PIN-UP DOORS

     Having two excuses not to do much--being retired and morbidly lazy--I don't do manual labor unless I can find an industrious illegal alien. But, I install door pins on my sliding glass doors. With good reason.

  Being a cop you see things routinely that normal folks would think are impossible. One that caused me to do the extra work of installing door pins--really an easy job--happened in the Coquina Sands area.

  An enraged man was locked out of the house by a young woman. The house had two sliding glass doors installed which the woman had locked. No problem! The crazed man, adrenaline pumping, just lifted the sliding glass doors out of their frame, came in the house, and killed the woman. 

  He did what? Just as I said, he lifted the doors up, over the bottom sliding track, then out of the frame. Just like they are installed. And if you don't pin them together, any burglar or intruder can do that to yours. But spending a few minutes with a drill and a screwdriver, installing the simple device pictured above, can prevent that.

  The pins are available at any hardware store or locksmith and aren't expensive--just a few bucks. Installing them is no trouble if you follow the instructions and don't drill into the glass.

  The best method is to pin the two or three doors together, then pin one to the door frame. That way, when they try to pry them up the doors aren't going anywhere vertically because they're locked to the door frame. They're not, of course, going anywhere horizontally, either.

  We have two sliding glass doors, and just use one. The other is never open. So, the pin in it--to the frame--is never removed. Except, maybe, in some sort of emergency.

  So pick up a couple pins, get out your tools, and start screwing.

PS I remember this homicide so well because we had a family vacation planned and I knew we couldn't--in good conscience--leave town until it was solved. I didn't say anything about it because it was a given: the Chief doesn't leave town when there's a lunatic on the prow. I'd probably have to cancel the trip. One of my Detectives, unasked, worked day and night until he caught the murdering scumbag. He gave me a call in the middle of the night saying, "Go ahead on vacation, Chief, we got him." The Detective's name was Irv Stoddard.

END OF THE MAILBOX BASHERS

     About the time The Moorings was near build-out and Park Shore was getting underway, it became a fad, among high school morons, to engage in mailbox bashing. The damage was inflicted by cruising by a mailbox, having a passenger lean out the window and destroy a mailbox with one swing of a baseball bat.

  Since it was a hit-and-run crime, the imbeciles were hard to catch. Occasionally, one would catch themselves. One memorable dope tried to use his fist instead of a ball bat and ended up in the ER with a mangled paw. Another genius leaned out too far, looking for the box, and found it with his thick skull. You can see the level of intelligence we were dealing with here but, still, they were difficult to catch in the act.

  Finally the victims began to retaliate. Up in Pine Ridge the fools added to the destruction by running over the box and post. The flimsy aluminum posts bent over easily, and the box was squashed under the car. To counteract this, some of us put our mailboxes on sawed-off telephone poles, set in concrete. Shortly thereafter, a dufuss, who tried to run over one of these, was launched through the windshield after the sudden stop--a Jeep vs a telephone pole being no contest. 

  Another popular sport was "burning" a lawn. This was done by driving a car onto the grass at high speed, then slamming on the brakes, the resultant skid ripping up the lawn. Corner lots were particularly susceptible. Residents tried to stop this by placing large bolders in the swale. Unfortunately, the swale was owned by the City who couldn't allow these hazards or the attendant liability.

  One day we received a call from an outraged repeat victim. He wanted us to inspect his protective measures. In his front yard we found spikes driven in the ground at two-foot intervals. They protruded from the ground about 4 inches. "Let 'em burn me now," he growled. We explained that his probable victim, would be a yardman, or neighborhood child who was accidentally impaled in his spike garden.  And said victim  would soon relieve him of the worry of protecting his home, because they'd own it, awarded by the civil courts.  Our homeowner, a retired Army Major, saw our point and removed the spikes. He wasn't, however, finished.

  Soon we rushed to his home on Crayton Road where a vehicle was stopped in the middle of the street, with two teenagers huddled nearby, terrified and trembling. The vehicle bore the ragged holes made by shotgun pellets, shot at an angle. The Major stood nearby, gloating.

  "Bet they'll think twice about bashing mailboxes and burning lawns now," he said. And he was correct. Most of the vandalism ended that night.

  Doesn't take long for word to get around that if you go out smashing and bashing  there might be a wild old coot waiting in the bushes.  With a 12 gauge shotgun loaded with double-O buck. That he'd use  to blow your doors off.

THE AMAZING, INFLATABLE, 300 DOLLAR DRESS

     It was 1965 and we'd received a shoplifting complaint from a dress shoppe in the 3rd Street South shopping area. It was, of course, The Season because, at the time, the exclusive area was only open then. Closed all summer. Most all the other shops in town could've, too, since they made the majority of their profits from the Snowbirds. The other stores did close, during the summer, on Wednesday afternoons.

  Howsumever, I went to the shoppe (shoppe meaning expensive) that we'll call Snob's, owned by a lady I called Zazu. Zazu was torqued because a fat woman had walked out with one of her cocktail dresses and had given Zazu a menacing look when she tried to follow her. The thief'd left in a black Cadillac. This wasn't much help since most of the shoppers on 3rd Street South were from Port Royal and in Port Royal there were a lotta fat ladies in Cadillacs. 

  While filling out my report, I asked Zazu how much the dress cost. "Three-hundred-dollars," she said. I said, "Was that what you paid for it? That's what your loss really is."

   Zazu mumbled and grumbled for a while and told me she'd have to look it up and get back with me. She didn't. Not even after a couple weeks, so I dropped by Snob's to give her some inspiration.

  I explained to her that I had to have the number or her insurance wouldn't pay. She said it wasn't worth turning into insurance, anyway. She hadn't paid that much for it.

  I told her there must be a helluva profit in dresses but I still needed a number so I could determine if the theft was a misdemeanor or a felony--fifty-dollars was the dividing line. I finally squeezed it out of her.

  "Truth is, these Zazu Originals aren't quite that. I go over to Miami to Jackson-Byron's Bargain Basement and buy them there. Then I bring them back and sew a Zazu Originals label in them."

  "So how much money did you have in it?" I asked.

  With downcast eyes she whispered, "About fifteen-dollars." Then, trying to legitimize this dubious commerce, she said, "They don't care anyway. They're only going to wear it to a cocktail party one time, tell everyone they paid $300 dollars for it, then donate it to one of those charity re-sell stores, over on 10th Street, and claim a $400 tax deduction."

  That pretty much solved the case for me. I wouldn't be busting my arse on this one. Couldn't determine, in this whole  moral dung pile, who was the bigger damn thief.

THE PYRAMID SCHEME

    Some wise soul at the Naples PD--don't remember who--decided that to catch con men you needed to use their methods. One of the most famous was the Pyramid game. Also called 8 Ball, Dinner Party, Airplane and many others, it claimed that a donated sum would be returned ten or twenty times over. In fact, about 90% of the participants would lose money. All but the Slicksters who started the game.

  What was intriguing was the mathematics. One person contacted two, these two, two more making four, and so on, rapidly increasing the number of persons involved. The wise one who converted the con game to our use--probably a Dispatcher--saw how this could vastly improve our telephonic warning system.

  It worked like this: When we received info that a counterfeiter or card shuffler or forger was at work, our Dispatcher would call a specific merchant with the warning. This merchant would, in turn, warn two more, and so forth, just like the Pyramid Scheme. Soon every merchant in the area knew what was going down. And, after being stung so many times, they were damn sure ready for some payback.

  We worked with the merchant's association to put the plan together. Each merchant was given a list with the two businesses they were to notify when they received a warning call. And did it work!

  It wasn't long until when the Card Shuffler reached into his sport coat pocket to bring out the fake card, there was a detective waiting to receive it.

  Again, the old saying proved true: Necessity is a Mother.

MORE SHUFFLIN'

  It was the "Season" again and the con men, forgers, and now, counterfeiters, were giving us more gray hair than Jay Leno. We'd try to give the businesses a heads up when we became aware of a particular weasel, but, in those days before computer networks, we just weren't very effective.

  Counterfeiters were a sporadic problem. When some crooked Rembrandt turned out some Primo plates or some creditable off-set printed fakes, there would be a flow for a while. When the clerks would finally figure out that the $20 dollar bills that didn't quite feel right, and had ink that smeared when you rubbed it, and all had the same serial number, were bogus, then counterfeiters would move on.

  At the time there weren't any magnetic threads, or iridescent inks, or watermarks to help clerks insure that a bill was genuine. And, it being the Season, the clerks were harried and most didn't even try to pick out bad bills. Some were worse than others.

  I took a bogus bill, that had been turned in with the regular receipts by a market  on 5th Avenue South, back to the store. Showing it to the manager, he said he just couldn't understand how that could happen. His clerks diligently inspected all twenties (the most popular bill to counterfeit). I asked if I could try an experiment. He okayed it.

  I went to the checkout counter and asked for a pack of cigarettes. The clerk handed me a pack and and I handed her a counterfeit twenty. Not just a bogus twenty, but one that had been stamped with red ink, in half-inch letters, twice on each side COUNTERFEIT. She immediately took it and gave me my change. I think the manager might still be sputtering.

  So, we were being hammered by the bad guys--and gals--and still weren't making much of a dent in the crime rate. But, we finally figured out how to kick some criminal butt.

  Next time you'll see how. I promise.

THE 5th AVENUE SOUTH SHUFFLE

   We had a con man who used to visit Naples every year--like the Asian flu and the creeping crud. He had a sweet little scam that was simple, effective, and would pull him in a couple hundred a day. In the mid-sixties that was good bucks, considering I wasn't making much more than that a month. His scam worked like this.

  He loved the many gift shops on 5th Ave South. In the shop, he'd select a greeting card and take it to the counter. There, he'd explain that it was his daughter's birthday and he, a traveling salesman, was going to miss it. But, he could send a pretty card and he wondered if the clerk had a nice, clean, crisp twenty he could put inside. The clerk always obliged.

  Our villian would take the twenty, seal it  in the card, and put the card in his inside sportcoat pocket. Then, he'd reach for his wallet. 
  "Durn," he'd mutter, "left it in the car. But, no problem, I'll just run out and get it." Saying that, he'd take the card from his inside pocket, put it on the counter and say, "Hold that 'til I get back."

  And the clerk would, many times until the end of the workday. Then they'd rationalize the customer had gone somewhere else, or whatever, and open the card to retrieve the money. There they found a folded piece of blank card stock. And no money.

Our Slicky-boy had, of course, had two cards in his coat pocket. The new one with the money and his prop to leave on the counter.

  Some days he'd hit three or four stores on 5th Ave before he left for, well, greener pastures. He always made Bonita his next stop and always came from Miami, via Marco Island. Lacking computers back then, we couldn't trace him any further.

  It took a few years to nail him and when we did it was with modern technology.
  That we invented.

  Tell you how next time.

A REAL HERO

James Pugh had been a hero in the bloodiest battles of WWII. That torrid summer's night in the 1960's he showed that he hadn't forgotten how to do it.

I'd received a call that a certain, elusive, gent, who we had a warrant for, was partaking of liquid stupid in Rabbits Juke in McDonald's Quarters. We'd been trying to serve the warrant for months, but our prey was slicker than Willie, himself. I tried to gather up some help, but everyone was out on calls, so I headed over there alone, telling dispatch to send help as soon as possible. This was really stupid, but I was young and afflicted with that condition.

Arriving at the juke, and being in plain clothes, I thought I might be able to slip inside and mill with the sardine-packed crowd unnoticed. After all, it was after midnight, the Juke didn't waste any money on lights, and most of the patrons were addled by booze.

I spotted my man and sidled over to him. Putting a hand on his arm, I said, "You're under arrest. Come quietly. Let's get outta here."

He was too smart for that, announcing, "A city cop wants to take me to jail on some trumped-up charges. You gonna stand for that?"

You have to appreciate the times and conditions to gauge the impact of this statement. The civil rights rumblings had just begun. Many times overt friction between black people and whites was coming to the surface. This heat could cause the pot to boil over, especially in a bar full of drunks. The crowd immediately decided there wasn't any white cop gonna take any black brother to the city slammer. To insure it wasn't going to happen, they began to close in on me.

Just then a deep voice said, "This police officer is just doing his duty. And nobody is gonna stop him. If someone wants to try, they come through me first." It was James Pugh, suddenly at my side. And Sir Galahad couldn't have been more welcome.

James, although far from a young man, was still thick and powerful, not someone you wanted to trifle with. And he had the respect of the community. The crowd decided they were going to let justice take its course and, in an instant I was stuffing the arrestee in my car.

I thanked James, and he just nodded and walked off. I know he had to realize what danger was involved in standing up to a drunken mob of your brothers when you know they're wrong. But he performed his civic duty like the true hero that he was.

James has been gone a few years now but I've never forgotten him. There are few made like that.

Rest in peace, kind sir.

THE PAW PAW PATCH

Click on image to enlarge

Naples first Jail, with two cells, was built in the 1940's at a cost of $386.68. It was located off of 8th Street South, in the general area of the Old Cove and the old Naples Hotel. Named the Paw Paw Patch, the inmates shared the facility with the voracious skeeters that were ubiquitous at the time.

Passers-by could often hear the plaintive calls from the Jail, "Please Mr. Cale, let me out, the skeeters are killin' me." Cale Jones was Chief at the time.

Another popular call was to children who passed by. Inmates would give them a quarter and ask them to go to the Beach Store and buy them a pack of cigarettes.

As you can see from the photo, the screen is ripped open. Years later, the window, in that exact condition, was delivered to me at the NPD. "Doc" Johnson, who apparently tore down the old jail, donated it as a piece of memorabilia from a Naples long gone by. We stored it for several years until I was leaving the agency. I called the Museum and asked if they'd like to have it. They said yes, eagerly. A few years later, I asked what they'd done with it. They replied: "We misplaced it.

Many thanks to Ben and Lorene Caruthers and Dave Dampier

PUSH MY BUTTON

At the CCSO we were having a problem. Many of the doors had new security locks installed. They were of the push-button variety where you punched in a four number code. Problem was folks were always forgetting what code they'd programed in. There was a way you could over-ride it and open them, but that little reprograming tool wasn't available to anyone but Roger Fussell, the guy who ran Maintenance. And Roger was a busy guy, with nineteen buildings to worry about.

We began to wonder about the integrity of the system one day when I was in the hall talking to Roger. He had two trustees with him. Trustees were used extensively at the SO, and other jails, to save the taxpayers money. As an example, it took about twenty-five to run the kitchen each day. Plus more to do the daily building clean-up and maintenance. Roger always had two or three with him.

One of the trustees, looking at the door said, "those locks are worthless, you know."

"They're a pain in the keester," Roger said, "but worthless. . ?"

"Yep," said the trustee. "Bet I can open that one up not even knowing the code."

"Okay," Roger said accepting the challenge, "let's see you do it."

The trustee squatted down to lock level, then moved his head around, looking at the lock from different angles. Then he began typing in numbers, fingers flying. Within a minute the door was open.

"What the . . ?" Roger and I both said.

"Easy," the trustee explained. "People put in their four number code and use it for a long time. Door like this, in an office, probably has the code tapped in a hundred times a day. That causes the buttons to look like they've been shined, polished from the oil in people's skin. Looking at the keys in the right light, you can tell which ones have been punched the most. Pick the four most used keys, then it's just a matter of typing in four number sequences until you hit the right one. No problem."

For me, even the possible combinations with four numbers was too much. But for a burglar, it didn't seem much of a deterrent.

Before that, I'd been thinking of putting one of those locks on my garage door. I changed my mind.

TOO MUCH MONKEY BUSINESS

Sorry to be so slow on the posts lately but I've been working on two books and they both came back for editing at the same time. Takes a while to pick over several hundred pages.

But, there is a new post today, about a bad bird and two worse cops. Hope you like it.

BAD BIRD

Once Mike Grimm and I were at Lineback's Firestone getting new tires on our unmarked cop car. Inside the waiting room, we noticed that Paul had acquired a new helper. A Mynah bird. Paul'd placed him in a cage up by the front door. He hoped the bird would be an attraction, something for his customers to smile at.

He certainly made Mike and I smile, being a perfect mimic and a quick study. And, he seemed to know just when to say something, not just jabber at random.

Dave Johnson later told me that when he was a child on Marco Island the family had a Mynah bird named Sinbad that was so smart it was disconcerting. He said the bird was placed close to the bathroom door, and whenever anyone occupied the facilities, the bird would mimic the sound of gastric explosions, then emit as satisying, "Aaaaaaah."

He'd also, when placed on the back porch, aggravate the neighbors dog by yelling "Here Spot, come and eat," in a perfect imitation of poor Spot's master's voice. The dog would race around the yard until he collapsed from exhaustion, trying to find out just where in hell his boss was.

Paul Lineback's bird was similarly disposed to rude humor as we found out, after spending some time with him, improving his vocabulary.

An unhappy Paul called us one day ranting, "You've ruined my bird. He's running off all my customers."

Inquiring how, Paul went on. "When a customer comes in, he yells at them, 'Buy something you cheap son-of-a-bitch.' And there's no need of you guys denying it 'cause he sounds just like Mike Grimm."

PAYBACK IS A BITCH

If Ed had been a wrestler, he'd have been labeled Haystack or Man Mountain or, at least, Big Ed. Because that he was. About 300 pounds with a neck like a keg of nails and fingers like smoked sausages. Mostly muscle, too, from his years of pulling the nets in his trade as a fisherman.

Big Ed was a mean 'un, with a disposition like a gorilla with hemorrhoids. Not someone to trifle with. He was a regular customer of the NPD or Sheriff's Office, usually producing a legendary encounter.

Once Ed had possession of a skiff thats ownership was in dispute. The boat was resting in the water near Boat Haven. Cops were trying to figure how to get the boat started, so they could drive it to the ramp and up on their trailer when Big Ed arrived. He said he didn't have the keys with him, but that was no problem. And it wasn't. He just leaned over the seawall and lifted the boat, motor and all, up to dry ground.

Another time, we had a warrant to serve on him. It required that he go to jail and bond out. One of our biggest officers, Jack Bliss, went out to do the dirty work. Ed's tiny wife, Sweet Pea, greeted Jack at the door and warned him that Ed was asleep and didn't take kindly to being awakened. Jack told her he was just gonna have to be ticked off cause this wouldn't wait.

In the bedroom, he called Big Ed's name, eliciting no response. So, he put his hand on Ed's arm and shook him. Bad move. Ed spun around, clamped Jack's arm like a vice and said, "Don't mess with me when I'm sleepin'." Jack, in agony, replied, "No problem, Ed. I have a warrant for your arrest. When you get up, drop by the station and we'll process it." And that's how it worked.

Knowing all these tales, Dave Johnson, couldn't believe the message that was broadcast over his police radio. Big Ed said he needs help, Sweet Pea is beating on him. Sweet Pea, at about 11o pounds. Dave eagerly took the call. This was something he had to see.

He could hear Ed howling when he arrived on the scene. Going inside, he found Ed on the floor, his leg in a cast. Seems he'd broken it fishing. Standing over him was Sweet Pea, with an aluminum baseball bat, taking measured, hefty swings at the cast. She'd already busted it open and was now getting to Ed's beefy leg. He howled like a werewolf with each blow.

Dave, enjoying the sight, watched her deliver a little more agony, then stopped her. It seems Sweet Pea was playing catch-up for years of putting up with the brute. There's a lesson to be learned here.

That's the way it works with little women. Folks used to ask me who I was afraid of. "Sandy", I'd say. They'd laugh, Sandy, my wife, at just over 5 feet tall and 100 pounds, and me six feet and over 200. "It's true," I'd say. "Ever since she found out I had to sleep sometime, I've lived in fear."

A good thing to keep in mind.