WINKIN' AND BLINKIN', FROM TOO MUCH DRINKIN'

  Here's a great yarn from Dave Johnson. Dave's retired from the CCSO where he put in over 30 years. He retired a Captain.

  

  Late one midnight shift, Paul Canady and I were out on SR 92 near Goodland, parked on the roadside window to window shooting the breeze.  I spy this little light, way down that long straight road.  It's on for a minute or two, then off.  On for a minute or two, then off, and so on.  Pretty soon, along with the light, we can hear this whine coming from a motor.  Every time the light would go off, the whine would stop.

  Finally it dawned on us what it was.  It was a drunk on a motor scooter.  He was coming back from boozing it at Royal Palm Hammock, trying to get to Goodland before he turned into a pumpkin.  He could hold it pretty good until he got up to 15 mph or so, then everything would go to hell and he would wreck.  He had piled that scooter up at least 10 times before we finally got him corralled and saved him from a death of terminal road rash. 

  He was scraped up something awful, but was so full of "Who Hit John",--liquid stupid--he was under full anesthesia.  We laughed so hard, I almost wet my trousers.  But, we felt so sorry for him that there was no way we were going to charge him with anything--just took him to the ER and let them patch him up.  I seem to remember him sobering up quite a bit once they started in all that raw skin with the scrubbies full of iodine......

  Editor's note: Cops used to be allowed to exercise a little humanity, as was done in this case. Lawyers have killed that. Now, if the drunk you've taken home, stumbles and falls in the toilet you get sued. Cause you should have taken him to jail.

  Consequently, if you get sloshed and stopped today you're going to the Graybar Hotel, no matter how pitiful your case. If the cop doesn't do it, he'll be in trouble.

 And, we're still producing more lawyers than all the other countries in the world combined. And they have to do something. Hence, personal injury attorneys.

SLEASY WEASEL MECHANICS

  A word of advice: Never have work done by a mechanic you don't know and trust. If you must, make him give you a signed estimate for services. If it goes over the estimate, he has to get your permission to proceed further. With the estimate in hand, he can't do what this sleazy weasel did. 

  A lady called that she was at a gas station on the trail close to Lake Park and needed help. We'll call it Maggot's Garage. The young lady had taken her Corvette it for a sweet deal tune up. I think about $25 bucks at the time. When she returned for the car, she found Maggot had disassembled the entire input system--carb, intake, fuel pump, the works--and wanted $200 before he would put it back together. He said the system was "dirty" and he'd had to clean it.

 She didn't know the law and hadn't gotten an estimate. Moggot did know the law. He was one of those greasy rag mechanics you run into at some franchise brake and transmission shops. You take your car in for the advertised special, and no sooner get seated than here he comes out of the back, rubbing his hands on a greasy rag and shaking his head. "Shocks are gone," he'll say, or "cylinders ruined", whatever is the most convenient lie. He'll even show you the worn out hydraulic cylinders--that he's saved from another car. Or let you walk under the lift and look at the fluid dripping from your shocks. Fluid he's sprayed there with an oil can.

  In the lady's case, we made Maggot an offer he couldn't refuse and he did the right thing. But sleazy weasel that he was, Maggot was soon at it again. 

  We'd had many complaints that folks had taken their car there to have the transmission fluid changed, and when they checked it, the fluid looked just like the old. So we put the ol' sting on Maggot, and had a civilian employee take a car through we'd doctored. When it was returned we checked and immediately took it back to him.

  "Who says I didn't change that fluid?" Maggot raged. After we showed him the white, eggshell seal we'd placed on the drain plug, with my initials on it, he changed his tune, running to the back of the shop and yelling at a mechanic, "You rotten sonuvabitch, what're you trying to pull?"

 "Just did what you told me to do," the mechanic replied.

 Maggot got to think that one over in jail and pay a hefty fine. But, after he got out, he was so reformed that he wrangled a lucrative City towing contract. 

  Kinda made us wanna put someone else in jail.

CHESTER'S UNIQUE MEDAL

         PHOTO SHOWING CHESTER KEENE RECEIVING  MEDAL FROM CHIEF SAM BASS. THIS IS A RE-ENACTMENT FOR THE NAPLES DAILY NEWS, THE MEDAL HAVING BEEN ORIGINALLY GIVEN TO CHESTER BY GOV CLAUDE KIRK

  This is a unique photo in that it shows the presentation of a medal to a Naples Police Officer in the 1960's. Up to that time, there was never a medal given to any NPD cop. At least as far as we can determine. And there wasn't another for several years thereafter.
  Nowadays, with cop's shirts looking like a Latin-American dictator's, it's hard to believe. But that just wasn't one of the priorities back then. It should've been but wasn't. (Probably had to do with money, the cost of the medals)
  Chester won this one by jumping in the water between a dock and a boat slamming up against it to rescue a gent who'd passed out and fallen in after enjoying too much--you guessed it--liquid stupid. Chester risked his own life to save that of another.
  About that time, for some reason, Gov Claude Kirk decided that cops were doing heroics around the state that should be recognized. He developed a one-time awards presentation to honor these brave souls. From police reports, Claudius Maximus picked out 16 officers and called them to Miami on July 16, 1968 for a Grand Awards Ceremony. Chester was one of those selected. 
 These were the only medals given and the only time. The mold was broken to insure that. Researching, we can find no evidence that any other Florida governor has repeated the act.
  So, it was indeed an original. First and only of its kind for many years.
  And richly deserved.

THE GALLSTER HOLSTER

  George Gallstone was a cop with the Ft Myers PD. They'd been having some gambling trouble in a rough section of town called Dunbar, and George was assigned to work the  area in plainclothes.  See what he could turn up. George didn't like the assignment.

  "Workin' over there by my damn-self at night, I could get beat up. Killed even."

 "You've got a gun," his Sgt said. "If you're worried carry two. A knife. Whatever."

  "That ain't the problem," George said.

  "So. . ."

 "They can jump you, knock you in the head. You don't have time to get your gun outta the holster."

 The Sgt shook his head. "You'll figure out something. Just do it. Marked cars will cruise thru there regular, like they always do. We usually have someone workin' a complaint in that area, anyway. You'll be okay."

 George was a good cop so, despite his misgivings, he followed orders and did his duty. Besides, he had an idea that gave him comfort.

  Later that night, one of the patrol cops pulled up beside the Sgt's car, stopped at a traffic light. He was laughing so hard he could barely talk. "I was just over in Dunbar and I saw Gallstone sneakin' around. You ain't gonna believe it. Go take a look."

  The Sgt drove to Dunbar and found Gallstone lurking in an alley. He had something in his hand. A first he thought he was carrying a brown, lunch bag. On closer inspection, he could see that Gallstone's hand was inside the bag. He drove by George and told him to meet him around the corner, out of sight.

  At a safe distance away from Dunbar he asked, "Just what in hell is that on your hand?"

  "Little invention of mine," Gallstone said. He loosened the rubber bands he'd rigged to hold the bag in place, dropped it away, revealing his hand, gripping a revolver. "Never get the jump on me now," he said.

  Most of our embarrassing acts of stupidity--thank God--are swept away on the tide of time. Others, become legend. To his dying day, whenever George Gallstone met a Ft Myers cop he was asked, "Hey, George, still usin' that Gallster Holster?"

NO FEAR HERE

  Soon, my body will succumb to a lifetime of neglect and abuse and malfunction, making me a menace behind the wheel. Then I'll hear mumbled conversations behind my back--by my children--trying to figure out how to get the car keys away from me. But, I ain't worried. Here's why.

  Once received a call from a friend named Bert in Port Royal. Bert asked if I could come down and see him. Said there was some urgency. He'd meet me outside his house on Galleon Drive. Arrived and saw Bert, waving me to the curb. He rushed over and jumped in my car. After greeting him, I asked the problem.

  "It's Dad," he said. "He's 93 now and insists on driving. And he. . .well, if you have a few minutes you'll see. He drives down to the clubhouse every morning about this time. Gotta get his startup toddy. He. . ." --stopping, looking at the house,then--". . .here he comes now."

  A stooped, frail, ancient dude emerged from the front door. Maybe emerged is too active a verb. Snailed through would be more descriptive. He inched along like a mummy with the gout. It took him ten minutes to negotiate the distance between his front door and the Lincoln in his driveway. Short sessions of hobbling along, were interrupted with rest stops, leaning on his cane. I didn't think he was going to make it. But he did.

  At the car, he struggled to get the door open, then slowly folded himself into the seat. Seated, he began lifting his legs, with his hands, over the desired pedals. It was obvious this old gent shouldn't be allowed at the controls of a hospital bed.

  "See what I'm talking about?" my friend said.  "We've tried to convince him he needs to give up the car but he won't hear of it. Say's he has a perfect driving record and if he ever has an accident, he'll quit then."

  "Common problem," I said.

 "But, he's going to kill himself, or someone else."

  "Think I can help," I said. "They have a new law allowing cops to request a re-examination of suspect drivers. Cases just like this. You get me his DL number and I'll call it in."
 "Okay," Bert said, "I'll get it this afternoon when the toddies put him to sleep."
  He was good to his word and I made the arrangements for the re-test.
  A month later, Bert called again. "What the hell kind of operation are they running down there?" he said.
  "Why," I asked.
 "He got the notice, went down there, and passed the damn test."
  And he had! I inquired of the examiner how the hell that could happen.
 "The State's always making these new rules, rules that we don't have the money or time to implement. So we just give them an eye test, no driving. Most old folks fail that. But, your guy had eyes like an eagle.
 "And the body and reflexes of King Tut," I said, disgusted.
 But, the problem solved itself a couple of weeks later. Tutankhamun got in his car in the garage, put it in backwards, and drove through the partition between his garage and kitchen, killing his dishwasher, range, and a nifty Ronco Veg-O-Matic.
 So, getting old? What me worry? I had my cataracts taken off two years ago.

TERRIBLE THOM Part Two

  Terrible Thom was scheduled for Juvenile Court for his attempted arson. Judge Richard "Wretched" Stanley presiding. Since Thom was a visitor and due to go back up North, some exotic and completely illegal and unenforceable transfer of the case to his home state had been arranged. 

  Thom was seated at the defense table with his mother, and I at the prosecution table, when the chamber door burst open and in charged Judge Stanley, scowl on his face and black robes flowing like the Wicked Witch's from the East.

  Suddenly, Thom was at my side, grabbing my hand. "Can I hold your hand, Det Young?" he said. "I'm really quite terrified of the Judge." And at that moment he wasn't the miniature monster but just a scared six-year-old kid. And I felt so sorry for him.

  Thom survived the court hearing, hand in mine, and returned to Yankeeland. About a year later, I received a call from the detective I'd talked to before about Thom. He had news. It seems Thom had gotten into an argument with his mother and struggled with her. The basement door had been left open and mama slipped and fell down the stairs, breaking her neck and killing her.

  "I just know this little turd shoved her down those stairs but the case is thin. 'Course it's juvenile court and, with his background, not much evidence will be needed." 

  "So what'll happen?" I said.

 "At most they'll lock him up until he's eighteen. Then he'll be released, a full grown psychopath, to do whatever he wishes."

  "Hope he doesn't come South for the winter," I said.

  Over the years I lost track of Thom. But, rest assured he's, and thousands of others, out there. With names like Ted Bundy. Dahmer. Gacy. Ridgway.

TERRIBLE THOM Part One

  Being a cop, you find that monsters come in all sizes. I was investigating an attempted arson of a boat on Central Avenue. The boat was on a trailer in the carport and someone had spread newspapers under the boat and a can of gasoline was sitting nearby. The victim said he'd seen the visiting kid next door out in his carport. I went next door. 

  His name was Thom and he was six-years-old. Visiting, with his mother, from up north. As handsome a youngin' as you'd ever see. 

  "Were you next door trying to set that boat on fire?" I asked.

 "Why do you think it was me?" he asked, with no more trepidation than Charley Manson.

  "There was a witness," I lied.

  "Well, then," he said, unconcerned, "you've got me."

 I was stunned at his candor. "Why were you gonna to do that?"

 "I asked the old son-of-a-bitch to take me for a ride. He said he was too busy. Old bastard's retired. Too busy! So I figured if he wasn't going to use the damn boat, I'd just burn it up."

 And that was it. No remorse, No fear. No nothin'.

  "Who saw me?" he asked

  "No one," I said, "I just said that."

  He smiled. "You're about a tricky bastard, aren't you? I like that."

  Again, not what you'd hear from a child. That was just the beginning. 

  Thom read the newspaper each morning. Beginning with the front page all the way through. He preferred the Miami Herald, calling the Naples Daily News a provincial gossip sheet. Again, he was six-years-old. He also read Time and other magazines you wouldn't expect. His vocabulary was much more extensive than mine. In everything besides size and age, he was a brilliant adult. I decided to do some checking on his home ground.

  Thom wasn't any stranger to his hometown cops. Indeed, he was the main suspect in the death of his grandmother. After peeing Thom off one day, someone had spread newspapers all over her kitchen, soaked them with gasoline, and set fire to the house. With her in it.

  They'd suspected him and given him a psychological eval. That didn't work too well. About half-through, they figured out that Thom was manipulating his responses to make fools out of them. Playing with them. They said his IQ was off the chart.

  The cops couldn't prove Thom had burned up his granny. When they questioned him, he asked what would happen to the person who killed her. When he found out the police took such shenanigans seriously, he clammed up.

  I guessed he didn't think burning a boat was that big a deal, since he'd fessed up so easily. I gradually found out, he  had a psychopathic personality that excused anything he did. More tomorrow.

FLYING SAUCER -- OPEN CASE

  We've written about explained UFOs. Here's one that was never accounted for. It was first told to me by the Crime Scene Tech at the CCSO, Marvin Mayo, who took the case photos. I've since been told the tale by many other Deputy witnesses.
  On March 14, 1965 a local rancher was camping, with his passel of hunting dogs, in the Everglades. Night had fallen and all was quiet when his dogs became agitated, doing the things dogs do when they sense something's wrong.
  Then a pulsating light, that seemed to be drifting towards earth, suddenly appeared. He estimated that it was about a mile away and suspected it was an aircraft in trouble. Thinking he might be able to help, he fired up his swamp buggy and headed in the direction of the brilliant light.
  As he approached the spot where the "plane" seemed to have gone down, he found no wreckage, only a circular, cone-shaped object emitting pulsating light. The craft was about 75 feet in diameter and 30 feet tall. It was hovering slightly above the ground, emitting a humming noise and wobbling like it was trying to keep its balance. The were several rows of ports in the side from which a yellow light radiated. 
  The rancher stepped down from his buggy and approached on foot. He didn't get far. A thin blue beam rifled from the craft and slammed him between the eyes. He was immediately knocked unconscious.
  We he awakened, though stunned and half-blind, he was able to make it to his buggy and limp to the hospital. Examination revealed a large red spot between his eyes, blurred vision, and atrophy of his muscles. His eyes seemed to have suffered from X-ray.
  Investigators at the scene found no space craft but evidence that something strange had been there. A large circle was scorched in the foliage and the tops of the trees burned out. Mayo said he didn't know how any human could've burned, or controlled the burn of such a perfect circle. And there was a strange smell coming from the earth.
 The US Air Force invested UFO sightings at the time and they were called to the scene. They were notorious for ridiculing the sightings, but in this case were reluctant to. The rancher wasn't the usual nutty, glassy-eyed sighting witness. He was an established, well regarded citizen. Then there were his physical injuries that he couldn't have inflicted himself. 
 The bottom line was an official report was never issued and the case languished until it was forgotten. Except by those who'd been there and seen the victim and the eerie burned circle in the Glades.
   

THE GAME TABLE MAN

         Dave Dampier remembers an early morning scuffle at the Royal Castle. 
Says Dave: I heard a call to the R.C.  dispatched to one of our officers, a behemoth nicknamed “The Surfer.” This epithet had been earned for several embarrassing incidents, all involving   driving police cars on the beach, wet sucking beach sand, and feverish wrecker calls to avoid vehicle submersion. 

 The Surfer was already inside when I arrived.  And, a confrontation with a combative subject was in progress. 

  I'd just entered, to assist The Surfer, when I saw him unload on the fool who'd decided to fight this giant of a policeman.  The combatant seemed to spin in midair and return to his prior position, causing the officer to thump him again.  Then, another spin and return. 
  When the subject was restrained and the situation under control, I could see what had caused him to react like one of the little men on a soccer game table when the rod is spun.  The subject had backed up to the “cattle guide” brass railing that keeps customers in order when approaching the counter.  When punched, he spun backwards over and around the railing, returning to his starting position in front of The Surfer.  Thinking the subject was still showing aggression, our man would send him spinning again.  
  I know it was far from funny to the spinning punching bag but, as far as a comedy act The Three Stooges couldn't have done it better.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE LIQUID STUPID KIND

  It was after 3 AM and we were in the PD having a cup of jailhouse battery acid. The bars had closed at 2 and we thought we'd put all the drunks to bed. 

  All except one. We heard him before we saw him--a thud just like a vehicle makes when it hits a tree. We ran to the window and looked outside. A man, who'd obviously enjoyed too much liquid stupid, was running from a pick-em-up that had jumped the parking space and used a palm tree for a stop bar. He was looking skyward, with his arms folded over his head like he was warding off a sea gull umpah bombing. We met him at the front door.

  He rushed right by, squeezed in a corner of the lobby and muttered. "Flying saucer. . .chased me. . .bright lights." We tried to calm him but it took several minutes to get his story. 
 He'd been drinking near Royal Palm Hammock, and when the bar closed, got in his truck and headed up US 41 to Naples. He hadn't gone but a mile or so when a bright light focused on him from overhead. Nearly blinded, he drove on, increasing his speed, trying to get away. But he couldn't outrun the light.

 "It chased me all the way to town, then disappeared," he said. "I knew you guys would be open so I came here."

  We knew a UFO was unlikely but knew how objects in the night sky can be misread. A few months before I'd see a blazing, bright light overhead that suddenly took off and dissappeared over the horizon. UFO? Looked like it to me. But a call to Cape Canaveral dispelled that notion. It had been an aluminum weather balloon, over New England, up so high tomorrow's sun was shining on the aluminum. When it reached a certain altitude, the balloon popped and fell to earth. From that height and distance, it look like it was streaking away across the night sky.

  About that time, the phone rang, the dispatcher talked a few minutes, then smiled and handed the phone to me. It was an officer for the game commission.
  "Just wanted to let you know," he said, "we were running poacher patrol tonight and checked out a dude on the East Trail. Driving a pickup truck from The Hammock to Naples. Think we scared the pee-water outta him. He took off like a French soldier. We dropped off when we got to the city. You might run into him somewhere."
 Mystery solved. The game commission, at night, would fly over trucks coming out of remote areas and check what they were carrying in the bed. Looking for a dead deer, other poached game. They flew in a helicopter--with a very bright light. Probably not the smartest way to do business, but it went on for a while.
  We tried to explain to our visitor what had happened but he wanted none of it. "Was a flying saucer. Tryin' to get me in their space ship so they could probe me. I ain't stupid."
  We gave him a chance to reconsider while he sobered up in the jail, and had his truck towed out of our front year.

ENDANGERED GATOR

 

  This is one of the original Alligator Alley mile marker signs. They were an instant sensation and proved to be so popular they were stolen as fast as they were erected. Or replaced.

 They were also used for target practice by idiots with both a car and a firearm. Note the .22 cal hole at the top of the sign.
 The State finally gave up and replaced them all with the standard, un-cool variety mile marker signs. Problem solved but a lotta smiles lost along the way.

 And no I didn't steal this one. It's a photo, from Chester Keene, of a stolen one seized by the NPD years ago. 
  My sign disappeared a long time back. Probably someone stole it.

SHARK TALES

  There was a period when shark fishing was a big deal at the Naples Pier. Before that, and I presume now, folks that wanted to grapple with Jaws would lay outside Doctor's or Gordon's Pass on the outgoing tide, and try go catch the monsters where they naturally congregated. Sharks like to do their fishing in spots like that, being garbage collectors of any   trash food the tide washed out.

  But, for some reason, a few fishermen thought it was a real good idea to lure sharks to the Pier. And they did. Any evening you'd see these dubious sportsmen with monster rigs, baiting up with rotten hams, roasts, or fish parts and slinging the mess into the Gulf. Some even used chum, pouring buckets of putrid fish guts into the water. And at least once, most nights, the bait was taken and a fight commenced.

  Sharks don't willingly give up the life/death struggle. The fisherman could fight the beast for hours, being dragged up and down the Pier, crossing everyone's lines, and disrupting all the other fisher-folks fun. And when the shark was finally landed, the battle was still not over.

  Once a nine-foot Hammerhead was hooked, battled for hours, and eventually dragged up on the beach. When the fisherman walked up to his prize, thinking it was dead, he was greeted by a, suddenly, very alive Hammerhead slashing and trying to play some catchup. The fisherman decided he'd better call the cops and let them deal with the monster--that wasn't much fun now. Sgt J.D. Spohn arrived.

  Spohn nudged the shark with his toe, and when the critter came to life again, took out his revolver and put six thirty-eights in the shark's head. That just made Jaws angrier so Spohn, never outgunned,  went to his patrol car for heavier artillery. He returned with an M1  semi-auto carbine and went to work on the shark with that. Content the job was done, and it being after midnight, he left the carcass on the beach to be removed in the morning. In the AM the hammerhead was still alive.
  Scenes like this caused some sensible council folks to decide that maybe luring these formidable killers to an area where people liked to wade and splash about in the surf, wasn't such a real good idea after all. And shark fishing from the Pier was curtailed. 
  Smart move. During the same period we had an early morning swimmer disappear and his body never recovered.

THE SELF-INDUCED COMA

  There's no doubt that booze, liquid stupid, is responsible for many of the jaw-dropping situations a cop encounters. It's as reliable as canned laughter on an unfunny sitcom.  Mike Grimm remembers one such occasion:

 While on patrol late one night, Jack Bliss turned off U.S.41 and headed East on 17th Ave No. to check out a pair of slow moving, weaving tail lights. He pulled the car over and found inside two of Naples' most reliable drunks--who we'll call Boscoe Putter and YeeHaw Bunion. Boscoe was at the wheel.

 Jack bagged them up along with a quart whiskey bottle that was less than half full. As was protocol at the time, Jack marked the level of the whiskey in the bottle before putting it in the evidence room, which in those days was a closet that didn't even have a working lock on the door. (Some cops carried evidence around in the trunk of their car until it was court time)

 On court day, Boscoe appeared and brought YeeHaw along as a witness for the defense. The only problem was, YeeHaw was nearly as drunk as he was the night of the arrest.

 While being questioned by the City Prosecutor, Yeehaw had to keep jerking himself awake as he mumbled and gave incoherent answers to most of the questions. Finally, in exasperation, the attorney tried to pin YeeHaw down to answering one simple question concerning Briscoe's condition the night of the arrest.

 "Tell me" begged the prosecutor, "what was Mr. Putter's condition that night when the officer pulled you over? Was he sober? Was he a little tipsy? Was he in a coma?"

At that, YeeHaw's head jerked up and he was suddenly very lucid.

"Hell no", he shouted, "he wasn't in no coma!  We was in a Ford Falcon station wagon!"

Everyone seated behind the bar, including the prosecutor and the judge, suddenly spun their chairs around to hide their laughter from those in the courtroom audience.

Fortunately for YeeHaw, Judge Tom Brown-- a kindly man--did not charge him with contempt of court for showing up drunk to testify. Good laughs are sometimes hard to find in a courtroom.

BURRITO ON THE PIER

  John Slater was much better at collecting animals than he was corralling them. He'd turned his estate, on Gordon Drive, into a sanctuary for exotic animals. He was so caring he had food, from their indigenous area, flown in every day. Nothing was too good for the dolphins, giant tortoise, wallaby, and other critters. Yep, he was good at collecting but he just couldn't build good fences. Or, as some suspected, he thought it was funny to let some critters escape and wander the preposterously pompous neighborhood.

  One jail breaker in particular, called Pedro, was known to anyone who visited the City Pier. He was a mini burro who loved to mingle with the fishermen. We regularly got calls, from folks concerned about his safety, that the little fella was on the pier.

  Chester Keene received such a call one day and found the burro in the midst of some fishermen, soaking up their adoration. It was obvious to Chester that there were a million ways Pedro could get injured. First, and most likely, the fishermen were notorious for not being particular where the hook end of their line was when they cast. Just flip it over their shoulder and give it a fling. Doing so, they hooked pelicans, birds, and humans and a jackass wasn't beyond reason. Then, Chester reasoned, Pedro could fall off the pier. Or get his hoof caught in the planking. Yep, he needed to go home.

  There was a short rope around Pedro's neck--formerly a tether--and Chester tugged on it. And tugged. The little burro just stood there as though his feet were nailed to the deck. That went on for some time, with the fishermen enjoying the show, and Chester, not wanting to hurt the burro by jerking too hard, getting more and more frustrated.

  Finally, one of the fishermen had mercy and told Chester the problem.

  "Never seen you out here to capture the burro before?" the fisherman said.

  "Nope," Chester admitted, it was his first burro wrangling detail.

  "Well," the fisherman said, "what he wants is to jump off the pier."

  Chester looked hard at the fisherman.

 "Really," the fisherman said. "He likes to jump off the pier and swim to shore. That rail over there," the fisherman said, pointing at the bait house, "is made to come loose so they can pull up the bait nets. We take it down and he jumps right it."

  Chester thought he was being had, and only after repeated assurances let the fishermen demonstrate. One unscrewed the wing-nuts that held the rail in place and moved it to the side. The burro immediately ran to the opening and jumped into the Gulf. And swam like Tarzan to shore. Once there, he walked up on the beach, shook himself like a soggy dog, and headed south on the sand towards home.

  Wonder what's next? Chester thought as he went 10-8. Big John's Galapagos Tortoise gonna take up water skiing?


PS Besides being a tasty treat a burrito is Spanish for a small burro.

ANYTHING'S POSSIBLE

  On the phone, I could hear the excitement in Sarah's voice. "Wait'll you see what I've got!" she said. Sarah was Sarah Creamer. At the time, she and Dave Johnson were helping me hire folks for the Sheriff's Office. And it was hard, often unrewarding work.

  We were trying to hire about 100 a year, Civilian and LEO's. The cops were particularly tough to find. I know that some of you out there, who've seen in the news media some of the stupid things cops can do, won't believe it but the requirements are so narrow and stringent that only about one of every hundred we talked to were selected. 

  It's the old Marine Corps rule of thumb, sorta like the Bell Curve. You can make every test available, give them physical and psychological evaluations, written exams, background investigations, and still, about 10%, when they come to work, will turn out to be turnips. Of course, the ol' Curve works on both ends. Ten-percent will be geniuses--nearly as troubling as turnips. But 80%, thank God, will be the regular, normal crowd that make every organization run.
  Howsumever, Sarah's excitement got my blood up, too. She evidently had one of those rarest of the rare, an applicant, that on first sight you just knew was a keeper. And he was working, already certified, no academy required. "Bring 'em on back," I said and went to the office door to greet the prize.
  He was moving down the hall in a measured step, a big youngin', clean-cut, warm smile, when he saw me waiting.
  "Howdy," he said, shaking my hand in a vice grip. I ushered him in and  pointed to a chair. He sat, and I started to begin my spiel. But he beat me to it.
  "I expect your time's valuable," he said, "so I'll get right to it. Does your department require a physical agility test?"
 "Yep," I said, "state law to get certified. Didn't you take one where you're working now." (It was up around Arcadia)
  "I passed it once, but I'm not sure I could do it again."
  "Why's that?" I asked, "you look healthy to me."
  "I passed it before they cut my legs off."
  I knew he was too good to be true, I thought. A wiseass. I'd seen him walk down the hall and there wasn't a hint of a limp.
  "It's true," he said, reading my mind. "Got T-boned on duty. Had to take both my legs off, one at the knee, one above the ankle. To prove it, he lifted his trouser legs and showed me. And yep, there were two plastic things under there.
  "But," I saw you walk in," I said, "not even a slight limp."
  "Doctor's said I'd never walk again and it made me mad. I'm a stubborn guy and don't like to be told what I'm not capable of. So I went back to work on the desk, and practiced until I could walk normally and could work on the street again."
  "But, you can't run?"
  "Well," he said, "I can but it's not my best thing. Sometimes I loose my balance. I won't take up any more of your time he said," getting up.
  I walked him out to the front lobby and told him I was sorry it didn't work out. And I was.
  He eschewed the elevator and walked down the two-story staircase to the front door. Nary a wobble.
  Standing there watching him march away, I had to wonder what things we all could do if someone hadn't told us they were impossible.

BUT YOU SAID. . .

 Another tale from the memory of Chester Keene.

  It was a slow night and the two young dispatchers were fighting terminal boredom. To keep awake, they were inventing games, telling jokes, doing anything to stay on the flip-side of Zzzzland. They were right in the middle of a Charades session when in walked the dreaded Chief of Police. He was a retired Army Colonel and liked to drop by, unexpected at night, and try to catch someone goofing off. 
 Tonight, he had to be ecstatic.  His tirade was maniacal and brutal, concluding with, "You might as well put on a couple of dunce hats." 

  Please keep in mind that this was a pair of rookie dispatchers, who knew little of The Colonel, except that he was known for making strange requests and was roundly despised by the cops. So, to improve their performance, and try to make the Chief happy. . .

 The next night the Chief was again doing his weasel patrol and drove by the front door to the PD, then at 8th and 8th South. It was glass and he could see the front desk. And what was visible behind the counter--two cone-shaped hats. Bursting in the office, he got the full effect: the two busy dispatchers, wearing homemade caps with the word DUNCE printed on each one. Just as he, sarcastically, had demanded. We always believed it was one of the things that led him to consuming too much liquid stupid and, consequently, a six-month tenure as Chief.

  A few years later, Saturday Night Live featured a recurring skit called The Coneheads. I wonder. . .

  

ARCHIE AND THE PEEPING TOM

  One of Naples' early mayors was so colorful a book could be devoted to his shenanigans. His name was Archie Turner, a fisherman turned to snagging voters. And he was excellent at it.

  Archie was a physically powerful man, even though he had one arm that'd been mangled in some sort of accident. It hadn't slowed him down much. He was also a Bataan Death March survivor. Tough guy. 
 I remember once, at the Swamp Buggy Races, the drivers decided they were going to throw Archie in the Sippy Hole, the biggest and deepest hole in front of the grandstands. Just good ol' fun and games for the event and times. Archie threw six of them in the hole before a mob could overpower him and give him a dunking.

  Another time we received a call that there'd been a prowler at Archie's house-- on Central, about three blocks up from the beach--looking in his daughter's window. We rushed to the scene and found an agitated Archie, saying the bastard had run, and pointing in a direction. I took off that way.

  Along the route, I came upon an old  gray Chevy sedan, lights out, idling beside the road, with the driver hunched over--trying to make himself invisible. When he realized I was the police, he was terrified and admitted he was waiting for his partner, who was the peeping tom. 

  I yanked him out of the car, handcuffed him to a stop sign, and decided to finish his duties. Taking off and cruising slowly with the lights off, I hadn't gone far before out of a yard burst his compadre, who ran to the side of the car and jumped in. "Where the hell you been?" he said, before looking at me and realizing he'd been tricked. I took him back to Archie's house.

  When we arrived, Archie ran up to the car--blood in his eye--tore open the door, grabbed the voyeur, and lifted him arms length in the air, with one hand on the kids neck. "If you ever come back to my house again and look in my daughter's window," he said, "I'll break your scrawny neck."

  He certainly seemed sincere to me. And to the kid, too. He had some extra laundry to do down at the jail.

SPEEDY VS LURCH

  One of our Dets, Ken Ferrell, was a good cop. And a karate master. And a lover of unusual pets. In the Detective's office, where he worked, he had a terrarium set up. Anytime you walked by you'd see some new--and usually frightening--critter he'd acquired. To Ferrell, lizards, snakes, things most of us thought repulsive, were as cuddly as a baby kitten. Once he even had a tarantula named Lurch.

  Ken would let the hairy monster, as big a teacup, walk all over him. And he tried to get others to share a little quality time with the beast, too. Most like me, would like to see how much shoe the thing could hold up with a 230 lb cop standing in it.

  Feeding days, Ken would capture a big palmetto bug, or several lesser nasties and throw them in the terrarium. Lurch would come instantly alive, stalking the meal until he'd trap it in a corner, then one leap and it was chow time.

 One day Ken came in with a new tasty treat: a chameleon. The chameleon we named Speedy Gonzales. The little fella wasn't but about two inches long and we figured he was dead lizard walking.   

  When Speedy was dropped into the terrarium, he looked around, saw his adversary, and stood dead still. No good. The spider made an immediate rush for the snack and gave his signature leap. And landed on nothing. Speedy was using his suction-cup feet to hang safely out of reach, up on the glass wall.

  Lurch looked at the lizard a few minutes, then turned his back to walk off. Just what Speedy was waiting for. 

He lept from the wall on Lurch's back, and did a most violent Mexican hat dance--stomping, kicking, biting--until Lurch fell to the floor in confusion and exhaustion. And Speedy returned to the glass wall.

  This cycle went on all day. Lurch would recover, stand up, and Speedy would do another fandango on the bedraggled hide.

  The next morning, when the office was opened, Lurch was laying on the terrarium floor, eight legs in the air, stoney dead. And Speedy was scouting around the cage, looking for his own tasty treats.

  "Damn," Ken said, " I paid good money for that thing." Then, being Ferrell, he shook his head, smiled and said, "Guess I should've given him some karate lessons."

   

HOW MUCH GOOD ARE WE DOING?

I realize that these red light cameras are just awful, inaccurate things, that seem to be just another way to tax us. But, I'm sure the reason they were installed was to correct a wide range, raging traffic problem. One that was taking many lives, crippling and maiming hundreds, thousands. People turning right on red were thinning our population faster than an immigration crackdown.

  Now that you mention it, though, I don't remember seeing that in the media. Must have overlooked it. I'm sure that turning right on red was right up there with following too closely, texting, road rage, and illegal lane change.

  Wait a minute. Illegal lane change is the real reason turning right on red is so dangerous. Folks don't just turn right on red, they don't stay in their lane, and swing out into an accident.

  Don't think so? Next time you're waiting at a light, notice how many folks turning right at the intersection, don't stay in their lane but swing out into another. Most don't know or care how to make a legal turn in an intersection. 
  Ask your friends and relatives. Betcha most don't know how to make a legal turn. And it's one of the main causes of accidents. Maybe we should spend some time with that.

 Howsumever, since we have several months of data collected by now, and I'm sure the number of accidents has plunged, I'd like to see some credit given where it's deserved. And vicey-versey. Just how many accidents have the lights reduced?

  Don't know about you, but I feel safer already.
  PS Before you get all exercised at your local cops for doing this to you--don't. The cops don't make enough money from  traffic citations or fines to warrant the effort. The majority goes to other areas of government. The ones who count on it in their budgets. And badger the cops to write more tickets. The ones who think up these asinine scams.

DON'T FENCE ME IN

  This is another true yarn from Chester Keene. And as Chester B tells it:

 Received a call requesting to see the Shift Supervisor ref a problem that needed reconciliation. The Request for Supervisor usually means a cop has stepped on someone's toes, and they want to whine and blubber and get a second opinion as to what the cop had said they'd done wrong. Or they're just those particular jerks who believe they're above the law--in Naples, at the time, common place. Neither of which was so in this case.

  Found the complainant, and elderly woman, in her front yard. She said that she needed help with her husband, who was in the backyard. Asked if he needed medical attention and she replied, "Not yet, but if he keeps it up he's going to."

  In the back yard found her husband, standing in the hot sun, peeping through a privacy fence.

  "Looks okay to me," I told the lady.

  "Yes, " she said, "but if he doesn't get out of that hot sun, get something to eat or drink. . .he's been there almost all day."

  "What's he looking at?" I said, having a pretty good idea.

  "Go take a look, you'll see."

  So I did. I greeted the husband at the fence, told him why I was there. His eyes looked like rotten grapes and his breath sputtered in ragged, irregular burps. "Need to take a look through that fence," I said. The geeser reluctantly stepped aside, took one last look, then relinquished his spy-hole.  I took it over.
  On the other side, laying topless beside the pool, were two lovely spring-breakers. Early twenties at the most.

  In the cop business you're always doing things you don't want to do, but it's a duty thing. So I took one last look then announced: "This is the police. Put your tops on and quit exposing yourselves."  The young ladies quickly complied.

  The keen observer at my side mumbled, "Damn," and sulked all the way over to his wife. His wife said "Thank, you," to me, and I got in my patrol car and returned to duty, marveling at her reserve and understanding. 
  A sunstroke averted, a marriage saved,  and life went on in the treacherous Elephant's Graveyard.