Stuck on E-Flat: Patrolling Alone With Delilah As Your Only Backup

Working the dreaded graveyard shift is bad enough as it is, but when you add the extra stress of working it alone, well, then it sometimes becomes downright dangerous. But I’ve done it, and so have many police officers across the country who work in small towns and counties. In my case it was a county—my first law enforcement assignment—and it wasn’t all that small. But our sheriff had his way of running things and few were brave enough to contradict the larger than life man behind the curtain. So working alone during the overnight shift was not uncommon. Didn’t like it, but it was what it was.

The sheriff had his reasons for the solitary assignments, I suppose. Well, sometimes the reasons were a bit shaky to say the least, such as allowing time off for several family and/or friends who served as deputies. This was so an entire group of children and nephews and close personal friends could attend gatherings, weddings, parties, etc.

The shortage of manpower left other deputies to cover for the absentees, often doing so on their days off. Or, as I stated above, it was often necessary for the remaining deputy on the schedule, like me, who was not related to the boss, to cover an entire shift/county all by your pitiful self with no one to talk to except a hollow voice on the police radio.

Stuck on E-flat

Speaking of “that” voice on the radio … OMG, if there was ever a cure for insomnia, she or he was it. Looooonnnngggg monotonous messages delivered in a single sleep-inducing tone. No change in pitch or inflection of tone. All one note. It’s as if their vocal cords are stuck on E-flat.

Grandma’s window shades

Working the midnight shift is sometimes slow and lonely, especially after 2 a.m. (10 p.m. – 2 a.m. are the action hours, usually). You spend a great deal of your late-night patrol time fighting sleep while listening to anything you can find on the radio. And you constantly fight with that mandatory piece of equipment worn by all graveyard shift officers … the invisible string attached to your eyelids—the one that attempts to pull them down like grandma’s old-time window shades. And the string uses a downward force that’s equal to three times the earth’s gravitational pull.

You’re out there with the feral dogs and cats while they raid garbage cans and dumpsters, and the back-lit mannequins guarding storefront windows in the various small towns are the only company that remotely resembles another human. Wispy tendrils of steam rise out of the storm drains, twisting and winding their way upward toward the black sky. Your spotlight reveals things between silos and tractor sheds that may or may not be there. Only your mind knows for sure. Images of a nice, warm, soft bed and pillow play on a never-ending loop inside your mind.

But there are some moments of excitement and action and working an entire county alone poses some interesting problems … like an attempt to reach  a crime scene at some point in time before your shift ends. County deputies and police sometimes must travel long distances between the location where they received the call and the spot to where they’re dispatched. For example:

The trip across our county from east to west, with blue lights and siren and gas pedal to the floor, was 40 minutes or so. That’s nonstop as a wobbly, drunk crow flies. North to south was even further. Diagonally, though, if a deputy was patrolling in the far southwest corner and received a call in the far northeast, well, let’s just say that we hoped the complainant knew how to shoot or had a pack of viscous attack dogs handy, because we’d have to stop for gas twice before we’d reach them. And that’s if our radios could pick up a signal in the deepest, darkest corners of the county.

To make matters worse, since interstates do not run diagonally, that meant dodging deer, ‘possums, raccoons, bobcats, animal carcasses, loose cattle, bears, hawks, rabbits darting about as if they’d been shot from cannons, wide-eyed owls, buzzards, bats, and thousands of nighttime flying insects peppering the windshield like gooey, sticky birdshot. All of this while zipping along at top speeds while winding our way along a maze of roller-coaster-like country roads for a good portion of the trip. Hence the reference above to the drunk crow.

Day Shift

Daytime shifts in rural areas present their own challenges. You know, like when you’re running full lights and sirens because someone has just been shot, and suddenly find yourself behind a massive multi-wheeled farm tractor that’s towling some sort of bright green or red dinosaur-like machinery with appendages that occupy most, if not all, roadway space and both shoulders? And, of course, Bubba the no-shirted tractor driver is chattering away on his CB radio while scooting along at a breath-taking 4 miles-per-hour. He can’t hear your siren over the roar of the equipment, and he never, not ever, turns around to see what’s behind him.

So you’re left with no choice but to find a shallow spot in the ditch and crash through it sending everything inside your car flying—coffee cup under the brake pedal, papers on the dashboard fluttering about like large chunks of confetti, handcuffs under the seat and, well, you get the idea. Then you plow through an acre or so of corn in order to pass the tobacco-chewer (you learned this bit of information where he turned and spat a nice wad through your open window just as you finally made your way past his mammoth tires).

Then, to top off the trip, you arrive at the scene and discover an entire family, along with several intoxicated shirtless neighbors, fighting like they’re the feature “act” in one of those ridiculous TV wresting matches. And they’ve chosen large hunting knives as their weapons du jour.

Junioorrr!!!!

So you yell out, “Junior!” knowing that at least half of the crew will stop fighting long enough to see who’s calling their given name. Doing so typically scatters the folks who have outstanding warrants or are parole or probation violators. Then you’re safe to arrest the remaining half-dozen, or so.

Of course, you’ll first you’ll have to stand toe-to-toe and argue with the wives of each of the offenders, and you don’t want to arrest them because each lovely bride has at least one crying snotty-nosed diaper-wearing kid hanging from a hip. And there’s always, always, always a barking and yelping one-eyed, three-legged dog named Bear or Blue who’s frantically nipping at your ankles during this entire mess.

Just as you’re about to ratchet the cuffs on the largest man in the entire county, the guy who bench presses officers for fun (if you only have one pair of cuffs, always handcuff the behemoth who’s most likely the one who could inflict the most amount of pain on you), your radio crackles …

“Shots fired… unintelligible …. at the unintelligible … use … unintelligible … 10-4?”

Nope, no emotion. No change in tone. No inflection.

The entire message delivered in E-flat.

Anyway, that’s how it goes sometimes when you’re working an entire shift, alone. Other times, especially at night, it can be downright nerve-wracking not knowing what’s at the other end of that driveway, the one where you hear gunshots echoing off dented aluminum siding and rusty tin roofs.

But you do what you gotta do to keep your sanity, even if it means finding the end of a long dirt road, stopping the car, turning out the lights, and closing your eyes for a few minutes as Delilah tells some poor love-sick guy, “She’s gone for good, but here’s song that’ll make you feel better about yourself …”

ZZZZZZZ ……

Police radio crackles.

Eyes open in anticipation of the latest fresh hell

Then …

“Automobile crash at the intersection of …” (All in E-flat).

And so it goes … hoping you’ll reach the crash before daylight.

In the meantime …

 

 

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Working the Graveyard Shift: Feral Dogs, Mannequins, and Lula Mae

It’s four in the morning and fatigue is tugging hard on your eyelids. It’s a subtle move, like grasping the string on one of your grandmother’s window shades, slowly pulling it down. The move, so gracefully executed by the Sand Man, is such that you hardly notice it.

Thinking about your family asleep in their warm beds, you turn onto a side street trying and hoping to find a place to pull over. Five minutes. That’s all you need.

Shouldn’t have spent those three hours today playing with the kids when you could’ve been sleeping. Still, that’s the only time you could spare. Otherwise you’d never see them while they’re awake.

And, someone had to mow the lawn this afternoon, right? And repair the washer and fix the flat on the wife’s car. Oh yeah, tomorrow is the day you’re supposed to speak about police officers to your third-grader’s class. It won’t take long, two or three hours at the most. Of course, there’s the lunch in the cafeteria with your kid. Sigh …

Sleep. You need sleep

Your headlights wash over the back of the alley as feral dogs and cats scramble out of the dumpster that sits like an old and tired dinosaur behind Lula Mae’s Bakery. The knot of hungry animals scatter loaves of two-day-old bread in their haste to escape the human intruder who dared to meddle with their nocturnal feeding.

A mutt with three legs and matted fur hobbles behind a rusty air conditioning unit, dragging a long, dirty paper bag half-filled with crumbled bagels that spill and leave a trail of stale nuggets in its wake. Tendrils of steam rise slowly from storm drains; ghostly, sinewy figures melting into the black sky. A train whistle moans in the distance.

The night air is damp with fog, dew, and city sweat that reeks of gasoline and sour garbage. Mannequins stare out from tombs of storefront glass, waiting for daylight to take away the flashing neon lights that reflect from their plaster skin.

You park at the rear of the alley, stopping next to a stack of flattened cardboard boxes, their labels reflecting someone’s life for the week—chicken, lettuce, disposable diapers, and cheap wine.

Four more hours. If you could only make it for four more hours …

Suddenly, a voice spews from the speaker behind your head, “Shots fired. Respond to 1313 Mockingbird Lane. Back up is en route.”

“10-4. I’m 10-8. ETA … four minutes.”

And so it goes.

And goes and goes and goes …

Were Dead Ringers Saved by the Bell?

It’s believed by some that the graveyard shift (not this blog) got its name from people who accidentally buried their loved ones while they were still alive. Thinking their dearly departed had gone on to their reward, these folks unknowingly fitted a barely breathing, unconscious or comatose Uncle Bill or Grandma with a new outfit and a spiffy pine box.

Then they buried them in the local cemetery where night workers claimed to sometimes hear the dead screaming for help from below the ground. When they dug up the suspicious coffins, they sometimes discovered scrapes and scratches on the insides of casket lids, an indication that perhaps the people inside had tried to claw their way out before finally succumbing to a lack of oxygen.

To remedy the situation, caskets were fitted with a bell, and a long string that reached from the surface to the inside of the buried coffin. This enabled the “dead” person to ring the bell should he awaken after his burial. Workers could then quickly rescue the living dead.

It’s debatable as to the validity of this tale, but it makes for an interesting story, especially for police officers who have cemeteries to patrol in their precincts.

Is Working Graveyard Shift Hazardous to Your Health?

Working the midnight shift is difficult for anyone. In fact, Circadian Technologies, Lexington, Massachusetts consultancy firm, conducted a study that showed companies operating a graveyard shift may be losing approximatel $206 billion dollars annually. Why? Because workers are simply not effective when working these late-night hours.

The study also showed a higher divorce rate among midnight shift workers, more gastrointestinal problems, higher stress related disorders, and a higher accident rate. The study also concluded that there’s a much higher turnover rate among night-shift employees.

A Hutchinson Group (Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center) study reports that women who work the graveyard shift may have a greater risk of breast cancer. The results of this study were first introduced in a 2001 Journal of the National Cancer Institute.

Anyway, working the graveyard shift is a tough assignment no matter how you look at it. So tonight, when the clock strikes twelve, please take a moment to think about all the people across the country who are out there working hard to protect us and our property so that we may sleep safely. And, there are also the folks who work nightshift in factories, convenience stores, shipyards, hospitals, EMS services, firefighters, and many more.

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Pigs in a Blanket and Other Short and Twisted Cop Tales

Pigs in a blanket.

Winter night, toasty and warm.

Hot cocoa, donuts.

Sirens and blue lights.

Miles of blacktop pass beneath.

Robber, on the run.

 

Canine, growls and snarls.

Teeth, pointed, sharp, menacing.

Bad guy, “I give up!”

Bang! Bang! “Shots fired!”

Man runs, cops chase, Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Help, officer down!”

 

Children, wife, sleeping

Shirt, vest, badge, gun, shiny shoes

Night shift is lonely

 

Working graveyard shift

Feral dogs, cats, stoplights, moon

Drunks, fights, gunshots, pain, and tears

Respond to bar fight

One drunk, two drunk, three drunk, four

Five drunks all to jail

 

Drug bust, homicide

Traffic stop, car crash, break-in

All in a night’s work

 

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Shootouts are scary

Little knife, big knife

Cut, slice, stab, and make us bleed

Yes, worse than gunshot

 

Grieving family

Loved one killed, shot by stranger

Evil surrounds us.

 

“Yes!” Five-O is here!”

Giggles, smiles, candy for all

Cops can be fun, too.

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Selling Alcohol for Profit: A Car Crash Waiting to Happen?

Do alcohol sales directly contribute to the number of alcohol-related traffic fatalities? What about driving while under the influence of marijuana, be it medical or recreational use? Well, let’s take a very brief look into some numbers from the Commonwealth of Virginia, a state that’s responsible for all legal alcohol sales within its borders.

Alcohol-Related Fatalities in Virginia

In 2018, the Commonwealth of Virginia reported a 4% decrease in overall vehicle crashes. Fantastic, right? Well, not so fast. There was a 12% increase in alcohol-related fatalities, up from 248 in 2017 to 278. Virginia’s DMV stats show this is the highest number of fatalities involving alcohol since 2010.

These stats (above) are alarming to say the least, but solving the puzzle as to why there’s increase in alcohol-related vehicle deaths may not require the assistance of top mystery-solvers such as Sherlock Holmes or Jessica Fletcher. Instead, for facts that are plain as the nose on an elephant’s face, we can simply turn our attention to a chirpy little article written for the Capital News Service by Pedro Coronado.

It is within this article that the reasons for such a sharp increase in alcohol-related car crash deaths become apparent.

Coronado says, “Cheers! ABC Stores See Increase in Sales.”

In his celebratory piece, Coronado suggests that readers “raise a toast to the top-selling liquor store in Central Virginia in 2018, the ABC outlet at 10 N. Thompson St. in Richmond.”

The ABC store at 10 N. Thompson St. (near Virginia Commonwealth University’s campus) sold nearly $8 million in gross sales, and they had the highest profit margin in the state. Keep in mind that, in Virginia, the state operates all liquor stores, commonly known as ABC stores. ABC, of course, is the acronym for Alcoholic Beverage Control.

During the 2019 fiscal year, half of which includes at least part of the 12% increase in alcohol-related fatalities, Virginia ABC earned more than $1 billion, a revenue increase of about $72 million over sales in the previous year.

In 2019, the breakdown of income was about $197 million in store profits, $223 million in retail taxes, and $80 million in wine and beer taxes. As a result, ABC sent almost $500 million into the government’s general fund, money that’s then used to supplement education, health, transportation, public safety, etc. The rest was used for expenses such operating the individual stores, payroll, to the enforcement of ABC laws and regulations, etc.

Virginia ABC

Virginia ABC has four main sources of revenue.

  • state-imposed taxes on beer and wine sales
  • sales of distilled spirits at the agency’s stores
  • violation penalties
  • license fees.

Virginia ABC operates approximately 375 stores throughout the Commonwealth, employing over 4,000 people.

Established in 1934, Virginia ABC has earned its keep by contributing a whopping $10.3 billion to the Commonwealth’s General Fund. That, my friends, is a lot of alcohol sold and consumed.

ABC Bureau of Law Enforcement

Virginia’s ABC Special agents work directly with licensed businesses to address non-compliance issues relating to alcohol sales, and they’re tasked with reducing criminal activities involving alcohol.

ABC agents also initiate public safety investigations following incidents at licensed establishments, which often involves assisting and cooperating with local law enforcement agencies and officers. Agent duties often requires that they work in or assist with undercover operations

All Virginia ABC special agents are sworn and certified law enforcement officers, and they have statewide jurisdiction. ABC agents often work hand-in-and with local law enforcement officers in a variety of investigations. Although, when assisting local cops ABC agents typically act in a support capacity.

In addition, ABC agents may be found trekking through the countryside in search of liquor stills and illegal marijuana grow operations. I’ve personally worked with ABC agents while conducting numerous criminal investigations. I’ve also been involved in the searches for illegal stills. Yes, we found a few. We also stumbled across quite a few marijuana grow operations while seeking out illegal moonshine stills.

Marijuana-related Vehicle Fatalities

A study in the Journal of Law and Economics looked at traffic fatalities from 1990 to 2010, in 14 states and Washington D.C. Each of the states had previously enacted medical marijuana legalization .

The authors of the study found that, incredibly, traffic fatalities actually fell significantly by between 8% and 11% in the first year after the passage of medical marijuana laws. And they continued to fall for the next three years. The authors believe the explanation for the decrease is that medical marijuana may serve as a substitute for alcohol. (1)

Another study, this one lasting from 1985–2014, published results in the American Journal of Public Health. The study explored the same relationships—alcohol-related fatalities and crash fatalities relating to marijuana—but added the condition that dispensaries were in operation in each of the locations. Again, the study showed lower traffic fatality rates in those states with medical marijuana laws.

Actually, traffic fatalities decreased by 10.8% once medical marijuana became legal . However, the exceptions to the rule were two states (Rhode Island and Connecticut) who indicated an increase in fatalities. Still, overall the presence of operational marijuana dispensaries was associated with a decrease in accident fatalities. (3)

References

1 – Anderson, D. Mark et al. “Medical Marijuana Laws, Traffic Fatalities, and Alcohol Consumption.”The Journal of Law and Economics. Vol. 56 (2): 333-369. 2013. https://www.journals.uchicago.edu/doi/abs/10.1086/668812

2 -Santaella-Tenorio, Julian et al. “US Traffic Fatalities, 1985–2014, and Their Relationship to Medical Marijuana Laws.” American Journal of Public Health. Vol 107 (2): 336–342. February 2017. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5227945/

3 – The Journal of Law and Economics. Vol. 56 (2): 333-369. 2013. https://www.journals.uchicago.edu/doi/abs/10.1086/668812

 

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A Powerful Message About the Writers’ Police Academy: “My Mother Would Call It A Ministry; Something God-Given”

Mother would call it a ministry

Cops are a unique breed. They dress differently. They speak differently. They’re in a class all to themselves, and it’s a “Members Only” sort of group where those on the outside looking in often don’t understand what it is that officers do and why they do it.

Unfortunately, law enforcement is an operation that sometimes, to best protect us from harm, must do things out of public view. And that lack of understanding and wondering “what they’re up to” often leads to mistrust.

Some members of society reject any form of authority. Others distrust police officers because they’ve heard friends or family members say they don’t like cops. In some corners of cities, counties, and states, young children, even before they’re taught to read and write, are taught to hate the police. Then there are the bad apples of law enforcement who commit acts that go against the very meaning of their badge and oath.

Of course, compounding the trouble is the necessary secrecy involving some aspects of law enforcement, acts that can drive even larger wedges between the general population and the police. Therefore, over time, police officers metaphorically circled their protective wagons in order to survive in a world populated by people who simply don’t like them, for whatever reason(s). And, unfortunately, the circling of those wagons transformed the an already large wedge into a nearly impenetrable wall between citizens and the officers who’ve taken an oath to protect and serve them.

The wall is there. No doubt about it. But what many people don’t understand about the “wall” is that one of its cornerstones is fear—fear of abuse, fear of beatings, fear of racism, and even fear death. Yes, some people live their entire lives being deathly afraid of the police. Are those feelings justified? Sadly, in some cases, the answer is yes. But in most instances the answer is a definite and resounding NO. But, those bad apples in the barrel ruin things for everyone on both sides of the badge.

As a detective in charge of certain operations, I devoted much of my time attempting to tear down the invisible wall. I wanted people to know that police officers are human, and that we do good, and that we were there FOR them, not AGAINST them. And I still try to convey that message through this blog and through my writing. I also had the same goal in mind when starting the Writers’ Police Academy five years ago.

I knew the instructors at the WPA were the best in the business at what they do, but when I received the letter below, I also knew the event had achieved far more than helping writers “get it right.”

Finally, after all these years, there was a crack in the wall. And I want to say THANK YOU to everyone involved in the WPA for merely being you. It is because you’re who you are that someone took the time to let me know the WPA had a huge and emotional impact on their life. It’s almost overwhelming to think that the WPA actually impacted someone this way means a lot to me.

So here’s the letter (I’ve omitted names and locations to protect the writer’s identity, and, please, if you think you recognize the author of the letter, keep the name to yourself). The incidents mentioned in the letter occurred in New York City, but this could be said about any location in the country. And, by the way, I deeply appreciate the courage it took for this person, the author of the message, to attend the WPA and then to follow up with such a raw and emotional letter.

The Letter

Dear Mr. Lofland:

It’s been almost a year since I attended the Writer’s Police Academy in September of 201* and I am writing to share my experience during that weekend.

I learned about your Academy from a book on getting one’s book published (I don’t remember the title of the book) that I was skimming through in a Barnes and Noble store in early September of last year. Since I have no law enforcement background, I was looking for a way to verify that the information in the novel that I’ve been working on for some time is correct; that’s when I saw the piece on your Academy. I couldn’t believe it; especially since the Academy was being held in a few weeks. I quickly signed up and prepared to go along with my wife, my little daughter, and my mother-in-law.

The Writer’s Police Academy was a life-changing experience; but not in the way I imagined.

You see, I’ve never had a good relationship or opinion of the Police and I’ll explain why.

I was about 8 years old and it was a summer night in the mid 1970’s when suddenly I had a terrible cough just before going to bed. My mother is a praying woman and she taught us that when we’re sick God can heal us; so that night I asked her to pray for me. Quickly, the cough was gone and just before I dozed off into sleep I remember seeing the reflection of Police car lights on my bedroom wall.

The next day I awoke to find that my 16 year-old brother was missing. As my mother finished praying for me and I fell asleep, my mother saw the Police lights on the wall, too, and quickly ran to the window. Two policemen were surrounding my brother. What happened was that a car was stolen in my neighborhood and my brother was accused of being the person who stole the car.

My mother quickly ran downstairs and stood between my brother and the Police; the two men smelled of alcohol and their eyes were bloodshot. One Police officer pulled his weapon on my mother.

The owner of the car ran up to the officers and told them that his car was found by other officers and that my brother was innocent. One of the officers refused to let my brother go and wanted to take him in. My brother panicked and ran.

You see, we lived in the **** area of the **** and this was in the mid 70’s. Police abuse was rampant and crime and fires in the area were out of control. There was little trust in the Police from the community.

They shot at my brother as he ran down the park stairs and he was captured by other officers from three squad cars that suddenly appeared. They took him to the ******** and beat him to a pulp. My parents went to the precinct and were told he wasn’t there and had been released; it was a lie. Later on, the officers took him to an industrial area called *****, beat him some more and left him there in the middle of the night. My brother showed up at my house at 12 in the afternoon the next day.

Investigating officers reported that no such incident occurred and that one of the officers whom allegedly was present that night, whom my brother remembered his name and badge number, didn’t exist. An officer told my mother that she better get my brother out of the area or he would be killed by the police. She obliged.

Since then, my experiences with the Police haven’t been positive. There have been incidents in which I was treated well so I don’t want to over generalize but the bad has far outweighed the good. During the **** years, it was hell! I am of **** **** descent and although I am fair skinned, college educated and have worked all my life; I felt that I had a target on my back as I walked the streets or drove in the City. ….police brutality cases have only made me less trustful of the police. I have often wondered why I am even writing a novel related to the Police.

So, last year, when I went to your Academy, I was very uneasy. I was entering an actual Police Academy and was going to be surrounded by Police. I was nervous, apprehensive, and at times, felt like a hypocrite for even being there. But then the Academy started.

Friday morning began with a presentation on the Jaws of Life. The dedication and care for the public from the presenting officer just oozed out of him and impressed me. I then attended “Making a Lasting Impression” with Robert Skiff and David Pauly: I was blown away. The commitment from those two gentlemen to find the truth in order to protect the public blew me away. I slowly began to see that the Police weren’t necessarily out to get me but to protect me.

I then went to “Fingerprinting” and it was awesome. Next, I attended “Cold Cases and the Realities of Investigations” by David Pauly and Dr. Ramsland; this is where things really started to change. The openness of the presenters in sharing their knowledge was incredible. I could feel their passion and dedication to getting the truth and solving murders. More importantly, I could see and feel their humanity.

Friday evening after the Night Owl Presentation, I had to go to the Bar and gather myself. My head was spinning. Not only from the information I received in the classes but my emotions were everywhere. Then McMahan sat next to me in the bar and began to talk to me; my heart was racing and my palms were sweating. A law enforcement officer was sitting next to me and talking to me man-to-man. He is truly a gentleman. I found out he’s a dedicated dad and husband and I was humbled by his humility and integrity.

We were joined by David Pauly and Dr. Ramsland; they talked to me like I was a human being. You see, Mr. Lofland, in dealing with the Police in my past, I often felt less than human. David Pauly bought me a beer (please tell him I owe him one) and the four of us talked for a while. It was great. They are great people and their knowledge and dedication just blows me away.

Not long after that, Detective Conelli joined us and we had a brief talk; he was exhausted from his trip and needed rest. I couldn’t wait for his presentation on the following morning “Anatomy of an Undercover Cop”.

Saturday came and I was seated on the floor in Detective Conelli’s classroom (the room was full to capacity). He started out by showing a picture of “His Office” which was a building in the Grand Concourse in the Bronx. My heart stopped, I went cold, and I was almost brought to tears. I had been in many buildings like the one in the picture! He then showed us a picture of him while undercover. He had no weapons and was taking a huge risk in going into those buildings. It was during the Crack epidemic and I witnessed, firsthand, how it devastated neighborhoods.

Hearing Mr. Conelli talk transformed me. I began to see the other side of what it is to be a Police Officer. I began to see them as being on my side, for me, and not against me.

On Sunday, during the debriefing panel, I was struck by the Chief’s words and his assistant. I’m sorry but I don’t remember their names. They urged the writers present to write positively about the Police profession. They said it was very easy to portray cops in a negative light but we were witnesses that weekend to the goodness found among law enforcement professionals. I take that advice to heart.

On the plane on my way home I thought about my experience. I have a coworker whose brother is a **** Captain. I decided I would reach out to him in order to not only get information for my novel but most importantly, bury some painful experiences I had been carrying for many years. I realized that the experience with my brother had colored my view of Cops and I needed to change that.

Captain **** **** so happens to be the Captain of *** homicide. When we texted each other in order to set up a meeting, he told me he worked out of the ****! The same one in which my brother was abused. But the *** **** had since moved so I thought nothing of it. It turns out that the **** has indeed moved but the original building (in which my brother was abused) is used to house Captain **** and other administrative offices.

So, on a cold December night around 11pm I went to meet Captain ****. It was surreal walking into that building. I confessed my feelings about the Police to Captain **** and told him that if he felt uncomfortable with me that it was okay if he didn’t want to share and continue our meeting. He was very gracious and understanding. He confessed that the **** doesn’t have clean hands and didn’t have clean hands during those days in the 70’s in ***** but he shared his side of things.

I made peace with a lot of things that night, Mr. Lofland. It all started with your Academy and your gracious speakers. You have a very special thing going there. My mother would call it a ministry; something God-given.

My wish is that your Academy could be duplicated throughout the country and be used as a tool not only for writers but to bridge the gap between the Police and the communities in which they serve. I would like to see young people attend your Academies and receive healing just as I did.

I would also like to see you guys do a documentary on the Police. My vision is to have several Police recruits from several Police Academies from different parts of the country be followed from just before they enter the Police Academy to about five or more years into their careers. The documentary would show their everyday lives and their struggles and maturing process. I think the public would love it and gain a lot from such a program.

As for me, I don’t know if I will ever finish my novel or have it published. I am currently working on getting a Master’s of Social Work (MSW) so that I could work in the **** Schools helping kids in the inner city; kids much like me when I was younger. I can’t attend this year’s Academy because we can’t afford it and because of my studies.

However, I will forever be grateful to you and to Mr. McMahan, Mr. Skiff, Mr. Pauly, Det. Conelli, Dr. Ramsland, and all the others who were there last fall. I’m a better man for attending and am at peace now.

I am eternally grateful to you and to your partners. May you guys have the best Writers’ Police Academy yet and may God richly bless you and yours.

Thank you,

Name withheld

 

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10 Things You Shouldn’t Say To The Police

Cops are often the target for some pretty nasty verbal ammunition. In fact, they endure some things that would make the average person explode into a fit of rage. But police officers have to stand there and take it. It’s part of the job, unfortunately.

And always, without fail, officers should keep their anger in check, even when people say things like …

1. “I pay your salary, Barney Fife. So do your job and find the crook who stole the three dollars from the purse I left lying on the seat of my unlocked car.”

These types of comments often spill and flow freely from the lips of unemployed crackheads and other folks who often do not pay taxes.

 

2. “I called twenty minutes ago. Where’ve you been, eating donuts?”

Normally said to cops by 325 lb. unemployed geeky guys who’re standing hiding in the foyer behind a locked screen door.

 

3. “I play golf with the chief and he’s going to hear about this tomorrow.”

Words spoken by a great number of people who’ve been arrested for DUI on Friday night.

 

4. “I’ll slap you if I want to because I’m a woman and you can’t fight back. That’s the law.”

Said the sobbing female who struck the police officer’s face and quickly found herself cuffed and stuffed. “I didn’t mean it. Please don’t take me to jail. Pleeeeeeezze!” she said from the rear compartment of the officer’s patrol car.

 

5. “What’cha gonna do, tough guy? There’s six of us and one of you.”

Of course, the other five are standing behind this nutcase, shaking their heads from side-to-side, indicating they don’t wish to support their friend during his sudden and foolish moment of stupidity, a time that often precedes pain compliance and the word “ouch” shouted repeatedly by the “brave” guy as the officer “gently” applies handcuffs to his wrists. The others usually and wisely go on their way.

 

6. “That badge don’t mean nuttin’ to me. Come and get me.”

It’s at this point that, and I’ve never figured out why, the guy starts backing away while forcefully removing his gravy-stained t-shirt, typically exposing one of two classic body types—that of a beanpole with xylophone-like ribs, or a belly that resembles a sideways beer keg encased in flabby and sweaty ,undulating, hairy skin.

Personally, I’ll take the blubbery obese guy any day over the wiry one because they’re slower and easier to handle. The skinny ones, well, you have to use an extra amount of caution when arresting them because when riled they’ll climb you like a squirrel, punching, clawing, gouging, biting, and kicking, up one side and down the other.

 

7. “Umm … there’s no need to tell my wife(husband) about this, is there?”

Spoken by most of the naked people who’ve been caught in the backseats of cars on deserted dead-end roads.

 

8. “I’m gonna %$^# your mama/wife/children/mother-in-law/family dog when I get out.”

Cops hear this, and other combinations of the same thing, all the time. Spoken by every drunk in town.

 

9. “You no-neck son-of-a-bit**. Take off these cuffs and I’ll kick your ass!”

Again, spoken by everyone who blows over a .12 on the Breathalyzer. And who, by the way, had every opportunity to open their cans of “whup ass” prior to the cuffs going on. It always amazed me how the application of handcuffs saved the lives of so many officers who arrest people, especially the people who couldn’t fight their way out of a one-man boxing match.

 

10. “You and who else is taking me to jail? ‘Cause you ain’t man enough to arrest me.”

These unfortunate words normally come from the smallest guy in the room, the guy who’s trying to impress his friends. And this is the guy who, when you make the move to handcuff him, flails his arms like a windmill, with fists balled up. He sometimes breaks down into some sort of martial arts stance. And, he often reaches into his pocket, pretending to go for a weapon that isn’t there. Luckily for these guys, the hospital and excellent ER physicians are often standing by between the point of arrest and the county jail.

 

And, as a bonus, the ever popular … “I know my rights, Kojak. My uncle’s barber’s sister’s husband’s third cousin on my mama’s daddy’s side of the family used to clean the floors at a law school. So I’m suing your ass. Yeah, that’s right. Things about to get real up in here.”

See everyone in the list above.

 

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5 Dumb Crooks of the Day

Most cops have dealt with a few criminals who aren’t, well, you know, playing with a full deck. They’re not the sharpest knives in the drawers. One donut short of a full dozen.

Some of these intelligence-challenged folks, bless their hearts, go the extra mile on the dummy scale. For example:

Dumb Crooks of the Day

  • Douglas Kelly, a Florida resident, purchased and consumed what he believed to be methamphetamine, an illegal drug. Then, after consuming the meth he felt as if the drugs didn’t quite meet his expectations—didn’t deliver the high he’d hoped to achieve.

So he did what any level-headed person would do when they believe they’ve been cheated in a business deal—he called the local sheriff’s office to file a formal complaint. He asked to have the ILLEGAL meth tested for purity so he could file appropriate charges against the person who sold the drugs. Of course, deputies from the Putnam County Sheriff’s Office were more than happy to oblige.

They politely asked Mr. Kelly to bring the substance to the sheriff’s office, and he did, and the deputies there did indeed test the drug which, by the way, field-tested positive for methamphetamine. Therefore, Dumb Crook Number 1, Douglas Kelly, was arrested for possession of methamphetamine.

  • The title of Dumb Crook Number 2 goes to 25-year-old Ruddy Rodriguez, who was operating his ATV illegally and extremely recklessly on city streets. While driving at dangerously high speeds he maneuvered in and out of and around traffic. He even zipped through intersections when the lights were red.

To top off his careless behavior, this dummy of the day pulled up next to responding officers and actually laughed at them, then said, “You’ll never catch me or stop me!” Then he revved up his engine and took off, driving straight onto the sidewalk where he immediately crashed into a large concrete planter box. Karma…

  • Cops often throw a nice party when one of their fellow officers is about to retire. They’re lively affairs that often take place in a local bar or pub. Such was the case when a Baltimore County PD sergeant’s retirement party was held in a back room at Monaghan’s Pub in Baltimore which, by the way, is across the street from a police station.

Enter Dumb Crooks Number 3 and 4 who picked the absolute worst time in the world to rob Monaghan’s cashier at gunpoint. Both men were instantly placed under arrest, the hard way, as evidenced by the black eyes and bumps and bruises prominently displayed in their mugshots.

  • Dumb Crook Number 5 is one of my arrests. It started with a silent alarm triggered by a clerk working in a local convenience store. When I arrived the doors were locked and the clerk who’d set off the alarm turned the key to let me inside. She was shaken to core. He hands trembled, tears spilled down her cheeks, and words rolled off her tongue at 100 mph.

After a few minutes of “Officer Friendly” smooth-talking, her anxiety eased enough to allow her to describe what had taken place. She said a man entered the store and very slowly walked up and down each aisle while nervously glancing around the place. His gaze met hers a few times and once in a while locked in on the security cameras.

Finally, the man walked to the rear of the store where he opened a cooler door and withdrew a can of beer. Then he approached the counter. The clerk said she asked to see his ID, which he produced. She studied the driver’s license and saw that his date of birthplace indicated that his age as well above the legal limit to purchase alcohol. She also confirmed that the face in the ID photo matched that of her customer. She rang up the sale and he paid in cash. The clerk then placed the man’s ID on the counter and slid it toward him.

It was then when the man pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket and demanded that she give him all the money in the register. Well, apparently she wasn’t moving quickly enough so he grabbed the entire machine, snatching it free from its cables and mount, and ran out the door.

When she’d finished her narrative I started to go outside to grab my handy-dandy Sirchie fingerprint kit. On the way out I stopped to have a quick look at the countertop, and there it was, the robber’s driver’s license.

He’d not only shown the license to the clerk, providing her the opportunity to later identify him, he’d given me his name, date of birth, address, a nice photo of his face, and his social security number (Back in those days, Virginia used a person’s social security number as their driver’s license number. That is no longer the case).

So I hopped in my car, called for backup, and drove to the suspect’s home where we found both him and the stolen cash register. Oh, the gun was a pistol that had been stolen a few months prior to the robbery. And, we found crack cocaine on the stack of wooden pallets he used as a coffee table. I don’t believe he’d ever watched HGTV.

Believe it or not, this, the driver’s license thing at a convenience store robbery, also happened a second time but with a different dumb crook.

In another instance I found a driver’s license at the scene of an arson. Somehow the fire-starter dropped it on the ground. I found the ID while poking around the area as firefighters battled the blaze. He was from out of town so I enlisted the assistance of the local cops in that city to help me with the arrest. The firebug confessed to the arson after a lengthy interrogation session.

 

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San Francisco Has Lost Its Freakin’ Mind: Carl “The Butcher” Jenkins Is Now a “Justice Involved Person”

I try to be a forward-thinking person and I definitely believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. I don’t like to hurt anyone’s feelings, if possible. Heck, I’ll even go out of my way to avoid killing a bug. Well, there are exceptions to the bug squishing—those gigantic prehistoric Palmetto bugs deserve all the squashing, smashing, and foot-stomping I can deliver. They give me the creeps. So much so that I’d almost choose to face a knife-wielding serial killer than one of those hissing, flying creatures.

And yes, I know it’s tough to avoid mistrusting a known bad guy when working as a police officer because cops deal with the folks whose mere existence is surrounded in some sort of doubt nearly 24 hours each day. Still, I try.

But there is a limit to how far a person could and/or should go. Yet, the Board of Supervisors in San Francisco has, with all due respect, lost their ever-loving minds. They’ve gone bat-&%#@ crazy, actually, and I cannot in good consciousness give them the benefit of doubt, because they’ve boarded Ozzy Osborne’s Crazy Train, and at this point in time are speeding along the tracks heading straight into the Twilight Zone.

Here’s What They’ve Done

To avoid labeling criminals or hurting their feelings, including those crooks who’ve been convicted of various crimes, the Board of Supervisors have spent hours coming up with a resolution to assign new names for bad guys, the crimes they’ve committed, and other areas of criminal behavior.

If this resolution is passed, no longer will San Franciscans be permitted use the term “convicted felon” when speaking of a mass murderer who’s served his time and is released on parole. No sir. Not in San Francisco. Instead, Carl “The Butcher” Jenkins must be addressed as a “justice involved person.” If The Butcher whacks up another victim while out on parole, the Board of Supervisors now insists that he and other repeat offenders be called “returning residents” once they’ve served their time and exit the prison for another try at life on the outside.

Going forward, a juvenile offender in San Francisco must be referred to as a “young person with justice system involvement,” or a “young person impacted by the juvenile justice system.” Drug addicts, according to the resolution, are “a people with a history of substance use.”

The 10 supervisors who voted in favor of the resolution argue that because 1 in 5 Californians has a criminal record, “words like ‘prisoner,’ ‘convict,’ “inmate” or ‘felon’ ‘only serve to obstruct and separate people from society and make the institutionalization of racism and supremacy appear normal.” Being labeled as a convicted felon, they say, brands for life, the formerly state or federal housed separator of human limbs and/or vital organs.

The resolution states that by assigning negative labels, such as convicted felon, the returning residents are wearing a scarlet letter they can never leave behind.

After reading the article about this relabeling effort in the San Francisco Chronicle, I thought…hmmm…perhaps I should come up with a few new terms of my own to replace some of the current ones that could offend and . Such as…

Kidnapper – person who relieves family of added burden of extra mouth to feed.

Arsonist – person who assists firefighters with real-life on the job training.

Burglar – second shift housecleaner responsible for the first step of rotating valuables in safes and jewelry boxes.

Embezzler – person skilled in reverse accounting.

Prostitute – stress relief expert.

Pimp – employer of stress relief experts.

Murderer – population control expert.

Okay, this silliness could on and on and on. But the real solution to removing the scarlet letter and stain on a convicted felon’s record is to provide attainable but stringent goals for them to achieve. And once those goals are met they’re able to first regain/earn their lost rights, and then move toward clearing their record after, say, a decade or so of a stellar lifestyle. Of course, I’m not speaking of career criminals and violent offenders. Instead, I’m addressing first-time, nonviolent offenders, for example.

Until this is done, a real second chance, the scarlet letter will always remain attached. They’ll always feel unclean and not worthy of living a decent life. They’ll forever be forced to work menial jobs because most employers won’t hire a former prisoner, and those who do rarely trust them.

Convicted felons are are barred from obtaining employment and/or licensing in certain fields in certain states, such as health care, child care, security, public office, cosmetology, barbering, boxing, wrestling, EMT (Emergency Medical Technician), and acupuncture, to name a few. Also, many felons are prohibiting from working as volunteers in places where the public, especially children, are involved, even if their crimes had nothing to do with kids or stealing (drug possession, for example).

Public housing is often denied to convicted felons. Therefore, without a deceit home and no job or educational opportunities available, the temptation to reoffend is great. When the stomach growls and cold rain is pouring down on their heads, well, survival instinct kicks in and they go for what they know.

But changing the names assigned to convicted felons does absolutely nothing to alter the stigma. Call ’em what you want, but in the minds of the public, whether or not he’s called a convicted felon or a formerly incarcerated person, until real change is made, the revolving doors on our prisons and jails will forever be spinning.

I know, I never offer opinion, opting to write only about fact. This has been my rule. But today I made an exception. Therefore, I am now a one-time official evader of fact-based information who delivered a personal view based on information that does not align with a certain set of beliefs.

 

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A Dead Woman Crying: Delivering the “Death Knock”

A dead woman crying: murder in the rain

I’ve seen more than anyone’s fair share of murder victims. More than I’d care to count, actually. I’ve also seen a variety of methods and instruments used by killers to achieve their goal(s)—gunshots, edged weapons, etc.

Some victims were poisoned; others were killed by hanging, strangulation, fire, torture, beatings, blunt instrument bludgeoning and, well, you name the manner and instruments used to kill and I’ve probably seen the end result. Unfortunately, it’s not long before dead bodies—the victims of senseless violence—quickly begin to stack up in the old memory bank.

Sure, cops get used to seeing carnage. They have to in order to survive the job. Still, there are cases that cling to the outer fringes of the mind, remaining fresh in our thoughts for many years. These, the often thought of, aren’t necessarily the most gruesome or the most difficult to solve. Not at all. In fact, what sticks with one officer may not affect another in the same way.

A few homicides occasionally creep back onto the “replay” reel inside my brain—the killing of children, the crazy guy who hacked his sister-in-law with an ax because she wouldn’t give him money for a pack of cigarettes, the kid found hanging from an extension cord in an abandoned factory, and, of course, the case I’m about to describe to you. It came to mind recently because of rains we’ve received lately here in Delaware.

The storms came at night, bringing brilliant displays of zig-zagging lightning followed by earth- and window-rattling thunder. Windblown raindrops the size of chickpeas pounded against our windows and rooftop. This is how it was the night I saw the dead woman crying, and it was the morning after when I had the unpleasant task of doing the “death knock.”

So slip on a pair of boots and a raincoat and join me on a brief journey into my memory. And yes, sometimes tales do begin with the weather…

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It was a brutal storm that night, one that delivered a hard-driving and bitterly cold winter rain. Accompanying winds tugged hard against my long, school-bus-yellow rain coat, sending its tails fluttering and flapping, exposing my brown over tan deputy sheriff uniform. It—the uniform—was not waterproof. Not even close.

The ground at the crime scene was extremely muddy, and with each step my once shiny brown shoes collected gobs of thick, wet soil until it felt as if bricks were tied to the bottoms of my feet.

These were the deplorable conditions in which I met the crying dead woman.

New Picture

Raindrops the size of gumdrops pelted her smooth and round caramel-colored face. They gathered and pooled at the corners of her eyes, eventually spilling out across her cheeks like tiny rivers following the contours of her flesh until they poured from her in miniature waterfalls.

It was one on one—me and the victim.

Passenger door open.

She’s lying there,

Bottom half in, top half out.

Her face aimed at the sky.

Rain falling into her open mouth.

Cheap dollar-store tennis shoes and half-socks, the socks her youngest daughter—the seven-year-old—called baby socks.

Her wet hair, mingled with mud, sticks, and windswept leaves.

Power lines crackled and buzzed overhead.

The yellow Magnate beam, a spotlight on her dim gray eyes.

No life.

No recollections.

No dreams.

Not a flicker.

Tire tracks.

Different pattern than the rubber on her Chrysler.

Driver’s window down.

Three rounds—one to the head and two to the torso.

Five empty casings.

Pistol.

Not a revolver.

Half-empty wine bottle.

Cheap convenience store label.

Not her brand according to the ladies in her church group. “Oh we don’t drink. Neither did she. Except on special occasions. Yep, it must have been something or somebody really special for her to drink that stuff.”

“Was there a somebody special?”

Eyes cast downward.

Blushes and eyelash flutterings all around. “Well … she did stay after Wednesday night preaching a few times. But they were meetings strictly about church business. After all, he is the Reverend. A good man.”

More blushing.

A stammer or two.

A good man.

The rain comes harder.

Droplets hammer her open eyes.

She doesn’t blink.

A dead woman crying.

Footprints.

Two sets.

One walking.

Casually, perhaps.

The other, long strides.

Running away, possibly.

Zigzagging to the woods.

Bullet lodged in base of a spruce pine.

One round left to find.

Water inside my collar, down my back.

Shivering.

Cloth snagged on jagged tree branch.

Plaid shirt material.

Blood?

Still visible in the rain?

The missing fifth round?

Maglite never fails, even in torrential rain.

Light finds a shoe in the underbrush.

It’s attached to the foot of an adult male.

Dead.

Bullet in back.

The fifth round.

Coming together nicely.

Church meetings.

Reverend.

Two lovers.

Special wine for special occasion…

A good man.

Sure he is.

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Morning sunshine.

Tiny face peering from window.

Waiting for Mama?

A lump in my throat.

Scent of frying bacon in the air.

I raise my knuckles to the door.

It’s the worst job in the world,

To deliver…

The “Death Knock.”

Door swings open.

Worried husband.

“No, she didn’t come home after church. Called friends and family. Nobody knows.”

Husband, devastated.

Questions unanswered.

Children cry.

“Yes, I have ideas. 

And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Tire tracks match.

Pistol found.

Preacher hangs head in shame.

Special occasion.

To profess love.

But…

Another man.

Another lover.

Angry.

Jealous.

Handcuffs.

Click.

Click.

Murder.

No bond.

Prison.

Today, our rains have stopped.

But I’m thinking of the crying dead woman and her kids, her loving husband and, of course, baby socks.

Special occasion?

Good man?

Yeah, right.

 

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Yes, They Actually Said …

During the course of their days at work, officers hear many excuses, threats and, well, dumb statements. Here are a few I’ve heard over the years.

Me – “Sir, do you know how fast you were driving?”

Driver – “I do, but I’m not telling you that I was going 87 when I passed where you were sitting because you’ll give me a ticket.”

Drug dealer – “You can’t arrest me because you didn’t tell me you were an undercover cop before I sold you the crack.”

Murder suspect – “She was already dead when I killed her.”

Murder suspect – “Yeah, I was in the house. But I didn’t kill that guy in the bedroom. Oh wait, you didn’t mention a dead body, did you?”

Man arrested for fighting – “Take off these cuffs and I’ll whip your a**,” he said to me as I drove him to the hospital for the treatment of injuries he received while resisting arrest.

Man found sitting in the middle of a busy highway – “I’m from Mars. Your laws don’t apply to me. Go away.”

Man who resisted arrest – “You’re not man enough to … Ow! Ouch! I give up!

Burglary suspect – “I must’ve been sleepwalking, officer. I went to bed around ten and woke up inside this strange house just as I heard someone yell, ‘Police!.’ Honest, I don’t know where I got these gloves and tools.”

Robbery suspect – “I ain’t scared of that dog … Ahhhhh!!!! Make him stop biting me! Ahhhhhhh!!!!!”

Tough guy – “I. Will. Knock. You. Out. Take one more step and—”

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