THE COOKIE LADY

  Police radio parlance can vary, with agencies, from arcane numbers and codes to a simple conversational style. Some like the Tens and Signals, others think they just get in the way and confuse what  they were supposed to clarify. The CCSO and NPD have used several different systems over the years. 

  In the 70's, however, you would hear one phrase on the NPD's radio that was unique to their police comm system: "Good morning Cookie Lady."

  This was usually spoken by the officer assigned to a specific zone. And it was common to hear, "Good night Cookie Lady" when the cop assigned to that zone went off duty for the night.

 Was this some super-secret code phrase used to baffle radio eavesdroppers? Something concocted to set in motion or cease some covert operation?  Nope, it was just a salutation to a nice lady who was a regular listener.

  The Cookie Lady was an elderly woman who befriended cops by dropping off plates of the wonderful yummies she baked for the officers who worked in her residential zone. She was a regular contributor and an avid listener. She knew all the officer's badge numbers and shifts and if she didn't hear one of them on the radio when they should be, she'd be on the phone to the PD asking if they were ill or injured. She worried about them and their safety. The officers all knew it and loved her for it.

  Yep, everyone loved the Cookie Lady's cookies, but I think they liked her mothering more.
  Now, if she had been The Donut Lady. . .

DIVE TEAM--DEDICATION TO DOOTY

  Gail Addison reminds us of what had to be the worst--and maybe most dangerous--dive of them all. This was the Sewer Tank Submersion. What?
 The SO received a call from the County workers who process sewage and turn it into non-potable water--and other stuff. That's the water used for plant watering. It hasn't been refined enough for human consumption, but it's great for watering medians and golf courses and the like. Homsumever, one of the tanks  used in the breakdown and refine process had malfunctioned. Stopped  up. They needed someone to dive down in there and find out what the problem was. Either that, or the crap would have to be emptied on the ground, much to the olfactory sorrow of anyone within a three-mile whiffing distance. 
 This request was not unusual. Civilians wouldn't believe what cop're asked to do. So, Sheriff Aubrey Rogers took it in stride and passed it on to the Dive Team. Who passed it right back. Dive in a gigantic turd bowl? You gotta be kiddin'? But, Aubrey convinced them they should do what they'd been ordered to do. And they did.
  The two unfortunates, who we'll call Doo-Doo Dougie and Jumpin' Jack Splash, proceeded to the scene of the slime. There were several tanks involved in the sanitation process. The one, however, that was stopped up was right at the front, where the raw sewage entered. 
  Making themselves watertight--they hoped--in their diving gear they plunged into the pudding. Fortunately, they quickly found the problem. An errant 2x4 had gotten in the tank and locked the stirring paddle. They removed same.
 Exiting the tank, health workers noted that from what was clinging to their costumes, a simple wash-down probably wasn't gonna do it and directed them to NCH for an inspection and preventive maintenance. After a little professional scrubbing and disinfecting they were nearly as clean as non-potable water.
 And, I'm sure that when Jack and Doug listen to some politician  whining about emergency worker's excessive pay and princely pension plan, they're pretty comfortable that they earned theirs. And it ain't nearly enough.

DOWN BY THE SWIMMIN' HOLE

  Scott Barnett provided this photo of the CCSO Dive Team in the Mid-70's. Pictured, left to right, are Sheriff Aubrey Rogers, Joe Johnson, Connie Beard, Jackie Kline, Doug Caperton, and Jay Green. The group is standing in front of brand new US Diver's gear.

  Scott, who became commander of the group, said he was talked into joining 30 years ago by Jackie Kline. He said Kline's romantic portrayal of the team's dives caused him to believe he'd be cruising down to Cozumel to frolic with the parrot fish.

 Jackie left out the part about diving in polluted roadside canals, hunting for the bodies of accident victims. And the part about the one-foot visibility--if you were lucky--and that soft thing you bumped into being a bloated cadaver, his hideous vacant eyes locked on yours in the murk.

BROTHER BILLY

  Sometimes, when we elect a President we get an unexpected bonus. That happened with Jimmy Carter. Jimmy was a quiet, laid-back gent who, most of the time, would've slid right through his Oval Office tour with barely a ripple. And would have--if it hadn't been for this brother, Billy. Billy, you see, was a whole different sack of peanuts.

  We got to enjoy Billy a lot in Collier County. He made friends and business connections with locals and spent a lotta time in Paradise promoting stuff or just going to parties with his new friends. And, the boy could party.

  One of the Sheriff's Office's first encounters with the lovable rascal was greeting him at the Naples Airport. We were to escort him to some local shindig. A respectable number of news media reps were in attendance. Soon as Billy exited the aircraft, he ran straight to plane's tire and peed all over it. Seems the small shuttle plane had no bathroom and Billy was generally full of liquids that made you want to go. In a hurry.

  The tarmac wetting gained national attention and Billy, once again,  out-newsed his brother.

  We were at an auction with him once where he'd been hired to draw a crowd. He'd done a good job, there was a mob to see him. He was holding a can of beer and sipping from it with regularity and real gusto. I noticed the top had been completely opened like you open a can of beans, making it a drinking glass. "Can't get it out fast enough through that regular hole?" I asked.

  "Nah," he said, "I opened it up to pour the beer out."

  "Pour it out? Thought you loved beer."

 "Do. Good beer. But I have this contract with a brewery to pimp this Billy Beer--he showed me the label on the can. Every time I drink in public I'm supposed to drink Billy Beer. But I can't stand the piss so I replace it with whiskey."

  Pragmatics, you gotta love 'em.
Thanks Chester Keene for photo.

CW STRIKES AGAIN

  This bit of history courtesy of former CCSO Deputy Jack Bobo. With additional info from Dave Johnson.

 In the early 80’s, Charlie (CW) Sanders lost a finger while investigating an incident near the Dade County line on the East Trail. The night before, we were dispatched to the vicinity of the Jet Port because of a "disturbance." Once we arrived, we met with some campers who said that an unknown white male had been causing trouble. He'd left the scene and we didn't locate him.

 The next morning, CW--being CW and knowing everybody in his district--remembered there was a young ne'er-do-well living in that area, on the East Trail, and this sounded like some of his work. CW drove to this scalawag’s residence, exited his vehicle, and headed for the front door  when two vicious pit bulls charged him. He kicked one, but the other grabbed his left index finger.  CW naturally pulled back and the dog bit the finger off, right at the middle knuckle.  The dog sat down and spit out the digit. 

 CW grabbed the finger and put it in his shirt pocket.  He wrapped his bleeder in a hankie and drove himself  to NCH, about 50 miles away. There, he asked them to put it back on--which today, would be a possibility.

 Within 24 hours of losing his finger, CW was back on duty, making his rounds and checking on the welfare of his district. Not once did I ever hear him complain about the amputation. This was CW Sanders, District Lieutenant, Paratrooper, Stuntman, NASCAR Driver, Mentor, and friend to everyone.

 CW was the old breed, never worried about overtime, injuries, or needing counseling because he'd seen some blood. His sole commitment was to get the job done.  No matter what it took. 

  PS. About 6 months later, both dogs were found shot, stone cold dead.  An unsolved mystery to this day.  

SEND ME YOUR YARNS

  After two years of writing this blog, my supply of tales--even for an admitted BS Artist--is growing short. I could sure use any stories of the NPD or CCSO you could contribute. Sometimes, a word or phrase is enough to generate a story.

  You'll get full credit--if the Statute of Limitations has run out. And, I'm pretty good at protecting the easily embarrassed. 

  As an example, tomorrow is one about CW Sanders by Jack Bobo.

  Thanks. GDY

GOLDILOCKS AND THE GRATEFUL BEAR

    Our Goldilocks was a Secretary in the CCSO Headquarters Building at the Courthouse Complex. She was new to the agency, having relocated from the Chicago area. That was obvious from the Bears memorabilia that adorned the office. A typical Chicago Bears fan. Or so it seemed.

 When asked about the Bears decorations, she'd tell you that she was really a fan of just one Bear and point out that the souvenirs all bore his autograph.

  Why so?

 It seems Goldilocks was driving home from work one night and noticed a stranded motorist standing beside his car on the road. Although she knew all about carjacking and that it wasn't prudent to stop, something told her it was okay. So she did.

  Pulling up next to the man, she cracked the window and asked if she could be of help. She certainly could, the man said, eagerly. His cell phone had crapped out and he was going to need a tow. Could she make a call for him? She did and the truck arrived in minutes.

  Seeing the problem was solved, she said Goodbye and started to drive off. The driver thanked her, then asked a question. "When you pulled over to help me, you didn't recognize me did you?"

  Goldilocks was nonplussed. "No, and I still don't know who you are."

  The man laughed. "I play professional sports, on TV a lot." Then he told her his name.

 Goldilocks recognized the name, and, vaguely, the face but not being a sports fan, couldn't make  a connection with a local team. Cubs? Bears? White Sox? Blackhawks?

  The man asked for her address, saying he'd like to send her a Thank You card. It seemed harmless enough, so she complied.

  A couple of weeks later the Thank Yous started arriving. A signed photo. A jersey. A football. A helmet. And that's how the collection began. She still received something every now and again.

  And who was Goldilocks' Grateful Bear? One the most famous. The Bear's big, bad, bone-crushing All-Pro linebacker: Brian Urlacher.
  Can you imagine trying to get that guy out of your bed?

POLITICAL PROFUNDITIES

  Some of the tasteless shenanigans that go on in today's political campaigns reminded Ray Barnett of the local ballot seeking battles from a kinder and gentler time. Well, sorta kinder and gentler.

  Doug Hendry was faced with a number of challengers, over the years, who all found out it was a waste of time. In his prime, Doug was so smooth and intelligent and likable you might as well have tried to take Christ's seat next to God. Probably because of that, most of his opponents didn't seem to be very serious--just looking to get their name in the paper.

  Back then, a candidate seldom said anything derogatory about the opponent. It just wasn't done, Old Man. They would, however, enlist the aide of their cohorts to spread a nasty rumor.

  During one of these "nice guy" speeches a contender against Doug, who we'll call Dozy Dorwin, was so effervescent in his praise of the Sheriff, some had to be wondering why he was bothering to run against such a great guy.

  When Doug finally got the mike, he showed the crowd what a swell fella he really was, by thanking Dozy, for the kind words, and reminding him to zip up his undone fly.

  A local character and well digger, Whiz Waters, once decided he was just what the people needed in the Sheriff's chair. Whiz's speech demonstrated what "rough" politics were at the time.

 He allowed that Doug wasn't tough enough for the job. That what it needed was a hard scale Cracker, like himself. And to prove himself as that person, he challenged Doug to walk across an oyster bar with him--barefoot.

  This was no trick for Whiz, who seldom wore shoes and showed the crowd just how tough his tootsies were by striking a match on his bare foot to light his cigarette. 

  'Course, the voters weren't impressed and smoked Whiz at the polls.

THE DAMOCO TRIANGLE

  We're all familiar with The Bermuda Triangle, that expanse of water off Florida that has spawned so many mysteries. But, there's another less known triangle that in the early 60's gave birth to a puzzler of its own. It's the dreaded DaMoCo Triangle, named for the convergence of Dade, Monroe, and Collier Counties.

  At one point US 41, the Tamiami Trail, bursts right through the triangle on its way to Miami, on one end, or Naples on the other. If your car is long enough, you can be in all three counties at once.

 Near that convergence there once stood a roadside cafe/convenience store called The Trail Center. The small building was a popular oasis on the long, barren Trail. You could buy a tasty burger, go to the John, or gas up and stretch your legs. You could also get skunk drunk on the beer purveyed there and many a hunter did before venturing into the woods with their high powered rifles and bleary eyes.

  One day two hunters had way too much fun boozing, decided they didn't like each other, and went outside to settle the score. One hunter, having forgotten what they'd come there to kill, shot the other. 

 There were several witnesses to the murder, the shooter didn't deny it, and relieved investigators believed the case should be a slam dunk. Until they pin-pointed where shooter and victim actually stood--or lay--in the former's case. Seems the shooter was standing in Collier County, the bullet passed through the air of Monroe County, and struck the victim standing in Dade County.

  This conundrum was a head-scratcher. Just where did the crime occur? Was it Collier, where the gun was fired, or Dade where the bullet hit the victim?

  Later, old-time Deputy Bill McCrea, who told this tale to Dave Johnson, said the different agencies sweated over that one for a while, finally deciding Dade County should own it. Hell, with all the mayhem going on in Miami they probably wouldn't even notice one more.

  

THE MUMMY MURDER

  Occasionally, when folks at the Naples Police Department are going through the old records they come upon oddities--records that look to have been gnawed around the edges. Those are easily explained: rats. But, the pages are also peppered with shot holes like they'd been used as targets in a turkey shoot. What the. . . ? Chester Keene remembers why.

  When we were housed in the old PD at 8th and 8th South we used one of the cells as records storage. It was on the women's side and never used for its intended purpose. So, in need of storage space we converted it to a locker.

  One day a clerk, Debbie, went back to the cell to retrieve an ancient record. She rapidly returned, screaming  that there was a rat in the records. 

  Dave Dampier went to our armory and got an old .22 rifle and put some rat shot in it. (Rat Shot is a cartridge with small pellets in the bullet end, instead of solid lead, making it a mini shotgun shell)

  He took the rifle to the old cell, located the box with the rat in it, and blasted away. Instead of blood and fur exploding from the box, a cloud of dust and shredded paper drifted up. Seems the critter was long dead and petrified, having starved on a City diet that featured too much starch and no cheese. 
  Everyone got a good laugh out of the Mummy Murder. 
  And the Peppered Paper Case is solved.

DOUG'S WAY

Sheriff Doug Hendry

  Russ Davis, former CCSO Deputy, shared this story from the 60's, about Sheriff Doug Hendry.  Russ did a lot of community relations  work for Doug. So much that some thought he was the Sheriff. He was so good at his job, Doug once told me "The only guy I wouldn't want to run against is Russ Davis."

 Late one evening Doug and Russ were returning from a public meeting and stopped by St. George and The Dragon for a toddy. Having ordered, and relaxing at a table, they were approached by a man Russ said was a typical Miami/New York City criminal type. He could've been in the movies.

  The weasel gave his name and said he'd like to have a few private words with the Sheriff.   Doug told him to say what he wanted, he had no secrets from Russ.

  The intruder was blunt in his presentation. He explained that he controlled "the number's" racket in all the surrounding counties and was interested in invading Collier. It would be very profitable for the Sheriff. Doug looked at the man a long time, silent, then gave a noncommittal grunt and said he'd get back with him.

  Russ said he and Doug then left and headed back to the Sheriff's Office. Doug was silent the entire trip. Russ said he was dumbfounded and heartbroken. He'd expected Doug to grab the weasel and put him in the slammer.

 When they arrived at the SO, Russ was still stunned. Could he have been so wrong about Doug after all these years? Was he considering taking the bribe?

  The Sheriff finally spoke. He waved Russ into his office, handed him a legal pad and a pen. "I want you to write down everything that man said to us in the restaurant. I'll do the same. Make it as complete as possible."

  Russ, still concerned, said, "Then what, Sheriff?"

  "We're gonna get a warrant and put that son-of-a-bitch under the jail," Doug said.

  And they did.

  And Russ never worried about his boss again.

CHARLIE SANDERS

 

 This yarn, by CCSO retired Capt Dave Johnson, remembers an SO legend, Charlie Sanders.  As Dave tells it:

 Charlie was assigned to the Everglades Substation. A trusted Deputy, everyone knew and respected, many local residents  called him at home, in the middle of the night, to report crimes. That way, they could remain anonymous and avoid scrutiny by talking with Dispatchers in the far away land of Naples. To some of the folks in Everglades, at the time, certain extracurricular activities made being particular with the cop contacts a necessity.

  One such night somebody called Charlie reporting a drunk with a rifle, cranking off rounds on the Barron River Bridge.  Nobody was out on patrol because the Everglades Station shut down at 2 AM.  Charlie had a fanatical sense of duty so instead of calling Dispatch, he rolled out of bed and took care of it himself.  

  Being an ex-NASCAR driver, Charlie was an expert at making the 15+ mile trip from Copeland to Everglades in record time.  As it turned out, Charlie's obsessive habit of driving like a Moonshine runner literally saved his life.  

  The object of the call was a hometown boy who was zonked out of his gourd on drugs.  He'd stolen an AR-15 Assault Rifle and decided to have some fun shooting everything in sight.  He heard Charlie coming and decided that shooting up a patrol car would really top off his night.

  Charlie was hittin' close to triple digits as he approached the bridge which welcomes you to beautiful downtown Everglades. The idiot hunkered down behind the bridge rail and started firing on Charlie at about 400 yards out.  He only managed to get off about 5 rounds before Charlie blasted right on by him.  Charlie heard the rounds hit the car, but mistook the sound for running over something in the road.  

  As luck would have it, God intervened by allowing a jammed round to render the rifle inert.  When the numbskull saw it was Charlie he had shot at, he sobered up and started crying.  (Charlie could have that effect on you) He surrendered on the spot.  

 Later, when the car was examined, several rounds were found imbedded behind the dashboard.  Being a WWII combat wounded Paratrooper, Charlie laughed the whole thing off saying the guy was from a good family and was just feeling his oats because of the drugs.  

 Of course the guy went to jail, but wrote Charlie "I'm sorry" letters the whole time he was gone.  When his sentence was over I'm sure Charlie welcomed him home and helped him get a job.  That was Charlie Sanders.