that have an alley behind them. Several also had guest houses. This call was from a distraught lady who said she hadn't seen her guesthouse tenant for a whole day and that just wasn't like him.

  It was dark when I arrived on scene.  Spoke briefly with the complainant. She went on about how nice and reliable the man was, young, handsome, but seemingly unable to get over his recent divorce. She knew he was lonely because he came to her house each day for an afternoon cup of coffee. And he'd linger. But today, he hadn't shown up. She'd knocked on the door but no one'd answered. And that just wasn't like him. I asked her to give me her master key and we went back to the rental.

  Walked around the house and tried to look in the windows but all the blinds had been pulled with not  a sign of interior illumination Finally, I pounded on the door several times, shouting, "Police, open up," with no success. Asking the landlord to wait outside, I used the master and opened the door.

  It was dark as doom inside and when I tried the light switch nothing happened. (Found out later, he'd turned off the electric.) I flipped on my Ray-o-Vac and remembered it needed new batteries. The open front door wasn't affording much illumination from the streetlight outside so I decided to open blinds. (The windows, we later found, had been covered with blankets.)

  Stumbling around in the dark I came to an abrupt stop when my face smacked up against something cold. . . and naked. I made a speedy retreat. Finally working up my courage, I re-entered the cottage, taking a different path, hands out, groping at the darkness until I found a window and ripped off the blanket. At that precise instance, the landlady, who'd followed me in, let out a blood chilling scream. I could see why.

  In the tepid light, her tenant could be seen. Hanging by the neck, naked, from a light fixture. Gravity had been at work, his neck stretched and thin. Eyes bulged, imploring. A thick black tongue had pried open his mouth.

  An unbearable sight for a lady to see. Or, I found after many a black-memory, terror-ridden sleep, a rookie cop either.

THE HOARDER'S WAREHOUSE

  In the Industrial Park, near Domestic Ave, I found a treasure trove. Looking for a warehouse for the Sheriff's Office, I  stumbled on the building by chance, noticing the doors open and a car parked outside a seemingly vacant property. Being a cop, I was nosey.

  The warehouse belonged to an old gent that'd passed on and his family, living up North, was disposing of his property. When their agent opened it, however, their plans required a drastic re-evaluation. Inside were stored over 50 automobiles, none newer than about 1950. The vehicles, covered with an inch of dust, ranged from a Studebaker Champion to a Duesenberg luxury sedan. The family, before this discovery, had no idea what Grandpa had squirreled away in the building. They knew he was eccentric, but, hell at that age who isn't?

  The cars weren't all. A large office area was full of his other collections. He had stacks of old comic books. Newspapers. The prizes that were given in cereals and Cracker Jacks. Toys in unopened boxes. Hundreds of plastic models, none opened or assembled. All this stuff piled so densely that you had to turn sideways and scoot through to trans-navigate the room.

  I was told later that the family sold the whole works, sight unseen, to another collector for $100 K. Talk about bargains. You could almost hear the old hoarder spinning in his grave.

  Oh, yeah. There was one other vehicle, sitting off to the side: a 1948 GMC pickup truck that had been owned by just one family since it was new. Being a pack rat of sorts myself, I bought that one for $1200 and drove it home.

EXPERT ADVICE

  Local governments love to hire consultants. At a staggering cost every year. Why? So when they want something they think the voters may not like they can blame it on the consultants. We're just doing what the experts recommend. Right!

  Don't get me wrong, there are legitimate and needed consultants. We're talking about the ones who make a living recommending what the folks that hire them want. I worked with enough to know the difference.

  The slick ones come to you and sniff around until they know what you're after. The blatant ones, don't waste time and, up front, ask what you want them to prove. It's a disgusting waste of tax dollars perpetrated by spineless politicians.

  Once the City hired consultants to recommend changes in how we did things, intent on making the agency more efficient. Might have been a good idea if they hadn't hired dopes. For their 10K fee--a lot in the sixties--their final recommendation was to put men on the beach riding ATV's; a recommendation the City dropped in the trash can immediately.

  And, some of their surveyors were suspect. Let Mike Grimm tell of his interview with one. The expert was using the Chief's office.

  "When I got sent in there to be interviewed, he talked to me for a bit, enough that I could see he was in way over his head. Then he wanted to playact a hypothetical situation. 

  "He told me to go out in the hall and casually stroll through the door as if I were window shopping on the street. He would be a bad guy running out of the bank, with a bank money bag, right in front of me. He wanted me to react as if it were the real deal. 

  "So we did it, he bumped into me, I shoved him away, pretended to pull my piece and told him to freeze. He wasn't happy. I was supposed to be off duty, he said, and not carrying. 

  "He said we had to do it over and he was going to act like a real bad guy so I'd better act like I would if it were for real. I mumbled something about not wanting to hurt him and he took exception to it, saying I'd better worry first, about not getting hurt myself.

  "So we did it again. I walked in through the door and he ran into me, hard. Kinda surprised me and I grabbed him, as much to keep my balance as anything. He started yelling and tried to twist away from me so I jacked his ass up and slammed him into a corner, immobilizing him. Then I stopped and he wanted to know what I would do next. I told him that in a real situation I'd put the cuffs on him. He told me to just try it and immediately started yelling again and thrashing around trying to get loose so I bent him over a two-drawer file cabinet and put the cuffs on him-- with just a little extra squeeze to try and get the point across. 

  "That was about the time you and someone else came busting into the room to see what was going on. Apparently he hadn't done this with any of the guys he had interviewed before me and it was a big surprise.

 "As I recall, he didn't try it with anyone he interviewed after me either.  He was one weird dude."

  And an inept, stupid one. Mike was well over six-feet and 200 lbs. I remember when we rushed into the room, the expert was red-faced and gasping, his clothes disheveled, and his hair as mussed as a punk rocker's. Don't know what he was expecting but it sure wasn't Mike Grimm.

COUNCIL COMEDY

    The City Council always attracts a strange variety of ducks. Some mere puppets, hand selected by the rich folks to do their bidding, their autonomy limited to asking for privy breaks and seconding motions to adjourn. Some are pure nitwits. Others you can equate to self-ordained ministers who have heard the “call” and decide they are just what the voters need. Then there're the opportunists intent on lining their wallets by selling out to developers or whomever.

 Fortunately, for the community, most are good, decent, folks who legitimately want to accomplish what we really need. And they've done a pretty good job. Just look around Naples.

  But, it's the nitwits you remember most. One, who I’ll call Erhard Gerbil was the champion numskull. I was summoned to a budget workshop to defend the number of vehicles in the proposed budget. If memory serves, we probably didn’t have more than a dozen at the time. Erhard had decided that since we policed such a small area--about sixteen-square-miles--we could get by just as well on alternative forms of transportation. Once, Gerbil had asked why we didn't pedal our way to calls on bicycles and I'd explained why. This prompted my book, I'm Peddlin' As Fast As I Can.

  We were familiar with the budget workshop process. Every year, or at least when the new Council members came aboard, we had to educate them and answer the same questions. Some incredible! A couple of examples:

  "If your Uniform Officers could stop all the crime, couldn't we fire all the Detectives?" This idiotic question didn't require an answer. Anyone who'd ask it, couldn't comprehend why. And,

  "If you only run three shifts--days, evenings, and nights--why do you have to hire more than three officers?"

  And it was always difficult to explain to these dopes that some officers didn't want to work 365 days a year, and needed sick time, vacations, training, and stuff.

 None, however, could surpass Gerbil for blatant stupidity. He sat with his peers, at the semi-circular Council table, shuffling through a ponderous stack of papers. A slight, sixitish man, he had the scrubbed-pink complexion of a pampered infant. For attire, he favored Naples haute couture, the riotous pinks, greens, yellows and plaids of the golfing set.  

  Poor 'ol Gerbil had caught a dog fish in the gene pool, cursed with the Who cut the cheese? grimace of a restroom attendant in a Mexican restaurant.  His pained countenance, was in marked incongruity with his vivid and raffish attire. Indeed, stripped of his fine feathers, Gerbil could’ve resided in a Dickens novel, perched high on a stool at a clerk’s desk, green eyeshade shadowing pinch-nez glasses, quill pen meticulously inscribing precise numerals in a moldy ledger.

  This time it wasn't bicycles. "I’ve done some more research and maybe bicycles aren’t the best way to get this exploding police fleet under control. Are you familiar with the New York City motor scooter program?"

  I told him I was. "Yes, Sir. They're using Vespas, I believe, instead of horses to patrol Central Park."

  "Horses?" he said. I could see from the dreamy look in Erhard’s eyes that I’d made an error. Horses, huh? I could envision us hiring wranglers, buying tons of hay, and getting used to saddle sores. So, I quickly added:

"They don't really like or want the scooters but had to switch to them because of the Hippies. Seems the Hippies, who were causing all the problems, found out that if you applied a lighted cigar to a horse's, er, private parts, the beast immediately lost interest in police work and became totally committed to becoming a bucking bronco."

  A house of laughter caved in on Mr. Gerbil and that was the last we heard of bicycles and Italian motor scooters.

ORDERS IN THE COURT

   Some of our transplanted cops had to deal with culture shock in other ways. Ray Barnett, a graduate of the Pennsylvania State Police Academy and alledged Yankee at the time, found the court system here more than a tad unusual.

  We'll let Ray tell it:  I was testifying about a stop sign violation case and said, "Mr Brown was traveling south on 10th Street and blew the stop sign at 12th Ave No." The Municipal Judge called an immediate recess and called Chief Sam Bass to the court. They took me out in the hallway and said, "we don't talk like that in court."

  My immediate thought was I should have said failed to stop, not blew. Before I could explain, the Judge said, "You never call someone like that, 'Mr.'"

  That meaning Mr Brown was a black man. The Judge and Chief then excused my transgression while I stood there with my mind reeling.
  Never made that mistake again.
 And that was my first impression of the judicial system in Naples. 
  Ray made few mistakes at anything but he did admit to one other. Again, in his words.
  One I'll never forget is when I won a argument with a County Judge. In the dining room at the SO where we took our coffee breaks, the Judge said there was no such charge as drunkeness. I was dumb enough to go get a statue book, bring it into the dining room, and, in front of those in attendance, point it out to him.
 Later that week he had me re-type a search warrant several times before he would sign it. That's when I learned it's not always good to be right. Especially when you're dealing with a super-ego Judge.

ROOFEES

  The Naples Beach has always been a premier attraction. And long before we had shopping centers to attract auto burglars and assorted other thieves, the beach drew them like politicians to a lobbyist's free Caribbean cruise. But, let's face it, because of folk's disregard for security it was an easy way to make a slimy buck. How's that?

  Ladies think if they put their purse on the floor and throw a towel or newspaper over it, the thief will never look there. Wrong, madam!  That's the first place they do look because everyone does that. Of course there're many who are too lazy to even make that futile effort. They leave it in plain view it the seat. At least put the stuff in the trunk!

  But, sometimes, even that didn't work. Then, each automobile manufacturer had just a few key combinations for all their models. We'd commonly catch thieves with an 8" ring of keys--a hundred or so--that would open a majority of American cars. General Motors used very few keys for their entire fleet. Chances were good your Chevy key would open your neighbor's Pontiac.

  All thieves knew that and where to buy the keys sets. They also knew you could buy spare lock cylinders with keys. Using a bent-straight paper clip inserted in the small hole beside the key slot, you could remove that one, insert your own cylinder, and drive off.

  The best thieves didn't even need that stuff. On surveillance films we'd seen thieves approach a car, rock the window down a half-inch, drop through a string with a loop and a fishing weight on it, lift an interior lock button, and they were in. All in less than a minute.

  Some thieves had homemade "Slim Jims" that, when slid between the window and door, opened the lock with just an easy tug on the interior mechanism. Or, there was a Ford model that you could hand-bump on the rear corner of the trunk and the trunk lid would magically open. Thank God all that has improved over the years. Now, if we could just get folks to lock the damn cars.

  We had one cop, Byron Tomlinson, who had magical powers when it came to catching Auto B and E'ers. And everyone else. Byron could look down a beach-end avenue from a block away and catch the buggers in the act. Did it too many times to be explained by pure chance.  The rest of us weren't that gifted.
 Most of the activity took place at the Pier. The angle parking there, allowing the thief to get between two cars and not be seen, made it impossible for even Eagle-Eye Tomlinson to see them. You needed some elevation if you hoped to see anything. So, Mike Grimm, Ray Barnett and I took turns lying on the roof of the Price house, just south of the Pier entrance. The roof was made of copper. Directly in the sun. Even with cardboard, blankets, and camper mattresses, in about thirty-minutes we'd be medium rare--and we never caught a damn one.

  Mike decided to try other roof tops but none had a good view. Finally, he climbed to the roof atop the three-story old Naples Hotel at the end of the avenue leading to the Pier. He was afforded an excellent view--of the palm trees that  lined said street. Nothing else.

  Eventually, I guess we aggravated them enough, and Byron and the other uniformed cops caught enough, that they'd go elsewhere. Most were from out-of-town.

  But, they always returned, like the Snowbirds who fed them.

  Thanks to Mike and Ray