LIES, LIES, LIES

 The storm over the validity of polygraphs has raged for years. Reviewing the history of the instrument, you can see why. There is a lotta deception in the deception business.
  As one story goes, interrogators in WWII made alterations to their polygraphs to squeeze the truth out of Japanese prisoners of war. They altered the ink well, that fed the chart pens, so that the examiner could, on the sly, switch from black ink to red ink during the exam.

  During the preliminaries, the examiner would caution that as long as the subject told the truth, the track would be written in black ink. If, however, the subject lied the tracing would be written in blood--sucked from the attachment on their arm. (The cardio cuff like the one used to check blood pressure)

  Then, when the examiner suspected the prisoner was lying, he'd switch to the hidden red ink reservoir and the "blood" tracing would appear. The customer was warned that if he continued to prevaricate the polygraph would suck him dry.

  No one's stupid enough to fall for that gag you say? It worked with such effectiveness that it was used throughout the war. 

 Chester Keene reminds us that you didn't have to go to the Orient to encounter "lie-detector" shenanigans. There were some--in candor I must plead guilty to this--that would seat a prisoner in the front seat of the patrol car and tell them a field lie-detector test was going to be conducted. Then, the cop would wrap the mike cord from the police radio around the subject's arm.

  The testee was told that if he lied, the red light on the lie-detector would come on. This light was the transmit indicator, that came on anytime the radio was in talk mode. In this case, the cop would hide the mike in his palm and key the transmit button when he suspected his subject was lying. And more times than not, it worked. And on folks that should know better.

 Next, some of the shady techniques used that caused Teddy Kennedy to get a law passed put a stop to it.

A BAD SPELL

  This is from Dave Dampier who remembers the days before Spell Check on computers and some of our cops who couldn’t spell sugar if they had a mouthful.

 One of my early supervisory duties at NPD was to review and approve the written reports produced in the preceding 24 hours.   These were typed, with a carbon copy, or later NCR. Both were a pain to correct yet we demanded the best written report possible because they were public records and could be used in court and were seen by the "newsies", who loved to tease us about some of our hobbled Hemingways.

 I will say that the majority of our officers were good at meeting the report's factual and information requirements. But, some had spelling ability deficiencies that required sleeping with a Funk & Wagnall’s.  

 Minor misspellings were usually easily corrected and in most cases I just wrote over a misspelled word or two. But, occasionally I ran into a composition that just would not pass muster.  

 We had a primo investigator who went on to a successful career at the Collier County Sheriff’s Office. One of the best! A virtuoso at detective work. He had, however, a tin ear when it came to spelling--just had no feel of how a word should be spelled. If we would misspell a word kitshen, he might try cittshund. In all other respects his reports were perfect. 

 There was another officer I recall who always “Pulled the car to the crub”.  He may have been dyslexic, but we didn’t know what that was in those days.  Another favorite, “Arrived on the seen and fownd”.

  These were minor things compared to “Officer Fonicks” who we hired as a trained, seasoned, and experienced officer from up north. Officer Fonicks was repeatedly given the task to re-write reports due to numerous misspellings, inadequate sentence structure, and just plain inability to convey facts in written form.  One time I sent a report back to him for re-write and that afternoon he was seen in the squad room with his wife at his side, struggling with the task.  He later brought the re-written report to my office and I had difficulty reading same. When I tried to point out some of his errors and omissions he said “But Lieutenant I just can’t do it”. 

 My immediate and, admittedly, off-hand response was “Well Bob, I would advise you to seek another line of work”.   The next I heard of Officer Fonicks was when I tried to read his resignation letter.   He was with us but a short time--just a few months. Guess he decided they weren't so picky at the Cincinatti PD so he went back home.

 Editor's note: My stuff is spell checked by the computer, my wife, Sandy, and readers. And still things get spelt wrong. 

A CLOG IN THE COGS

  Another example of not being particular about what you say, involved a guy we'll call Rick Janovich, one of the best cops at the NPD. Always there when you needed him, knowledgeable, tough when he had to be, and gentle when he should be. I hated to lose him. Especially, when I found out the reason.

 I was working late one night and heard a scuffle in the hallway entrance by the jail. Investigating, I saw Rick picking up a "customer" from the floor. When Rick saw me, he started dusting off the prisoner like he was a new hat that had blown in the dirt. "He tripped," Rick said.

 Listening to the A-hole's rant, I could see how a loudmouth like that might "trip" on the way to jail. I went back to work.

 After he'd booked his prisoner, Rick dropped by the office. Worried, I guess, about what I'd seen he asked, "How am I doing?"

  I gave him an honest answer: "Rick," I said, "you are one of the main cogs in my big machine." Rick frowned, turned and left my office. A week later he resigned and joined the CCSO.

 Years later, when we were both working for the CCSO, I asked him why he'd resigned from the NPD. Incidently, it hadn't hurt him, since he was a Lieutenant with the Sheriff.

  "You as much as told me I had no future there," Rick said, "so I left."

  "No future?" I said, "you were one of our best officers."

  "Then why did you tell me I was clogging up your machine?"

  "Rick," I said, not quite believing what I'd heard, "that was a compliment. I said you were the main cog in our machine. A key element."

  "Oh," Rick said and never mentioned it again.
  Causes you to wonder how many relationships are destroyed because one persons doesn't hear what the other really said.

A LITERAL TRANSLATION

  Generally, it's a good rule to be particular about what you say. An off-hand remark, taken literally, can have devastating effects. Such was the case when my daughter, Lori, was about ten-years-old and was having trouble with a bully in the neighborhood. She told me the A-hole, an older, bigger boy was trying to "grab" her.

 I told her I couldn't be there to protect her all the time and she should do the following. First, stay away from him. Second, if he continued, to let me know and I'd straighten him out. Third, if he actually did grab her, to find the biggest thing she could and hit him over the head with it. The next day she used the third method.

 Sean and Kenny, her brothers, and Lori came running into the house." He grabbed me," Lori said," and I found something to hit him with."

  "What was that?" I asked.

 "This," she said, displaying a length of 1" galvanized pipe. "And I hit him on the head and he fell over in the ditch beside the road and started to bleed."

 I rushed to the scene, wondering if she'd killed him and running the headlines through my head: "Chief's daughter takes his advice and bludgeons another child."

  I breathed a sigh of relief when we arrived in the combat zone and the victim wasn't in sight. We went down the street to his home where we found him on the front porch with his father, his head wrapped in a bloody towel. Expecting the worst I asked how he was.

  "He'll live," the gruff father said. "He's a dumbass, you know, and best place to hit him, and not do any damage, is in the head. Nothing there."

  But, he was smart enough not to mess with my daughter, Lori, again.

  

SOFT SUMMER BREEZE

  Good Ol' Dave Johnson penned this jewel.
 It was in the late 70's and I'd been working on an international heavy-equipment theft ring working out of Golden Gate. A prosecutor, from the east coast, had come over to help out.  On his introductory visit, we had some comedy I'll never forget.
  Prosecutor Ken was a big, tall, macho guy. He was obviously a man's kinda man.  I invited him to walk over to the "Blind-Man's" coffee shop for a cup--a sightless person operated the coffee shop in the government complex for years.  
  Looking for something to drink, he spied a bottle of ice tea on a lower shelf and bent over to get it.  When he did, it sounded like someone emptied the magazine on a Burp-Gun.  He'd ripped his pants.  Quickly straightening and red-faced, he asked me how bad it was.  On inspection, I damn near fell over--his entire right naked butt cheek was sticking out in broad daylight!  Choking back laughter, I told him he was in deep doo-doo.  And the worst part was, being a warm day we'd both left our suit jackets in the office!  He had nothing to cover up his now exposed caboose on the long walk back to my office.
  We decided the best thing to do was for him to hold up what was flappin' and for me to walk close-step behind him.   We could get things sewed up back at the office with my secretary Sandy's help.  So here we go, on a busy day at the courthouse, him scooting along with his hand on his ass and me shuffling 6" behind, like some Three Stooges "You're-in-the-Army-now" skit. We were quite a sight.
  He explained that he never wore underwear because the last pair he had worn had rotted off him in the jungles of Vietnam.  He was a good guy and I felt sorry for him.  When I could keep a straight face.
  Sandy stitched his problem up and we went on to put several players in jail, as well as run a few more out of the country.
  I wonder if he ever started wearing underwear again?