Family trip to the Morgue

For some time my daughter has wanted to be a paramedic.  I think it’s a pretty honorable job, and I’m proud of her for all the work she has put into joining the Fire Department Reserves, going through EMT school, and volunteering with the local ambulance service.  

She was doing so well that I thought to help her out by getting her in to watch an autopsy.  Now, I would not be able to get her into a homicide autopsy, but I was able to get her into an “equivocal death” autopsy.  An equivocal death is where we are pretty darn sure that Billy-Bob dropped dead from the methamphetamine needle still sticking out of his arm, but the Coroner just wants to make sure. 

So, we get to the morgue, and she dons the Tyvek suit and poses for a photo with Mr. Bones.  Then the Pathologist comes and we wheel the body out.  I could see that she had a moment of panic as she considered the dead man beneath the white sheet.  The sheet is pulled aside and everything seems to go OK; she even gets to poke at a few of the more obscure inside parts.  

Later, I asked why she seemed nervous at the beginning; was it the realization that she would soon be looking at guts and blood?  She said no, it was just that, at that moment, she realized that the body, a man, would be NAKED.  

Let that be a lesson to all you young men out there... my daughter only will look upon the DEAD ones- before or after is your choice.

Creative Writing 101

I think that cops do make for great writers, as has been suggested by a reader.  It’s all the practice we get writing reports that sanitize some of the... ah... distasteful things we have to do. 

The best one I read had to be from Officer L.; he was running after a wanted guy one night, when the suspect turned and threw a punch at him.  Officer L. then took out his baton, and later wrote what followed: 

“...After the suspect struck me in the left shoulder, I applied my baton to his left thigh.  The suspect then balled his right hand again into a fist and pulled back, as if to throw another punch.  I then applied the baton to his right torso, and then I applied it to his right forearm.  He turned to run and I then applied the baton to his right calf.  He then went to the ground and complied with instructions.” 

Now understand, I got no problem with what Officer L. did; but “Applied” the baton?!  What is it, a soothing balm? An ointment? A fragrant layer of anti-perspirant?  I just think the real crime is that police often become afraid to explain exactly what they did, in plain language.

I’m sorry, I did not want my writings to be full of complaints or soap-box rants. 

Something funny... ok... I do recall an “Indecent Exposure” report from an officer who could not spell very well; he claimed to have contacted a very intoxicated woman who showed him, “...Her Virginia.” I could only suppose she had a postcard from Richmond.

The Kenny Report (or Smell of Violence Part III)

Several people have asked what is up with Kenny now.  Well, like everything else that ends up here, it’s an interesting story... 

Every now and then I represent my church and speak at the local Rescue Mission; but I have never told people there, workers or residents, that I’m a cop.  It’s not that I try to keep it secret, it’s just never come up and I don’t want it to be a distraction. 

Not too long ago I was there speaking, and saw Kenny with all the other homeless people.  Still with his high-water pants, two hats and 57 keys.  After the message, people filed by, and I recognized several; some people who were victims, others I had arrested.  Then Kenny walked by and simply said, "Hey, Officer Kellett," as he passed.  I have been going to the Mission helping out for over 20 years; no one has ever recognized me as an Officer before.  

Here is someone the world might label “stupid,” “retarded,” or just see someone to ridicule, but Kenny saw what no one else has; he remembered me and who I was. 

Of course, having the crap punched out of you can make an impression....

http://www.yugm.org/

 

Confessions of a geek wannabe

A year or so ago I was walking past the Chief’s office and he hailed me in.  He was having some trouble with his computer, and I successfully assisted in turning it on (I only knew how to do this cause I saw my kid do it once).  Ever since then he has operated under the assumption that I am a computer wiz.  I fake it by calling my 17 year old son from work and asking him what to do. 

I guess I’ve fooled enough people that they sent me to EnCase® Computer Forensics School; this is the system that lets us crack hard drives and recover deleted files. The two weeks of class came close to melting my brain, during which the instructors from EnCase® made me feel very stupid for not learning their program faster, and not being a smart enough computer guy. 

So now, one of my side jobs is to take computers seized pursuant to a forgery, fraud or child porn case and see what is on them.  This sounds easy, but whenever I turn the EnCase® lab computer on, I feel like I’m trying to fly the space shuttle with about 5 minutes of flight school.  I know that I need a bit more training (about 7 years should do it) to use it right; but I still muddle on. 

All of that prep to tell you I got a letter from EnCase® today; it warned that a hacker got into the EnCase® corporate computer and stole all their files. 

For some inexplicable reason, I feel less stupid now.

Your Fat Or Your Life

Well, if you saw the surfing photo, you may agree that I could lose a few pounds.  The problem is that my job is so sedentary; most of the exercise I get is walking to the coffee pot every morning.  Almost all of us detectives have this same problem, so last month some bright soul got the idea to have a “Biggest Loser” contest.  We all weighed in, and ponied up $20.  The date to weigh again will be Jan 2nd, and the person who loses the highest percentage of their body weight wins (the pot is $440.00).  

As you might guess, cops can be some pretty competitive people; the day after the first weigh in, I had 14 candy bars placed on my desk.  Now I have to watch for cops low-crawling through my back yard in order to replace my skim milk with 2%.  

It has been about 6 weeks and 22 lbs later, but there is now another issue... It seems as though other cops (not in the contest) are taking side bets on who the winner will be.  I found this out when someone brought in a large box of muffins the other day.  Officer Rich (from Community Services) ran up to me and screamed, “You’re NOT eating one of those; I got 20 bucks riding on you winning!”  

Sometimes I think about the surrealness of my job; in my world, having guys with guns yell at you for the stupidest stuff is an everyday occurrence... If I worked at a Post Office, we’d all be on Fox News with the helicopters circling, and Shepard Smith would be speculating on what the body count would end up being.  

Oh well, it all seems to work out without violence... and I’m looking forward to that big Krispy Kreme come Jan 3rd; I’d have one now, but darned if Officer Rich ain’t a good shot.

The smell of violence PART II

Ok, enough of you have asked, "What was Officer Jim's reaction after transporting Kenny?"  Well, instead of Kenny screaming those 7 naughty words at the moon, Officer Jim was screaming them at me. 

 

I am a stand up guy however... I bought Jim an air freshener.

The smell of violence

A few years back, I was working patrol on the graveyard shift.  It was one of those quiet nights that seemed to drag on forever; they were usually quiet because criminals were either in jail, in the ER getting their stomachs pumped, or too inebriated to do anything, because they needed their stomachs pumped.  

 

I was saved from total boredom by a call to a neighborhood where a man was screaming on a street corner.  I pulled up, and sure enough, there was a guy who was yelling through the 7 words you can’t say on TV (actually, I think it’s down to 4 words now).  I recognized the man as Kenny.  I think you all know a Kenny; he’s the guy who is about 28 years old, but talks like a ten year old with a mouth full of marbles.  He wears jeans that are 2 sizes too small and 4 inches too short.  He wears 2 hats at a time, and has a chain attached to 57 keys, one of which actually goes to the lock on his welfare apartment.  Often times the Kennys of the world push a shopping cart around and look for aluminum cans in the garbage.  Kenny is usually angry at something, but all the cops know him and always try their best to calm him down and keep him out of trouble.  

 

This morning, however, I pled with Kenny, I cajoled him, I threatened him, but he would not shut up.  The people in the neighborhood were all calling in, demanding that the police stop this disturbance.  I finally told him that he was under arrest.  As soon as the words were out of my mouth he bolted for his apartment.  He was still screaming as I ran after him, catching him by one arm at the open door to his small one-room pad.  On a coffee table, just inside the door, was the largest collection of knives I have ever seen.  Kenny was obviously struggling with me to get to a knife, and I couldn't let anyone (including Kenny) be hurt by the blades.  Although I felt sorry for Kenny, I had to stop this before it went any further.  I balled up my right fist and punched Kenny right in the left ear.  It was not a hard hit, but Kenny stopped yelling, started crying, and went into a fetal ball.  He also completely emptied his bowels into his too-small jeans.  About this time a fellow officer named Jim came running up to assist.  

 

“Anything I can help with?” Jim asked.  

 

Before Jim was able to get a whiff I answered,

 

“Could you transport this guy to the jail in your car?”