The Thin Blue Line of Badge 249
Page 2
Guns and booze don't mix!
Joseph Wambaugh writes about cops, and their experiences. One of his books is also one of my favorite reads, and it is his book titled "The Choirboys". One of the rituals of the members of the squad of cops in that book was a thing they called "choir practice". These "choir practices" did not always have the same people involved, however there was one substance that was consistently present at them, alcohol.
Most of the guys I worked with drank on occasion. Several of them drank occasionally too often. I have on occasion drank too much too often. I do not drink at all anymore, thanks in part to two primary factors; my kids and a "choir practice".
As a young boy, I was curious about guns. We would make wooden machine guns and terrorize the neighborhood with our war games. My favorite toy gun, one I dreamed of getting almost yearly until I was about 11, was the Mattel "Fanner 50". I still remember it well, although I never got one.
One day at home, I was exploring through the upstairs and happened to look into my parents' closet. I found my dad's .22 caliber rifle in there. Taking it out of the closet, I began playing around with it. I pointed it at various things in the room and even looked down the barrel, all with my finger on the trigger. At one point, I aimed it at a spot on the ceiling, and pulled the trigger to pretend that I shot it. I even made the sound of a gun in my make believe voice. The gun fired and sent a bullet through the ceiling and into the attic somewhere. I never touched my dad's gun again.
However, my curiosity for guns did not abate as a young lad, and as a police officer, I carried a duty gun, as well as a spare gun tucked away in an ankle holster. I also carried the extra gun as my off-duty weapon. It was a .38 Colt Detective Special. Automatic pistols were still not the common weapon of choice during those years.
One evening, during a "choir practice" at a local pizza joint, I was with two other guys from the shift. We had closed the place down, and the manager had gone home. He allowed us to remain inside as a special favor to us, and we could finish our pitcher of beer at our convenience.
I pulled out my weapon and removed the bullets from the weapon. I counted the six bullets, and pocketed all six of them into my pocket. I was on the pistol team at the time, and was going to "dry-fire" the weapon to practice the target picture. As I began to practice my aim and trigger pill, one of the guys looked at me and told me to "put that damn thing away".
I looked at him, and told him that I knew what I was doing, and aimed the gun at my head. I pulled the trigger defiantly. (Too much of that yellow fluid, I suppose, or sheer immaturity and stupidity). The weapon clicked as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. I then aimed at a spot on the ceiling and pulled the trigger again. The spot disappeared as a .38 caliber bullet tore through the ceiling.
"Choir practice " was officially over for me. That was my last one.
The screaming lady!
Having a "back-up" close by is a heartwarming feeling. A "back-up" is another officer who is able to respond to assist you in the time of need. There are, however, occasional times when a "back-up" is simply not available. Such was the case on the cold snowy night of the screaming lady. Road conditions were treacherous, and the snowfall was heavy and windblown. There were only three of us working that night, and we divided the town in half. I took the north end. I was patrolling the north end of the downtown area when the call came out.
"43," I responded.
"43, we have received a report of a woman screaming for help at, ,,. Be advised, 41 (the guy down south) is tied up on a call, over."
I acknowledged the location and headed that way as fast as the conditions would allow. As I pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex where the incident was occurring, I exited my car and heard her.
"Oh my God, please help me!", she screamed. I tried to run to the apartment where the calls were coming from, and slipped a couple times. I had to climb an outside staircase to get to the front door of the apartment.
"STOP IT, please, oh God, please stop that!" came the screams. I held at the front door and listened to any other sounds from inside the apartment. I could hear a man's voice as well, but muffled, and indiscernible. The woman screamed in terror, then began pleading for the guy to stop whatever he was doing to her. I had visions of blood and gore flowing from the woman's body, as a result of the screams she was doing in between the pleadings.
I tried the door knob, and found it locked. I radioed my situation and advised the dispatcher that I was going to enter the apartment. We did not have SWAT teams in those days.
As I heard the voice of the man continue to speak to the woman in muffled tones, and as the woman screamed "Stop it, you're killing me!", I kicked the door open and drew down on the man who was kneeling over the woman. As the door swung open, I saw the man, kneeling over the woman who was laying on her back in the living room area. She stopped screaming "Stop it, please stop it!" as the door opened, and both people started fixedly at the barrel of my weapon aimed at the face of the man.
Something just was not right. The man was dressed in a bathrobe, and not acting in a threatening manner to the woman, and the woman was not crying, or dishevelled in any way. I holstered my weapon, and inquired, "what's going on?"
"She has a headache, officer!", came the response from the surprised husband. The woman became instantly calm, and her demeanor became that of a victimized homeowner, mistreated by the horrible police officer. They filed a complaint, and I never had to see them again.
In March 1984, I transferred to the Kirkland Police Department from Richland. The following stories are but a few of the incidents I dealt with while working in Kirkland.
Rat on a Rat
There are some things that a person simply should not tolerate. Violence is intolerable, but the worst form of it, in my opinion, is Domestic Violence. For an intimate partner to display violence against the other is the worst form of abuse next to "child" abuse.
Shortly after transferring from Richland PD to Kirkland PD, I was assigned onto a squad of guys who were pretty tight-knit. We worked well together, and watched each other's backs. If one of us got into a pickle with a big bad Oscar, we could count on the others to jump in the foray to help, no matter they might get hurt in the process.
One of the biggest guys on the squad, Mike C, was especially strong, and liked to scuffle, so if he was called as a back-up, one could be assured of safety. Mike C had a colorful past, with numerous acts of criminal type behavior as a kid, lots of trouble with fighting and such, but none so horrible to keep him from becoming a police officer in the 70's when hiring standards were not quite as high as they are now.
But, Mike C was fun to work with. He had a great sense of humor, and was always there to help. Only on occasion would his sense of humor reach an edge of causticity (if that's a word - is now, I guess) to the point that he seemed too oafish and possibly a slight bit cruel. He had a tendency to get into trouble on the force too, and had recently been suspended for a violation of department rules. We did not associate on our off-duty hours, so I did not know much about his private life other than having met his wife, Cindy C. She seemed nice, and quite friendly. She eventually grew to like me pretty well because as she would tell me that "I was the only officer on the department who was friendly to her husband."
Our shift had rotating days off, so it was not uncommon for me to be working on days when Mike C was off duty. He was a pretty "private" type of guy anyway, so it did not seem to be a problem.
Such was the case when, on a graveyard shift, I was dispatched to a domestic dispute at an apartment complex in the city. As I was enroute to the address, the dispatcher advised that the dispute was escalating, and that the parties were wrestling on a stairway landing, with the male choking the female. My response was escalated as well, and I activated my siren to alert the parties of my response, hopefully to make them stop the violence prior to my arrival. (This tactic had worked well to quell bar fights and other violent incidents in the past.)
When I arrived at the apartment complex, I found the stairwell landings empty, but heard some shouting in one of the apartments. The voice sounded familiar, but I did not immediately place it. The dispatcher confirmed the apartment number with the original caller as where the parties to the fight lived.
I knocked on the door, and was surprised when Mike C opened it. He had been drinking, and was in a foul mood. He got right into my face and informed me that everything was OK there. I asked to speak with his wife, and Mike C came right up to my face, and threateningly asked "I told you everything was OK, you going to make something of this, Herring?" It took me three directives to him that I would have to speak with his wife before he yelled to Cindy C to "Get out here!". She came out from a rear bedroom, and I was unable to see any visible injury to her face, arms, neck, or anywhere else not covered with clothing. She stated that she was "OK" and that she did not want to pursue anything in regard to the reported "choking." incident. As I was trying to talk to her, Mike C was in the background repeatedly threatening to create trouble for me within the department due to my nosing in on "his personal business." His demeanor was one of intense intimidation. My requests to him to calm down and let me do my job were scoffed at.
Cheryl refused to assist with a further investigation of domestic abuse, and without any visible signs of injury at the time, there was nothing more I could do. As I left, Mike C got into my face for "interfering" with his "personal" life. I informed him that I would be writing a report to document the incident and attitude he displayed.
The next day, after turning in my report, I was called into the Chief's office. He had a copy of my report on his desk, and asked if I was sure I wanted to stand behind the report I had written. I informed him I did, knowing that several of the officers on the department might consider me as a "rat" for reporting such an incident against another officer.
Mike C was fired as a result of this incident being added to his repertoire of other departmental violations. As a result, he made numerous threats to "kill" me, stating this to other officers on the force, who merely chuckled to him about it. Encounters with him afterwards were met with cold hateful stares by him, but he did not approach to make direct contact. Fortunately, he knew that I was not intimidated by him, so he did not take the chance for direct contact with me. There were a few officers who began claiming that I was a "Rat" for reporting on Mike C. I would just have to learn to deal with that.
The lady who didn't!
It was not uncommon to have to write reports at the station when an officer is very busy with paperwork. The problem with doing it in the squad car is that other things happen around you to cause distraction. So, I would occasionally go to the station when I got backlogged with "paper" [reports].
Washington state has a law on it's books (since 1986, I think) to require an arrest for a violation of domestic violence if the suspect is contacted within 3 hours of an assault. It's a good law, if it's followed by all of the people involved in the investigation. It's not worth the paper it's written on if it's not taken seriously.
This was the case one day, when the phone at my desk rang and I picked it up. The dispatcher advised that it was a lady living in my district, but her reason for calling was unclear and she seemed to not make much sense with what she was asking the dispatcher. "OK, I'll talk with her." was my reply.
"There's something wrong next door, I think", she said. I could tell she was fairly old by the tone of her voice. "I heard the police come to her apartment last night, and wanted to know if everything's alright."
"We were there last night?", I inquired. She responded "yes".
"I'll see what I can do." I told her and hung up. A check of the dispatch log revealed that there were three officers that were dispatched to the apartment in question at 0100 hours to investigate a report of a domestic dispute between a man and his girlfriend. The log showed a clearing code of "contact only," and there was no report taken. It must not have been a real issue, or there was nothing to concern the officers about, it appeared. In most cases, there is no follow up ever done in these cases.
But, based upon the call from the old lady, I decided to drive to the apartment and have a look for myself.
As I arrived at the complex, there were very few cars in the lot. It was a regular business day, so I was not at all surprised. I walked to the front door of the apartment where officers had been called early that morning. As I walked to the door, I was looking at it. I noticed the imprint of a shoe on the door, with a waffle pattern similar to a work boot. It was in a spot on the door that would have been the likely location to kick if one wanted to force the door open. As I reached the door frame, I unsnapped my holster and "widow-maker". My senses told me that there was a need for caution here. I then noticed that the door was closed, and I listened for the presence of any sound from within. Silence!!
I knocked on the door, and the door swung open. I then noticed that the inside framework of the door was shattered and there were pieces of door frame scattered around inside the entry to the apartment. Someone had obviously forced their way into the apartment with sufficient force to shatter the door frame and send pieces all the way inside the living room of the apartment, 5 feet down the entry hall.
I listened cautiously for any sounds from inside, including any likelihood of heavy breathing, or muffled sounds. Hearing none, I called out, and removed my weapon from my holster. I sensed that there was someone present.
"Anyone here? Kirkland Police!" and listened for a reply. I stepped inside the door, but still able to dive back out if necessary. I pointed my weapon in the direction of most threat, and again called out, "Anyone here? I'm the Kirkland Police!"
A diminutive female voice spoke from the upstairs, "It's OK officer, everything's fine here. Thanks. You can go now." There was no inflection in her voice.
"Ma'am, please come downstairs so I can talk with you," I directed.
"Really, officer, everything's fine. Please go away." was her response.
After a few more directives to come downstairs with a caution that I would come upstairs if she refused, she agreed to come down the stairs. I watched cautiously as she descended, feeling that there was a definite problem. I could see her feet as she stepped down, and did not see others. She appeared to be alone at the time. I asked her if she was alone, and she said "yes".
As she descended, I was able to see more and more of her. When I could see her clothing, I noticed her wearing pajamas. There were spots of blood on the front of the pajamas, and she continued to descend slowly down the stairs. It became obvious that she was having difficulty with her balance and was having to go slow, and hold the handrail. I expected someone else to jump out, I guess because of all the movies I've seen rather than an actual sense of presence of another person. In any event, the pressure of grip on my gun increased, and I aimed it at a spot behind her rather than at her. As soon as she lowered herself on the stairs enough for me to see her face and head, I re-holstered my weapon. I knew that she was alone by the sight of her. Bile rose up into my throat and I fought back the urge to vomit as I saw the severity of injuries to her battered face and head. I called for an Aid Car and a back-up officer to assist. No other officers were immediately available at the time except for the supervisor. I appraised him of my status and that I would be unavailable for other calls for a while.
I did a triage of her to try and determine what her most severe injuries were and provide first aid if I could. Among the matted blood on her head and face, her left eye was swollen shut by the presence of a large bruise in the eyelid making it appear as if she had a large blood blister in her eye. Her mouth was swollen and dried blood was present on her cheek and chin. Dried blood matted the hair on the top of her head, and more was still seeping from a laceration on her scalp. Several spots of redness were present on her arms and shoulders, and it appeared that these would also later turn to bruises. I had her lay down to reduce the effect of shock, and keep her from passing out. She was apparently suffering from a concussion, as the pupils of her eyes were slightly different in size. Blood had also dried inside her nose.
"I'm really OK, officer, I just slipped and fell is all. You don't need to call anyone," she implored. She repeated her statement when I inquired of who had hurt her this way. She was obviously not going to tell me anything about what had occurred. The aid car arrived and she was taken to the hospital. She would not give me a statement. Due to the severity of her injuries, I stayed with her and rendered first aid until the aid car arrived. I had to keep a watch on the stairs however, because the person responsible could easily still be in the apartment.
As soon as the aid car arrived, I made a cursory search of the apartment, looking for additional victims or a hiding suspect, finding neither. What I did find sickened me. There was an obvious struggle that had occurred in the main bedroom upstairs. Blood was dripped on the carpet, and a pool of blood was present where the victim had obviously lain until being aroused by my call. A picture had been forcibly torn from the wall in a manner that caused the nail holding it to tear across the drywall. The picture lay on the floor, with a small sample of long hair stuck in the frame edge. This appeared to be the instrument that had caused the head wound to the victim.
After taking photos and collecting samples of evidence that were laying visible, I drove to the hospital to re-contact the victim.
Upon arriving at the Emergency Room, the desk nurse directed me to the room where the victim was located. The nurse did not need to speak with me, since she knew me well, and also that I was a Domestic Violence Investigation specialist.
When I got to the victim's room, she was conscious and tried to make a slight smile. Her injuries prevented this however. She attempted to minimize the injuries she had, and insisted that she was alright. She did not want to discuss her incident with me other than to tell me that she "slipped and fell." I had to fight back a tear or two because of the numbers of times I have talked to battered women who just happen to have "slipped and fallen". Perhaps she saw that tear before I was able to casually wipe it away in a pretense to rubbing my eyes. In any event, she became more open with me, and began talking about how she had not actually fallen, but that she had "gotten into a little fight with her boyfriend." She gave me his name, but reluctantly. She stated that "it was her fault however, because she had made him mad." As I tried to inquire further, she wanted to know that he would not get into trouble for what had occurred.
I would not lie to her, and told her that I would be arresting her boyfriend for the assault. She immediately filled with terror! She began shaking, and crying. She insisted that she was the fault for the fight and that he would never intentionally hurt her. She insisted that she would not talk with me anymore unless I promised that "Steve" would not be charged with any violation. It took about an hour to calm her down to make her realize that she was safe and that the boyfriend was not able to get to her at the hospital.
For the next 5 hours, I talked with the victim about why she needed to try and talk with me about her relationship with Steve. I discussed the history of Domestic Violence relationships and how things usually progress in relationships. I explained to her how their relationship probably began and how the patterns of abuse likely increased as their relationship progressed. The history of her relationship with the boyfriend was obviously fairly close to what I was saying, since she would occasionally nod her head, or look at me startlingly as if I had revealed a deep dark secret about her that she thought was safely locked away. The more of the deep secrets that I revealed for her, the more inclined she became to talk and open up with me. At the end of almost five hours of talking with her, she was willing to provide me with a statement about what had occurred.
She would talk with me and give me a written statement, but she would resist filing criminal charges against Steve. I affirmed to her that she did not need to. Washington state law does not require that.
"Steve's the sweetest thing, when he's not mad. He just got a little jealous is all. I made him jealous, and I shouldn't have," she claimed. She smiled at a male friend while they were all out at a bar the evening earlier before Steve lost his temper.
The boyfriend started out as the "sweetest man" that she had ever met. They had a brief whirlwind dating streak going before they moved in together, and he was always the perfect gentleman. There was an occasional spat or two if they disagreed on "serious" things, "but that was typical of any relationship, right?", she would ask. There were hardly ever any angry words or actions prior to their moving in together. It wasn't until after they were living together that the occasional argument would flare up, but "he was never abusive", she claimed.
He once called her a "bitch" during an argument, but that was it for a while. After discussion with her, she recalled that he started calling her a "cunt", "whore", and a variety of other names as well. He didn't ever use physical violence on her though. She then began recalling that Steve would occasionally push her shoulder or arm, and occasionally grab her arm or hand during an argument. He'd always apologize and be pretty swell then, so she was never really concerned about it. "All relationships have that stuff happen, you know," she would claim.
Through our discussion, she revealed that the physical abuse started out as a push, shove, or grab, but soon after they moved in together, he actually pushed her against a wall, and another time, grabbed her hard enough to cause bruises. The violence escalated, but after he was violent with her, he was always so sweet and sorry that he had hurt her.
The typical pattern of abuse was revealing itself, and she admitted that the most recent attack was the most serious. They had been progressing, and this one was awfully serious. The nurses and doctor at the emergency room discussed the severity of the injuries with her.
She finally gave me the full story of the history of abuse at the hands of Steve. He was most likely in Spokane since that is where his family lives. He would almost always go there after they would have a fight. She did not ever know when he would return.
She agreed to call me if Steve came back. We developed a "Safety Plan" for her. She agreed to follow it if Steve returned or got angry again.
A check of the records from the officer's logs of the previous night's shift revealed that when they went to the apartment at 0100 hours, officers met Steve in the parking lot, who told them that everything was fine. He simply had a minor argument with his girlfriend, and everything was "fine." The officers did not make any attempt at contacting her, and they never even went up to the door of the apartment. Had they done even a slight inquiry, they would have seen the injuries to the victim and the damage to the front door of the apartment.
I filed my report, and obtained a warrant for Steve's arrest.
I drove by the apartments several times over the course of the next few days looking for his car. Almost a week later, I spotted the car and a man fitting Steve's description standing next to the car. As I drove up to make contact, he had a smug look on his face. As I exited my patrol car and walked up to him, his attitude was also smug. He initially refused to identify himself when I asked, but he finally admitted his identity after I convinced him that he resembled the description of Steve well enough that I'd take him into custody anyway. He then reluctantly provided me with his license. He advised me that I couldn't arrest him, because he knows that she'd never file charges against him. He was correct in that the victim refused to file formal charges. He knew that his hook into her psyche was so deeply imbedded that she would not allow him to suffer from anything like a "mere family squabble," as he had called it. But, I had obtained the warrant for his arrest already.
I placed Steve under arrest for Domestic Violence, and placed him in handcuffs. As I put him into the back of the patrol car and began explaining the law to him on how a filing of charges was not needed since I was the one making the formal charge, his smug attitude disappeared. As I explained that I was going to lock him up, he stated that he would call his girlfriend, and she'd bail him out and he went back to being smug again.
I explained that I would be calling the judge to explain the severity of the crime along with his demeanor and ask for an increase of cash bail, and his smug attitude again disappeared. I was able to convince the judge to place his cash-only bail of $10,000.00 at the time that I obtained the warrant for Steve's arrest. He was kept in custody until he could be arraigned, and was held until bail could be obtained from his parents.
He ended up spending an additional week in jail after the trial, at which the victm was not wanting to testify due to her terror of retaliation. We had to talk several times before she was willing to see that there was a way to stay safe.
Steve did not try to re-contact the victim after the trial. He moved back to Spokane. I did not speak with the victim again for a few years.
A few years later, I had to go to the apartment complex again to take a report of a car prowl. While taking the call, I was speaking with a man who lived in the same apartment as the victim and Steve. I did not inquire as to the whereabouts of the previous tenant, since statistics reveal that most victims of Domestic Violence return to the abuser, and they remain until one of only two things occur. The people have an intervention that is severe enough to create a change in the behavior, or one of the parties is killed (murdered) by the other. Most often, it is the woman who is the victim of the murder. I did not really want to hear of that with Steve's victim.
After taking fingerprints of the man's car in the hopes of matching them up with a good suspect, a female exited from the apartment and came out to where we were standing. The lady was very pretty, and she smiled broadly at me. She gave a warm friendly greeting, and asked "don't you remember me?"
When she told me who she was, she hugged me and told me how I had enabled her to eventually get some assistance in putting the abusive relationships behind her, and that I had saved her life. It turned out she was Steve's victim. I had not recognized her after she healed from her beating.
I was thankful that the D.V. route taken for her was the intervention result. I was also amazed that the person who I had encountered on the morning when she almost died was the same pretty lady talking with me now. We were able to talk about the effects of how the arrest of Steve affected his smug attitude, and her strength had returned.
Hopefully she is still OK.
"Give it back, it's his gun!"
While teaching the D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) curriculum in 1988, one of the schools became quite interesting for me to teach at due to the fact that one of Mike C's kids (remember Mike C?), was a 5th grader there. Many of my DARE students inquired about the incident where I "caused his dad to lose his job". It was obvious that the kid was doing a lot of chatting about what a "snitch" I was. He was also consistently absent from school on the days I taught DARE there. He also became quite a problem for the police department over the course of a few years with juvenile activity, and gang involvement.
There were even times that I was called to their house to quell a domestic situation between Mike C and the boys, and even a time or two between Mike C and his wife. There was never anything that I could do as far as arrests went, primarily due to the unwillingness of anyone to cooperate. The mother was the most cooperative, but obviously in a world of fear whenever I spoke with her, and not willing to break out of what appeared to be an abusive relationship. Over the course of a few years, Mike C had really started to "beef up" and it appeared that he was possibly using steroids to body-build.
The next year, when I would have been the kid's DARE teacher, he dropped out of school rather than have to be associated with me. Hatred ran deep in that family, it seemed.
The first year after leaving the position as a DARE Officer and returning to the street as a patrol officer, I took a report from Mike C that his firearm, a Colt 45 was stolen from under his bed. Mike C was angry and hate-filled toward me when I took the complaint, and even vocalized that he "doubted that I'd do anything since it was him making the complaint." He believed that his son had stolen the gun, since it disappeared about the same time as he ran away from home. He advised that his son knew that Mike C kept it loaded and under his bed.
We located the weapon within 24 hours, by locating Mike C's son at one of his "homey's" addresses. He was, by now, pretty heavily into youth gang-type involvement. I made a request to my supervisor that the department confiscate the weapon due to its being involved in a felony offense, Theft of a Firearm. Mike C wanted to press charges against the boy for the theft. I wanted it kept in the evidence room until after the trial, at least. I was hoping that the law would allow for the destruction of the weapon as one involved in a felony offense. (Statutory provision of Washington law) It was stretching the intent of the statute, but I wanted to keep this weapon out of the hands of Mike C and his kids as long as I possibly could due to my concerns with Mike C's threats against me.
"Nah, go ahead and give it back to Mike C," came my supervisor's reply. The gun was in lousy condition, rust in the barrel, dirty, and uncared for. Any bullet fired from that thing would have a fine layer of rust coating it as it left that filthy barrel. I wondered what kind of disease or illness would happen to someone if they got shot by that weapon, in addition to the obvious injury from the rusty bullet. I returned it to Mike C within 2 days of his reporting it stolen. As I handed it back to him, it was loaded. He had his chance to carry out his threat. We both knew it. I was ready for any movement he might make in that regard, but also knew that he was not going to follow through with his threat. He didn't.
"That leprechaun ain't no lady!"
One of my favorite movies of all time was "Darby O'Gill and the Little People", a charming tale by Walt Disney about those loveable wee creatures of Ireland called the Leprechauns. I had often dreamed as a young boy about the wee people and how much fun they must be to associate with.
I met a leprechaun once, yes I did. And I'm here t' tell ya about it. T'was a girl leprechaun, and a right good looking one at that. Coincidentally, it happened on good St. Patrick's birthday too, as a matter of fact.
I was patrolling the busy streets of Kirkland when I happened to spot a gold colored Plymouth Duster (as God is my witness) driving across the center lane of the four-lane boulevard I was on. After watching the vehicle for a block or two, I decided that possibly the driver was either quite inattentive to driving or possibly inebriated. I assumed, since it was only about 5PM, that the cause for the erratic driving must be due to inattention. I decided to stop the vehicle and have a chat with the driver.
I stopped the vehicle after following it for a few blocks with my emergency lights on. The vehicle stopped on a freeway, just beyond the end of an on-ramp. Cars were whizzing by, since it was rush-hour, and there was not much room for me to exit my patrol car. The driver of the Duster had stopped right at the edge of the line which delineated the outside lane of travel. I had to put the front of my patrol car slightly into the lane of travel to block her car safely. As a result, I was required to use extra diligence in approaching the driver's door on foot, once our cars were stopped.
When I stepped up to the driver's door, I looked at the driver and was incredibly surprised to see before me a greenish speckle-faced, green-haired leprechaun lady with jet black hair, and striking blue-green eyes. She was wearing a bright green suit like one would expect a leprechaun to wear. She seemed to have a slight difficulty focusing her eyes on mine, and her speech was quite slurry. I detected a strong odor of intoxicants about her person and breath too. Hmmmm, I had thought that a leprechaun could handle booze better than this one was showing me, but this was the first one I ever actually met, so,,,,,, maybe I was wrong.
In any event, I asked the lady to exit from her pot o' gold Duster and do some sobriety tests for me. Her response was that she did not have time for this, as she had to pick up her son at the day-care by 6PM. I noticed that she was dressed to the hilt in leprechaun booties, pants, white shirt and green coat. She even wore the black leprechaun hat over her green-flecked black hair. Green glitter eye makeup adorned her face. The only thing missing was the accent, but the slurring speech likely made up for that. Besides, the little leprechaun boots were cute as could be and matched perfectly with the wee little belt and leprechaun hat.
She flunked her sobriety tests and I placed her under arrest for Driving While Intoxicated. I asked her to turn around so I could place handcuffs on her, and she complained (again) that she did not have time for this due to her need to pick up her son. "I don't have time for this, officer!"
She grudgingly allowed me to put handcuffs on her. I put the cuffs on snug, but not tight, and behind her back. I then sat her in the back seat of my patrol car, and I sat in the front seat. Hopefully, she would soon lead me to her cache of golden treasures. Traffic was still whizzing by, and only a few people slowed down to waTom Ch the cute little leprechaun get placed in my police car.
As I was sitting in my car filling out a form to impound her car, the window between the seats was open to allow me to ask questions of her. She asked about the paperwork I was filling out, and as I looked up at her reflection in the rear-view mirror I was shocked to see that she had a cigarette in her mouth, and was trying to light a match with her hands. Her hands were in front of her face, and there were no handcuffs on her wrists. "Officer, I have to pick up my son from the day-care at 6 o'clock. I don't have time for this", she huffed.
I reached back and took the cigarette from her lips, telling her she could not smoke in my patrol car, then asked her where the handcuffs were. She acted like she did not know anything about the cuffs. I looked around into the back seat and spotted the cuffs on the seat, still closed and locked as they had been when I placed her in the back seat. Obviously, she had used some of that leprechaun magic to get the cuffs off.
I realized that she needed to have the cuffs back on, to keep her from smoking or ingesting any substance prior to the breath test at the station. I would have to re-cuff her. I exited my patrol car, shutting the door behind me due to the traffic whizzing closely by, and opened the rear door. As I did so, I noticed that the leprechaun was no longer in the back seat, but was shimmying through the window between the seats, with one hand grasping the barrel of my shotgun in the mount by the driver's seat, and her other hand on the passenger door knob. She was quickly pulling herself through the small window and into the front seat, where I should be, not her!
Studying the traffic situation quickly, as well as evaluating the ability that she might have of getting into the driver's seat and taking off with my cruiser before I could close the rear door and reopen the front one, I was forced to make an instant decision. I dove into the back seat and grabbed for the ankles as they slithered into the window opening. Lady luck was with me, and I was able to make a good hold on her ankles, before she was totally into the front seat. A tug-of-war began, with me laying on my side across the back seat, feet hanging out of the open door into traffic, and pulling a writhing wee green leprechaun backwards through a small metal-framed window in the safety shield inside the cruiser.
After several tugs, I had her as far back as her waist, but she was kicking like a mule, and tugging with all her drunken might onto the shotgun and door knob in the front seat area. As she was dragged to arm's length, straddling the window frame, I was unable to regain a firm position on the seat of the car due to my prone position. There was only one chance that I could see to get this little she-devil back into the rear seat. Only one tool is of sufficient strength and influence to overcome the death-grip of an irate leprechaun at the throes of drunken revelry and mischievousness as she was in,, hair!
I looked up at her torso in the window of the safety shield, and reached into the small opening. Her body filled the space fairly tightly, but I was able to squeeze my arm up through the window, against the sharp metal corner of the frame, and grab a handful of the jet-black hair with green sparkles running throughout. The wee Irish hat fell across her face, causing a momentary distraction, and a sharp tug on her hair was enough to break her grip on my shotgun. She then realized what was happening, and repositioned her hands against the top of the seat-back, then pushed up with all her might against my arm, squeezing it against the metal frame. As I was pulling her back into the rear seat, she was trying to hurt my arm enough to release the hold on her hair.
As she was slowly returning to the back seat, the metal edge of the window frame began cutting into the flesh of my wrist and hand. Skin began tearing away, and she could tell that it hurt severely. She finally was pulled through the opening, and back into the rear seat, whereupon she began trying to kick and bite.
I was able to roll her face down onto the floor of the car, and pinned her there with my knees. Sheesh! I had always thought that leprechauns were loving little creatures of whim and folly. Silly me!!
I located the handcuffs, unlocked them, and re-cuffed her, this time not caring so much whether they were too tight or not. She was then positioned in a seated position back into the rear of the car where she belonged. I hurriedly closed the window between the front and rear seats.
I wrapped my bleeding hand in gauze fished from the trunk of my cruiser, and radioed my supervisor, as is required when an injury occurs.
When he arrived at the scene, I showed him my hand and gave him a cursory report of what had happened. He instructed me to have the leprechaun switch into his car, and directed me to the emergency room of the hospital.
I walked over to my patrol car, and opened the rear door. The leprechaun turned in the seat, as if trying to step out of the car, turned her head, and another cigarette was in her mouth. She was trying again to light the cigarette with her book of matches. Her hands were again in front of her face, and no handcuffs were on her wrists. Looking into the rear seat area, I located them laying on the seat again, still locked.
Fortunately, the fight was gone from the wee creature by this time, and she was promptly re-cuffed. It wasn't until later, after I returned from the hospital, that I learned the truth about Ireland's little people. It's impossible to capture one of them leprechauns, because they are all double-jointed.
"The Rusty Bullet"
Time passed, cases happened, some even reported about here on this page. Many eventful, but more were not! Mike C and Cindy C had decided to move from Kirkland, where they seemed to be getting more and more involved with the police department. More of Mike C's one-time friends were becoming less enamored with his attitudes, and tired of taking reports about his kids' juvenile behavior. At one point, I was even able to discuss the options that Cindy C might have if she could overcome her fear of Mike C and talk with me about it. She was too frightened to discuss anything other than how Mike C had become more "difficult" since starting to work out so much.
I have a routine every morning, where I like to open the door, reach down and pick up my paper to read at breakfast. It's a bit overly-typical, I know, but it's relaxing. One morning, I opened it to find a photo of Mike C on the second page. "Ex-Kirkland Cop Arrested In Shooting".
Mike C claimed that he and his wife were arguing, and he was merely cleaning his gun when his dog lunged at the gun, causing it to discharge. Cindy C, who was laying on the bed, was fatally shot in the head.
At his trial, I again had to testify about my contacts with him and the family. Mike C was convicted of Manslaughter and sentenced to prison. There were a few more accusations of my being a "rat", but,,,,,
Cindy C was worth it!
A few years later, Mike C's son was arrested for his involvement with another juvenile for the slashing death of a 15 year old girl. They had also conspired to murder another person, but were unsuccessful in carrying it out. The boy is also in jail now.
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