Curbchek, page 8
“See...you can be polite,” I said. I put on the gloves, picked up the knife, and stood in front of him for a minute; he actually started shaking. “Well, that should about do it. Say goodbye, fuckhead,” I said, then put my gun to the back of his head.
He was kneeling and kept repeating, “Please give me another chance” and “I’ll never bother her again” over and over.
“Why should I believe your punk ass, bitch?”
“Because I mean it this time,” he answered. “I mean it. I see that you’re serious. I won’t go back and touch her - I swear.”
“Pinky swear?” I said, smirking. Crazy? Maybe.
With that, he toppled over sideways, sobbing and shaking like he was having a seizure; he was almost epileptic, thrashing in the mud and shit and rotting entrails. I picked him up, slammed him against my car, and grabbed him by the throat. “If I let you live, I’ll never see you again, right? Because if I do - it’s on, motherfucker. No one will ever find you...ever. You don’t have to do anything to her; all you have to do is show up and let me see you - and I will fucking end you. Do you got that?”
He said that he did. Suddenly falling quiet, his eyes started blinking wildly, darting about in shock; he thought I was going to kill him and that his life had ended.
After cleaning him up a bit, I put him in my car, then drove him to the jail and booked him. I never saw him again.
For some time after that, I checked on Mary almost daily. One day, she said that he came back and got his stuff from the apartment. He told her he was sorry, really sorry, and that he was leaving. He was wrong for hurting her, and maybe he wasn’t the right guy for her. He said that he had to leave and that he couldn’t stay. She said he was acting really terrified, jumpy as hell and looking out the windows, and that he left right away. She smiled at me and said she didn’t know what I’d done, but he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She moved out of my area a short time later,
I kept in touch with her enough to know that she was living a much happier life after this guy had his epiphany...being a brutal, psychotic bastard works sometimes.
Chapter 18
Some Nights Were Different
Who says cops don’t have any fun? One night, I arrested a guy for public intoxication. I’d been dealing with him on a regular basis: he would pass out on people’s porches and in their front yards, then I’d get a call from freaked out homeowners about the drunken stranger on the porch or in their lawn chair, and I’d take him to jail to sober up.
However, this particular night I thought I’d have some fun tormenting him in his inebriated state: he was falling down drunk, so I put him in my car, then proceeded to drive backwards to the jail.
It was one of those late nights/early mornings when the only people on the streets were newspaper carriers and cops. At first, he didn’t pick up on it; then he realized something was very wrong but that it was probably in his own head.
I continued to play it off like we were going forward, talking to him like nothing was wrong. I drove with my mirrors and kept looking forward as much as possible – and the illusion worked. “I really got to quit drinking,” he kept saying. After about a mile, he closed his eyes and told me, “Officer, I know that you said we’re going forward, but I swear to me it looks like we’re going backward.” It was probably one of the few times someone was glad to arrive at the county jail.
Later that night, my sergeant asked me quite calmly why I was driving backwards through the central city. “Man, I’m glad you never picked me up drunk,” he said. I never saw my serial drunk again. I don’t know if he quit drinking, but I like to think that maybe he did.
Some officers are just lightning rods for cops’ twisted sense of humor, and Sgt. Gus was one of those targets. We’d just finished a big case, an ambush just outside the mall downtown. One gang had crept up on another and emptied a handgun into their car while they were trapped in traffic, waiting for a stoplight; two in the car were wounded. The attack happened in broad daylight, so we had to solve it fast. In less than 24 hours, the suspects were in custody, locked up with enough evidence that we didn’t even need to try for confessions.
Gus was debriefing us, making sure he had all the details of the shoot and the arrests before he called the duty lieutenant whose shift had just ended a little earlier. The duty lieutenant, or watch commander, had to be brought up to speed in case the media called, as lieutenants are the only officers authorized to give public statements.
Gus thought of himself as an efficiency expert. He had all kinds of phone lists miniaturized and laminated in his wallet, and he’d pull one out and show it to us, making sure we saw how efficient he was (he wrote with excellent grammar and lovely penmanship). We rolled our eyes and waited for him to finish showing off his little wallet cards. In light of all this, we figured he could make the call, using the numbers on his little lists.
This is where he really blew it badly. Gus and the Chief were always at odds - and definitely not friends. Gus had applied for the Chief’s position when it had opened up some eight months earlier, competing with the man who was now his boss. On top of all that, they’d already been adversaries in the department for years. Gus thought of himself as an intellectual cop, while the Chief saw himself as a military man by way of his Army reserve experience. They couldn’t have been more opposite in their outlook and approach to police work, as well as life in general. The Chief hated Gus, who was overweight and a prankster, never serious, and always joking. He even moonlighted as a comedian at a local comedy club. The Chief, however, almost never laughed - ever.
So Gus calls who he thinks is the duty lieutenant (who has the same first name as the chief) and starts his usual joking and talking shit. He starts saying he’s surprised that James is asleep already, then goes on about how James is no doubt tired from banging his new girlfriend, asking if she’s as hot as she appears to be. He then makes comments about how he imagines she performs in the sack; she was a dispatcher that we all knew to be a bit wild.
So he continued to ramp it up, still not realizing that it was Chief James he was talking to. He even told him, “At least you’re not at home with a ball gag in your mouth, taking it up the ass like the chief...his wife runs him and their house.”
Gus actually started picking up speed then, noting, “Mrs. Chief probably keeps a strap-on in the drawer by the bed, and no lubricant - just like the chief likes it.”
He started laughing his ass off at the picture he was painting for Lieutenant James, believing it all quite funny - when all of a sudden he stopped and his demeanor suddenly changed. He instantly sat up straight as a rail and said, “Yes, Sir,” then “Yes, Sir” again, giving a quick brief of the shoot and apologizing profusely “for any inconvenience.” Gus then hung up (looking like he was about to hurl), put his head down on the desk, and said, “Oh shit...I am so fucked...oh God...I am so fucked.” He was always pulling pranks, so we just thought he was messing with us. We weren’t buying his act, so he stood up and screamed at us, saying, “This isn’t fucking funny! I’m serious.”
Still not believing him, we asked what had happened. He slowly, painfully said that he’d mistakenly called Chief James instead of Lieutenant James. We all looked at each other in shock, thinking about what he’d said in that conversation - then we all burst out laughing. We laughed so hard, some of us grabbed trashcans while others dry heaved, coughing, choking, and trying to breathe. Gus stormed out of the office, leaving us there with tears streaming down our faces. He and the Chief had many fun times together, but none of them quite got Gus fired.
Six months later, for instance, Gus and the Chief had another warm exchange. Gus was having an affair. He’d been married for some time and loved his wife, but he had this low self-esteem to deal with. He had a part-time job at a local department store, working as their security chief. One of the girls there liked his sense of humor and was going through a divorce, and she made it clear to him that she was up for whatever he had in mind. This was a first for Gus; he was really overweight and dumpy looking, so he ran with it.
One day he took her to a city park, a popular one with a large pond that drew in lots of geese and ducks, as well as a large parking lot that drew in a lot of thieves. Gus didn’t know that the major crimes division had staked out the parking lot for a series of car burglaries and that they were currently running surveillance with cameras.
So here came Gus, skipping and jumping over rocks in full frolic while carrying the picnic basket he’d packed for his lady love on the down low. The major crimes detectives were working hard, catching every moment, kiss, butt fondle, and tit grab, and when they finished they packed up and left – but not before dropping a note on Gus’ car (unsigned, of course) about the fine pictures they had of him and the girl...cop humor is brutal.
Gus was beside himself. He didn’t know what to do or who had taken the questionable pictures. The state police academy had been known to pull an officer’s certification over extramarital affairs; it was an urge that came and went arbitrarily based on politics, so you never knew what could happen. Gus fell back on the engrained experience of confessing and explaining his actions - but who was he to confess to? He decided that he should confess to Chief James since he believed the Chief had the department detectives conduct surveillance of him for his illicit affair, and he did just that, requesting a meeting with the chief and the assistant chiefs (his need for penance was just that strong). He went into great detail, telling them everything - including every time he met with the girl and everything they did – confessing that he knew how wrong it was but that he couldn’t help himself.
I heard that the chief was in shock and asked Gus why he was telling them all this, to which Gus replied by outlining the picnic and the note left on his car; he felt sure that the chief had ordered the surveillance, and he wanted to come clean about everything. The chief called him a fool, saying he couldn’t care less about his affair. He then told him that he knew nothing about it until Gus turned himself in, then ordered him the hell out of his office.
I was walking past as Gus departed the chief’s presence; he had the same “I am so fucked” look on his face as he had the night that he made the accidental phone call to the chief. I later found out why and made sure that all the guys in the unit heard about it, after which we left him little picnic baskets with notes attached on his desk every now and then. He didn’t think it was funny – but we did.
A few months later, Gus got me back in short order. He’d fallen down a rickety flight of stairs during a bust of a dope house, and he needed a little patching up at the hospital. In his report on his injuries for the case file, he wrote only one sentence: “Officer Fortier pushed me down the stairs.” I had some awkward moments detailing that one for the lieutenants, trying to prove a negative before Gus updated his report a few days later. I didn’t think it was funny – but he did.
Sgt. Kenny Duke was the master of the deadpan delivery. He was nicknamed “The Mad Monk” for his appearance and quiet demeanor - that is, until you pissed him off...then, “The Mad Monk” came out.
One night in midnight briefing, Kenny said that for years when the phone would ring and his wife answered, he’d break out in a sweat, wondering if it was a girlfriend calling who had somehow obtained his home number. He’d wait, listening to the tone of her voice, awaiting any clue that he might have to leave or prepare to defend himself in case she came for him. His wife was a volatile woman, prone to scream and rant – but that was part of what he liked about her. That really hit me: stone-cold Kenny Duke sweating at the sound of a phone ringing.
He said one night he came home and had no early warning. After thinking that he was out all night “womanizing,” his wife was waiting for him with his service revolver. She shot at him six times, emptying the gun; she tried to kill him. In that straight-faced delivery of his, Kenny said it instantly occurred to him that he was really glad he hadn’t taught her how to shoot. It also occurred to him that he might want to move out or at least store his gun where she couldn’t get at it.
He said he wasn’t entirely sure that she hadn’t hit him, so he checked his chest and legs, feeling for blood. All six shots came in a small room at point blank range, but somehow she’d missed. He said he took her a little more seriously after that.
It was all in his delivery. We couldn’t help laughing, imagining Sgt. Duke dodging bullets while trying to reason with a crazed wife. That story really struck a nerve with us, probably because we’d all been there at some point - and most of us were still living that nightmare to one degree or another.
Chapter 19
Outranked
Sgt. Leeds was always talking about his quest for a spirit animal guide. While waiting for the owner of a building we’d cleared to show up and turn off the alarm, Leeds started telling us this story.
He’d been reading Indian lore on how to go about getting a spirit animal guide; he wanted to commune with the spirit world to get out there and mingle with the dead.
As he spoke, emotion made his voice crack a little. He said he needed guidance from something “appropriately carnivorous”; after all, he was a warrior. He was also concerned that it was taking so long for this spirit animal to reveal itself to him.
Setting up his primitive camp alone, he’d actually sit in the mountains east of where we were for days at a time, squatting out in the elements, dressed in his buckskins and moccasins with warrior paint on his face, fasting, chanting, and beating on a drum. He told his wife he was off camping so she’d think he just needed to get away; little did she know, he was a crazed, drooling, wannabe shaman.
So far, there was nothing, no sign; not even a curious coyote offering a fish or the wind in his hair, whispering ancient messages. Hell, even a tap on the shoulder would’ve been nice.
His Irish-Catholic roots hadn’t done it for him: there was no animal soul included in that particular map to spiritual fulfillment. He really worried about his spirit guide not being an “appropriate” animal; he thought himself too manly to accept a docile animal, such as a ground squirrel.
Just then, the owner of the building showed up. It turned out to be just a routine false alarm; we’d checked the building, and the alarm had proven unfounded.
“Who wants the wisdom of a ground squirrel?” said the sergeant as he got back into his car, leaving us to clear the call. “I’m hoping for a bear or a wolf, maybe an eagle.” We just stared as he drove off; shit-faced drunks we caught pissing in the park didn’t talk this crazy shit.
He was bat shit crazy, like the night he matched testosterone levels with a group of “pee wee” gang bangers just getting into the life. He and some of the patrolmen (his “followers,” as we called them) had a group of the youngsters cornered in an elementary school parking lot. I’d heard them all sign out at the same time, so I knew something was up. When I got there, Leeds was standing in the middle of the group of 11- and 12-year-olds.
It was late at night, and he’d thrown down his spare nightstick and dared each member of the group to pick it up and fight him. The kids on the street aren’t that naïve; you don’t survive on the street being that stupid. The reality was, Leeds was a nightstick instructor and also trained in martial arts, so any fight with an adult would’ve been no contest - let alone a kid. None of the bangers went for it, so Leeds called them cowards and “limp dicks,” then stomped off. It was a set-up: not only would they have gotten their asses kicked, but he’d also have cause to arrest them since threatening someone with a weapon is actually something we arrest people for all the time.
I’d asked around about Leeds and found out that he was connected at the hip with one of the assistant chiefs. They were allies who worked together to further their careers at the expense of others, partnering in many internal investigations and manipulating the facts in ways to target officers they just didn’t like who didn’t have the sense to play along with the prevailing winds.
Most people were reluctant to talk about him, but I did hear from one lieutenant who’d been on an awards evaluation committee.
In a situation with a man with a gun, the guy had drawn down on Leeds, catching him off guard. The suspect then pulled the trigger, but it hadn’t gone off. Leeds then thumped the hell out of him, then submitted himself for a Medal of Valor. The first go-round, the medal was refused. The awards committee felt that he shouldn’t be awarded for making a mistake that almost got him shot: Leeds had bullied the guy - as was his style - instead of using accepted arrest control techniques. After Leeds went to the Chief and complained that he’d actually been quite heroic and deserved some recognition, the Chief asked the committee to find some way of recognizing him. Eventually, the committee ended up giving Leeds the lesser Medal of Merit. The officer who told me about it resigned from the committee; he felt it was a slap in the face of the officers who’d actually earned their medals. This kind of shit went on in the department all the time.
In another incident, two young kids were walking down the street at 2 a.m., carrying stereo speakers. It was only late spring, and gang activity had started up early with car prowls, thefts, fights, and shootings. With tension already up, the department was bracing for a long summer, so we checked it out.
I arrived at the same time that Leeds rolled up and started talking to one of the kids while he had the other. Then Leeds said to me, “I’m tired of this fucking shit. These little fucking Mexicans are gonna learn a lesson tonight.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I said. “They’re walking with stereo speakers. You don’t know if these are stolen - and if they are, from where.”
“Fuck that. I’m tired of this shit. These spics are controlling the streets, and it’s time we did something about it.”
