The "

The "Thin Blue Line" ain't quite as thin as it used to be!

Richland, WA, 1981

But, it's still blue!

(Page last updated on 09/19/2024)

In 1973, I began my pursuit of a career in Law Enforcement. This career choice, I suppose, grew from my days as a young boy, when I always chose the "sheriff" or "good-guy" role in game-play. I was fortunate enough to pass the entrance exams for various departments, and was placed as #1 on several department lists. However, it took 4 years to finally get hired. The early 70's was not a prime time for openings in governmental agencies. My first experience as a police officer began in March, 1977, at Richland, WA.

During my career, I specialized in several areas of investigation and related police specialties. I was a Technical Accident Investigator, Field Training Officer, Motorcycle Patrolman, Auto Theft Specialist, Emergency Medical Technician (First Aid Instructor for L&I, and for the City of Richland), Bank Robbery Prevention Officer, and Hit & Run specialist with an 75% - 80% clearance rate (highest in Washington state during 1979-83).

In March 1984, I transfered to Kirkland Washington.

On this page, I will be recounting some of the experiences that I had during my career. In order to keep them straight and separate, I will title most of them based upon the main substance of the experience.

All of the stories on this page are the property of Jim Herring and may not be reproduced in any form without written permission.

"Rose for a Rookie"

Being a "rookie" is tough. For the first 6 months, you're on probation, and can be booted off the force for almost any reason. Talk back to a senior officer? Gone! Pull a big boner? Gone!

I tried to stay close to my Field Training Officer (FTO), and follow his lead.

On one fine hot Tri-Cities day, we were in the station, doing some paperwork, when the phone near me rang. A clerk called out to me, "Officer, the call's for you!"

Upon picking up the phone, I made my best attempt to sound as professional as possible, since my FTO was in earshot, and watching with a stone-faced appearance. As I picked up the phone, I hardly had time to mention my name before the loud screaming voice on the other end shouted through the earpiece, "STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT!! THEY'RE HURTING! STOP SENDING THOSE RADIO WAVES INTO ME!!! YOU G'DAMN COPS JUST WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!" The tirade continued for a couple minutes, and her voice could be heard by the FTO halfway across the room. For the next several minutes, I tried as hard as I could to settle the lady down, and try to reassure her that we at the station were not directing any of our radio waves into her body. She was obviously suffering from some type of dilemna, but I was at a loss to identify it. After calming her down, she finally hung up the phone. I had just met Rose!

Too Close To Home

As a new police officer, I rode with a training officer for approximately three weeks. This is a customary practice during a new officer's probationary period. I received a phone call from my residence and the wife (then) asked me to stop by. She mentioned that I might consider stopping by a store and picking up some gauze. I arrived home (sans gauze) and found that my young daughter had fallen into the bathtub while diapers were soaking. She received substantial burns to her arms and legs. I radioed my training officer that I would be making a "code" run to the hospital with my child, and that was the first time I responded to any location in an emergency status. Fortunately, my daughter was treated in time to reduce more serious injury, and from that incident on, I was on my own. Two very important turning points in my life occurred on that day, personal and professional. Police work had been brought too close to home.

"Orange Datsun pickup"

"Spectral-analysis, Hypnosis, and Psychics, Oh my!!"

Episode 1

Hypnosis in police work used to be a terrific tool used in obtaining information on suspects in rapes, assaults, robberies, and other serious crimes. It also was a form of terrific stage entertainment, and gave pleasure to many folk who enjoyed watching others perform like washing machines, chickens, or rock stars, who otherwise led a seemingly mundane existence. Stage hypnosis is a far cry from Law Enforcement (investigative) hypnosis, however. Our department used hypnosis on a regular basis to gather information on suspects in serious crimes where there was no other means of gathering information, or when the information we had needed more detail. We found that hypnosis was a tremendous tool for assisting people with their recall of specifics in a case. I asked for it to be used in many cases of Hit and Run, and found it to be a wonderful tool in obtaining suspect information.

After almost two years as an officer, our department's motorcycle squad was formed and I was one of four officers chosen to head up the squad. When we were not splashing tickets about in the community ("No, ma'am, we don't have a quota. We can write as many of 'em as we want! Press hard, you're making 5 copies!") One evening, at about 5:30, I responded to the Highway 540 by-pass (that goes around the town), to a report of a body found by the side of the road. The road at that location was curved, and the ground had a slight drop-off at the edge of the shoulder.

When I arrived, I noticed the body to be that of a white male, about 25 years old, and laying about 5-6 feet off of the pavement. It was hard to determine if the body had been dumped there, or if it was the victim of an accident. There were no stopped vehicles at the scene, other than my "motor" and a marked patrol car. Traffic was very heavy, and it was the height of the rush hour. This occurred before the Hanford area went into its massive lay-offs. At that time, the Tri-Cities (Richland, Kennewick, and Pasco) was the 4th largest populated area in Washington State.

The body had sustained several obvious signs of trauma, to the head and left leg. I accompanied the body to the morgue and attended the autopsy. Collection of evidence and photographs were necessary. I discovered many flecks of orange paint on and in (the wounds on) the body. There was a compound fracture of the left leg, below the knee, and 17" up the leg from the bottom of the foot. This was later to become fairly significant. There was another fracture several inches higher on the leg. There was also a fracture to the skull. The injuries appeared to have been the result of an impact with a vehicle, as opposed to an assault occurring elsewhere and the body then getting dumped. The injuries looked like they had occurred as the man was hit with a vehicle's bumper, the front of the hood, and either the top of the hood or the windshield of the vehicle. The coroner determined that the man had been dead for about two hours by that time, putting time of death at 5:00. My partner remained at the scene where the body was found, trying to gather evidence there.

Back at the scene, no one stopped to talk with the officers to provide any information as to what had occurred. No additional calls, to report an accident, were received by the dispatcher (other than the original caller, reporting a body laying by the side of the road). The person, who reported the body, did not see how the body happened to get there. Along the side of the road extending from near the body's location, for approximately 100-200 feet, we found more flecks of orange paint; similar to those I recovered from the body. I found a piece of gray plastic, slightly curved, and formed. It appeared to have been broken off of a molded plastic piece. I suspected (hoped) that it might be from a vehicle's grill section. I put it into evidence with the paint chips. No other items of evidence could be located. The accident was classified as a fatality Hit and Run, and there was no suspect vehicle, or known witnesses.

Contact with the next-of-kin (mother), revealed that the man was suffering from severe depression, and she was afraid that he had chosen to step out in front of a car to kill himself. She told me that she was concerned that this was in his mind for a period of time, and that he was undergoing psychiatric treatment for the suicidal tendencies. He left no suicide note, however. His home was approximately 1 mile from the scene of the accident.

The next day, we decided to start stopping cars on the highway, to determine if anyone could recall seeing the accident. After spending an hour at the location, we gave up. The next day, I called the person who initially reported the incident, and was informed that she noticed the body when she looked out the side window of their (her and her husband's) car. Their car had slowed down due to traffic congestion ahead. In speaking with the husband, he stated that he had to slow down due to the brake lights of cars in front of him. With this information, I decided to stop at various businesses on that road, to see if anyone remembers an accident having occurred.

About a block from where the body was found is a hardware store. I made contact at the store a couple, days later. One of the yard attendants recalled seeing three cars come into the lot on the evening of the accident, but he could not recall anything specific about the cars or people in the cars. He agreed to undergo hypnosis to see if he could recall any of the vehicle information. Approximately a week later, he underwent hypnosis, and recalled a license number of one of the three cars.

A registration check on the number provided me with a name of a person who told me that they were in fact, one of three vehicles involved in the accident at the location. The female driver of this car told me that she was the middle car in the three-car collision, and that the car she ran into was not damaged (bumper scratched is all). She did not have the name or license number of the car she ran into. She did, however, have the name of the driver of the car that ran into the back of her car. She did not recall anything happening in the lane of traffic to her right, where the hit and run occurred. She agreed to undergo hypnosis as well, and she provided me with the license number of the car she ran into.

The car she ran into turned out to be a guy who recalled traffic stopping suddenly in the lane to his right, causing him to apply brakes quickly, thereby getting hit in the rear by the female. This man owned a red Datsun pickup, which I initially thought might be my suspect vehicle. It had extensive damage to its front end, and some of it was relatively fresh, but there was no orange paint on the vehicle. The driver of this pickup agreed to undergo hypnosis, and he recalled seeing a shadow of a figure falling off to the side of the road. He could not recall anything else specific, however.

The paint flecks from the scene and the body were sent to the State Crime Lab. There, they were put through a series of tests, one of which was a Microscopic Spectral-analysis, which determined that it was a vehicular type of paint structure, the colors of which were used for Volkswagen vehicles between the years of 1971 and 1978, and on Datsun vehicles, 1971 through 1973.

Approximately one week later, I was able to match the piece of plastic to a section off of a grill from a Datsun pickup, 1972 to 1973. I did this by going to a junkyard and finding a wrecked Datsun pickup with the matching type and shape of a grill. I then went about other duties, and hoped that I would locate the orange Datsun pickup during my routine patrol/traffic assignments. I made countless contacts with other agencies, auto body shops, news agencies, and other media sources of the information I had and the type of vehicle I was searching for.

The case then became (for all practical purposes) closed until a suspect vehicle could be located.

"Routine contacts"

The clerk informed me of an incoming call for me.

The phone rings, and I pick up the receiver. I identify myself.

"YOU'RE THE ONE AREN'T YOU! I HAVE FINALLY GOTTEN AHOLD OF YOU, AND I'M ORDERING YOU TO STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING! MY BREASTS ARE SWOLLEN TO TWICE THEIR SIZE ALREADY! STOP SENDING THOSE RADIO WAVES INTO MY BREASTS! I WANT THE NAME OF YOUR BOSS! YOU HAVE TO TELL ME WHO YOUR BOSS IS! I WANT TO REPORT YOU FOR ASSAULTING ME, YOU WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!!"

"Rose, calm down a bit. Let's talk about this a little", I pleaded. I glance up to the clerk, who is about to fall off the chair with laughter. A digital reply from me is received with a loud guffaw! I'd been had again!

Longest Code-3 Run

I always enjoyed having a civilian ride-along in the car. Their excitement and nervousness never failed to encourage me (us) to find something to either investigate or chase. Occasionally, the wives of the officers would ride along too, in order to reassure them that we were not always getting shot at or propositioned. That did occur at times, but more on that later.

A civilian rider accompanied me one day, when I took a report of a stolen car from an elderly lady in the city. The vehicle was put into the computer system as soon as I took the report. It was believed that the car disappeared during the nighttime hours. I took the report at 9:00 AM.

At about 3:30 that afternoon, I received a radio call from the dispatcher notifying me that the car was located by the US/Canada Border Authorities as the driver (a 17 year old lad) tried to cross the Canadian border on Hwy 95. The authorities there notified the dispatch center that they could only keep the guy in custody until midnight that day, and that they would take the youth to Sandpoint Idaho to wait for a teletype copy of a warrant for the lad. They advised that if they did not have the warrant for auto theft by midnight, they would have to let him go.

I immediately drove to the prosecutor's office and obtained a warrant for the lad's arrest for the felony. I radioed the dispatcher that the warrant was in hand, and that I was enroute to their location to have it teletyped to Sandpoint Police Dept. The dispatcher then notified me that they just received information that they were now unable to make phone or teletype contact with any agency north of the Tri-Cities area due to a construction crew cutting a major telephone trunk cable somewhere north of Pasco, WA. There was only one way for the lad to be kept in custody for the crime. I would have to drive the warrant to Sandpoint Idaho, and have it served upon the youth. The only problem might occur if the youth refused to be voluntarily extradited back to Washington State from Idaho. The prognosis for the telephone company fixing the cable was not good, and I was directed to go get the lad, and be there before midnight!

I dropped my rider off, and picked up a reserve officer, grabbed my favorite car, gassed it up, and took off. I ran code 3 (lights and siren) from Richland, through Kennewick, and almost all the way across the "Blue Bridge" in Pasco over the Columbia River before the engine in the patrol car blew. Somewhere deep within the bowels of the big V-8, a small metal valve assembly decided to come unattached and bury itself into the top of a shiny piston as it coursed it's way up through the compression stroke. The ride back to Richland and a different car took an incredible amount of time at 25 mph.

After grabbing a new car, we again took off. The time was 5:00 PM. We drove all the way to Spokane as fast as reasonably possible, and as we headed north from Spokane, we ran into a stream of slow moving cars on the two-lane highway. By now, it was dark. The line of cars was extensive, and as the line of cars became shorter and shorter, I noticed that the string of cars was trying to pass the lead vehicle. The reason for their desire to pass became painfully obvious, as the car was seen driving from across the centerline to the fog line on the road. The speed limit was 55, yet the car was driving at about 25-30. The driver was having a very difficult time keeping the car in his lane. I have an aversion to drunk drivers!

I was not about to let this guy travel on and possibly kill some poor innocent, so I stopped him. I realized that I was a bit out of my legal jurisdiction (understatement) but could not drive by and do nothing, since I was in a marked patrol vehicle. I stopped the car, and approached the driver with my flashlight shining in his face to keep him from seeing the uniform patch on my shoulder. When I spoke to him, his reply to me made it obvious that he was, in fact, sloppy drunk. He could not focus on me at all, and the smell of beer in the car was sickeningly strong. There were several cans laying on the floor, and another spilled at his feet. I asked him to shut off his car, and hand me the keys. He did this, and I instructed him to lay on the seat of the car and go to sleep. I then threw his keys into the ditch on the side of the road. I didn't have time for sobriety tests, but after a few hundred arrests for DUI (Driving Under the Influence) under my belt, I was confident that he would have failed miserably.

I got back into my car, and shined my spotlight on his face until the emblem on the side of my car was passed. No sense in having him call the department to file a "beef". Anyway, who would have believed him if he told anyone that he had been stopped by a Richland police officer who chucked his keys in a ditch. People would have thought he was “drunk” or something, right? I guess I needn't have worried about it.

I arrived in Sandpoint Idaho at about 11:30 that evening and served the warrant on the lad. Fortunately, when it came to the issue of getting him to sign consent to waive extradition to Washington State, I had to do some "shmooze" talking. After several minutes of playing him up, and sharing the experience of the drunk-driver stop, I promised that if he returned to the Tri-Cities (Richland-Kennewick-Pasco, WA) with me, I'd point out the drunk's car, and buy him a meal. His biggest complaint was that he was hungry. The border patrol officer did not buy him anything to eat, so he had not eaten anything since mid-day. He signed without hesitation. Within a half hour, we were headed back to Richland.

As we passed the drunk's car, he (the drunk guy) was asleep in the driver's seat of his car. As I looked into the car, the smell of vomit was present, and his snoring allowed me to be reassured he was still alive. Thank God. There's something to be said about a drinkin' man. 'Nuf said!

On the return trip to Richland, the hungry lad consumed a meal and took to us quite readily. He proudly boasted about his exploits with stealing cars (fortunately, he was advised of his Miranda Rights when I arrested him). He mentioned that he stole a truck from a residence in Kennewick before dumping it into the Columbia River. He chuckled that the truck was filled with corn. He was not about to tell us where he drove it into the river at though. He only admitted that it was within Columbia Park near Richland.

After dropping him off at the juvenile detention facility, I located the stolen truck in the river by spotting corn on the dirt riverbank. A diver team and tow truck recovered the truck. A second stolen vehicle charge was added to the lad's record.

"Orange Datsun pickup"

"Spectral-analysis, Hypnosis, and Psychics, Oh my!!"

Episode 2

Approximately 3 months later, a young female was murdered (bludgeoned) in her apartment, approximately 1/2 mile down the road from where the hit and run accident occurred. She lived alone, and was reported to be a Christian, with no likelihood of tavern hopping or entertaining young males in her apartment. The weapon used was a baseball bat. There were no suspects. The search for evidence and suspects in that murder investigation was extensive. The results of the search, however, were unproductive. The detectives assigned to the case were stymied, and unable to build a case on a particular suspect.

One evening, about a month or two after the murder, one of the detectives working the case came by the squad room and stated that he had received a call from a psychic (name withheld) who called to report that she received flashes of information in regard to the murder while she was in a trance. She apparently made efforts in trying to determine what police agency was involved with the murder. She called the detective division, and luckily happened to contact the investigator who was working that case. She agreed to come to Richland and do a trance with evidence of the case, to try and help out the department.

Needless to say, there were a LOT of tongues-in-cheeks for the next day or two. When the investigator asked if anyone had any cases that needed a psychic's assistance (chuckle-chuckle-yuk-yuk), I spoke up and said "yes". I then provided the detective with the piece of plastic from the grill section of the suspect vehicle in the fatal hit and run case. He agreed to hand the plastic piece to her while she was in her trance.

Approximately 1 week later, I asked the detective if he had any information for me. He pulled his report, and provided me with the following information that was related to him by the psychic, while she was in her "trance" state. As I looked at the words on the piece of paper, I imagined what it must have been like.

I imagined her seated at a round small table, adorned with a crystal ball, a deck of big colorful cards nearby, and a shawl over her plumpish torso. I could picture her eyes start rolling back into her cranium, and her mouth starting to form different words that obviously came to her from some deep recesses of her too-imaginative mind. After being handed the plastic piece, she moves it around inside the palm of her hand, rubbing it with the other, and while lowly chanting some unintelligible incantation, she responds with:

"This is curious. The name Jim has something to do with this case."

"The number 8 is very significant."

"I see a musician, but it's not the person's full-time job. The person plays drums."

The trance ends, and she advises, "That is all!"

With these notes on a piece of paper, I began the tedious legwork involved with some police investigations.

The dumbest guy I ever met, almost!

Occasionally, when the weather was so inclement that we were unable to ride the motorcycles, we would go forth in cars. It was on such a morning that I was in a marked patrol car, when a bank robbery alarm went off (silent alarm). I was dispatched to cover another officer on the call, and I responded with emergency lights (but no siren) until I was within 1/2 mile of the bank. I then shut down the lights, but maintained my speed in order to get there before any "bad Oscars" left. I had to drive down an arterial, but it was a bit on the small side (2 lanes). When I got to the bank, I pulled into the lot just as the other patrol car announced that everything at the bank was ok. I decided to do my notebook entry while parked in the bank's parking lot.

As I sat in the car, windows rolled up against the rain, jotting my notes, a rapping occurred on the driver’s door window of my cruiser. Looking up from the notepad, I saw a gentleman (30's, average height) standing at the door of my car. This was not a good place to have a gentleman standing, because one can never tell by appearance if the human is, in fact, a gentleman, or a "bad Oscar". So, gingerly rolling my window down, I asked the guy to step back and allow me out of the car. Whew! He did. I got out of the car, and faced him.

"May I help you sir", I politely inquired.

"I'd like to see your driver's license and your vehicle registration!” he responded. At this point, my initial thought was to check and verify that I had actually put my pants and shirt on properly (uniform), but I resisted the temptation to check myself at his pleasure. So, I politely inquired again.

"May I help you sir?"

He again asked for my license and registration. I asked him why he wanted to see my license and registration, to which he responded, "You were speeding, officer, and I will also need to borrow your ticket book!"

"Where was I speeding at, sir?" I inquired further. He pointed to the street I had just come down while responding to the alarm. "How fast was I going?" I searched. "45 Miles an hour in a 25 mile per hour zone", came his curt reply. "How is it that you know that I was going that fast, sir?" I asked inquisitively. "Because I was right behind you, pacing your car!” came the answer.

So, I reluctantly reached into my patrol car, and extracted my ticket book. I asked him pointedly, "Sir, what are you intending on doing with this ticket book, my license, and vehicle registration?"

"I am going to write you a ticket for speeding, officer!" was his answer.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you for your driver's license and vehicle registration, sir." I responded. With those in hand, I wrote him a ticket for doing 35+ mph in a 25 zone, and counseled him in regard to exceptions of certain traffic statutes for emergency vehicles under certain circumstances.

There is a God!

Occasionally, I would work a graveyard shift, in order to rid the streets of drunk drivers when possible, and working in a small department such as Richland was quite a thrill in this regard. The officers there were very professional and diligent in trying to keep the streets and highways safe. We were also know to be rather on the tough side if "messed with", but otherwise, we were well respected by the community at large. Grudges did occur, on occasion, and I as well as others had various "contracts" put out for our deaths. It was something we did not take too seriously, since most of these occurred by people who were inebriated, or, headed down the river to the penitentiary at the time.

One night, at about 1:00 AM, I stopped a car on the By-pass highway, about a mile from where the fatal hit and run (above) occurred, and about 1/2 mile from where the lady was murdered. It was dark out, and there were no streetlights in the area. The only lights were from my patrol car (overheads going), the car I had stopped at the time, and a row of houses about 1/2 block away across a sandy strip of land. This section of town had several "seedy" types residing in the houses, and one in particular where I, after finding stolen vehicles, marijuana, and a dead owl in the home, carted the owner off to jail.

While sitting in my patrol car, writing a ticket to the miscreant in the other car, I received a call from the dispatcher. "Richland 41", she called. I responded. "Confirm you are still on your stop at 240 and Lake Washington Blvd, over" (she also asked for the description of the vehicle I had stopped there), she inquired. "Affirmative", I answered.

"Be advised, 41, we received a call from a male subject who gave us your location, and the description of the vehicle you have stopped. He advised that he has his rifle aimed at you at this time, and has stated he is going to shoot you, over."

I never put much stock in God before, although I graduated from parochial school, and even served as an altar boy in school. I thought about God and my family then, waiting to see if anything was going to happen. After several seconds (minutes?) I finished writing the ticket, and gave the driver his copy. I asked him to leave immediately, without signing it, and he did. I went back to my patrol car, and was able to drive away.

To this day, I suspect it was the guy from the owl house that made that call.

POKE-POKE-POKE

One of the better corporals I worked with in Richland was Bill Tanner. He grew up in Richland, so he was thoroughly familiar with not only the geography of the town, but also its inhabitants. Most of the city's residents were Caucasian, with only a somewhat limited number of Asian, Hispanic, Native American or Black at the time I worked there. This was mostly due to the historical make-up of the three cities and how they developed over the years since their founding between 1891 to 1910. Pasco was the first city to be formed and grew in size due to railroad activity and farming. Hispanics would come to the area to work in the farms around the area. Due to racism early on in the 20th Century, the Black residents tended to stay in the Pasco area. Once the Hanford Project began in Richland, the population of Richland and Kennewick boomed with the influx of engineers, scientists, and construction workers. Richland became the bedroom community for these nuclear workers while Kennewick became the suburb type community for Richland. By the time of WWII, Kennewick was referred to as a "Sundown Town," where Blacks were supposed to be out of town by sunset. Blacks elected to live in Pasco, and it remained that way for decades.

BY the 1970's, the racism of the Jim Crow era had diminished significantly, although the population of Richland was still mostly white.

I was surprised to learn that although the area had a poor history of racism, the officers I worked with showed no animosity towards any Blacks, Hispanics or Asians by the time I started working there. I never saw any Native American people in Richland during my time there. Hispanics were quite prevalent during harvest time and it was not uncommon to encounter them occasionally in town. Most Hispanic workers were shipped into the area and resided in low-end shacks built for them on the orchards surrounding the Tri-Cities area, where they tended to spend their time.

One one occasion, I received a radio dispatch call of a possible car-prowl having occurred in the south Richland area. A suspect vehicle description was given to the dispatcher by the caller. I spotted the vehicle as it was nearing the southern-most city limits and noticed there were several occupants in the vehicle. I initiated a vehicle stop and radioed for a back-up. As I walked up to the driver's window, I noticed the occupants to be early-20's and all males. They were also all Hispanic. The vehicle and occupants matched the description provided to the dispatcher. I asked the driver to exit the vehicle, which he did not initially do because it became aware to me that he did not speak English. For my protection, I wanted him out of the car and away from the others so I could ascertain if these subjects were involved in the car-prowl incident. Using hand gestures, I was able to get him to exit and walk to the rear of the car. I conducted a quick pat-search for weapons, finishing as my back-up arrived. It was Corporal Tanner.

While I was trying to get the cooperation of the driver, requesting his driver license and such, he continued to respond to me in Spanish, only with "no comprendo." Corporal Tanner could easily see that my level of frustration was growing, and as I returned to the driver's open window to inquire if anyone in the vehicle spoke English, he remained with the driver. After listening to the driver prattle on in Spanish, something in the driver's voice or pronunciation alerted Tanner that something was amiss.

In a brief moment of frustration, Corporal Tanner moved closer to the face of the driver. Tanner then raised his right hand and began poking the driver in the sternum with his extended index finger. Tanner then raised his voice as he poked the driver's sternum for emphasis each time, ordering him to "SPEAK ENGLISH!"

Almost as if by magic, the driver suddenly began talking in English, fully capable of regular communication with us. It was amazing what Tanner's poking and stern direction was able to accomplish. We were then able to identify the occupants of the vehicle and conduct a vehicle search for stolen property. Finding none, the driver and occupants were allowed to leave without charges. I'll never know whether Tanner just had a special way of communicating or had some form of magic imbedded within his right index finger.

Outlaw motorcycle gangs are loads of fun!

I loved riding police bikes! I started out on a Suzuki 750, modified with red and blue lights and a siren. I also loved riding my own bike, a Moto Guzzi 850. I got along with other motorcycle enthusiasts, and would often banter about with the members of various gangs that would bless our highways. The "Hells Angels", "Gypsy Jokers", "Banditos", and a host of other groups would occasionally come toward our town, in force. They would rarely come directly through our "village", but would pass through a three-mile stretch of highway at the southern edge of town. We would only have a short period of time to get acquainted with them when they passed, so we would try to be prepared. :-)

When a county unit would see the group of bikers, he would radio ahead to our dispatcher, who would inform me. I would wait just outside our city limits for them to come down the highway. They usually traveled in groups of 20 or so, and one could hear them coming from a mile away. As they passed me by, I would ride up from the back of the group, and pick out three or four select violators who had obvious equipment violations on the chopped Harleys, and then I would go to the guy in the front (usually the Pres., Vice Pres., or Sgt. at Arms of the group). By stopping him, the whole group would stop, because they have this silly rule that you're not allowed to pass the "leader of the pack" (VROOM-VROOM!). I then would walk along the road through the group with the leader guy, and point to the ones I wanted to remain with me. I would then send the rest of the group on their merry way. Their request to remain with their group was denied, and they were directed along. It was not difficult to get them to leave voluntarily, since if they remained, I would have called for “back-up”, and more of them would have ended up in trouble for ever-present violations.

As they all sped away, revving their illegal hollowed out mufflers and straight pipes in protest, I would issue citations to the violators I stopped. Up the road, about 1/2 mile away, was another motor cop, who would repeat the process. He would select several violators, and send the rest on their way. The "leader of the pack" (VROOM-VROOM!) was never required to stay unless there were no other cops farther up the road to stop more of them. You got it, as the others were sent along their merry way, there would be yet another officer 1/2 mile away to select another group of equipment violators. Eventually, within the course of the three miles in town, we would be able to identify all of the guys in the gang, and likely make a few arrests for warrants, fugitive warrants, drugs, etc. Fun stuff, that!

(VROOM-VROOM!)

"Good public relations has limits"

Working as an accident investigator requires an ability to make numerous contacts for following up leads. It requires a willingness to spend several hours on the phone, taking and receiving calls from suspects, victims, and witnesses. One never know's who will be calling next. "Line 2 call, Officer!", calls the clerk on duty.

I answer and identify myself.

"I DEMAND THAT YOU TELL ME WHO YOUR BOSS IS!! YOU GODDAMN PEOPLE ARE SENDING THOSE RADIO WAVES AGAIN, AND I'M GOING CRAZY BECAUSE OF YOU COPS THERE! WHO IS IN CHARGE OF THAT CHIEF OF POLICE THERE?"

"Hi Rose," I answered as I cast a dirty look and digit extention towards the now-giggling clerk peeking at me from around the corner. "Take it easy Rose, the radio waves will stop soon enough. Have your husband massage your ailing body parts in the meantime."

"I DEMAND THAT YOU TELL ME WHO IS IN CHARGE OF YOU!!"

"The Chief of Police, Rose", I responded, and she hung up.

The second dumbest guy I ever met!

Or,

"The pen is mightier than the S-word"

One of the bikers I happened to stop was a loner who happened through the southern end of town, hustling between Pendleton, OR. and Yakima, WA. I stopped him for speeding. As he came to a stop, he pulled his Harley well off of the road, about 25 yards down a dirt path. I was on my motor, so I was able to go where he took me. Recent training let me be aware of a tactic that some bikers were using, where they used the hollowed end of their handlebars to fire a shotgun round, killing an officer in California. As I approached the bike, I noticed that the end of the handlebars were not covered, and the thoughts of a gun blast coming at me from that black hole made me a bit uneasy. I directed the guy to take his hands off of the handlebars, and keep them in his lap. It's always best to not take chances with people that you don't know.

As I walked up to his bike, he stepped off of it, and I noticed that not only was he a "Gypsy Joker", but also, he was a big, hairy, ugly one at that! He towered above me by a couple inches. He then began his verbal tirade about me being a "f'ing pig" this and that, as well as other select adjectives and verbs. Heck, he even threw in a few adverbs along with it. His favorite words by far were any that he could add the word "Sh-t" to. Bullsh-t, horsesh-t, pigsh-t, dogsh-t, etc. filled the air.

Well, I've always made it a policy to respond to people, even when they were calling me by something other than my name. And, yes, I have been called things other than my name. :-)

A noted journalist, Bill Hall, once wrote in a newspaper article: “A policeman has a thing called a ticket book. He uses that book to write little notes to the judge called traffic citations. Those little notes tell a judge that you were driving 65 in a 55 mph zone. When judges get these notes they take some of your money. A person should be cordial to a man who writes notes to judges.”

My attitude is that people deserve a "response", and he got one as well. He would not discuss his violations with me, and when I tried to inform him why I stopped him, he decided to be rude, call names, direct spittle in my direction, and generally make a real pain of himself. So, I told him that I was going to get my ticket book out, and he could both be quiet and listen to me, or I would start writing tickets. I further told him that I would continue writing until he decided to be quiet and stop his verbal abuse. He continued his tirade. Each ticket form has space for two charges.

I wrote a ticket for speeding ($47.00), and then stopped to look at him. He continued. I added a charge of Defective exhaust ($47.00) to the first ticket. I then looked at him again, and he continued.

Ticket 2 was for handlebar height excessive ($47.00), and no front brake ($47.00). He continued the verbal onslaught.

Ticket three was for no speedometer/odometer ($47.00) and no insurance ($434.00). This guy was persistent.

Ticket four was for expired vehicle license ($47.00), and no registration ($47.00). He continued shouting his expletives! :-)

I happened to be carrying a full ticket book at the time, by the way. (heh heh heh)

Ticket five was for a bald rear tire ($47.00), and no helmet ($47.00). He then stopped as I turned ticket 5 over, and displayed ticket 6.

He did not say another word. He signed the tickets, and I watched as he took his copies from me, got back on his bike, and drove away.

"Orange Datsun pickup"

"Spectral-analysis, Hypnosis, and Psychics, Oh my!!"

Episode 3

"The name Jim has something to do with it." Hmmm, well, since my name is Jim, I figured she got that one right. I'm not a firm believer in psychics, but I never was a firm believer in hypnosis either, until I watched a few sessions and got some remarkable results. Maybe the driver of the pickup is named Jim too. I decided to keep an open mind about that bit of information.

The second piece of information, regarding the number 8 was not so easy to figure out. That one would have to be tabled for the time being.

"I see a musician, but it's not the person's full-time job. The person plays drums."

With this piece of information, I decided to contact the musician's union for the Tri-Cities area. It was located in Pasco, WA. The gentleman who answered the phone there was very helpful. He agreed to check the lists of the musicians that he had on file and promised to contact me with the names of any part-time drummers. I specifically asked that he check for guys who worked during the day at the Hanford Area, because that is the direction and time of day that a Hanford Area worker would have been driving home.

A few days later, I received a call from the same gentleman, who provided me with the name and address of a part-time drummer registered with the musician's union, works at the Hanford Area during the days, and has a home address in Kennewick. The person's first name, you guessed it, was Jim. His address was on Olympia Street and had at least three 8's in it. I'm not going to put it here for obvious reasons.

I decided to go to Kennewick to see if “Jim” owned an orange Datsun pickup too. He didn't own a Datsun pickup, but he was driving home and noticed the brake lights on a few vehicles light up on the night in question. Jim recalled the night in question because of the media reports of the hit and run on the TV, radio, and newspaper.

He agreed to undergo hypnosis, in my hopes that he might have seen the hit and run occur. Under hypnosis, Jim recalled seeing the orange pickup, but only the top of the cab and the victim’s body as it was thrown off the top of the pickup and onto the shoulder of the roadway. Jim’s attention was then immediately distracted by a commotion in the left lane which almost caused him to collide with three other cars that were involved in a three-car rear-end collision. That was all he could recall under hypnosis. He was amazed, because he had not recalled any of the circumstances involving the Datsun pickup after witnessing the three-car accident in the lane to his left.

I never believed in psychics before, and am still quite skeptical, but there were some awfully eerie coincidences in the information given, and I was amazed. I was still no closer to finding the orange Datsun pickup, however.

"What a babe!"

There is nothing much finer to behold than a beautiful woman, unless, of course, it's a beautiful F4U Corsair, or a Moto Guzzi Motorcycle decked out with floorboards and saddlebags.

At about 3:30 one afternoon, I was on my Kawasaki 1000cc (KZ1000) Police motorcycle, when I spotted a car on the by-pass traveling at a high rate of speed, close the distance behind another car, and tailgate the lead car at only a few feet of distance. As soon as the lead car would pull to the right lane, the suspect car would repeat the process, speeding up to the back of another car, tailgating it until it eventually pulled to the right lane, then accelerating up to the back of another car. The driver of this car did not notice my motorcycle traveling in it's blind spot, and getting a tremendous amount of paced speeds, and accurate distance measurements. As soon as I was at a safe area to pull the car over, I affected the traffic stop. The car pulled off the roadway, and I took off my helmet. As I walked up to the car, I noticed some slight shuffling around by the driver, and as I approached closer to the driver's door window, I decided to keep my eyes on the hands of the driver.

Once I got up to the window and noticed the driver, it was quite difficult to notice anything BUT the driver. She was strikingly beautiful. Her eyes were sparkling blue-green, brighter than the stars of a clear desert night. Her lips were like soft rose-colored sponges, waiting for moist passion. Her hair flowed like fine ebony locks upon the most well rounded breasts I have ever beheld. She had unbuttoned her blouse, and was not wearing a bra. Her breasts were like,,,,,,

I never noticed her hands again, I don't think...Well, you get the picture. She was almost cooing, and pouting her desire to get to "know" me, and I felt like a mere "object of her passion". Yeah, you women out there know what I'm talking about here. She was lusting after me like tomorrow morning's bread. She made me feel wanted, then, and again, and again.

She wanted to know all about me; "was I married?" I smiled. "Oh, too bad, but then again,,," she continued suggesting. "Do you like to fool around?" she giggled and smiled. I smiled back, thrilled at the suggestion, and so very flattered. It took an incredible amount of self-control to try to keep my eyes on hers, and ask for her license and vehicle registration. "It has my address on it officer. Do you want my number too?" she offered. As I turned to return to my motorcycle, she leaned forward a bit to give me a full view of her breasts, and pulled her dress up just a hint as if adjusting her seatbelt.

I've had several other females offer this as well, but never one as gorgeous and seductive as this one. Her eyes pleaded, "Take me, warn me, but just take me!" as I started back to my motor. I wrote out the ticket for speeding and following too closely (tail-gating), and as I returned to her car with the ticket, she smiled again, and asked if she was getting a "warning".

"No, ma'am", I responded. "I've issued you a citation."

I could almost hear the blouse slam shut, and she must have put a hellish run in her nylons as she reefed her dress back down. Her once warm and tantalizing eyes were stones now, and her voice took on the ice-maiden tone of a jilted woman. She made a mark across the ticket sheet, and flung the ticket book back at me.

"Have to meet your quota, huh?" she spat with venom.

"No, we don't have a quota. We can write as many as we like, ma'am." I responded with a grin.

As I walked back to my motor, I smiled vengefully for all the normal gals who got tickets under similar circumstances because they did not have the "gifts" that God mistakenly gave to this beauty. This was her first ticket, she complained. I understood why she had never received one before. I must admit that I have always been more likely to issue the ticket if the driver was a beautiful female who flirted heavily.

Field Training Officer (FTO)

At some point in every officer's career, he/she desires to have the experience of training other officers. I was fortunate enough to be assigned as a FTO for several new officers. Since I have not received permission yet to use his name here, I shall call this young new officer by simply "Al".

Al and I were working a graveyard shift, and times were typically slow in the Tri-City area. It took an eager eye and fast turning car to be able to find much traffic on the deserted streets around 0300 hours.

Such was the traffic one morning, as Al and I were patrolling a residential area near the area where I totaled my first police motorcycle (another story). I was driving, and spotted a pair of taillights pass an intersection about two or three blocks ahead of us. The car passed from our right to the left, and continued down its side street. I accelerated quickly and was able to turn onto the same street in time to set up a pace of the vehicle speed as it hurried down the road. After a few blocks, I had a good pace speed of 10 miles over the 25 MPH limit. I turned on the overhead lights about the time the vehicle slowed down to make a right turn into a driveway. As the car pulled into the driveway and stopped, I was stopping the patrol car right behind the vehicle. The driver exited the car as I approached. He appeared to be a kid of about 18 or 19.

He hesitated when he handed me his license, and as I asked for his registration, he turned to the driver's door, opened it up, reached in and pushed down the lock button, then slammed the door. He obviously did not want me to check inside his car, and it appeared that he was going to refuse the vehicle registration.

I looked inside the car, and spotted a small vial of cocaine on the console between the front seats. I advised him that he needed to open the car, otherwise I would have to seize it with a warrant. He then agreed to open it up. He then walked around the car to the passenger side door. I figured that he was going to try to get the registration out of the glove box without me seeing the cocaine, and allowed him to open the passenger side door.

He opened the door, reached in, and pushed down the door lock button. I was not about to let this guy lock this door too, and as he tried to slam the door shut, I grabbed him, pulled him aside a bit, and grabbed the door frame with my free left hand. I held the door frame, keeping it from closing. Before Al was able to see what was going on and pull the guy away from the car, the driver/suspect turned and slammed the door shut anyway, with the lock button now depressed.

The door slammed hard. Very hard!! The door was locked! About the same time I noticed that the door was now shut and the sound of the slam stopped resounding off of the houses nearby, I also spotted the tips of the fingers of my left hand inside the door frame, visible through the window glass. It was about the same time that I recognized the searing heat coursing up my left arm as intense pain, and let out with a loud and crisp "Arrgghhh!"

The lad broke free of my right arm, and turned to run into the house by the driveway. He was quickly tackled by Al, and a short wrestling match ensued between the two of them. I tried to open the door, but alas, it was definitely locked!

I turned to look at Al, and tried to kick at the bad-oscar to help in the scuffle, but he was just out of range. Al tried to plead with the guy to stop fighting and give him the keys, telling him that my hand was shut in the door. I got onto the radio (portable) and called for assistance from other units in town. I immediately heard sirens start up from points north and south of my location. I was able to look out across the main street leading into the main town area of Richland, George Washington Way. I was standing at the side of the car, trapped like a monkey, not able to pull my fingers out of the door. I decided to try smashing the window with my kel-lite flashlight ( a big 5-cell one). I swung the flashlight hard, and struck the window dead center. I almost blacked out with the new spasm of pain from the fingers on my hand. The window did not break. I decided to not try that again.

About this time, the kid's mom comes walking out of the house, yelling at us for harassing her son. At the same time, the patrol car from the north passed by very fast on Geo. Wash. Way, and the car from the south passed by in the other direction. I notified them by radio that they had just passed by my location, but the sounds of their screeching brakes and tires assured me that they had realized that when they spotted my overheads about a third of a block away on the side street.

The mother was able to get the boy to settle down, and surrender his keys. I was freed, and the boy was arrested and cuffed. The cocaine was seized, and the boy was booked into jail.

For the next 4 weeks, I had to wear a big bright white fiberglass cast from my fingertips of my left index and middle fingers to my elbow. My thumb, ring and little fingers were not in the cast. I took great pleasure in knowing that as I drove around town with my window open and my left arm propped up on the door, I was able to give the appearance of giving everyone the "finger," yet also able to feign ignorance. I was after all, in a cast. :-)

"Orange Datsun pickup"

"Spectral-analysis, Hypnosis, and Psychics, Oh my!!"

Episode 4

About two years after the fatal hit and run, a few significant things occurred in the area. All of our motorcycles suffered a series of accidents, in which all four of us (our motorcycle unit) suffered a variety of injuries. It seemed that each accident resulted in more severe injuries. I was the first to go down in a serious manner, totaling the motorcycle. (More on this later.)

One afternoon, after the bandages came off, I was doing a report at the station when my phone rang. Upon answering it, a male voice asked me if I was the officer who investigated a fatal hit and run accident a year or two earlier. My grip on the chair tightened, and my interest piqued.

The man informed me that he was a professional in Pasco. He mentioned that a client spoke to him of hitting and killing a man with a pickup. His client then drove away from the scene of the accident and later learned that the guy had died. The caller then stated that his client was suffering a lot of guilt from the "hit and run" accident. He suspected that the client was the suspect I was searching for. He further informed me that the client reported the accident on a report form to satisfy the insurance company requirement. The informant assumed that his client was claiming that the accident occurred in Pasco, rather than in Richland. He also mentioned that the client filed the report with the Pasco Police Department. He declined to tell me anything further, claiming a "professional/client privilege".

I decided to drive my KZ1000 motorcycle to Pasco Police Department and see if I could find the accident report filed by the "client".

When I arrived, I asked the desk clerk to allow me to view the accident reports filed by citizens. A rather large box was produced for those reports filed during the year that the hit and run occurred. For the next hour or two, I spend leafing through these reports until I finally located the report filed by the client.

Sure enough, it was a Datsun pickup, but, a blue one. It reportedly struck a person working in the roadway upon a highway in Pasco. A check of the police records revealed a hit and run report having been taken by Pasco PD for the same incident. I provided them with the citizen copy of the report, and they were able to match the two reports up, thereby resolving their hit and run. Mine was still unresolved however!

"This call's for you, Al!"

Rookies are a wonderful thing! We refer to them as F.N.G.'s (fornicating new guys). Me and my trainee were in the station one evening when a distress call was received. I initially answered the phone, and soon realized that this was a call that the new guy needed to handle. I placed the call on "hold".

"Here, Al, you handle this, ok? It sounds serious!" I pointed to the phone.

He picked up the phone and promptly turned a lighter shade of pale as he listened to the distressed tone of the caller. His eyes shot to me, as if pleading for help. He knew that he was being graded on his ability to deal with stress and horrifying situations, yet still remain calm. "Ma'am, calm down, please, let me try to help you", he continued.

I could hear the voice of the caller even though Al had the phone pressed to his head.

"YOU GODDAMN COPS ARE DOING IT AGAIN, SENDING THOSE RADIO WAVES INTO MY BREASTS!! I WANT TO KNOW WHO IS IN CHARGE THERE,,,,," as the call went on. Al tried for several minutes, as I tried a few years before to rationalize with an irrational personality. Rose had scored on another rookie.

The clerks and I fought to restrain the laughter, our tongues buried deep into our cheeks.

"Orange Datsun pickup"

"Spectral-analysis, Hypnosis, and Psychics, Oh my!!"

Episode 5

I was quite disappointed that the “tip” I checked out did not turn into a viable lead in my investigation, but it assisted another agency with theirs.

So, I got back on my “motor” and headed back to Richland. I could not believe the coincidences that I had encountered in dealing with the facets of this investigation; unattended bodies, autopsy, hypnosis, multiple accidents, psychic phenomenon, part-time drummers, 8’s, and even a Jim or two. What I did believe was that the orange Datsun pickup was somewhere in the Tri-cities area, and that I would eventually find it.

It was not safe to drive an orange Datsun pickup anywhere within the city limits of Richland during those couple years, because I spotted them quickly, and checked them all for damage. Often, if there were other things wrong, citations were written to the drivers.

There's one thing to say about having a police officer notice your vehicle. It's bad!! When the focus of an officer, especially a traffic cop, is upon your car, anything that is wrong stands out in bold fashion. If a violation is present, it almost guarantees that it will be spotted! If it's spotted, it's almost a guarantee that you might get cited for it.

Many of the drivers in those Datsun pickups ended up receiving traffic citations and most of them wondered why I spent so much time walking around the fronts of their trucks looking at the grill area. In some cases, I was quite thrilled to spot a broken section of plastic grillwork, recover a paint sample for comparison testing with the flecks from the body of the victim, but the paint sample tests all turned out to be negative.

Thoughts of the particulars of this case filled my mind as I casually rode back through Pasco, approaching the freeway interchange to return to Richland. My reverie was broken by the crackle of a radio transmission.

“Richland units, prepare to copy attempt to locate information!” was the command.

The units working responded in their typical fashion; “40”, “41”, “42”, “43”, “45” (motor unit), and finally me, “46”.

The dispatcher continued then, having received the acknowledgement of everyone’s attention: “Richland units, attempt to locate a suspect vehicle in an injury hit & run. Just occurred. Suspect vehicle is an orange Datsun pickup last seen northbound on Hwy 12 from the intersection of Hwy 12 and Olympia. Vehicle has damage to the front end, and the driver is believed to be a white male.”

My location was about three miles from there, and I realized that there was only one Richland officer likely to be able to assist the Kennewick police with locating that vehicle, me. I advised the dispatcher of my location, and picked up a bit of speed. In my mind, I visualized the path that the vehicle might take after fleeing from the accident in Kennewick. At that time, in 1983, the road going north from the accident scene led to the Blue Bridge, which crossed over the Columbia River. The first exit on the Pasco side of the river was onto Front Street, where I was driving. I visualized the suspect vehicle taking the Front Street exit, and dropping right into my lap. The chance that it might be the same vehicle as my suspect “orange Datsun” vehicle was not present in my mind, since, I believe, it would just be too far fetched of an idea. No one could be that lucky!

An intersection ahead of me was controlled by a traffic signal, and the light in my direction was red. I slowed down to prepare for a stop if needed, but if there were no vehicles coming from the right, I would turn on my lights and “blow through” the intersection to get to the area of the hit and run as quickly as possible.

As I approached this intersection of Front and Court Streets, the traffic signal for my direction cycled from red to green. A large building on my right, a bowling alley, kept me from seeing traffic that was approaching from the right, on Court Street.

I suddenly noticed an orange Datsun pickup come into view from behind the building, and enter the intersection against a solid red traffic signal. The front of the vehicle was severely damaged, with steam rising from a damaged radiator. The hood was buckled, partially obstructing the view of the driver. The driver’s side fender was crumpled, and the bumper was unattached on the left side. It hung in a mangled twisted mess. Sounds from the engine compartment were reflective of serious damage as well, with the fan belt screaming, the radiator fan rattling off of metal, and indiscernible noises coming from deep within the mass of engine works.

I was dumbstruck. Had I been 10 seconds sooner or later, I would have missed this vehicle completely. My location would have put me well out of sight and sound of this intersection. I was amazed that the Datsun pickup could possibly be the same as the “suspect vehicle” of the radio call, because we were now in Pasco, a couple miles from that Kennewick accident location. Because the “call” had just come out, there had to be a short delay between the hit and run and the dispatched call.. My mind was swirling with the processing of logic to explain what route the pickup must have taken to get where we were at, and I kept my eyes on the vehicle as the mental processing continued.

The vehicle turned left at the intersection, not even slowing for the red light. It turned toward me as I was approaching. The pickup’s driver, a white male in his 20’s, looked in my direction, but it was obvious that the driver was not able to focus on my vehicle type or me. As the pickup got closer, it was passing to my left, heading in the opposite direction I was traveling. The driver kept trying to focus on me, as if to really be sure that I was the police officer that I appeared to be. As he passed by, only a few feet away, he turned his head and shoulders to keep me in view. In doing this however, his grip on the steering wheel of the pickup also turned with him.

The steering wheel turned to the left, and the vehicle began a circular path, making a slow u-turn on the 4-lane roadway. The vehicle turned completely around, making a half-circle around my now stopped motorcycle. All the time, the driver continued to stare at me, in what appeared to be his effort to bring me into focus. As he came around behind me and to my right side, his gaze passed across my gun belt and pistol inside my holster. The realization of whom and what I was suddenly became clear to him, and I could tell that he now saw me clearly. He turned his face away furtively, and accelerated the pickup away from me, back toward the intersection. He tried to accelerate away, but the pickup’s damage prevented any effective speed.

I called out my location to the dispatcher, and asked for a Kennewick unit to be dispatched to my location. I also asked that Pasco Police Department be notified, since my location in the city limits of Pasco, in Washington state’s Clark County, was outside of my jurisdiction of enforcement. Being a police officer in Richland, which is located in Benton County, I was commissioned for law enforcement in Benton County, but had no enforcement powers in Clark County that would enable me to make an arrest of this driver for a hit and run offense. Although the accident reported from Kennewick was a felony offense, I decided that rather than possibly create an area of appeal in court by a good defense attorney, I’d rather be safe and make this guy’s arrest as legal as possible.

Pasco and Kennewick Police Departments were notified, and officers were responding to my location to make the arrest of the pickup’s driver.

I was hoping that a Pasco officer could come to meet with me and stop the guy first, and hold onto him until a Kennewick officer arrived. The Kennewick officer would have no problem making the arrest, since the time involved was so close to the time of the accident in Kennewick, where this guy had obviously just fled from. But, before I could insure that a Pasco officer could stop the man, the pickup turned right, back onto Court Street. It then made a right turn in front of the bowling alley building. As the Datsun pickup started to pass the front of the bowling alley, a Pasco police car finally arrived on the scene with its emergency lights flashing. The pickup rolled to a stop in front of the bowling alley, the Pasco officer’s car pulled in front of my motorcycle, and behind the pickup.

The Pasco officer exited from his car, and approached the driver of the pickup who, by now, was stumbling his way out of his vehicle. The Pasco officer hurriedly advised the man that he was under arrest for an “injury hit and run” accident, turned the man around, and promptly handcuffed him. As this was happening, I advised the Pasco officer that a Kennewick officer was on the way to make the arrest for the injury hit and run that had occurred in Kennewick. I was assuming that the accident that the officer was referring to was the same one reported from Kennewick.

When I tried to suggest that he wait for the Kennewick officer, he notified me that this driver had just fled from an injury accident located about four blocks away. He was referring to an additional accident that had just occurred in Pasco.

After looking closely at the damage on the front of the Datsun pickup, it appeared that the vehicle had, in fact, been involved in two separate accidents. There were two distinct colored paint transfers on the front of the pickup, which would be consistent with collisions involving two different colored cars.

The Kennewick officer arrived shortly after the man was secured in handcuffs and placed in the Pasco officer’s car. We then pieced together what occurred.

After ramming a car (and injuring the car’s driver) at an intersection in Kennewick, the pickup fled over the Columbia River across the Blue Bridge to Pasco, where it took the second freeway exit (Court Street). As the pickup exited the freeway in Pasco, it entered an intersection against a solid red signal, and rammed another car, also injuring that car’s driver. The pickup then fled down Court Street to the Front Street intersection where I picked it up.

I would like to be able to say that this same orange Datsun pickup turned out to be the same one that I was searching for during the previous years, but that was not to be. This one was a newer model. I still took a paint sample from the vehicle, and sent it to the State Crime Lab for spectral-analysis comparison against the flecks from my suspect vehicle’s paint, just to be sure. You can never tell, it just might have been a match.

Stranger things have happened, I suppose.

I never located that Datsun pickup, and although many years have passed since that fatal hit and run, I still find an occasional old orange early 70's Datsun pickup and make it a point to look for damage to the front grill area. So far, no luck!

"Back-up" in reverse!?!

Actually, it has nothing to do with the transmission in the patrol cars. It has everything to do with a "back-up" officer who decides at the inopportune time to turn and move away.

It was late, about 0100. (1:00 AM) Things were fairly slow, although it was a clear Friday night and school had recently let out for the summer vacation. I was lurking in my typical spot along the highway leading into town (SR12). I liked to park my car up a small dirt trail, about 100 feet off the edge of the road, among the sagebrush. I was especially effective in remaining invisible from traffic if there were mud puddles around anywhere to splash through and get the car good and dirty. With adequate splash effect, the car took in the tinge of a BFR. (big rock)

On this evening, however, there were no puddles about, and the gleam of the chrome and glass made my marked cruiser stand out against the desert background like a Christmas star. Anyway, that's how it seemed, because as the motorcycle with two riders passed by, the passenger had no difficulty in spotting me, yelling a slurry comment at me, and gesturing with a digit raised high in the sky. The motorcycle seemed to have a bit of difficulty at the movements of the passenger, and crossed into the oncoming lane of traffic. The severity of the swerving of the cycle sparked my interest enough that I suspected I might have a possible drunk driver and passenger on the cycle. I called for a back-up, and advised my location. I then followed the cycle for a bit, noticing the passenger to turn aroiund ans stare at me several times, yelling obscenities, and continuing to gesture.

As my back-up came within a few miles, I stopped the cycle and tried to make contact with the driver. I was interrupted constantly by the passenger, who was obviously under the influence of something, but I could not smell intoxicants (alcohol based beverages) on his breath. He stepped off the cycle, and got into my face a couple times, but backed off when I instructed him to do so. His verbal tirade continued, however.

When the back-up arrived, I asked the driver of the cycle to speak with me by my car. He then advised that the passenger was getting a ride home, but that he (driver) was scared because the passenger had been using pcp at a party they had attended. He asked if I could take the guy home because he did not want him back on the cycle.

We (me and Officer "T") made contact with the passenger, who continued to vocalize his desire to confront us physically. We attempted to identify him, and when he refused, he was placed under arrest for disorderly conduct based upon his demeanor, influence of some substance, and assault comments. I placed one of his hands on the trunk of my car and Officer "T" placed the other hand on the trunk lid also. The officer then removed his handcuffs from his pouch, and placed a cuff onto the left wrist of the passenger. As the one cuff was locked down, the guy broke free and swung the cuffs at Officer "T". The officer then rapidly backed away, and the guy swung the cuff across the front of his body, striking me in the face with the loose dangling cuff. I dragged him to the ground to get better control of him, and the guy was able to get on top of me. He then started swinging the loose cuff at my face, and arms. He tore my uniform shirt severely, and struck me in the head as well. Officer "T" stood off to the side, and did not respond to my calls for his help. My flashlight had fallen to the ground when I was first struck, and the suspect saw it laying a couple feet away from my head. After I was able to fend off the cuffs, he reached for the 5-cell Kel-light flashlight instead. If he was able to get hold of the light, he would have been able to beat me to death with it. I called out to Officer "T" to grab the light, but he backed away instead.

This could not go on much longer, as the guy was as big as I was, and obviously under the influence of a mind-altering chemical.

As he reached for the light he was momentarily off balance. I was fortunately able to grab his shirt collar, and pull his face hard into the pavement. He was rendered momentarily stunned, bleeding profusely from a mashed mouth now, and and no longer on top of me. I was able to finish cuffing him, and turned to see that the officer had backed even farther away. I placed the suspect in the back of my patrol car, and transported him to jail.

Enroute, he spent the full 5-10 minutes spitting on the back of my head through the screen divider separating the front and back seats.

The officer did not last long on the department.

"Report? What report?"

Sgt. Lyness, may he rest in peace, was one of my favorite supervisors during the time I worked in Richland. He was a great guy with a pretty fair sense of humor, although he was one of the oldest sergeants on the department. I used to tease him quite a bit because he wore glasses with tri-focal lenses. One night at around 1:30 AM, while I was working in the Richland "Y" (Wye) area on graveyard shift, I got a radio call from him asking me for my location. Typically, whenever a supervisor asks for someone's location, it is because they want to meet so they can assign a particularly crappy assignment, like cleaning puke from the drunk-tank, or taking a particularly crappy report from someone, or some other relatively unpleasant task. They might also be trying to ascertain whether you are even still awake or not. Whatever the reason, he wanted to know where I was located. I was curious, but not anxious about his request to meet with me.

As it turned out, when he called, I was working the south Richland area, parked up a dirt road just off Highway 12 with a radar unit and also watching for possible drunk drivers. My location was also fairly close to one of the busiest bars in the Richland area where numerous fights occurred between beer-loving bored pipe fitters (welders) and beer-loving equally-bored carpenters. I wanted to be close in case a bar fight broke out. I told him I was in the "Y" area, working traffic. After a few minutes, I saw his patrol car heading towards my location on Hwy 12, going slow while he appeared to be looking for me at my favorite speed-trap and report writing location. I shut off my interior dome light to see if he would be able to spot me parked in the sagebrush. He slowly drove past, trying to focus his vision with his tri-focal lenses, rocking his head up and down while looking through all three lenses of his glasses. He didn't spot my car, but I was able to clearly see his head movements. As soon as his car passed by and out of sight, I started my car and busted-ass down to the bar parking lot to wait for him there. After a few minutes, he drove by and I flashed my spotlight at him. I don't recall now what he wanted to meet with me for, but I'll never forget his head moving up and down to try and focus his tri-focal glasses to try and see me. After that, whenever he would hold squad briefings while sitting in the front of the room facing all of us, if he asked me a question, I would raise my head up and down, pretending to adjust my view in tri-focal lenses. He occasionally smiled in response. I didn't have to wear glasses then but, you guessed it, I now wear tri-focal glasses. I suppose it serves me right.

Good ol' Sgt Lyness, though, sometimes did things that would result in a great story later, such as the time he wanted to check out a car parked with its lights out in the town's cemetery. No cars were supposed to trespass there after hours, so if cars were in the area it was usually in order for the occupants to be doing something likely illegal, like drugs, or possibly participating in pro-creative activities, maybe even to replace someone recently buried with a new one. In any event, Sgt. Lyness was pretty sure the occupant (or occupants) of the car were participating in drug use because the car was parked facing the road where anyone would enter the cemetery. Just in case, he asked the radio dispatcher for a back-up to assist him. A couple units arrived in close order, all with their lights out. Sgt. Lyness exited his patrol car, and told the back-up officers he would check out the activities going on in the vehicle.

So, in order to keep from alerting anyone on that car, he turned his police cap around so the hat badge wouldn't give him away, then he started slowly walking toward the darkened car. As he got within 30' from the vehicle, he squatted down low, then began duck-waddling toward the car. Certain that this would keep him from being spotted, being so low to the ground with no cap badge visible, he continued in this manner until he was about half-way to the vehicle. But, the occupant of the vehicle turned on the car's headlights, fully illuminating and surprising Sgt. Lyness who was fully into his attempt at furtiveness. Once he was totally lit up, he turned around, still waddling, then started duck-waddling back toward the officers, who by now were laughing out loud at the sight. The occupants of the car were a guy and gal making out. They were told to take off, which they did with huge smiles at the sight of the waddling sergeant with the backwards hat.

However, he wasn't always without a temper, or quick to act. It was one such occasion that we were dispatched to a fight in a grocery store parking lot, and a few of us responded to the call. As we were breaking up the melee, Sgt. Lyness arrived in the area and stopped his patrol car in the outer lane of George Washington Way, blocking the lane. Typically, this would not be a problem, but he failed to leave the car's lights of emergency flashers on to warn other motorists. He exited the car and ended up grabbing one of the miscreants involved in the fight, pulled him to the side then ordered me to put the guy into the back of his patrol car. I assumed he had arrested the guy for fighting, but although I was unsure of the charge, I followed his orders and put the guy in handcuffs, then placed him in the sergeant's car.

Within a couple minutes, we were still trying to get full control of the scene when a drunk driver plowed into the back of the sergeant's darkened out patrol car with the prisoner in the back seat. The driver was arrested for the violation and his car towed. Fortunately, the prisoner in the back seat of the patrol car was not injured. The sergeant returned to his vehicle and took his prisoner to jail. I went about my duties for the remainder of the shift, but as I ended my shift and turned in my paperwork, the sergeant asked for my arrest report for the guy he arrested. I replied that it wasn't my arrest so I did not write a report. It took several times for me to explain that the arrest was his to write up, not mine. I think he eventually just let the guy go, giving him a stern warning, but without formally charging him.

Another time, while I was busy finishing up a drunk driver arrest, I got a call to investigate a possible burglary in progress. I rushed out to my car and drove to the area where I exited my vehicle and walked around on foot to look for the suspect. A few minutes later, my sergeant drove into the area and drove to where I was nearby. I put my flashlight into its ring on my gun-belt, then noticed my gun holster was empty. Realizing I had left my weapon in the jail locker while processing my drunk driver earlier, I didn't want to get caught without a weapon and written up for being unarmed. So I grabbed a hidden S&W Chief Special from my ankle holster and put it into my regular holster. It damn near fell all the way into the holster, which was designed for a full-sized revolver. Fortunately, the pistol's grip was able to be ledges onto the holster's top edge, giving the impression the holster had my service revolver inside. Had he not been wearing his tri-focals, he surely would have spotted this, but I lucked out that night.

I always appreciated working with a supervisor who had a good sense of humor and didn't hold grudges.