A FRIEND IN LOW PLACES

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

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

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

THE SEVEN SHOT REVOLVER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FASHION STATEMENT TWO

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

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

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

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

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

DIVORCE BAD BOY STYLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

BATTLEFIELD SURGEON

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

LET'S SUE SOMEONE!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FASHION STATEMENT

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

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

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

LAST MAN STANDING

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

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

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

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

DIVINE INTERVENTION, TOO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DIVINE INTERVENTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LUXURY PATROL CARS

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

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

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

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

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

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

 It took a little explaining on that one.

CONVOLUTED LOGIC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JUDGE JUDY

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

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

THE HIGH COST OF VOTE BUYING

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

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

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

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

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

MEALS ON WHEELS

  At one time, this vehicle was a common site on the streets of Naples. Pictured here in the Swamp Buggy Parade of 1976, passengers include Aubrey Rogers, Sheriff, and some Explorers, who were one of the primary benefactors of the kitchen on wheels.

 The Junior Deputy program, started by Sheriff Doug Hendry, and brought to fruition under Aubrey, also benefited. Aubrey made it a civilian adjunct to the SO, and appointed Earl Hodges as prime-mover. Earl's still there, along with John R Wood, another early board member.

 Many Junior Deputies had their first contact with law enforcement as members, camping out with and learning primary outdoor skills from the cops and advisors. And it was a positive experience. Many of the happy campers went on to become cops themselves. 

 Photo courtesy of Chester Keene. And thanks to Ray Barnett for keeping me accurate. 

JUST DYING TO GIVE YOUR MONEY AWAY?

  Watching the political commercials on TV makes you wonder just how stupid they think we are. Of course, with our electing record the answer is easy. That's why in a commercial they'll say anything knowing there is some fool out there that'll believe it.

A friend of mine, Jim Burnett, just sent me an e-mail that reminded me of one outlandish bender of the truth that made a living on his scams for a number of years. We'll call him Slicker Than Willie.

 The email showed a small block of wood with this written on it. "Exercise block. Walk around the block twice and when folks ask you if you exercise tell them you've walked around the block twice." 

 This a variation on Slicker's "Foolproof Fly Killer." Slicker sold these my mail. The ad read "Guaranteed to kill flies. One dollar plus postage and shipping." What you received was two small blocks of wood, one marked "A", the other "B." Instructions: "When fly lands on block "A" strike sharply with block "B." He sold these until the news papers shut him down.

 Slicker was not discouraged. It eventually happened in every town he moved to. So, before he'd move on he'd used his failsafe second plan. He placed ads that read, "This is absolutely your last chance to send one dollar to PO Box 123." And the money rolled in.

 So when the soap company tells you, for the hundredth time, about their "new, improved" product and you wonder what kind of crap the original your mother used was--after all these years of improving it--you can see where they came from.

 Some folks will buy anything. Just look at some of the scumbags we've elected of late.
 Editor's Note: As so often happens, readers come up with incidents that compliment my yarns. This one is from Dave Dampier.
 Reminded me of the one my stepdad fell for. The ad in the newspaper said "Guaranteed Roach Killer. 100% guaranteed if used as directed." 
 He received a small package in which were printed directions and a small, sharp, pointed wood stick. The directions read:"Place point of stick on head of roach and press firmly,"
 Results: "Cucaracha es Muy Muerte"