Curbchek, page 13
Dirk was waiting with a .357 Magnum handgun, and when he saw me back out he went inside and got on the phone with dispatch, wanting to know where the hell I was going. While he was on the phone, his Dad fled the apartment. Dispatch told Dirk what his dad had said, that there was no car burglary, and that he’d told them he just wanted to shoot a cop.
He said, “So?” He wanted to die, and he said he would find a way, then hung up.
Meanwhile, Peabody “super-hero sergeant” was on his way to the scene...praise the Lord, save us all. He ordered a perimeter set up - which was good - and while he was doing that I was on my cell phone with Dirk, talking to him to try to establish a rapport of some kind. This pissed off Peabody to no end. He wanted to be in control of the scene and wanted to do the talking himself, so he demanded that I hang up and allow him to talk to Dirk. I ignored him; I was reaching Dirk, and I wasn’t about to turn him over to Peabody. Peabody then started calling me on the radio, ordering me to hang up so that he could talk to Dirk - and being quite a dick about it.
I had to shut the radio off so I could continue with Dirk, and eventually I did negotiate him out. He came out with his hands up and surrendered. Instead of being happy about the successful conclusion to the call, though, Peabody went off. He was screaming at me as I was putting Dirk in my car, red face twisted and spitting all over the place. He felt that I’d undermined his authority - never mind the fact that I’d narrowly missed an ambush, then negotiated the suspect out of the house without a shot being fired and no SWAT call out; I hadn’t jumped when “Peabody The Amazing” had said jump.
In the car on the way to jail, I talked with Dirk for some time about his little girl and family. I also showed him pictures of my kids. I wanted him to realize that I had a life as well and that he could have ended that life in addition to his own with stupid shit like this. He cried in the car and apologized.
Peabody tried to write me up for insubordination; just part of being the department’s up-and-coming jackass at the time. Someone higher up, though, squashed the paperwork. I never found out who it was, but whoever did it apparently had my back and didn’t want me to know about it.
Chapter 28
Smarter Than a Sergeant
You might be amazed (I know we were) at how often some of the shit bags we chased fell for something known as “Knock and Talk.” It’s just like it sounds: officers simply knock on the door of a known criminal’s address and try to talk their way in without a warrant.
It never ceased to amaze me how often guys with warrants - who consider themselves career streetwise thugs who never held jobs and were proud of it - would invite police officers inside to talk.
It was a psych game, and it was most effective on drug houses where the suspects have lost any common sense with their prolonged drug abuse. It was worth a try on just about any place we thought some kind of illegal activity was going on. There was no bluff about having a warrant, just a simple “...would like to ask you a few questions...need your help on something...where’d you get those shoes?”
The cheese dick suspect who opened the door would always worry that not letting the officer in would draw suspicion - even though things were well past suspicious, just not enough to get a judge to sign a warrant. Of course, it doesn’t work on the real bad asses who know the game - and even the law - and just slam the door.
Once inside, the officer is looking for anything that can lend itself to a warrant under the “plain view” doctrine. One day, one of our guys pulled the knock and talk on a hotel room downtown where we’d heard drugs were being sold. He got in the door and saw the dope, just lying there on a table, distribution quantity.
That was enough for a warrant. The officer had legally gained entry and now had to prevent the destruction of evidence, so he called it in and asked for back-up as well. The dumb ass that opened the door was arrested immediately, but his partner - much wiser and more determined to escape - went out a bathroom window measuring 1 foot by 1 foot.
But he left some ID in the room, and we found he had outstanding warrants, even an NCIC hit, which are felonies only. He had warrants for drug possession and aggravated assault, so it was on.
It was a late Saturday afternoon and things were a little slow, so a lot of units got involved. We were searching everywhere and couldn’t find this guy. He was all over the radio, K-9 was out running the dogs, and uniforms were on foot going from house to house, checking sheds and garages and any conceivable hiding place.
No one found anything; it was like this guy just disappeared.
I was on the west end, listening over the radio, and I thought, What would I do to disappear in the middle of a city? Find the nearest phone and call a cab? I suggested this to the sergeant handling the search - Peabody again, an arrogant prick who rode everybody under him hard while ass-kissing everyone above him; you couldn’t get his nose out of the chief’s ass with a crowbar.
Sergeant Peabody said point blank that the idea was ridiculous. “Young pup,” he told me, “you have a lot to learn about drug dealers and crime in general. Sit back and watch what experience can teach you.” Thrilled at such an opportunity, I walked away, got on my cell phone, and called dispatch on the side. I asked them to check the cab companies (there were only a few) and told them to keep it quiet; I told them what Peabody said and that I didn’t want him in my ass for checking this out in spite of his ridicule.
They were more than happy to assist with my hunch, Peabody having made no friends at dispatch either. They called cabbies and simply asked if a man had been picked up in the vicinity of the hotel in the past 20 minutes – and guess what? They’d picked up a sweaty guy who “just wanted to get out of the area as soon as possible.” Dispatch asked the cabbie where he was and if he could stay on the line with the dispatcher until we could get close. He said he would.
Dispatch was loving this, and when I got in the vicinity of the cab they made sure it went out on the air what we’d done and that I was a block from the suspect - just to rub it in Peabody’s face.
I asked for back, and three patrol cars showed up within moments. We picked up the lucky suspect, the one who almost got away, and paid the cabbie for driving slow and working with us. He’d been alarmed to learn that he had danger in the back seat, and he was glad to join in the capture of the guy.
I was also pretty jacked up. For a “young pup that had a lot to learn about drug dealers,” I was quite happy to be the stupid guy that got it right.
Chapter 29
Left Hook/Right Guard
Given the right circumstance and opportunity, anything can be used as a weapon.
I was called to a family fight, but when I arrived it was already over. At the scene, I found a small, compact woman who claimed her husband had been out with another woman. She also claimed that he’d attacked her when she confronted him about the affair, saying that he threw her around the room and left. Surprisingly, she seemed unhurt with only a few minor abrasions showing. As I started to take the information from her about what had happened and what his name was, he walked in.
More than a foot taller than his wife, he was a mess, covered in blood. When I asked him what had happened, he described coming home from a friend’s house to have his wife accuse him of being with another woman. He told her that that was ridiculous - then she attacked him, a barely five-foot package of woman, enraged. He said she hit him over and over again in the head with a metal spray can.
She chased him all through the house until he was able to lock himself in the bathroom. She then grabbed a knife and drove it through the wooden bathroom door several times, trying to get at him. Growing impatient with that approach, she brought out a bag of charcoal and a can of lighter fluid, then poured it all out around the base of the door and tried to light it while screaming, “I’m gonna fucking KILL your white ass! Nobody fucks around on me!”
When he smelled the lighter fluid and saw smoke, he said he panicked. He knew if she got her planned barbecue going, he’d be trapped with no escape, so he opened the door and blew past her. Running as fast as he could, he knocked her down as he fled out the front door.
Deep semi-circular cuts were easily visible all over his head, some right down to the bone and still bleeding. I called for medical and checked the bathroom; charcoal was all around the base of the doorway, wet with liquid that smelled like charcoal lighter. I went back to the woman, now sitting quietly on the couch. I tried to get her explanation for the charcoal and the cuts on her husband’s head, but she refused to talk.
I reached to grab her arm to get her attention as she sat catatonic on the couch - and the touch caused her to turn into a screaming crazy woman, jumping and flailing, scratching and biting. I was able to get her to the floor and handcuff her.
I checked the couch and found the metal aerosol can: a “Right Guard” brand spray can. It had strands of hair and blood on the bottom edges.
I arrested her for aggravated assault and attempted arson, then booked her into jail. A week later, they were back together again, walking down the street. When I saw them, I called the prosecutors, who told me that the charges had been dropped; he’d refused to testify against her...imagine that.
Chapter 30
Triangulated
One night, I was getting in some overtime “cleaning up the board,” as the sergeants called it, meaning I’d take all the non-priority calls running all over the city to get them off the dispatch logs as soon as possible. It made our stats look good, and it got me out of my assigned area for a while. For us, it’s a chance for some freelancing, cruising around putting out minor fires, nothing too serious; but this night, that didn’t last long. A call came in from a gas station near the eastern foothills that promised some guy looking for a confrontation, preferably with the cops.
The caller dialed 911 to say that he was “Wyatt Earp” and that we’d better get up there fast. He said he had a knife, then he hung up and waited.
I was on the west side, listening; it sounded like trouble, so I started towards the location. I was about halfway there when officers on the scene radioed, yelling for help; meanwhile, Mr. Earp’s girlfriend had called dispatch to say that he was suicidal and wanted to provoke the police into shooting him.
I was next to arrive and found a patrolman and a sergeant backing away from Earp, who was walking around with a huge fucking blade, a big Bowie knife. The scent of pepper spray was in the air; it was already tried on Earp with no effect.
He kept advancing on the two officers, ignoring any attempts to talk him down. I yelled to get his attention, and he started towards me. I had a car between us, and we actually ran around it a few times - him chasing me and me pepper-spraying him. The spray continued to have no effect; he just wiped it off and kept coming, closing in on me (this was a few years before Tasers). I backed away from the car and pulled out my Glock, trying to talk him down, but he wouldn’t respond; he just kept coming at me with that huge knife, head down, eyes locked on mine. It was easy to see him gutting me with no regrets, so I settled into a firing stance.
Just then, the other two officers fell in behind him. We were all in each other’s field of fire; triangulated, but a flat triangle. So, I holstered up and got ready to fight, go toe to toe - “going toes” as we called it. He kept closing in, still quiet and determined.
It was terrifying. The sound of your blood rushing in your ears isn’t fiction;there’s a background buzz, a hazy noise as your metabolism launches with adrenaline, preparing you for battle.
This guy wasn’t swinging the knife where I could grab for his arm and hold on; instead, he held it close to his body, which would make it very hard to fight him and come out of this without my guts dumped all over the pavement. Realizing I was about to get seriously fucked up, my pulse elevated; I was getting angry, getting ready to rip this guy apart. Rage and fear are powerful emotions, and even more volatile when mixed. I wasn’t going to die. Not in my mind. I envisioned crushing his throat and ripping out his eyes; losing this battle was not an option.
Then out of nowhere, Bobby Grimes drove his patrol car between me and Earp, hitting Earp with a glancing blow from the car - which probably saved my life. I couldn’t believe it.
Earp was furious, and he viciously attacked the car, striking the driver’s window over and over. Sparks flew from the metal frame around the door glass, and then the door, as he tried to smash his way through to get at Grimes. With Bobby behind the determined attacker, I still didn’t have a shot.
Earp eventually tired of trying to kill Grimes in the car, then turned back towards the other two officers. Grimes was then able to get out of the car, and we both approached Earp. Fortunately, Grimes had a shot and took it. He double-tapped Earp, hitting him twice in the torso, which immediately dropped him to the ground. I holstered and started first aid, calling dispatch to send medical. Earp, his real name Darin Eest, was gasping doing what was called agony breathing, the last gasps.
He died at the scene, and the press crucified Grimes because some eyewitness who was an ex-con claimed that Eest had no knife; he said that the one we reported had been planted.
The guys in the department talked a lot of shit about Grimes as well; after an incident like this, you find out real quickly that you have very few friends in police work.
The Internal Affairs investigation was grueling. The IA investigator asked me why I hadn’t shot Eest. I explained that I couldn’t because of the background; in the rush of events, we were in each other’s way and our triangulation stressed. Every time I had a shot, an officer would turn up behind Eest.
“So you’re trying to tell me that every time you had a shot, another officer stepped behind the suspect and put himself in jeopardy, seeing that your gun was out and pointed in his direction?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you what he saw,” I answered. “You know, Eest never did stop to ask us where we wanted him to stand. It was a fluid situation.” The department seemed to be looking for a way to rule it as a bad shoot, but eventually Grimes was cleared and he came back to work.
I always had a hard time around Bobby after that. He saved my life, and I could never repay him.
The department and the media treated him poorly. He suffered. He cried over killing that kid; Bobby was as solid as they come, brave as hell, tough, smart - but he cried over this guy. I even heard that his wife was spit on in a grocery store by a group of people who called Bobby a killer. I was enraged by what he was going through. It turned out that the department hadn’t even read my report on the shooting; I had to go in and explain it to one of the lieutenants, telling him about how he’d saved my life.
I put him in for a Medal of Valor, but it was repeatedly denied. I raised hell with anyone who’d listen, but the bottom line was that the brass didn’t like Bobby. I was almost fired for insubordination, having pushed against the sergeant on the scene at the time of the incident and then the duty lieutenant who worked that night. I wouldn’t let it go; they had to make this right. They finally did, but I had to go over some heads to an assistant chief to get heard, further cementing my lack of popularity.
I’d never had anyone step up during a life-threatening situation and help me like Bobby had.
Chapter 31
Something for the Trophy Case
Starting out on a slow night that was about to heat up, I was babysitting a bank parking lot. As you might imagine, when bankers complain, the department responds. The financial hub was just off Main Street, which the kids like to traverse, “Cruising The Boulevard,” as it’s called.
Cruising involves various collection points where the kids can pull off and gather, and well-kept parking lots such as a bank’s are very popular. The bank was having a lot of problems with the kids partying there, leaving a lot of trash and usually some property damage.
So often, this is a simple matter to solve; just park a patrol car there. This also worked in moving the hookers around. When an establishment complains that too many of the working girls are hanging out, just have a uniformed officer park in the area; instantly, they relocate. These are just nuisance calls.
Same with boulevard cruisers who congregate in parking lots to talk and compare cars. If they’re trashing the place, just having a patrol car take up residency solves what’s largely a litter problem and moves them along. We’re not garbage men.
I was camped out in the bank parking lot this night when I saw a trooper in a chase with Jack Converse; they went flying past me, westbound across Main.
I knew Jack, a troubled kid. I grew up with his dad, an abusive alcoholic providing nothing but a volatile home life for Jack. I saw Jack as a nice kid who had little chance at any kind of normal life; this night, he gave up.
The troopers didn’t have access to our radio frequencies back then, and we weren’t able to hear theirs; so, I called in the chase with dispatch and tried to parallel them, attempting to catch up. They zigzagged back and forth in the area, and I couldn’t find them. Then they turned east, crossing Main again, going up four blocks and back into the inner city again before I finally caught up with them.
As I rounded the corner, I saw that both Jack and the trooper were out of their vehicles, facing each other with guns drawn. The trooper backed off some, waiting for backup and moving closer to his cruiser, leaving Jack standing out in the middle of the street, defiant and emboldened.
I got out and challenged him from about 60 feet away. He started to move toward the sidewalk, and I moved to cut him off. Another patrol car arrived, and with the trooper we had him cornered. Jack wouldn’t back down, though, instead ignoring commands and waving his gun around.
I had no idea why he ran on the trooper, but this was now something else. Why wouldn’t he just put his gun down and surrender? This was a little more obvious; it appeared that he wanted to die...he knew what he was setting himself up for.
