I understand that this post is not as traditionally entertaining as most, but I'm trying to educate and make salient points about the insanely high amount of weird shit that people do on the daily. To keep it light, I won't speak of the horrors I have seen or talk at length about how most people die with their eyes open. I'm trying to keep this light and merry.
The title of this is in no way to say I am better than the common man. Don't get me wrong, I'm in no way common, but the general masses in the vicinity which I currently reside astound me with predictable regularity.
Until this point, I have avoided any reference to my chosen profession for many obvious and some not-so-obvious reasons. Depending on where this goes, that may change. Go ahead powers that be. Hunt me down. Its freedom of speech, assholes.
Anyone who works anywhere near the justice system will have plenty of "dumb criminal" stories. We are dealing with the shallow end of the gene pool and the scariest part is they are outbreeding the deep end exponentially. Prepare to be surrounded by extreme stupidity. The future is dim.
The nice thing is, dumb criminals are easy to catch. Funny? Yes.... but they fill me with ennui.
Its one thing to get called to someone's house for an emergency only to be greeted by a quarter ton woman in a moo-moo. You're in quarter-ton's house, you can't really judge. But when quarter ton shows up for court in the aforementioned moo-moo adorned with a print akin to the ugliest Hawaiian shirt you've ever seen adorned with large Frisbee sized flowers that are still dwarfed by her breasts, she becomes fair game.
It's astounding the attire people deem appropriate for court. Maybe it is complete and utter lack of respect for the law and the system, but if you expect to make a good impression as you plead for mercy to the judge, a bathrobe with holes and pink fuzzy slippers are probably not the way to go.
Then there was the girl with shorts so short I'm still not sure they weren't connected at the crotch by anything more than a string hanging on for dear life trying hard to keep the dam from breaking wide open. When she got up from her seat, there were bugs - BUGS - left behind her. Turns out they were crabs... which, I learned that day look oddly like rice from afar but actually LOOK LIKE CRABS close up. What can I say? I'm a curious cat. So yes, I investigated WTF she left behind. Sue me.
Then you have your true exhibitionists. The ones that will unzip their fly mid conversation and start peeing in front of you on the grass next to the sidewalk. They are usually highly intoxicated and apparently don't notice the cops in front of them, or the black & white car with the lights on top just feet away. Or sometimes they do, and they just don't give a shit. Into the wind they piss, while reciting (and spelling) their name and date of birth, albeit in slurred speech. Guhross.
Then there is the county jail. They haul them in by the bunch and cuff them in mass to a long concrete bench to wait to be screened by the nurse. The whole process takes awhile. So what do you do with your time while you wait handcuffed to the bench? You pull your pud of course. Beat the meat, stroke your joke, however you wanna say it... only to have all the trapped handcuffed dudes around you pull away so as not to be either a) associated with dick dude or b) to not be struck by the inevitable ammo... I couldn't decide. Either way, the nurse looked at me like I was suppose to "handle the situation." HANDLE IT HOW? You want me to tuck it back in for him? You want me to shake my finger at him and sternly say "Don't do that. Put it away.?" I don't wanna go any where near anyone who decided it was as good a place as any to kill time by whacking off. Thank God I had deputy friends in the jail because one look of horror to the tower was all it took and they came running. I don't pull the damsel in distress card very often, and have no shame in doing it that day.
Most of you have an office. My office, for the most part, is mobile and on wheels. I always kept my office clean, so took great umbrage when someone pissed or shit in it. WHO DOES THAT????
A lot of people, apparently.
People stink. Both literally and figuratively. I'm talking literal for the purposes of this point. The stench is ungodly and is impossible to get out of your nasal cavity for hours, and sometimes days later. When did personal hygiene become optional?
I thought a rat was a cat at one time, because the residents of the house certainly didn't freak out as it was walking around like a household pet. When I realized it was a rat and it was coming at me I drew my gun only to have the foresight of the headline flash through my head in that split second "COP SHOOTS RAT ON NEAR NORTH SIDE". My only saving grace was that I would have hit it and it would have made me look like an impeccable shot. Alas, I decided against it and jumped on a chair instead. What? They carry diseases. And this one had no fear. Don't judge.
On one wall (ONE WALL) my partner and I took turns counting different breeds of roaches. He saw 9, I counted 13, although we conceded 2 appeared to be hybrids of interbreeding between 2 species. WHO KNEW THERE ARE THAT MANY DIFFERENT KINDS OF ROACHES? If you've never seen Joe's Apartment with the cockroach scenes... I've lived that. Many times. Now here is where my bleeding heart liberal friends will say not everyone can afford to live in a non-roach infested place. To that I gainfully retort Balderdash! If you leave moldy food all over the place and dirty clothes all over the floor and never take out the garbage it has nothing to do with your financial situation and everything to do with cleanliness. When you create your abode in a fashion that makes it a petri dish for pests, I got nothin' for you. Some of the poorest houses I have been to have been the cleanest.
Sidenote: not every person that gets shot was just turning his life around. Its the most disgusting cliché in news, and damn near predictable every time. You'll see the picture on the news where "Harold" is in his 8th grade graduation outfit or his Sunday best for an Easter with Grandma 3 years ago every time. What you DON'T see, are the pictures on Facebook where "Harold" Aka: Jackboy Joe is holding every type of gun & drug imaginable, is covered in gang tattoos and inevitably one with praying hands or some reference to God (although I'm not sure that's going to help him as the praying hands are next to the words 'Hoe Slayer'), and was arrested for armed robbery a few weeks ago. Yes. Harold is dead. It is sad. But Harold likely was pissing off many people and created the situation which ended badly for Harold. You run with dogs you're bound to get fleas.
When a cop is driving behind you, please don't go 10 miles under the speed limit. 9 times out of 10 they are trying to get somewhere too, that is more important than pulling you over for going 5 over the limit. In fact, if they are on the way to a call, you have to be trying to break the sound barrier or have legs sticking out of the trunk for anyone to give a hoot. Legally, we can be in a hurry to get to a call but aren't authorized to go lights and sirens so you creeping along like you're sightseeing on a Sunday afternoon is only holding us up from getting to someone who needs our help. *Stereotype alert* So the next time your husband is beating the shit out of you and the cops take forever to get there, remember all the times you went 10 mph under the speed limit because a police car was behind you.
I don't mean to make light of the domestic abuse situation. It is incredibly frustrating. State law mandates that we arrest the aggressor every time. Which means a lot of paperwork when the other party is saying he/she doesn't want them arrested and you know will not show up in court. You get good at seeing true abuse & fear vs. a lover's quarrel. People argue. Females are awesomely vindictive. We know this. They'll sell their criminal boyfriend down the river and give you the goods on everything he has done with such expediency it makes me giggle with glee.
I am forever scarred by one case, though. True abuse. I had been called there many times, and arrested him many times. I begged her to show up for court and to leave him. She was too scared to do either. He eventually killed her.
Dark mood, sorry about that. On to happier observations...
Just last week a convicted felon came to court and tried to get thru the metal detector with a gun. A gun he claimed he forgot to leave in the car. Whatever happened to survival of the fittest? Darwin is surely churning in his grave.
Or, and this one happens often, "victim" gets burglarized, and calls police to report someone took his drugs.
We had a sergeant in the jail when i was pretty new who insisted we put an occupation in the line that asked for it, even if they never had a job. This seemed asinine to me, but he insisted. So, when I arrested a known drug dealer, I put pharmaceutical distributor. I got a tongue lashing from him, but giggled as soon as I left. I think he was at least mildly amused by my creativity. The truth was on my side.
The number of prostitutes with HIV in this city is astounding. Even a lot of the strippers. And its rarely the wretched or "ratchet" looking ones. Gives me the willies. We have a strip club here so hard core most of the dancers have healed bullet wounds somewhere. My favorite part about working the area with prostitutes was catching them in the act and listening to some of the hilarious (and I do mean HILARIOUS) explanations for what they were engaged in doing. Seriously. It would make you spit your food out but I won't go into detail except to say there was talk of a snake bite for one, and talk of a lost item he was trying to retrieve that she sat on for another. You can't make this shit up. And neither can they - on the fly.
Inevitably, 4 times out of 5, the guy was married or a minster/pastor or both. I'd always get the home phone number or "in case of an emergency" number before taking any action. At some point, I would give the option, jail or phone call to the wife. You wouldn't believe how many straight out chose jail. I think they figured that was the least awful of the 2 options and it would give them time to come up with a better story than my pecker was bitten by a snake and she was saving my life.
On the odd chance that they opted for phone call, I dialed, I spoke to wife, I passed the phone and allowed him to tell her in detail why I was there. He then had to hand the phone back to me so I could confirm she was still on the line. It was a well choreographed dance that I had mastered. That last part was either horribly sad or hilarious. The wife's reaction was either tears or profanity, and in the rare occasion - shocked silence. On one occasion - and only one - the wife didn't seem shocked or surprised or to even care. This baffled me. I should have followed up because it was so weird. She might have been the one to actually kill him. Cool as a cucumber. *I have NO idea where that saying originates, but I should google it because it is so nonsensical. Because I personally think cucumbers are among the least cool of the veggies.
My friend asked me the other day if I ever pulled my gun out.
In uniform? Daily.
She was shocked.
Have you ever shot someone?
Nope. Came very, very close a few times. Finger on the trigger close. They tell us not to do that unless we intend to shoot, and I had every intention of shooting, and would have been justified in doing so.
So why didn't you?
Well, the one time I was prepared to take a round and calculated the chance of him hitting me in the head at that distance, if he shot. I didn't want to take someone's life. But I was prepared to and had hedged my bets that I was going to be the better shot of the two of us. Had his arm come up even 3 inches higher, I may have fired. But I didn't.
Another time I was being shot at and it hit the house next to me. RIGHT NEXT TO MY HEAD. I immediately metered the corner and saw 4 guys running away. Do they all have guns? Which one do I shoot? Is my partner okay? Its incredibly awkward to run fast with your gun up. You want to gain ground as you are chasing them so they don't get away but you have to still be smart. No blind corners. That's where they lie in wait. Sgt. Michael Tuermo. He rounded the corner blindly and the guy was on the porch, shot him in the head. He died instantly. So you have to be smart but fast, because you don't want them getting away. The best part is when you call for help and the cavalry comes. And I do mean cavalry. We caught all 4. They were 16 & 17. It turned out to be a bb gun. Not that a bb gun can't kill you, it can... especially some of the new ones. But when a round hits the house right next to you, all you see is the hole it made. You don't have time to analyze the caliber - you're looking for cover, trying not to soil your drawers, and preparing to chase down the fucker that shot at you. Shit just got personal.
Being shot at is always scary, and I know I wasn't even necessarily the intended target sometimes. But hearing the whistle of a bullet go by you makes your asshole pucker in a way only those who have been in that situation can understand. And initially, its impossible to determine where it came from and who it was intended for. Scary shit.
I was one of the first to carry a taser, and the only female in the district. I LOVED IT. The hood was more scared of the taser than they were of our firearm. It was funny. We had to wear it on our reaction side (non-dominant side) so as never to confuse it with our firearm. It was bright yellow and looked like a Playskool toy. How they were worried about that is beyond me but I'm sure some colorblind Barney Fife in bum fuck somewhere fucked it up for the rest of us. It was in a weird pouch that sat mid thigh and had this loud Velcro you had to peel back to access the taser. I responded to a domestic and got there before the other squad. As I approached the house I heard arguing, and the front door leading to the upper was open. As I stepped inside, I hear him round the corner and start barreling down the stairs straight at me. He was a big dude. I immediately un-velcroed my taser and the second he heard that Velcro, he sat the fuck down on the stairs. Homie didn't want to play with lightning that night. I kind of felt invincible.
Being a female cop has many disadvantages, including riding around with tobacco chewing/spitting, burrito eating, flatulation machines for partners. But there are some advantages. When females call for help, EVERYONE comes it seems. This is nice. And if you work with some good people, they look out for you. I'll never forget A.A. putting someone in their place when we were highly outnumbered because he put his finger on my chest.
And then there is the time they put out the description of someone who had just committed an armed robbery and low and behold he was walking down the sidewalk in front of me. In hindsight, I probably should have waited for backup but I gave my location and jumped out of the car with my gun drawn and had him shoved into the fence linebacker style so quick I hardly knew what happened. I drove my gun into the small of his back and told him if he moved, that would be his last. I asked where the gun was and had him pinned so tight against the fence that he couldn't access it. I told him to get his hands in the air as high as they would go and if they dropped an inch I would assume he was reaching and I would shoot. And I'd get away with it too, because he had a gun and I was a much smaller girl. Looking back, I was pretty badass that day. I'm glad it ended the way it did, and that I played a lot of football with the boys when I was younger. Being a tomboy paid off that day.
Another thing that shocks me is when people think they can get away from police. Or not pull over. The days of vehicle pursuits are long gone for the most part, but THOSE WERE THE DAYS.
My first one EVER was on August 2nd of 2002. It was the hottest day of the year, and history books say it was 95, but I swear it was 101. Add a bulletproof vest and its hotter than Hades. I was on the radar car, and had just settled in to a new spot. The second car I pinged was speeding so off I went. I pulled in behind him and turned on my lights only, but he didn't pull over. Clearly he doesn't see my lights, I thought to myself. So I turned on my sirens. Nothing. Still. This guy really isn't pulling over? But I'm the police! The nerve! Who does that? I would soon learn. So I get on the radio and announce I had a car refusing to pull over, and then BAM! He took off like lightning and the chase was on. The car chase itself only went about 10 blocks with a lot of turns and alleys and evasive maneuvers on his part. The part that shocked me was when he got out and ran! I am amazed I had the where-with-all given the excitement and adrenaline rush of the chase that as he alighted from the vehicle I sat back for a second and got a good look at him. B/M Age: 35 Height: 6'4 (he was 6'6) bald head Clothing: blue shirt with red writing and dark blue jean shorts with tan tennis shoes. I jumped out of the air conditioned car and it was like I hit a wall of humidity and heat thick enough to choke on. And now this fucker is making me run. Dammit. Needless to say I petered out after about a block, but as it turns out - so did he. He was found by a responding squad sitting on a porch panting heavily. Car was stolen, felony warrants, the whole nine yards. He was too tired to put up a fight.
Shoulda stayed in the car, asshole. Its hot out!
The longest chase of my life took place the night before I was starting vacation. They say that's how it goes, but that really is how it goes. My friend Cindy stopped by and chatted at 11pm, and I told her I wanted to get one more traffic stop in before heading in for the night. I was hoping for a carful of warrants, as they were easy to write up and a little bit of overtime wouldn't make me miss my flight.
At 11:19pm a car came racing up the road, so fast I hardly had time to get a bead on it. I got behind it and, surprisingly, it pulled over. I approached the car, and it contained a middle age male driver and a middle age female passenger. No fun, I thought to myself. I asked for identification, and the driver claimed not to have any. So I got his name, DOB, & the rest of the bizness, and headed back to the car. But something didn't feel right. I got back in the car and did something I had never done. I watched the car for a second, staring. It was because of that, when the brake lights on the vehicle went on I was already in gear and right behind him as he took off. As a result, and never since, have I ever questioned my internal intuition. Someone was on the air with something totally irrelevant and lame, and since we could "step on the air" then (broadcast and still be heard while someone else was broadcasting) 2-83 for the air! 2-83 for the air! and waited for the "2-8-3... you have the air." This means everyone gets to shut the fuck up and figure out where you are to respond to your location. Technically SOP stated only a primary, a secondary and a sergeant could be involved in any pursuit, but we'll get to that in a second. I was ready this time. Plate. Location. Speed. Location. Description. Location. Repeat. As we rounded the corner by Golden Chicken, I saw a squad sitting there and thought I saw something flying through the air. As it turns out, Sq 335 was getting pizza and as soon as they heard me heading in their direction they threw the pizza as they ran to the car. (I bought them 3 pizzas later to make up for it.) As it turns out, dumbo circled that very block coming back around by Golden Chicken allowing the squad to fall in right behind me and take over broadcasting so I could finally just drive. Its a lot harder to drive fast and broadcast and steer and watch out for traffic than one might think. Its exhausting. So now when we round the corner the second time at 27/North heading southbound there are squads showing up nearly at every block. At some point, I tried to funnel the car into the location and 335 took over as primary. This was 8 minutes into the chase. It went for 34. As I rounded the corner after bowing out, I counted 14 squad cars lights and sirens behind this fool. What a great feeling. The chase ended on an off ramp on the other side of the county. I responded to where he threw shit out of the window, and it was shredded fake checks with both the name he gave me and another name on them. He was wanted in 3 states. Needless to say, I was there until 3pm the next day and my flight left at 5pm. I made my flight, but am one of those people who cannot sleep on airplanes, even though I'd just worked for 23 hours straight. I was a zombie for the first half of that already short 3 day trip. Upon returning from Tahoe, my mom had been rushed to the ER and was in the ICU so I spent the rest of that vacation in a hospital.
There are bloopers in every profession, and police work is no exception. We carry a large duffle bag in our squads equipped with everything from reports to flashlight to dog biscuits. You need to be prepared. I learned the hard way why you always need to strap your bag to your seat. I was at a stoplight and looked at the plate of a Pontiac Firebird. It started 679. I have a partially photographic memory, which can be a blessing or a curse. It was both that day. As he passed me I saw his rear plate started with 511. Now I was 1000% certain that it didn't match the plate on the front, so I tried to pull him over. Yes. Tried. He took off hitting every alley and turn he could and while his car cornered like it was on rails, my rickety P.O.S. did not. Add to that, that all these turns made my unsecured bag a projectile in the front seat and at some point it somehow landed on my P.A. mic.
What I didn't realize is that when your public address system is keyed, it cuts off the siren. So while I'm broadcasting my pursuit over the air, all of a sudden I see funny looks coming from the people standing around watching the chase. Well, funnier than normal. So now the dispatcher is telling me to turn on my siren and I'm thinking it IS on- or WAS. And now I hear myself broadcasting outside of the vehicle. I'm essentially announcing to bad guy everything I'm saying about him. As I'm pushing my bag off the center console trying to figure out WTF is going on with the siren, turd got away. I'm proud to say that's the only one I lost. Ever. And I never again had a wayward 20lb projectile flying around the cabin, either.
Secure your bag.
When you are new and go 10-8 or in-service with a newbie, you advise the dispatcher that you are 1 & 1 - way of saying "I have a green idiot on board - we don't count as a 2 man" As a recruit, I hated that. I looked forward to the day that I was no longer the "& 1" idiot. I eagerly awaited for my first day off field training when someone was going to get to say "2 man" and I would finally be legit. The first day off field training I was excited, only to be assigned a 1 man. WTF. You trust me on my own. In one breath I was ready to be legit, but I didn't feel THAT ready. As a recruit I thought the whole 1 & 1 thing was a bit petty and trifling.... Until I had to ride with an "& 1" of my own. It's like babysitting. They do dumb shit. A lot. You always have to watch your 6, their 6 and the suspects. Its exhausting. But they are sponges. Stiff, programmed academy sponges, but willing to learn.
So one day I had a "&1" and a shooting came over. I pulled up the text for the call on the squad computer as the dispatcher was giving out the call. The text read "victim is C&B" which to the rest of us means the victim was conscious and breathing. So when the recruit asked what I thought was an obvious question, I decided to mess with him. "What is C&B?", he inquired. I was just filling in, and he wasn't MY recruit, so I said "Oh, that means the victim is a male."
"Oh..." the recruit said appearing to look like he understood but with an ever-confused look on his face followed by silence.... "Well, what does it stand for?" he finally asked. Curious one, I like it. "Cock & Balls... just shortcut cop talk" I said with a perfectly straight face. "C&B, PNB same thing", I said - hoping he would know at this point I was joking because they are complete opposites. "Penis and balls!" he shouted in his only "Eureka!" "I get it" moment of the night! I didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise, and did not have an answer prepared for the obvious follow-up question that he never asked. He SHOULD have asked what we say for a female. I'm glad he wasn't THAT curious. I had forgotten all about it until a few weeks later when his FTO cornered me in the hallway saying "Cock & Balls?" "REALLY?" I didn't understand why he was so excited to get on the air at the shooting, until he shouted C&B into the mic when the guy was dead. We had a good chuckle but he told the sergeant he didn't want me corrupting his recruits anymore. Too bad the sergeant said he learned more in 2 days with me than he did in 4 weeks with him. "She likes to get into shit, its good for the recruits." I turned around and winked at the FTO and smiled all the way to the locker room.
Recruit training is serious. The first time I would have a new fill-in, I would pull over mid-shift and say I’ve just been shot in the head. Where are we? One of them said “I have no idea, can’t I run to that house and have them call 911?” I would make them guess, because they needed to at least be close enough to get help here, and whatever they were off I would make them get out and walk. I got a reputation because of that, but the newbies were always watching where we were which is as it should be.
Because of that, a recruit was scared to ride with me. As it turns out, he would be just as much as a prankster as I am, but that was long after he had the shine wear off his belt. Well before we stopped taking alarm calls, we got sent to an alarm. It had snowed a lot that month – and that night, for that matter – and the snow was waist deep in some spots. It was common for weather to set off home alarms, but it still required that we do a cursory check around the perimeter of the building to check for open doors or windows… in waist deep snow. So I sent him around one side and I went around the other, and it was a lot of work moving through all that snow in all that gear and polyester pants. We met in the back and I followed his tracks back around to the front and he followed mine. When we got back to the front of the house, we were already half covered in snow. He was still in that “Yes ma’am” “No, ma’am” shit that they teach you at the academy. Fine and dandy for citizens, but Im not a citizen and Im not a school marm. I was 27! So since he’d be warned about the ma’am thing, he slipped and called me ma’am when we got to the front. I said drop and make a snow angel. He said “No way!” I said, why not? Are you afraid of getting wet? Because then you should turn your gear in now. Are you afraid someone will see a cop making a snow angel? Its 3 feet deep, no one will see, and if they do, they get a good laugh and understand that cops are people too. He looked at me shocked. I said its really not that hard. As I took a huge leap into the air and leaned backwards, landing flat and quickly engulfed in white. I stood up and said “See? Not hard. Your turn.” He finally did it… but my snow angel was far prettier. “Practice, young grasshopper. And your snow angel proficiency will improve.” To this day he still laughs about the way I took the leap backwards into the snow on some stranger’s front lawn to let them know the police angels checked their damn house. He lightened up after that day.
Ever slid in human fecal matter? I have. People are gross. They poop in buckets and in corners and, once in a great while, wherever they happen to be when the mood strikes them. Training has taught me to always look up. Keep your eyes on hands and faces. Slipping in shit has broken that tenet for me. Its not good.
Slipping in blood sucks too. And for that, there has to be an ample amount for you to fall. Ive fallen at least twice. Once was chasing a baby so he would stop running through the blood. There were tiny bloody footprints everywhere. Dad stabbed mom. It was awful. I hope that kid was young enough to never remember that night.
Our academy is 22 weeks. The fucked up thing is there is not any number of weeks that can adequately prepare you for the things you encounter the moment you go live on the streets. There just isn't. I wasn't prepared for how many people would piss and shit in their pants. There was no mention of that in the brochure.
So in the academy, they teach you when you respond to a hanging, if you have to cut them down, preserve the knot. These are all things that registered methodically in my head as instructed. However, they didn't prepare me for any other part of that shitstorm. Case in point: I get sent to a hanging, and sure enough, there he was, hanging in the garage. Yet the lady had let her husband dangle there until I got there. For some reason, once I arrived, she became insistent that I cut him down and "save him." She was understandably hysterical, and I was new and by myself, so upon evaluating the situation and observing he wasn't blue and I had no idea if there was any chance TO save him, I grabbed the ladder and climbed it so I could reach above the knot. Thanks to the new leatherman my parents had got me for Christmas, I began sawing away at the knot with rapid urgency while hysterical wife continued freaking out. I got through the first part of the knot fairly quickly, but as I got to the last few strands, I really had to work hard as the weight of his body began to pull. Believe me, having a dead guy's face right next to yours is creepy as fuck but you don't even have time to thing about it as the body slowly spins as you cut. So finally I got to the last part and I was on a mission. A mission without forethought as to what was going to happen when I made it all the way through the rope. So my relief and sense of accomplishment was brought to a screeching halt when the weight of his body fell to the floor with a thundering crash and his head bounced off the concrete floor. I heard bones crack and break. "Well, if he wasn't dead before, Im pretty sure I just finished him off" I thought to myself. Thank God the medical examiner would later confirm he had been dead long before he hit the floor. Still. I can still hear that noise. I'll never forget it.
But, I preserved the knot.
People don't leave suicide notes very often. And that sucks. I am often as curious as the next of kin as to why. And some people go out big. We have a hotel downtown that seems to be a popular choice for jumpers. Problem is, they ricochet off of the walls and windows on the way down to the lobby. Its ugly.
And then there are the bridges.
And the train tracks.
None of it is pleasant.
Or the veteran who left nothing left for viewing at the funeral. It's war zone. The stuff of nightmares, sometimes. Truly.
I know it sounds cliché to say "If you could see what I have seen..." but it's true. I've seen things that have given me nightmares. But the next day I have to throw on my bullet proof vest and get over it. And I do. Its probably one of the reasons that cops have an odd and twisted sense of humor. Because sometimes, if we let it soak it what we are actually observing, we'd be a hot mess crying on the scene.... and that can't happen. So I am as guilty as the next. I find humor where there is tragedy... and not in a disrespectful way. When I'm uncomfortable, I seek some semblance of funny which makes it all less bad.
One of the hardest parts of my job, is the next of kin notification.... telling someone that the most precious person in their life is not coming home. IT'S THE WORST. THE WORST.
Yet, someone HAS to do it. Early on in my career as a detective, a boss pegged me as the one who was "good at it." I had seen several of my male counterparts be less than compassionate in that situation, and while I hated to do them, I became the "go to" person for that. WHICH SUCKS. Its a load to bear. But then I think if someone ever has to deliver the news to my parents, I'd much rather they deliver the news with compassion instead of the cold delivery I have witnessed by many.
And then I remember Julie, who still keeps in touch to me to this day, and the day I delivered the news her only daughter and best friend was never coming home, she called me... her angel. So I guess maybe there is a calling in this after all. Julie still stays in touch with me, as do several other victims... I have several letters to the chief and awards on the wall, but I'd give them all back to not have to deliver that news ever again. But if someone has to do it, let it be me.
Two years in a row now on Christmas Day I had to deliver that news. Merry Frickin Christmas. It didn't just ruin their day - it ruined mine too.
Some words that Julie said stuck with me... "I remember every single word that came out of your mouth." As a result, I've taken a lot of online training, and if I have to do a lot of these, I want to do it right. But that's just who I am.
So if you think this job is all fun and games, its not. But humor needs to be found where it can be, because the next tragedy is just around the corner.
And then there are the accidental deaths. It gets cold in the winter here, and for some reason people like to have sex in their garages. But in the winter, they park the car and leave it running to stay warm while they get frisky. Bad. Idea.
Don't get me wrong. If there is a way you want to go, that is probably the best way.
If there is a way you don't want to be found, that is probably the worst.
And there are some kinky, freaky people out there. Look up felching. I had a situation exactly like that where, mid-felch, gas was inadvertently passed causing the recipient to lose consciousness. As a result, the releaser of said gas thought he killed his partner. You can't make this stuff up, people.
One night we got called to a loose animal in the parking lot at the transit building. Upon arrival, sure enough, there was a big rottweiller. A co-worker had been mauled in the face a week earlier, and big dogs scare me. I offered to stay in the car and let my dog lover of a partner handle it. Once I saw he didn't bumrush my partner and eat him, and appeared to be quite docile, I slowly got out of the car. As my partner tried to coax him into the car, i saw it. He had 1/2 a tennis ball hanging out of his ass. Right at the 50/50 mark.
What.
The.
Fuck.
So I tell my partner and we both sat there, in complete bewilderment, with both of our flashlights honed in straight on his asshole.
"Who would shove a tennis ball up a rottweiler's ass?" I asked.
"He swallowed it, you moron," my partner retorted.
"There is no way he swallowed it, because the side we can see would be gross, not fuzzy."
"He swallowed it. He just can't push it out."
"There is no way the tennis ball negotiated his entire colon without getting stuck."
"No Rott is going to allow anyone to shove a tennis ball up its ass."
"Then why is it still fuzzy and new on one side?"
And so began, the great tennis ball debate. But we had business to attend to. We had to get this big dog in our car somehow and get him to the animal ER, stat. This was not going to be easy. We were in a big parking lot, and dogs don't like police so he kept wandering away, albeit it painfully slowly. What we did know was we were not touching or lifting him into the car via his back end. Nooooooo way.
It took nearly an hour of finagling with the noose and crawling through the car and out the other side. ***sidenote: another thing they did not show us how to use in the academy, the animal noose. Now you might think its self explanitory, and it might be - until you have to use one on an actual animal for the first time. There is an art to it.
Had body cameras existed at the time, this would have been a hitch I saved because it was a hilarious comedy of errors.
Finally, dog in car. Whew! The entire way to the ER we continued arguing about HOW the tennis ball got in his ass. We dropped him off at the ER and stuck around to try to get someone's opinion on how it got there. We never got an official opinion. The mystery of the tennis ball still haunts me to this day.
Yesterday, I met the human version of Jabba the Hut. I don't even know if that's how you spell it, and I really don't care. What I do care about is the magic bullet that ended up in Jabba's belly. But it got stuck. In the fat. Didn't even pierce his peritoneal cavity. I was in my business suit that day, and Jabba told the sergeant I looked more like a doctor than a detective.... which the sergeant to this day still finds utterly hilarious.
People often ask me what my favorite crime to investigate is. Burglary. Hands down. Which often disappoints people because it doesn't seem as exciting as a robbery, or a homicide or a shooting. And it might not be. But burglary victims are often legitimate victims who don't lie, and are willing to prosecute the fucker that took their shit. And since they are the hardest crime to solve, I love it. Not only is there the challenge of that, you at least know when you solve it (and I often did), that the victim will be grateful and even show up for court. Its way more rewarding than being lied to by the shooting victim about where and how it happened.
Ever seen anyone shot in the pecker? That's a rhetorical question. 99.9% of you have not. Welcome to my first shooting. We arrived and he was standing on the porch and appeared to be holding his hand, albeit near his crotch, shouting "He shot my shit! He shot my shit!"
At this point in my career I was as green as they come, a white girl from Suburbia, USA getting her first taste of inner city drama. So understand that when I tell you I approached him and asked to see his hand. Imagine the look on both his face and mine when he pulled his hand up and he was shot in his... not hand.
Since I wasn't about to apply pressure to this guy's dick, I told him to put his hands back on it and apply pressure himself until the medical personnel could respond. Thankfully that was only a minute or two, but it felt like eons. What does one talk about in the interim? Besides the obvious "Who did this to you?", what else does one say for the other minute and 50 seconds?
But the fun wasn't nearly over. When the medical personnel arrived, I got to see what a dick peppered with bird shot or buck shot looks like, and how they medically triage that on the fly. I know it isn't proper decorum to stare in such a situation, but I did. I make no apologies for doing so, as you would do the same in that situation. What does a penis riddled with bird shot look like? A string with shredded meat dangling from it. How do they medically treat that prior to transport to the hospital? Here's where it got bizarre. The paramedics pulled out something akin to a tongue depressor, which amused me beyond measure, and proceeded to place what was left of his "unit" and wrap it in gauze.
As my career progressed, I would see many more groin shots, but nothing like that first one.
People also get shot in the nuts. There are a lot more people walking this planet with one testicle than one would ever think. In fact, my first one-nutter began an unparalleled dick streak that is, to this date, beyond explanation.
I arrived to the hospital to interview a shooting victim. He was shot in the leg, and while we were talking, he asked what the date was. I advised him it was May 19th, and he stated a year to the day ago he was shot and as a result he lost a testicle. As he said this, he lifted his gown, and before I could process what he was saying and what I was supposed to be looking at, I saw it. He was kind enough to move his penis aside so I could get a good look. He was clearly proud of his deformity. I politely told him to put his gown down, that I wasn't here for that, and advised him he needs to stay in the house on May 19th from this year forward.
Weird.
Then, in what appeared to be some sick and twisted game of show & tell, 5 out of the next 7 shooting victims would lift their gown and show me their "stuff" without warning when none of them were shot in the groin. It was ridiculous. It didn't matter if they were shot in the arm, ankle, abdomen... at some point they could not resist the urge to show the female detective their dick. It got to the point where I would have a sergeant accompany me into the room, and he asked why. "You'll see," I said as I scribbled a note in the back of my notebook. Less than 30 seconds later, up came the gown and I flipped to the back of my book and showed the sergeant what I had written... "HE IS GOING TO SHOW ME HIS DICK."
The sergeant couldn't keep a straight face and had to leave the room. As soon as I finished the interview and left the room, the sergeant pulled me aside and said "How did you know he was going to do that?" "I'm on a roll lately. They all have," I replied with a disgusted look on my face. "I don't know what the hell is going on. Do I have 'Please show me your penis' written on my forehead?"
We still laugh about that to this day. Although I still find it beyond explanation and now start my introductions with hospital interviewees with "At no point are you to lift that gown - are we clear?"
Bizarre.
Ever slid in human fecal matter? I have. People are gross. They poop in buckets and in corners and, once in a great while, wherever they happen to be when the mood strikes them. Training has taught me to always look up. Keep your eyes on hands and faces. Slipping in shit has broken that tenet for me. Its not good.
Slipping in blood sucks too. And for that, there has to be an ample amount for you to fall. Ive fallen at least twice. Once was chasing a baby so he would stop running through the blood. There were tiny bloody footprints everywhere. Dad stabbed mom. It was awful. I hope that kid was young enough to never remember that night.
Our academy is 22 weeks. The fucked up thing is there is not any number of weeks that can adequately prepare you for the things you encounter the moment you go live on the streets. There just isn't. I wasn't prepared for how many people would piss and shit in their pants. There was no mention of that in the brochure.
So in the academy, they teach you when you respond to a hanging, if you have to cut them down, preserve the knot. These are all things that registered methodically in my head as instructed. However, they didn't prepare me for any other part of that shitstorm. Case in point: I get sent to a hanging, and sure enough, there he was, hanging in the garage. Yet the lady had let her husband dangle there until I got there. For some reason, once I arrived, she became insistent that I cut him down and "save him." She was understandably hysterical, and I was new and by myself, so upon evaluating the situation and observing he wasn't blue and I had no idea if there was any chance TO save him, I grabbed the ladder and climbed it so I could reach above the knot. Thanks to the new leatherman my parents had got me for Christmas, I began sawing away at the knot with rapid urgency while hysterical wife continued freaking out. I got through the first part of the knot fairly quickly, but as I got to the last few strands, I really had to work hard as the weight of his body began to pull. Believe me, having a dead guy's face right next to yours is creepy as fuck but you don't even have time to thing about it as the body slowly spins as you cut. So finally I got to the last part and I was on a mission. A mission without forethought as to what was going to happen when I made it all the way through the rope. So my relief and sense of accomplishment was brought to a screeching halt when the weight of his body fell to the floor with a thundering crash and his head bounced off the concrete floor. I heard bones crack and break. "Well, if he wasn't dead before, Im pretty sure I just finished him off" I thought to myself. Thank God the medical examiner would later confirm he had been dead long before he hit the floor. Still. I can still hear that noise. I'll never forget it.
But, I preserved the knot.
People don't leave suicide notes very often. And that sucks. I am often as curious as the next of kin as to why. And some people go out big. We have a hotel downtown that seems to be a popular choice for jumpers. Problem is, they ricochet off of the walls and windows on the way down to the lobby. Its ugly.
And then there are the bridges.
And the train tracks.
None of it is pleasant.
Or the veteran who left nothing left for viewing at the funeral. It's war zone. The stuff of nightmares, sometimes. Truly.
I know it sounds cliché to say "If you could see what I have seen..." but it's true. I've seen things that have given me nightmares. But the next day I have to throw on my bullet proof vest and get over it. And I do. Its probably one of the reasons that cops have an odd and twisted sense of humor. Because sometimes, if we let it soak it what we are actually observing, we'd be a hot mess crying on the scene.... and that can't happen. So I am as guilty as the next. I find humor where there is tragedy... and not in a disrespectful way. When I'm uncomfortable, I seek some semblance of funny which makes it all less bad.
One of the hardest parts of my job, is the next of kin notification.... telling someone that the most precious person in their life is not coming home. IT'S THE WORST. THE WORST.
Yet, someone HAS to do it. Early on in my career as a detective, a boss pegged me as the one who was "good at it." I had seen several of my male counterparts be less than compassionate in that situation, and while I hated to do them, I became the "go to" person for that. WHICH SUCKS. Its a load to bear. But then I think if someone ever has to deliver the news to my parents, I'd much rather they deliver the news with compassion instead of the cold delivery I have witnessed by many.
And then I remember Julie, who still keeps in touch to me to this day, and the day I delivered the news her only daughter and best friend was never coming home, she called me... her angel. So I guess maybe there is a calling in this after all. Julie still stays in touch with me, as do several other victims... I have several letters to the chief and awards on the wall, but I'd give them all back to not have to deliver that news ever again. But if someone has to do it, let it be me.
Two years in a row now on Christmas Day I had to deliver that news. Merry Frickin Christmas. It didn't just ruin their day - it ruined mine too.
Some words that Julie said stuck with me... "I remember every single word that came out of your mouth." As a result, I've taken a lot of online training, and if I have to do a lot of these, I want to do it right. But that's just who I am.
So if you think this job is all fun and games, its not. But humor needs to be found where it can be, because the next tragedy is just around the corner.
And then there are the accidental deaths. It gets cold in the winter here, and for some reason people like to have sex in their garages. But in the winter, they park the car and leave it running to stay warm while they get frisky. Bad. Idea.
Don't get me wrong. If there is a way you want to go, that is probably the best way.
If there is a way you don't want to be found, that is probably the worst.
And there are some kinky, freaky people out there. Look up felching. I had a situation exactly like that where, mid-felch, gas was inadvertently passed causing the recipient to lose consciousness. As a result, the releaser of said gas thought he killed his partner. You can't make this stuff up, people.
What.
The.
Fuck.
So I tell my partner and we both sat there, in complete bewilderment, with both of our flashlights honed in straight on his asshole.
"Who would shove a tennis ball up a rottweiler's ass?" I asked.
"He swallowed it, you moron," my partner retorted.
"There is no way he swallowed it, because the side we can see would be gross, not fuzzy."
"He swallowed it. He just can't push it out."
"There is no way the tennis ball negotiated his entire colon without getting stuck."
"No Rott is going to allow anyone to shove a tennis ball up its ass."
"Then why is it still fuzzy and new on one side?"
And so began, the great tennis ball debate. But we had business to attend to. We had to get this big dog in our car somehow and get him to the animal ER, stat. This was not going to be easy. We were in a big parking lot, and dogs don't like police so he kept wandering away, albeit it painfully slowly. What we did know was we were not touching or lifting him into the car via his back end. Nooooooo way.
It took nearly an hour of finagling with the noose and crawling through the car and out the other side. ***sidenote: another thing they did not show us how to use in the academy, the animal noose. Now you might think its self explanitory, and it might be - until you have to use one on an actual animal for the first time. There is an art to it.
Had body cameras existed at the time, this would have been a hitch I saved because it was a hilarious comedy of errors.
Finally, dog in car. Whew! The entire way to the ER we continued arguing about HOW the tennis ball got in his ass. We dropped him off at the ER and stuck around to try to get someone's opinion on how it got there. We never got an official opinion. The mystery of the tennis ball still haunts me to this day.
Yesterday, I met the human version of Jabba the Hut. I don't even know if that's how you spell it, and I really don't care. What I do care about is the magic bullet that ended up in Jabba's belly. But it got stuck. In the fat. Didn't even pierce his peritoneal cavity. I was in my business suit that day, and Jabba told the sergeant I looked more like a doctor than a detective.... which the sergeant to this day still finds utterly hilarious.
People often ask me what my favorite crime to investigate is. Burglary. Hands down. Which often disappoints people because it doesn't seem as exciting as a robbery, or a homicide or a shooting. And it might not be. But burglary victims are often legitimate victims who don't lie, and are willing to prosecute the fucker that took their shit. And since they are the hardest crime to solve, I love it. Not only is there the challenge of that, you at least know when you solve it (and I often did), that the victim will be grateful and even show up for court. Its way more rewarding than being lied to by the shooting victim about where and how it happened.
Ever seen anyone shot in the pecker? That's a rhetorical question. 99.9% of you have not. Welcome to my first shooting. We arrived and he was standing on the porch and appeared to be holding his hand, albeit near his crotch, shouting "He shot my shit! He shot my shit!"
At this point in my career I was as green as they come, a white girl from Suburbia, USA getting her first taste of inner city drama. So understand that when I tell you I approached him and asked to see his hand. Imagine the look on both his face and mine when he pulled his hand up and he was shot in his... not hand.
Since I wasn't about to apply pressure to this guy's dick, I told him to put his hands back on it and apply pressure himself until the medical personnel could respond. Thankfully that was only a minute or two, but it felt like eons. What does one talk about in the interim? Besides the obvious "Who did this to you?", what else does one say for the other minute and 50 seconds?
But the fun wasn't nearly over. When the medical personnel arrived, I got to see what a dick peppered with bird shot or buck shot looks like, and how they medically triage that on the fly. I know it isn't proper decorum to stare in such a situation, but I did. I make no apologies for doing so, as you would do the same in that situation. What does a penis riddled with bird shot look like? A string with shredded meat dangling from it. How do they medically treat that prior to transport to the hospital? Here's where it got bizarre. The paramedics pulled out something akin to a tongue depressor, which amused me beyond measure, and proceeded to place what was left of his "unit" and wrap it in gauze.
As my career progressed, I would see many more groin shots, but nothing like that first one.
People also get shot in the nuts. There are a lot more people walking this planet with one testicle than one would ever think. In fact, my first one-nutter began an unparalleled dick streak that is, to this date, beyond explanation.
I arrived to the hospital to interview a shooting victim. He was shot in the leg, and while we were talking, he asked what the date was. I advised him it was May 19th, and he stated a year to the day ago he was shot and as a result he lost a testicle. As he said this, he lifted his gown, and before I could process what he was saying and what I was supposed to be looking at, I saw it. He was kind enough to move his penis aside so I could get a good look. He was clearly proud of his deformity. I politely told him to put his gown down, that I wasn't here for that, and advised him he needs to stay in the house on May 19th from this year forward.
Weird.
Then, in what appeared to be some sick and twisted game of show & tell, 5 out of the next 7 shooting victims would lift their gown and show me their "stuff" without warning when none of them were shot in the groin. It was ridiculous. It didn't matter if they were shot in the arm, ankle, abdomen... at some point they could not resist the urge to show the female detective their dick. It got to the point where I would have a sergeant accompany me into the room, and he asked why. "You'll see," I said as I scribbled a note in the back of my notebook. Less than 30 seconds later, up came the gown and I flipped to the back of my book and showed the sergeant what I had written... "HE IS GOING TO SHOW ME HIS DICK."
The sergeant couldn't keep a straight face and had to leave the room. As soon as I finished the interview and left the room, the sergeant pulled me aside and said "How did you know he was going to do that?" "I'm on a roll lately. They all have," I replied with a disgusted look on my face. "I don't know what the hell is going on. Do I have 'Please show me your penis' written on my forehead?"
We still laugh about that to this day. Although I still find it beyond explanation and now start my introductions with hospital interviewees with "At no point are you to lift that gown - are we clear?"
Bizarre.
Then there are the roaches. Not in the figurative sense. Actual roaches.
99 times out of 100 when you go into a house with roaches, they are everywhere. And here's the kicker... the occupants of the home act like they aren't there. Then it becomes this "elephant in the room" scenario where you want so badly to ask them if they realize there is a cockroach crawling around their plate as they are eating, but you see the 2 on their shirt and all over the walls and just assume they are "pets." I don't understand how that is normal. For anyone.
Overdoses suck. But to some degree, it is similar to a suicide. It is especially painful when the family wants "justice" for their loved one. Its kind of hard to explain that they voluntarily put that stuff in their arm, over and over again and have been narcan'd back to life several times. They knew where the edge was, and they walked to the edge one too many times. Still, tragic.
Sometimes you let your intuition lead you. In this profession, its everything. Fire and suicide.
Autopsies. Awful. One of my first was a grandfather and grandson that died in a fire. The grandson was only 4 - the same age as my nephew at the time. Lying there on the table, he just looked like he was sleeping. I didn't need any medical professional to tell me it was smoke inhalation that killed him - he clearly didn't burn to death.
But there were those too. The 2 & 4 year old that burned in a horrific fire. To be honest, I'm amazed that the fire investigators even recognized them as bodies. I wouldn't have.
Or the house explosions. Where you have to sift through every foot of rubble to make sure there aren't body parts. Sounds morbid, but that's exactly what happens. Debris is scooped into a truck where it is conveyed to a special part of the landfill where it can be sifted through. It sucks.
******************** Intuition - how to save a life.99 times out of 100 when you go into a house with roaches, they are everywhere. And here's the kicker... the occupants of the home act like they aren't there. Then it becomes this "elephant in the room" scenario where you want so badly to ask them if they realize there is a cockroach crawling around their plate as they are eating, but you see the 2 on their shirt and all over the walls and just assume they are "pets." I don't understand how that is normal. For anyone.
Overdoses suck. But to some degree, it is similar to a suicide. It is especially painful when the family wants "justice" for their loved one. Its kind of hard to explain that they voluntarily put that stuff in their arm, over and over again and have been narcan'd back to life several times. They knew where the edge was, and they walked to the edge one too many times. Still, tragic.
Sometimes you let your intuition lead you. In this profession, its everything. Fire and suicide.
Autopsies. Awful. One of my first was a grandfather and grandson that died in a fire. The grandson was only 4 - the same age as my nephew at the time. Lying there on the table, he just looked like he was sleeping. I didn't need any medical professional to tell me it was smoke inhalation that killed him - he clearly didn't burn to death.
But there were those too. The 2 & 4 year old that burned in a horrific fire. To be honest, I'm amazed that the fire investigators even recognized them as bodies. I wouldn't have.
Or the house explosions. Where you have to sift through every foot of rubble to make sure there aren't body parts. Sounds morbid, but that's exactly what happens. Debris is scooped into a truck where it is conveyed to a special part of the landfill where it can be sifted through. It sucks.
Wagon blues
Suicide
hanging dude
dead people
kinky Mfs
tennis ball ass
death by tartar sauce
