Archive for the ‘True Crime’ Category

PostHeaderIcon The Night ZZ Top Was My Backup

Saturday 2345 hours – It was not at all unusual for the sheriff to schedule us to work the graveyard shift alone, covering the entire county with our nearest backup—a state trooper or a police officer from a nearby city—sometimes 30-45 minutes away, or more.

At first, the thought of covering such a vast amount of real estate was a bit daunting. But we did it without complaint. After all, to question the high sheriff was practically a death sentence. Or, at the very least, a guaranteed trip to the unemployment line.

So this particular Saturday night I did the usual routine of walking to my driveway where I took a seat behind the wheel of my milk-chocolate-brown patrol car. I checked the light bar and wig-wag headlights to be sure they were working properly, and then I used the radio to let dispatch know I was on duty.

A few minutes later I was deep in the county, making the rounds to the various businesses—hotels, restaurants, bars, convenience stores, nightclubs, etc.—to let the night shift employees and partiers see a police car cruising through the parking lots. I also drove through the lots of businesses that had closed hours earlier, shining my spotlight through storefront windows and into alleyways, checking doors, and calling in the license plates and VIN numbers of cars that shouldn’t be parked where they were (sometimes a quick check revealed a stolen car or one that was used while committing a crime).

0115 hours – A little over an hour into the shift and I’d already covered a lot of ground. Nothing major had occurred. I’d checked a vehicle I spotted a hundred yards down a dirt path (a couple of half-dressed teens who’d steamed up the windows in dear old dad’s station wagon), stopped a car that suddenly veered from one side of the road to the other (the guy said he’d dropped a Twinkee onto the floorboard and was trying to retrieve it, causing him to jerk the steering wheel).

I was heading to the north side of the county to make my rounds there when dispatch called to report a disturbance at a south-side hotel next to the interstate. She said she’d heard yelling in the background and then what could’ve been gun shots. I was at least 20 minutes away.

Well, I made the trip in 15 minutes, driving like a bat out of hell with my foot jamming the accelerator to the floor. On the way, my alternating headlights, the rotating overhead lights, and the strobes in the back window, were all winking and blinking at once, but were totally out of sync with one another. To add to the confusing light show, Led Zeppelin’s Black Dog spewed from the car speakers. John Bonham’s drumming, already sort of out of time with the guitar licks, added a Twilight-Zonish back-beat to a constantly revolving kaleidoscope that should have been quite distracting. I, however, paid it no mind. Tunnel vision is normally a cop’s nemesis. This time, however, it kept my focus on the roadway and not the circus that was going on in and outside of my patrol car.

As I approached the chain hotel’s parking lot I turned off my lights and the radio (Zeppelin had long since finished their time on the turntable and the Beatles were then in high gear). I keyed the mic and signed 10-23 (arrived at scene).

The lot was packed with cars of all types. I decided to drive around the hotel to hopefully get a feel for what was going on before speaking with the night manager (often, callers exaggerate situations). When I rounded the first corner I quickly realized that this was no exaggeration. I needed backup, and plenty of it. There must have 200 people outside, with at least 75 engaged in a massive fight. There were another 15 or 20 going at it on the upper walkways. I heard the dispatcher calling for troopers and any other available help from the nearest city. Shoot, they could’ve sent every cop on the payroll and that still wouldn’t have been enough to suit me.

I checked my arsenal of weapons. I had my Beretta 9mm, a PR-24 (side handle baton), a riot-size can of pepperspray, and a shotgun. I looked back to the crowd. Then back to my little 9mm and tiny PR-24. Both seemed to be shrinking in size as the seconds passed. The odds were not in my favor.

I sounded a blast from my siren, hoping the masses would realize that the police were on the scene and ready to start kicking butt and taking prisoners. Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. Time for plan B, to sit in my car and wait for the cavalry, meanwhile, hoping the crowd wouldn’t turn my car over on its roof with me inside.

But doing nothing was just not in my nature. Instead, and sort of foolishly, I got out of my car with my trusty side-handle baton in my left hand and the other on my still-holstered gun. Somebody, and I didn’t care who, was going to jail.

Luckily, the troops began to arrive just as I hitched up my pants and waded into the pile, spraying a mist of pepperspray as I went. The other officers entered the fracas at different points, and we began to separate the instigators from those who really didn’t want to fight, but were because everyone else was doing it. Still, this was an all out brawl, the kind where police defensive tactics are often abandoned in favor of the ever popular “do-watcha-gotta-do” tactics. In fact, I remember seeing one officer using a baseball bat to prevent a group of men from attacking him. Where he got the bat, I haven’t a clue.

Eventually, the group’s size diminished and we were able to gain control with very few bruises, scrapes, and torn uniforms. Each of us arrested as many people as we had handcuffs and other restraints, and we had them packed in police cars like sardines. I’d arrived there alone, but left leading a long caravan of assorted police cars from several jurisdictions.

Once each of the little darlin’s had been booked and tucked in for the night, I thanked everyone for their help and watched as they all drove away. It was nearly 0500 when I headed back to the county for a final pass of the night.

0520 hours – Dispatch called to report a fight at yet another south-side hotel. Yes, she’d said, there were weapons involved and shots had been fired. Ironically, ZZ Top’s Sharp Dressed Man was playing on the radio at the time I received the call. I looked down at the spot where my badge used to be attached to my shirt. My shoes were scuffed and my pants had streaks of ground-in asphalt across the knees and along the side of one leg. The knuckles on my gun hand hurt and my lower lip was swollen.

I switched on my emergency lights and siren and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. Then I turned up the volume on the radio and I and ZZ Top headed south like a bat out of hell.

“Clean shirt, new shoes, and I don’t know where I am goin’ to…”

Man, I loved that job…

 

PostHeaderIcon A Good Day To Pick Cotton

Some forty years after I’d made the entry in my notebook, I found that my handwriting was a bit difficult to read on some of the yellowing pages—the result of quickly-written memos then, and failing eyesight today. But I was able to make out the basics, and there was enough there to take me back to the time when I wore the brown over khaki uniform of a deputy sheriff.

Flipping through the pages, one particular entry caught my eye. It was a Friday night during an unusually cool and blustery October. The skies were clear and brightly lit by a near full moon. The gas tank in my take-home Crown Vic was full (I’d filled it at the end of my shift the preceding morning) and the speedometer had just tripped 80,000 miles. The lights and siren were both in working order.

I’d signed on at 2342 hours that night, and in my mind I can still hear the dispatcher’s voice acknowledging my radio message in a drawl that prompts a craving for mint juleps and an urge to plant a magnolia tree in my front yard.

It’s no secret that I was not born a southerner. In fact, before “the conversion,” I was such a Yankee that one of my relatives owned a house that was once used by Harriett Tubman as a stop on her vast underground railroad, and we lived nearby.

As a child born north of “the line”, the switch to the south was a major change. Everything was different, including the schools and how they conducted business. Classes in our new southern location began each day with a child reading from the Bible, followed by the deep voice in the wall-mounted speaker leading us in prayer. We didn’t do that in northern schools.

The thing that stuck with me the most, though, was to see peanuts, tobacco, and cotton in their natural habitats, and not in jars or bags, rolled into cigarettes, and as a word printed on the label of my school clothes.

Okay, back to my notes. It hadn’t rained in nearly three weeks and the local farmers and their field hands had been hard at work for several days, picking cotton. And, as always during harvest time, the white, fluffy stuff was everywhere. Sure, workers had loaded large farm trailers filled to the point of overflowing, like giant pillows on wheels. But that didn’t stop the wind from blowing what didn’t make it to the trailers, sending it across the roads, into trees and, well, freshly picked raw cotton was everywhere. Shining my spotlight across the fields made them look as if they’d been dusted by a light snowfall.

Virginia cotton

Of course, shining a spotlight across the fields also illuminated the wildlife—deer, foxes, raccoons, ‘possums, and even an occasional black bear. And, on the night referenced in my spiral notebook, the light also illuminated a woman’s body lying between two unpicked rows of cotton.

She was young, mid to late 30′s. Fully clothed with the exception of her bare feet. There were no shoes at the scene. A bit on the heavy side, probably around 150 – 160, or so. Approximately 5′ 5″ tall. Round face. Skin the color of Vermont maple syrup. Her eyes were open, without focus and looking toward the sky into infinity. A bullet wound to her forehead, just above her left eye, and another closer to her right eyebrow, told me to save my CPR skills for another day.

Small clumps of loose cotton dotted the area around the body. Some were the brilliant white of summertime clouds. Others were rusty red and saturated with the victim’s blood.

Three sets of footprints entered the field—large boots, small tennis shoes, and a set ending with bare toes. Only two sets headed out. The toes remained.

The victim had two small children at home. A neighbor was called to sit with them while their father went out searching for his wife who’d called earlier to say the church meeting was running a bit longer than she’d expected. No, no need to pick her up. Wanda was at the meeting and would bring her home.

Twenty minutes later, Wanda called and asked to speak to his wife. No, there was no church meeting that night.

He knew where exactly where to look.

The victim’s lover, a cotton farmer, escaped the gunfire.

There was no DNA. No fingerprints. No cell phone calls to trace, and no bullet casings.

Just a pair of womens shoes found five hours later, in the farmer’s truck. And a revolver containing four bullets in his jealous wife’s car.

If I’d kept a tally over the years I could’ve added another hash mark to the “life taken” column, and five to the “lives ruined” section.

My last notations on the page that night were four short lines that read…

“Murder warrant issued”

“17 gallons of gas, no oil”

“10-42 (off duty) at 0815″

“Sunny and warmer – a good day to pick cotton”

 

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