Curbchek, page 12
“Mommy,” she replied.
Suddenly, I was struck by how stupid I was handling this. I had to take care of her first; that was the main priority. I wanted him dead - no doubt - but I didn’t have that luxury now. I had to get her to her mother without her going into shock, then to the nearest hospital.
I was shaking with rage - actually seeing red like I was looking through a camera lens with a red filter - but I drove away on to her mother’s house; necessity had just saved Robert, Jr.’s life.
I told the girl to stay in the car while I went to the front door for her mom. After several knocks, she finally answered, and I informed her that I needed her to come with her daughter and me to the hospital right away. She started yelling and screaming, “I’m sick of that fucking kid. All she ever does is cause problems. You can take her to jail and throw away the keys. I don’t fucking care.” Then she started down the front porch steps to go chew her daughter out, the “no good piece of shit.”
I grabbed her by the shirt and slammed her against the post of the porch. Then, talking quietly right in her face, I said, “Listen, you stupid bitch. Your daughter is seriously fucking hurt, bleeding, and in shock. I need to get her to the hospital, but she demanded that I bring her to you first. She said that she wanted ‘her mommy.’ You are going to get in the car and for once in your fucked up life be a parent. You say one word, anything that’s less than kind, and I will personally beat your fucking ass.” I was in no mood for this dysfunctional shit.
I asked her, “You got that?” Startled at that point, and a bit frightened, she said that she did. I walked her to the car and put her in the back seat, then told the girl her mom was there and that we were going to the hospital. She reached over to the back seat for her mother, who held her hand, then closed her eyes and was much calmer, her breathing beginning to slow down. Her mom looked at me with real fear. I don’t know if she was afraid of me or afraid for her daughter, but she was very quiet in the back seat, staring at me.
Meanwhile, we were on our way to the closest hospital. I called ahead and said that we were en route to the ER and that I needed them to have a wheelchair ready and waiting outside the door. I was in the ER often because of the area I worked (the inner city), so they knew me. The nurse I spoke to was a friend and asked what I was bringing them. As code, I told her that she’d need a PERK kit; that’s the medical kit they use to do a rape exam in order to collect semen or other evidence.
She said, “OK. Is it bad?”
I said “Yes, very.”
We pulled into the ER parking lot, and they had the chair waiting. When they saw the girl, they had the same reaction that I did: total shock. They carefully helped her out of the car and immediately took her to a room. While they did the exam, I called for a detective. One showed up a short time later, coming in with the typical casual attitude. He said, “So is this the usual ‘I got caught by my parents having sex and now it’s rape?’”
I said no, then explained the case, emphasizing how bad it was - and his demeanor changed instantly.
“Let’s go talk to her,” he said.
We looked into the room she was in, and CSI was taking pictures of the bloody handprints on her back, chest, and legs. She was sitting on a gurney, still bleeding on the white sheets, and she turned to us and looked at the detective, her hair still matted with blood. She turned away, ashamed, and a doctor told us to leave, which we did.
The detective was visibly shaken, even with his 17 years or so of experience on the force. “Is all that blood hers?” I said that it was. I told him what had happened and told him about Robert, Jr. He said he would take care of it. I finished my report at the hospital and left the case for him to finish.
The doctor told me it was the worst case of rape that he’d seen in over 25 years as an ER doctor. They had her into surgery for all the internal damage, and he didn’t know if she’d be able to have children. He was pretty angry when we spoke. “I hope you find this piece of shit and give him some of that street justice you guys talk about.”
I was really surprised by this. Usually, doctors weren’t real fond of our stories of scuffles and battles; since they had to clean up our mess, they weren’t happy about it.
The girl eventually recovered, and Robert, Jr., was caught. He fled the state first, though, and the FBI eventually picked him up after his family, mother, and sister turned him in for the reward money.
When we went to court, his attorney was one of the veterans; gruff, overbearing, and skilled at intimidating cops into making mistakes on the stand. At the preliminary hearing, a mini-trial meant to get a judge’s blessing that at least enough evidence existed to advance a case to trial, he asked to speak to me before the hearing.
The victim couldn’t remember much of what had happened, and he wanted to know what I would testify to about the “alleged rape”...he framed it that way: “alleged.” I noted what his “alleged client” had done and what the girl had looked like stumbling up to me, blood-soaked in the parking lot. “Please do take this to a jury,” I said. “I would love to explain this to them.” He looked me in the eye as I spoke, measuring how I’d come across on the stand, then said, “OK, we’re through” and walked away to meet with his client in another room.
After a while, he came out and in open court told the judge that Robert, Jr., was going to plead guilty straight up to all four counts of aggravated sexual assault against him, five-to-life coming with each one. He claimed that he was on meth that night and didn’t remember much; at least that was his story. He remembered enough to run to California for six months before his own family turned him in.
I would love to be able to erase that night with her in the parking lot. Years later, during my divorce, my ex-wife would run into the mom that I’d threatened that night. She asked my ex if she was married to the cop she knew who did so much for her daughter. She told her story about that night and asked her to thank me for what I’d done.
The ex - one of many - called me and told me of the encounter. “Why didn’t you ever tell me this story?” I answered that she never wanted to talk about my work and wouldn’t have listened. “Well, I guess you finally did at least one thing that was good,” she said.
There was a reason we were getting a divorce.
Chapter 26
Stupid is as Stupid Does
I guess it’s obvious by now that I don’t often see people at their best on this job. It makes cops suspicious, wary of pretty much everybody - all of you, even your beliefs. The notion of a God, a higher power, even the idea that some kind of order exists in the universe is victimized on a regular basis on police calls.
We’ve got to cope somehow, and sometimes it’s in a sick way. It’s just comical, and the laughs can come perfectly timed to ease the load of pondering all the serious dysfunction we have to walk through.
One night, I was dispatched to the parking lot of the ER at a hospital. A night clerk had gone out to her car and unlocked the doors. She had a lot of personal items to load into the back seat, and she set her keys on the hood of the car while she did so. Then, she got into the car and locked the doors because she was afraid of getting car-jacked or attacked. She looked all over the car for her keys, going through her pockets, her purse, and all the stuff on the back seat, but she couldn’t find them.
She sat there a while, trying to remember where they were. Then it finally came to her: they were on the hood of the car right in front of her. Panicked, she started to cry, then called 911.
She told the dispatcher what had happened, the nature of her plight, and that she was locked in her car. Dispatch had sent me to make sure that this wasn’t some kind of distress code; they wanted me to ensure that nothing else was wrong because it was simply unbelievable that someone could be this dumb.
I could picture the scene in dispatch, with the other dispatchers gathering around to listen to this drama unfolding. Since all 911 calls are recorded, their professionalism this time came down to keeping a straight face. Many questions would have to remain unanswered: how did this woman ever score a driver license? Is she allowed to vote? Are there children involved? Has she reproduced? They couldn’t believe she was for real, as several minutes were needed to calm her down.
“Push the unlock button on the driver’s side door,” the dispatcher instructed calmly. The woman did this, and magically the car unlocked. She was so relieved, no longer imprisoned and needing someone to get the keys off the hood to open the door or a locksmith, or maybe the fire department to extricate her. Her prayers had been answered.
Other times, the concept of God, a higher power or order in the universe, takes a beating from one of its own anointed representatives - which can also be hilarious.
I think it was Albert Einstein who said that the idea of God was just too specific for the human mind. Whatever that means, I’m sure I don’t know; maybe it’s an idea that can only exist in some kind of isolation, where stained glass windows color the only light that gets in. You probably don’t want to ask cops about God.
Dispatched to a health food store downtown on a Sunday night, I was about to talk with one of the deity’s local representatives. It was almost midnight, and the owner was claiming that he’d just been robbed. I arrived to find an older white male, about 65, wearing what appeared to be clothing that you’d wear to church: slacks, a white shirt, tie, and dress shoes.
He came to me and reached out to shake my hand. I didn’t extend mine; by now, such pleasantries had become suspicious, this one being a common ploy to get the officer to extend his gun hand - and once in a handshake, he’s unable to access his sidearm.
He said to me, “Thank you for coming brother.”
I looked at him and said, “You assume a lot. Why did you call me here?” He was annoying me very quickly with his alleged offer of friendship, and now he was calling me his brother? Obviously, this approach had worked for him before.
I asked him for identification, and he took a “temple recommend,” as they’re called, indicating certified worthiness for entry into his religion’s temple, from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. This was only getting more aggravating.
“Do you have any legitimate ID? This is meaningless.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said it quite that way, but it later became clear that I was right.
He proceeded to try to tell me that this piece of identification spoke more to his character than any driver’s license. I asked him to please save the shit for someone else. I was well aware of what the document was for, and if he didn’t start talking fast, I was leaving.
Frustrated, he paused and just looked at me, glaring. Then he started to tell me what had happened. He’d come down to the store to do his weekly run to a cheese factory a couple counties over, as he did every Sunday after church services to stock his health food store. He said that this night he’d come back to the store to unload the cheese, and when he finished he came out to his car and was robbed by a strange female. He said that she took his wallet and wouldn’t give it back and that she was in a car right now, parked in front of the store.
This was making no sense. He says he was robbed after a midnight cheese run by a woman that stayed at the scene? I went to the car and spoke to the woman – and instantly, it all became clear. She was a prostitute; we’d run into each other many times on the street. Sometimes she gave me information. She’d never lied to me, so I asked her what had happened.
She said that the old man was one of her regular clients and that he liked to have her meet him on Sundays late in the evening after he came back from his cheese runs for his store. This was how he kept their arrangement hidden from his wife; they’d meet at the store, and he’d pay her for whatever sexual act he wanted her to perform that week.
She said that after she was done with him that night, he wouldn’t pay her, so she took his wallet. He threatened to call the police, and she told him to go right ahead; she’d wait right there.
I asked her what she wanted done, and she said that all she wanted was the money that he owed her, the money that he’d promised. She hadn’t taken anything from his wallet.
I asked her for the wallet, and she gave it to me. I then told her that I’d do what I could but that I couldn’t promise anything.
I went back to the old man with his wallet and let him see it. He reached for it, but I refused to return it until we cleared a few things up.
I asked him why he kept the temple recommend in his shirt pocket and not in his wallet. He said he liked to keep it “closer to his heart.”
“Uh huh...is that right?” I replied.
I asked him how the girl had enforced the robbery. “Did she have a weapon? Did she make threats?”
He said that she asked to use his phone inside the business, and as a servant of the Lord he felt it was his duty to help those less fortunate than he, so he let her use it. While he was opening the door to his store, she’d forced him against the door and took the wallet from his pants pocket.
I stared at him for a long while, not saying a word. Finally, he said, “Are you going to take the word of a prostitute over me?”
I smiled. “How do you know she was a prostitute?” I’d never mentioned it. “Look,” I said. “I’m gonna make this really clear for you. She’s a prostitute. I know her, and so do you. She says that she’s been seeing you for some time after your little midnight cheese runs. She also says that you refused to pay her for what she did tonight, and that was why she took your wallet. She didn’t take one dime from it and freely gave it back to me.”
He interrupted me to say that he was “a high ranking official in his church” and that she was a common whore. Who was I going to believe?
“The common whore,” I calmly replied. “You know there’s a Supreme Court case that says just because someone’s a thief or a whore, whatever, it can’t be assumed that they’re also are a liar...you’re probably not interested. Anyway, she’s never lied to me, and you haven’t told me one word of truth here tonight.” He tried to grab his wallet from me again, stating that he’d had enough and was going home.
“Not yet, you’re not. You have some choices to make. First, keeping ID in a shirt pocket is common practice for people who see hookers. See, while she’s giving you a blowjob and your pants are down, she has access to your wallet - and most men that frequent hookers know this. After losing their wallet a time or two, they put the important ID in their shirt pocket, where it won’t be stolen. Funny how you did just that...keeping it closer to your heart.”
He was silent. “She only wants to be paid,” I continued. “If she doesn’t get paid, I’m gonna arrest you both. She’s been arrested many times, so it will mean nothing to her; you, however, will be front page news.”
After growing even quieter, he said, “What do I have to do to keep that from happening, sir?”
“Pay her, which is all she wants - and an apology would be nice. Then I’ll clear this call as ‘unfounded.’ No report will be written, and there won’t be any record of all this. The choice is yours.”
“I’ll pay and apologize,” he said, which he did. The expression on her face was priceless. Smiling, she went on her way and he went back to his life, temple recommend close to his heart, façade intact.
Chapter 27
Officer-Assisted Suicide
It’s a worthy goal, an inspirational one not to get shot, right up there with not having to shoot anyone. One night, I had the chance to work on those career goals.
Working the central city, it was a little slow, and dispatch asked me to take a call on the west side. The area car, Officer Divot, was busy at the station – most likely getting bodily fluids all over the shoes of management. It was a car burglary. Dale Dirk had his car broken into and reported it, and he called back to ask when a cop would be en route; he wanted to get the paperwork done so he could go to bed.
So I headed west, and on the way I asked the dispatcher to call back and find out the apartment number. The address was a little motel just over a bridge, and I knew it fairly well. I didn’t usually ask this particular question. If it wasn’t a hot call, I liked to walk around first and scout the area to see what was going on. then go to the call; for some reason, though, this time I asked about the apartment. I was annoyed at the officer who was assigned to the area for not being there, and I also had newly promoted Sgt. Peabody to deal with. He was an ass beyond belief, and we didn’t connect - and never would. I was a little irritated and hurried. As a field-training officer, Peabody had just been an ass; as a sergeant, though, he was an unbearable dickhead. He was controlling and nitpicky and would make huge mistakes that he’d then put on others for not keeping him informed enough to make better decisions. Peabody had made a career out of blaming his errors on the lack of good info from others; he was quite skilled at it, actually.
I was just turning into the driveway when Barb, the dispatcher, asked where I was. I told her I was just arriving.
She said one word, “Stop,” as calm as could be - but in a way that made me jam the brake pedal to the floor.
Barb was probably one of the better dispatchers we had; incredibly competent, knew her shit, and never got ruffled or stressed on the radio. She’d warned me with the mere inflection in her voice.
Barb told me that when she called Dale Dirk, our car burg victim, his father answered the phone. There was no car burglary. The father stated that his son had been drinking after breaking up with his girlfriend and at that moment was outside with a gun, hiding behind a car and waiting for the cop he called for to show up. He intended to ambush the cop, said his father, trying to provoke a shooting to get himself killed in a suicide-by-cop. This happens often enough, unfortunately.
I looked down the driveway to Dirk’s apartment and saw no one; he was still hiding. I put the car in reverse and backed the hell out of there as fast as I could go. I was smoking the tires, hoping not to get shot as I backed up almost an entire city block.
