Feckless Fireplace Foibles

When cops receive calls from the elderly, often they are taken with less seriousness than other calls for service.  This is because the elderly often want the police to help with trivial matters, or their minds see, hear and smell things that are not there; I once helped an old lady who called 911 because she forgot how to turn on the TV in order to watch Lawrence Welk.  However, police officers still respond to these calls, no matter how odd... because we all remember our own grandparents, and love them, even when they start bottling their own urine.

 

Patrol responded to an apartment in the downtown area; an elderly woman was reporting a “bad smell”.  The uniforms showed up, expecting it to be just a case of too much vapor rub and boiled prunes.  But when they were shown into the back bedroom, they both smelled a distinctive smell: dead body.  Fearing that grandma had shoved grandpa in a closet a couple of weeks ago, they searched the house, but found nothing.  A check with the apartment manager showed that no one was missing, and no other apartments had the odor.  They found nothing, so they called me.

 

I went to the apartment and also smelled the smell; however there was something missing that announces a decomposing dead body; blow flies... there were none.  So where was the smell coming from?  I did not know.  However, as a body decomposes, the tissues in the body liquefy and flow downward; this apartment was on the top (5th) floor; so I went to the roof.

 

Now this building started life sometime around when the Wright brothers were still tinkering with bikes, but a few years ago was remodeled into a low-income senior apartment.  The roof was very plain, but I caught a whiff coming up there.  The smell seemed to be coming from an old chimney, which was only a few feet from the smelly room’s window.  I went back to the station and told everyone of my findings, and also wondered how to see what was in the bottom of a 5-story tall chimney.  There was no access from the basement, and whatever furnace or trash incinerator there was, had been removed during the Truman administration and bricked up.  

 

I rigged a small video camera to the end of three ropes, and then lowered the camera.  I could see the bottom of the shaft when the lighted camera reached bottom.  There was a clear, plastic bag at the bottom.  Bag + bad smell + dark hole = bad.  I called my sergeant, told him what was going on, and pretty soon I had 5 detectives, an evidence tech, the Fire Department and the Chief of Police on the roof.  Everyone had a different way of finding out what was in the bag.  The fire guys wanted to rig up a skinny guy and lower him down, some of the detectives wanted to tear open the chimney on the ground level, the chief wanted to make his 2 o’clock appointment, the evidence tech hung back and wondered what I was going to do.  I went to the local Bi Mart and got some steel rod and large treble hooks.  I attached the hooks to the rod, and lowered the whole thing down the 80 feet to the bottom.  

 

I’m very sorry if you were expecting some gruesome, exciting finish to the story. The hooks worked great, they picked up a very EMPTY plastic bag.  I still don’t know where the smell is coming from, but when I do, I will let you all know.

More about Dogs

Whenever there is death, I tend to want to hang out.  I don’t think it’s because I am some sort of monster, or have any Goth leanings; it’s just my job and I enjoy it.

 

So when I heard that a dog showed up at a house with a human leg, it piqued my interest.  The problem was that it was in a neighboring jurisdiction, and they probably didn’t need me coming in and telling them how to investigate this.  As a matter of fact I wouldn’t have the first clue in how to interrogate the dog, I mean... should he be considered a suspect or merely a witness?  How hard can you lean on a dog?  Do you have to get him a lawyer or someone from PETA?  

 

Well, I had to content myself with following the story in the local paper, along with an occasional contact with the detective who was working on the case.  It seems as though the dog was not inclined to reveal his source of... well... meat, and the detectives were not able to find where in this rural, farmland area the rest of the body could be .

 

Now the leg was both a lower and upper leg, with the foot attached, but most of the tissue had been removed (by a combination of decay, insects and Fido’s hunger).  It was assumed that this female (there was polish on the toenails) had to be out there, somewhere, in a shallow grave or somewhere that was hard to get to, because after 4 days of searching, nothing was found.  Then, the same mutt showed up with a portion of the other leg (the femur).  This brought the focus back to the dog.  I was able to speak to the supervising detective in the case, and he said, “The dog's still not talking."  

Well, they tried attaching GPS tracking systems to the dog, which resulted in the near loss of about $500 in equipment.  They even brought out search dogs, who evidently have their own code of “species silence,” because they were not able (or willing to rat out their brother canine) to find anything.  After a week of searching, they gave up. 

 

A couple days later, a local farmer found the body in the middle of his alfalfa field.  And, because I had made such a pest of myself, I was asked to come to the autopsy, and to take part in a secondary search of where the body was found.  Gruesome, but cool.

 

It is still a mystery how this woman died, and even who she is; however I will always think of her when a dog is licking my hand.

Surfing

I have decided to be a surfer.  No, not the kind that sits at a computer all day and vicariously wanders the world.  I mean a hang-ten, narly, hey-dude, get on a surfboard and get into the waves surfer. 

I went to Westport, Washington, and enquired at "The Surf Shop" how to engage the services of a surfing tutor.  I was given a number, then I called to make arrangements, and planned to meet my instructor the next morning at 9 am.  Now I was a bit nervous, not only is this a new thing for me, but the last time I got lessons did not work out so well; I was trying to learn to snowboard so that I could spend more time with my kids.  I took some lessons at White Pass, Washington, and spent 2 hours with 16 year-old "Kyle".  He was a nice enough kid, but it was difficult, to say the least, for this scrawny kid, who just got his first pimple, to tell a 44 year-old, 6'3, 225-pound crusty cop anything.  I shouldn't be too harsh... Kyle got me carving down the mountain, although I blew out my knee (not to worry, all the broken cartilage was surgically removed).

So, there I was at The Surf Shop when a 50 year-old, 6'4, 270-pound ex-hippy looking-dude pulls up in an olive green Malibu convertible.  He came right up to me, shook my hand and said, "I'm Barry."  He helped me get a rental surf board (the foam-topped kind that tells everyone you are a clueless rookie), and told me to meet him at the beach.  I went out, thinking that I would be doing CPR on this guy if he tried anything strenous, and I have a bad record on CPR... 0 for 3.

Well, he wasn't going to surf, just tell me how.  We went to a surfing spot and I was starting to get a bit nervous; I did not have a clue what I was doing, and I couldn't even intimidate my instructor.  So you can imagine my relief when I arrived and saw the surfing spot; no, it's not that there was no one there, it's just that most of them had a foam-topped board just like me, and they were all splashing around just like I would be doing in about 10 minutes. 

Long story short:  Barry spent two hours probably wanting to get out and play, but he did impart some surfing tricks to this old dog.  Now my kids are both into surfing (they both like snowboarding better, though, but I'm working on it).

 

THE RIGHT CAMOUFLAGE

On St. Patrick’s Day there was bedlam in our fair city.  The Narcotics guys were trying to buy some drugs from a dealer and the whole thing went bad.  The dealer took out a .40 caliber handgun and started shooting at officers who were trying to arrest him.  Lucky for the officers the guy was no Buffalo Bill, and no one was hurt (except a couple of Ford Crown Vic’s now had 40 caliber holes in them).  A car chase ensued where officers reported that they were in a pursuit, with the suspect shooting at them; of course all the while trying not to sound like screaming school girls over the radio. 

 

I was sitting at my desk at the time, and heard the officer on the radio sounding a lot like Shirley Temple (hey, I’m not saying I would have sounded a whole lot better in the same situation... but I would have tried for at least a Marsha Brady squeal.)  I ran to my detective car, jumped in, and doing my best Marsha Brady, yelled into the radio that I was en route.  I joined the train of police cars, which ended up with the guy jumping out of the car at a local convenience store.  I guess “convenience” to the bad guy meant that there was someone convenient whom he could take hostage to hold the cops at bay. 

 

I jumped out of my car and grabbed an AR-15 from a Sergeant’s car (being the SWAT sniper team leader lets you do that), then belly crawled to a gas pump about 25 feet from the front door.  I then thought that if I could read the warning labels of the cigarettes that the armed guy was now smoking while pointing his gun at me, perhaps I was too close.  So I slithered back to about 60 feet away, behind a patrol car.  It was then that the SWAT team leader told me that he was going tocall me on my cell phone to get a briefing on the situation.  A moment later I heard my cell phone beeping, lying next to the gas pump at 25 feet from the door.  Another moment later my wife called me, because that special “Mamba” tune (indicating a call from her) started playing on my cell phone.  The uniform cop I was next to turned to me, smiled and said;

“Cool ring; too bad answering it will probably get you shot.” 

I decided to go ahead and let my voice mail get it.  A few minutes after that the SWAT Team arrived, I was given my sniper rifle, and deployed with another sniper back out on the street.  For about two hours the Hostage Negotiators talked to the bad guy, telling him that it’s ok, everyone takes a hostage now and then, if he gives up within the next ten minutes he’s automatically qualified for a chance at a free tattoo, and did he know that prisons now serve 31 flavors of ice cream? 

 

I turned and looked at my partner Joe (we call him “Doc”), who was dressed in a camouflaged outfit, boonie hat and cool tactical harness; looking every bit the role of SWAT sniper.  I then looked at myself, holding a similar sniper rifle; however I was dressed in tasseled loafers, forest green corduroys, a white Van Heusen dress shirt with green (St Pattie’s Day, remember?) tie and my lucky buffalo nickel tie clasp.  I turned to Doc and said, “You think I could loosen my tie now?”  I don’t blame him for rolling his eyes at me; I wouldn’t want to be seen with the “SWAT Geek” either. 

Well, everything turned out alright; my white shirt washed up ok, I got my phone back, my wife’s call was not important, and the bad guy is now peacefully enjoying “Rocky Road” at the State Penitentiary.  Most importantly, the local newspaper did NOT get a photograph of the best dressed sniper... all is well. 

 

A Very Loud Alarm

Was working patrol in the wee hours of the morning when a burglary alarm call came in.  It was a machine shop near the rail road tracks.  Two other officers and I arrived and could hear that this was an “audible alarm”; that is there was a screeching horn going off on top of the building.  Now this was no ordinary alarm buzzer; this was akin to Titanic’s foghorn; so loud it woke man, beast, the dead and some sensitive ears in the Yukon. 

 

The other officers and I chatted outside the business,

 

“I THINK WE SHOULD CHECK THE BUILDING"

 

“WHAT?”

 

“I SAID WE SHOULD CHECK THE BUILDING.”

 

“I CAN’T HEAR WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.”

 

"LET’S CHECK THE BUILDING."

 

“FORGET, IT… LET’S JUST CHECK THE BUILDING.”

 

I walked around to the rear and saw an open door; so I did what all good cops do when they see an open door- pointed my trusty Sig Sauer P220 .45 auto at it.  Obviously, there was no point, anyone who might have broken the door open would have fled long ago, so I holstered back up.  Then, I saw someone moving inside, I again drew my automatic, but then thought, “It’s got to be just an employee, no criminal would be here with this alarm” so I again put betsy away, not wanting to frighten the owner or late-night worker.  I then watched as the person, who I could now see was some dirty teen-ager; walk out the door with an arm full of tools.  Now the pistol came out to stay, and I started calmly telling the suspect to,

“DROPTHETOOLSPUTUPYOURHANDSLETMESEEYOURHANDSNOW!!!”

I got the desired result, seeing a .45 auto pointed at you by a nervous cop usually does the trick... he dropped the tools and put up his hands. 

 

Later, at the station while booking this young man for his crime, we all agreed... deaf people should not be burglars.

No Excuses

When people find out I’m a cop, they often will ask me the best way to avoid getting a ticket.  I have an easy answer

 

“Don’t break any traffic laws,” I offer, which is invariably followed by a moment of confusion, then a conspiratorial wink:

 

“Oh, I see, you’re not supposed to tell people how to get out of a ticket"

 

 “No…” I reply, “…I’m happy to tell anyone that they can avoid tickets by not getting pulled over.”  Now I think that was very sage advice, but I still get looked at like I just kicked their dog:

 

“Well, if you don’t want to tell me, just say so!  Humph!” 

 

At this point someone will always step forward and share their expert (once watched “Cops” for 38 hours straight) opinion:

 

“If you cry, they won’t give you a ticket.”  That’s a laugh; I can’t count the number of tickets I turned in with tear drops on them.

 

“I just flirt with them; cops ALWAYS let a cute girl that flirts off with a warning.”  No I don’t, because then I would miss the amazing transformation from eye-lash batting to an “Exorcist” screen test, complete with demonic head-spinning when I tell them they are getting a ticket.

 

“Just tell the cops you have a communicable disease.”  After signing the ticket, I just tell them to keep the pen.

 

“I tell the cops I have diarrhea; they always let me go.”  Why would this ever work?  It’s not like its going to ruin MY upholstery.

 

There was one excuse that did work with me, and I’m happy to share it with you all.  Was working radar one afternoon when a truck came through at 54 mph in a 30 zone.  I pulled the old gentleman over and asked if he knew he was speeding.  He said that he did know he was going too fast, and was very sorry.  He then held up a his right hand and showed me two fingers, almost completely severed off and still oozing blood from the stumps.  He calmly explained it was a table saw accident and he was keen to get to the ER quickly.  I never did write him up, but drove him to the hospital instead.  

 

I suppose I’m just a big sucker for someone with an arterial bleed.

Just No Good With Hookers

Every now and then the city fathers will decide that it’s time to “Clean up” and deal with some of the street-level vice crimes.  So, a few of us get selected to go out and try and pick up hookers.  Some cops are masters of doing this; some (like me) are terrible at it.

The problem is that I just can’t talk dirty.  While other cops are picking up girls faster than Snoop-doggy, I seem to have a neon sign that says “Cop” hovering over me.  One time a working girl approached me, I struck up a conversation and her response was, “Hi Officer”; this was typical.

I thought I could turn my luck around by accusing them of being cops.  This was met with only limited success, I’ll tell you why: none of the prostitutes around this city look like Julia Roberts, or for that matter as good as the south end of my northbound pet Schnauzer.  Tragically, most all of the prostitutes are heroin, cocaine or meth users, and using these drugs interveiniously leaves them ravaged with a variety of health problems (not to mention the various sexually transmitted diseases).   So, picture this: me talking to a woman with weeping sores from impetigo, two teeth rotted from malnutrition and dried blood on her sleeve from shooting heroin; and I ask, “Are you a police woman?”  A few were flattered enough to give me the price list and go to jail.

Now my old partner Wayne could talk the talk, and sometimes he would show me pity and let me tag along with him to pick up two at once.  One time we got a couple of cagy hookers in the car, now we had to hear them agree to a sex act for money.  The one with Wayne in the front seat decided that he had to prove he was not a cop.  The way for him to do that was for him to put his fingers where the sun don’t shine (except on a few French beaches); that is for him to put his hand into her pants, which she unbuttoned and pulled down a bit.  Of course Wayne did not want to put his good right hand into the bio-hazard vault beneath her jockeys, so he refused. 

Now it seemed as though this gal (not being of the rocket-science sort) decided that if Wayne would touch "third base", he was no cop; so she grabbed his hand to force it down, as if in doing so she could force him into not being a cop.  I sat in the back seat watching this arm wrestling go one for a minute, not knowing whether to laugh or help keep my partner’s hand from doom; I’m afraid the laughing won out in the end.  The harder he fought not to have his hand go south, the harder she fought to force his hand into her crotch. 

All of a sudden, our portable radio, which had been tucked under the front seat, came on with our back-up asking what the heck was going on.  The girl came to her senses and let Wayne's hand go and hiked her pants back up, and I finally stopped laughing long enough to take a breath. 

I guess in the end the girl’s ploy worked- if a guy picks you up and you have to fight for 2 minutes trying to get him to touch you before agreeing to have sex… it just may be a cop.