Cop Tales – Page 3 – Ex Cop Tales

Lost Brothers

Richard J. Scuba God Roost, Jr

Seventeen Years and One Day ago

During my career I lost more Brothers than I am prepared to count. I lived my life surrounded by strong men who did courageous and dangerous things. This is the story of one of them.

Richard Roost was know as the SCUBA God and he was the owner of the local dive shop. He was there from the beginning of my dive training. Richard was knowledgeable and committed to the Sheriff’s Underwater Search and Rescue Team (USRT).

Richard wasn’t an employee of the department but rather donated his time as a Reserve Deputy Sheriff. He taught me to be a better diver and I would advance to Divemaster under his direction.

Richard was a man’s man. He traveled to many exotic places and was always surrounded by beautiful women. Many wanted to be him. He had a quiet absurdness and I always enjoyed his company. During dive team call-outs he was a calming influence. He worked to keep me safe and shared his strength and confidence with me in my most stressful moments.

We had been through the Shit together.

On July 8th 1998 Richard was diving alone on the wreck of the Andrea Doria at a depth of 240 feet when he went missing. No one is sure what happened but days later his body would be discovered in the Cabin Class lounge wedged under a table.

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Just before the trip Richard said, “When I dive the Doria my life will be complete.”

Richard dove from the Seeker but it was fast becoming known by another name, the Morgue boat. Sixteen divers had lost their lives while diving the Andrea Doria and some while diving from the same boat.

I stood Honor Guard over my Brother’s body in the old Church his family had attended since the days of his Grandfather. Colored light and dusty smells mixed next to his heavy oak casket. Richard was buried in his family’s plot in a small cemetery in Hillsdale County. I stood at rigid attention as they lowered my Brother into the ground. My jaw clenched, fighting back the hot stinging tears. I grabbed a fistful of dirt and threw it in the hole as I said my goodbyes and made my promises.

I salute and walked away into the grayness.

Link

25 years ago today…

July 4th 1991

I was working 8 pm to 4 am and got saddled with a late arrest. It was a muggy Michigan morning and I didn’t get home until 6 am. I tossed and turned through hours of attempted sleep. I finally dozed off into one of those fitful sweaty wrestling matches with the pillow.

Sometime after noon my pager started its dance on the bedside table. I grabbed it and saw the code for a Underwater Search and Rescue Team (USRT) call out. I dialed dispatch for the details.

Two boys, both non-swimmers, were missing and presumed drowned near the Ford lake picnic area. I lit a cigarette and got dressed. I was out the door and in my POV (Personally Owned Vehicle) and northbound before I needed to flick the ashes. I always kept my dive gear in my vehicle and organized for a quick response. The location was less than 20 minutes under normal driving times. I made it in 10.

Two things will get a Cop driving balls to the wall. The first is a 10-13 or Officer needs emergency assistance and the other is a child in danger or not breathing. It is all about measuring and balancing the potential risk against the potential benefit.

When I arrive things are chaotic. There were hundreds of people, including a number of Township Officials, near the shore. As I start to drag my gear down to the water’s edge I see a Deputy with the family at a nearby picnic table. This was an image I had witnessed dozens of times but it always stung my eyes to look. I tried not to make eye contact and to go unnoticed.

I get a quick one minute briefing from the Sergeant as I‘m huffing down another cigarette and gearing up. He tells me that a witness saw the boys struggling at the surface of the water and then they submerged.

I told the Sergeant to take the witness to the exact location they were when the boys went under. I hoped to triangulate a better last known position than we presently had.

“How long have they been under Sarge”? – “About 40 minutes” was his answer.

In cold water drowning there is a real possibility of reviving a drowning victim within the golden first hour. Because of this I decided to dive solo and not tethered to shore. I was in my Viking dry suit and in the water in two minutes.

I was working on hunches, luck and hope. I imagined being the boys as I entered the water. I walked deeper and deeper and the lake bottom began to drop quickly. I arrive at the marl bottom 20 feet later on my knees. A thick cloud of mud rose up and swirled around me. I turned to my left and there was the first boy. I grabbed him and pressurized my Buoyancy Vest, bringing us both to the surface and within yards of the shore. Deputies jumped into the water and took the boy from me. As I was turning to go back for the other boy I see Tim, a fellow USRT Team Member, and he’s already suited up. Tim and I swim back to where I had found the first boy. We submerged and within minutes found the second. We swam him to the surface and the waiting hands of the ambulance crew.

Both boys were being worked on by the ambulance and fire department crews. CPR was in progress right behind me but I was numb to it. I sat on the muddy bank with my fins still in the water wondering if this was another nightmare. I was asleep in my bed just 45 minutes ago. AMBU Bags and excited orders filled the air. I saw the Deputy walking the family farther away from the scene. It all seemed so familiar, dreamlike. Please let this be just another nightmare – Please let me wake up in my bed…

A couple of minutes later the Sergeant came by to check on me. I had him open the rear facing seal on my dry suit. “Sarge how long were they in the water”?

“Less than an hour”.

I tried my best but Kassim Ballard, age eleven, and Anthony Wilkes, age twelve, died that day.

A few days later I got dressed in my best Class A uniform, checked out a marked unit and drove down to the boys funeral in Detroit, all on my own time.

As I approached and signed the book the crowd parted. No one extended a hand. No one asked who I was. I signed my name to the book and added “USRT team member”.

I heard someone say to the family, “You ought to sue that mother fucker”.

I turned and left.

A shared nightmare

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This happened a year after the Tomb of the unknown child and The Christmas party.

Again, I was working a second job for cash. During the fall I worked for a family business that operated a haunted barn and offered hayrides. Most often there were no problems and my job was to keep the cash box from being robbed. I was their hired gun.

It was a cold and foggy evening so I went into the small ticket booth to warm myself in front of the propane heater. The customers had slowed to a trickle. In the ticket booth was a young woman I had known for years. She was barely out of her teens and was considering her college choices. Everyone who worked there knew me as Deputy Mike and that I was a Cop.

The woman began to ask questions about being a Police Officer. She went on to explain that she was considering a career in law enforcement and wanted my input.

My first reaction was to think she was a bad fit for Law Enforcement. Too tender, too much white meat. I felt she would be crushed by the requirements of the job. I wanted to find an easy way to dissuade her from this idea.

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She then asked, “Deputy Mike what’s the worst thing that ever happened to you”?

Perfect, she gave me this opportunity to tell the story of the death of the marionette puppet on the side of the road. During my career I was with more than a dozen people who were suddenly and unexpectedly ripped from life. One minute to be alive and the next fighting for their last breath. Some went easy and others fought all the way. Often I could do nothing more than say, “There, there it will be alright”. I was honored to be with them as their lives ended.

Some left a deeper scar than others. This was one of my worst.

Again I drifted into the fog of telling but this time I told only of the emotion of the moment. The pain, the blame, the memories. I told her how Police work is a 100% win proposition and when we fail we blame ourselves. “If I had only driven faster to get there, If I hadn’t been fucking off in first aide class, If I had just pressed harder on her chest, breathed more into her lungs…”

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I told her after the child died in my hands I went home and pulled my sleeping daughter from her bed – made popcorn – put My Little Pony in the VCR – held her and quietly wept.

I didn’t know what else to do…

I told it as softly as I could but I wanted her to know the emotional consequences of her potential choice.

When I returned to the present she was sobbing. She looked at me and said…

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“You don’t know do you? I was the screaming woman in the car”.

I didn’t know. When the Trooper released me from the scene (which was just around the corner from the haunted barn) the woman in the car was still screaming. I supplemented his report but never asked any questions about the case. It turns out the family crossed the street right in front of the screaming woman and she was not at fault.

By the strangest of coincidences I had told the story of my nightmare to the screaming woman.

She didn’t become a Cop.

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Thanks for stopping by…

Mr. Morse

The hard Desert work was behind me and I began to live among Humans again. I had made Promises to Myself that I would forever keep. I felt alive and free. My eyes still scan the horizon for imagined threats but that is what they trained me to be. This is what I will always be. Echoes of my Past linger in me. I accept this.

…

In the fall of 2010 I volunteered at Otter Creek State park until the weather drove me away. I cut the tops out of dying cottonwood trees. The saw freed the smell of ancient spice from the wood. I enjoyed my work.

…

The nearest place to get food was in Antimony, not even a town just a bend in the road. I rode there under a canopy of yellow leaves and gray skies. The café side of the joint is separated from the tin can aisles by a one step up lunch counter. Old green linoleum with sides painted bright white time after time. I hung my motorcycle jacket over the swivel seat next to me.

When I spend time in small towns I like to get to know the locals on a first name basis. I often get the local price on everything from gas to bread. Jeri ask how I’d been as she poured my coffee. Jeri was one of those women every man likes to have a conversation with. She spoke is slow measured sultry tones. Dark hair framed her intense smile. She was fit and destined to always be beautiful.

I first saw Mr. Morse as he approached the third seat and carefully mounted it, his cane propped against his side. I guessed him in his late 80’s but bright and he carried himself with broad shoulders. His hair was crew cut. I recognized this old warrior as he ordered only coffee. I was trying to drive the chill from my bones and decide what to do next.

We talked casually of fishing for a moment. Mr. Morse told me that he had been coming to Otter Creek for a dozen or more years, since the death of his wife. He told me he once had a dog.

He then asked me how my day was. It is this question that often causes a shift in my conversations.

“I’m having the day of a lifetime Brother, but I have many of those. Sometimes I string them into weeks, months or years. I live a life other men don’t even know exists. I live a dream of my own making.” I spoke the truth.

Mr. Morse smiled broadly and extended his large hand. We introduced ourselves. A few people milled around on the grocery side of the business. We went unnoticed as I asked him what he did during WW II. He proudly told me that he had trained bomber pilots. He knew exactly how many to, 44. He began to describe the type of aircraft he flew.

I stopped him, “Mr. Morse could I ask a difficult question?” He said yes…

“Of those 44 men that you trained do you know how many survived their tours and returned home?” His crystal blue eyes flashed, I saw tears well up in his face.

He said, “No, I couldn’t… maybe half.”

Without missing a beat Mr. Morse began to tell me of the last moments of his wife’s life. She had been subjected to some minor surgery and he was with her in post-op. She suddenly and without warning suffered a brain aneurysm and died in his presence. In that moment He began his new life alone.

I expressed my sympathy for having suffered such a terrible wound. To have made it through the hard and scary part only to lose her when all seemed hopeful. Tears spilled down his cheeks.

We continued to talk. Someone walked past. We were in a bubble – just Mr. Morse and I – unseen.

He suddenly asked me if he should get a dog. He explained that he had a fear of dying and leaving the dog with no one. I told him to go to the nearest shelter and get the oldest dog they had. I explained to him that he was denying a dog the gift of his friendship.

His hand quivered as he pushed a crumpled dollar bill a quarter and a dime across the counter with one bony finger.

He patted my shoulder and mouthed his thanks as he left. I wished him well.

Later Jeri told me he got a fuzzy old dog.

Christmas Party

I have told the story of the Tomb of the Unknown Child before…

I had to attend a Christmas party hosted by my ex-wife’s boss. She worked for a vice President of something surrounded by other vice Presidents of nothing. They were a bunch of Harvard and Yale grads, pretentious and inexperienced. I was not impressed by any of them.

At that time in my life you wouldn’t have liked me. I made decisions in 1/5 of a second and expected the rest of the World to do the same. I was moody, suffered from depression and had a mean streak. I spent my nights surrounded by pimps, thugs, hookers and thieves – everybody lied. I didn’t trust anyone but other Cops.

I had sunk to the lowest point of my life. Most have heard of Suicide by Cop, I was the reverse, I was a Cop looking for a shoot-out. I searched to find someone to put me out of my misery. I was first through the door, first to the bar fight, I quit wearing my bulletproof vest.

This was just before Christmas and like all good Cops I was working a second job for cash to give my kids a Christmas morning they would never forget.

I was sleep deprived and in a foul mood.

I put on my best Court suit (I owned 3 at that time) and tried to catch a nap in the car as my ex-wife drove us to the venue.

It was a stylish affair with a free bar filled with the best liquor. I took up a position near the door, with my back to the wall, and tried my best to avoid contact with anyone. I drank more than I should and watched.

In the very center of the room was a congregation of the pampered puppies. They were beginning careers with the fresh scent of their ivy league past hanging on them. I watched the loudest one as he hogged the conversation. I could just hear him bragging about his latest trip to Spain. I watched a chunky gold Rolex watch slip up and down his skinny wrist as he spoke. In that moment I realized that watch was worth more than my entire yearly pay and all the Christmas cash I was trying to raise for my kids. I bit my lip and growled under my breath.

The little Prick heard me and looked my way…

After he finished his vacation story he said to the other puppies, “Lets go talk to the Cop”.

They all approached and surrounded me. Their glasses clinking with ice and liquor. All with polished broad practiced fake smiles. My heart beat faster – Fight or Flight feelings rose up. I felt trapped and angry.

As they neared I leaned over and whispered into the ear of the Prick, “Don’t fuck with me”. He looked shocked but continued, “So Deputy Mike tell us what its like to be a Cop”.

I said loud enough for most in the room to hear me, “You want to know what its like to be a Cop do you? Well I’ll tell you what its like to be a Cop”.

For the first time I spoke of the child dying in my hands days before. As I told the story I drifted into a fog of reliving it. The words spilled from me. Instead of telling it like I’ve written earlier I told them of every broken bone, of every pool of blood, of the sounds, of everything I saw. I gave them the full gore version.

“AND that’s what it’s like to be a Cop”.

When I came back to the present children were crying and being dragged away from me by their mothers. The room then fell silent. Ex-wife looked at me with disgust. The party was over.

I stood up with clenched fists and looked at the Prick. “I told you not to fuck with me”, and I walked out of the room.

I was never invited back to another Christmas party

Suicide

Wednesday

I was working the afternoon shift in a marked patrol assignment. Once I had my cruiser loaded I called in service to Dispatch.

“Baker 12 copy a suicide in progress.”

Someone had called in and said a subject was threatening to kill himself. The caller related that the subject was in the water, at the boat launch, and had a knife to his wrist.

I go like a bat outta hell and arrive within minutes, having just a few miles to cover between the Station and the location. When I arrive I find the subject waist deep in the lake with a dull butter knife to his wrist. He starts telling me to back up or he was going to kill himself.

“What’s your name friend?”

“John”.

“John drop the knife and get out of the water. I can find help for you”.

John complied almost immediately and began apologizing for his behavior. I walked him back to his apartment talking with him along the way. Suicidal subjects can be dangerous but I didn’t sense that in him. He was just a skinny, wet frightened man. He was alone and confused.

On these types of calls our policy dictated that a team of Mental Health professionals be contacted. I called them and briefed them on the situation and they came out and interviewed John. After a couple of hours they decided that John’s threatened suicide was nothing more that a call for attention and scheduled a follow up visit with him. Everyone agreed that John wasn’t a danger to himself or others and we all left.

Thursday

This was the Second time I was dispatched to John’s apartment – another suicide in progress call. John called Dispatch and said he was going to hang himself. Upon arrival (Single entry door into the common area of 4 apartments – 2 up 2 down) I see John at the top of the stair landing with a clothesline around his neck and the other end around the banister. I just walked up the stairs and cut the rope and took John back inside his apartment. Again I called the Mental Health pros and they again responded to the scene. After a few more hours of interview they again stated that John was not a danger to anyone and that he was only calling out for attention.

Saturday

This was the third time I was sent back to John’s on a suicide in progress within my work week. John was becoming a problem. Again John called it in himself, telling the Dispatcher that he was “Really gonna do it this time.” I didn’t run a signal and took my time getting there.

John was back in the water but now he had a sharper knife. It took me a little longer but I talked him into dropping the knife and coming out of the water. I took him back to his apartment and again called the Mental Health people.

This time the team decided they would not respond to the scene. The Psychiatrist said, “Michael create a story that will impress upon John the potential consequences of his actions. Find some way to tell him that he may cause a greater harm”.

Hummmm…

I hang up the phone and started talking to John…

I act shaky and tense. “John you ain’t gonna believe what just about happened. I was running a signal to get here to help you and I almost ran over a little girl. She was playing at the entrance to your apartment complex and I didn’t see her rushing to get here. Man it was so close. My heart is still beating a mile a minute.”

“Here feel this”, and I placed his hand over my heart. Whatever he felt was in his mind as I was wearing a bulletproof vest.

While still holding his hand to my chest I looked him right in his eyes and said, “John, I almost killed that child and you would have been to blame. You’ve got to stop doing this.”

John’s eyes widened and for the first time I think he did realize the consequences of his actions. Tears stung his face and he was remorseful.

“I’m so sorry Deputy Mike, you don’t have to worry about me calling you guys anymore.”

Sunday

I got called back to John’s for the last time. A neighbor heard a gunshot. I got there quick and found the front door to John’s apartment slightly ajar. I think he left it that way for me.

I pushed the door open, gun in hand, and entered. I saw John in the living room sitting in a big recliner. He had placed a .45 caliber handgun under his chin and pulled the trigger.

What a mess…

NOTE: I felt a little funny for creating such a vivid image for John but this one doesn’t bother me. I tried my best to help but couldn’t.

Shit happens…

Peace

Some have gone to Hell and back to find themselves. I survived the journey and I’m stronger because of it. In this Place and Time I am the best Me I have ever been…

I write in the voice of who I was and not the person I am today. Many of you will feel empathy, sympathy and pain for my words. Try not to. Feel for the victims, their lives and deaths matter.

I am honored to have lived the intense life I have. I have defended those that couldn’t defend themselves. I stood shoulder to shoulder with my Brothers. People have risked their lives for me and I for them. I lived in a violent World where your reputation was everything. Truth mattered.

How many get a chance to live in this World?

My Definition of Peace

Mine is a “Peace of Mind” and not some numb disconnected thing. I did not find this Peace by sitting on a black cushion in some dark room making weird noises. I found it within me. I am a hillbilly Buddha having discovered my own enlightenment. I don’t want to be Tom Cruise or an NBA star. I love being me and being a part of the life I create around me.

I found my Peace in the Deserts and Mountains of Utah and Nevada years ago. Back then I lived wild with only my dogs. I avoided all human contact and rode into the backwater towns for supplies under the cover of darkness. I began to find ways to heal myself.

Everyday I stood in a steep walled canyon screaming “WHY” until I could scream no more and “WHY” didn’t matter.

I wrote everything I could remember that haunted me. The deaths, the bodies, the betrayals. The failures, the near misses, the luck, the survivor guilt. Every night I would burn it all and start over the next morning. I pounded my fists into the red dirt and howled into the night like the wounded Animal I was. I learned how to forget – how to forgive – how to find a place for my Memories. I was troubled by my past and found my own way through it. I learned to look inward to find what caused me to react to the World in the ways that I did.

For me it started with rage. When I had my career I had explosive fits of rage. The rage had a home in me and served me well in the fights but when the career was over I didn’t want to lose control of my mind anymore. I waited and watched. As a new rage would build in me I would do my best to sense every aspect of it. To smell, feel, taste it. To feel it building. Once I was familiar with the beginning of my Rage I waited for it and visualized putting a trash can lid over it. I tried and failed many, many times to stop it.

Then one day I was able to stop my rage. In that moment I was changed forever. For the first time in my life I felt the reins of my mind in my hands. I was in control and things have been better ever since. I have shared this technique with others who have been effected by PTSD and it has been helpful for some of them. I have not experienced an explosive fit of rage since that day. I learned to take control of other parts of my mind that I didn’t like to. Fewer things bothered me.

This is the Peace I speak of. A Peace of knowing oneself. Of being able to look inward and control what causes you pain or pleasure. To not be troubled, to know what makes you tick.

This is the Peace I’ve found

Michael of the Distant Mountains

Recruits

When I trained Recruits at the Sheriff’s department I would make this request of them. Before we began I had them bring me a photograph of themselves. I told them to make it one that showed their likes, who they were.

Once I had my hands on this photograph I would have a very serious conversation with this new recruit. The words went something like this.

“I will teach you to be the big bad ass police, how to drive fast – kick ass and carry a gun but you have to make a promise to me now”.

“When this ride is over be it a year or a career you will TRY to go back to this person (pointing at photograph). You WILL be changed by this. You will become hard, suspicious and mean in some ways. Always remember who you were”.

I would then tuck the photograph in their breast pocket and tell them to always keep it there as a reminder of this promise.

I have spent years searching for myself. These writings are part of my journey.

Bad day for Frank

Frank was my mentor and he is a Brother of mine. He is a fire plug of a man who served as a submariner before becoming a Cop. We experienced much together. After my first 3 years on road patrol I was promoted to Detective. It was there and then that Frank and I formed a bond that endures to this day. It was Frank that taught me the art of the Interview. He taught me the guilt that consumes some men wants to get out. You have to create a way for it to happen. No matter how horrible or disgusting the crime you will have to “understand”.

During the interrogation of a pedophile I have said something like this, “Look I understand how this happened. Your niece was bouncing around on your lap and your dick got hard, you wouldn’t be a man if it didn’t”.

The hook was set. He thinks I’ll understand his particular perversion. It all makes me sick to my stomach to think about it now.

The confessions were worth the price.

I digress. I started writing about a bad day for Frank…

Frank and I were on the Hostage Negotiations Team or HNT together. Frank was a seasoned veteran of the Department with a varied background. His primary assignment was Polygraph operator. He conducted two interviews each day.

We were both on call for any HNT call outs. Most of them went something like this.

A drunk gets pissed because his neighbor’s dog won’t quit shitting in his petunias. The drunk blast the neighbor’s dog in half with a shotgun while it’s hunkered up. The police get called and the place is surrounded. The drunk takes a pot shot out the window. SWAT and HNT make the scene. Most times, after hours and some sobering up, the perp would surrender.

Well, that’s the way it worked most often.

In the “Old Days” things were done differently. Now negotiations rarely take place face to face.

Decades ago Frank was called out on this job. A Vietnam veteran had returned home and had trouble adjusting to his reclaimed life. He drank too much. He was pissed off at the VA for not giving him the meds he thought he needed. Then he got arrested. Then he got a bad case of cancer. Then his wife left him, taking his daughter with her. Then she sent the Sheriff’s Office out to check his well being. Then he barricaded himself with a shotgun under his chin.

Frank entered the residence and did a face to face with this desperate human being. His name was Frank too. He sat on the end of the bed with the shotgun between his bony knees. Only once, over the next 2 hours, did he make eye contact with Frank.

He spoke of Vietnam, of cancer, of his daughter. He howled out in real emotional pain. Frank listened and tried his best to reach out but he knew he wasn’t getting through. Frank had real problems without solutions.

Frank of Vietnam began to cry. He wanted his daughter to get his death benefit and life insurance payments. He knew that if he committed suicide that would not happen. It would be one of the last things he cared about. His love for his daughter was powerful.

SWAT had the place surrounded. Vietnam Frank said he was done talking and he told Frank to leave the room. Frank begged him over and over not to do it.

“You don’t want to witness this” said the man of short time.

“I can’t leave” said Frank.

For the first time Vietnam Frank looked Frank right in the eye…

“Sorry Bro” – BOOM

In that moment Frank was changed forever.

Frank would pay another price. He told everyone Vietnam Frank had leaned over to reach his coffee cup and the shotgun accidentally discharged.

Everyone knew he lied.

A dead man’s wish was fulfilled.

Justice is sometimes strange.

Crackhead Red

I worked as an undercover narcotics officer for years. I was loaned out to the Michigan State Police. These years were some of the most intense and enjoyable of my career. I was part of a Buy Bust street crew, the Crack Attack Team (CAT). We targeted gangs that sold crack cocaine on street corners and their dope houses. There were lots of cold hits, drive-ups and controlled purchases. We banged our own doors (made our own Search Warrant drug house entries) – sometimes three a day. We conducted Trojan Horse Operations – We assisted other departments with everything from surveillance to busting hookers – Everything was fucking funny.

This happened then…

CRACKHEAD RED

My throat was dry and every muscle tight as I shut off the ignition. I gulped the last of the 40 ouncer and shoved the empty under the seat. I could feel the tape of the wire pull against my chest as I rolled out of the beater. I could feel the heat of the transmitter taped to my back. Under my breath and into the wire I muttered “Fuck you Flash” just to let him know I still loved him.

My brothers would cover my ass yet again.

This was my first undercover narcotics purchase since being loaned out to the State Police. “Rolex”, the paid informant, knew the crack slinger as “Red” and that he was out of Detroit and twitchy. Red had based his one man operation out of a Michigan Avenue flop motel.

There would be no intros on this one. My best and only plan was to walk up to the door and knock. What happen from there was the great unknown…

FOUR HOURS EARLIER:

Shamu was on the ram and I was third through the door. Festus was right in front of me, my hand on his shoulder. The door exploded into wood splinters and shrapnel. Rebel lets loose with a War Cry.

Into another crack house with extreme force and determination we go.

Shouts of “State Police, Search Warrant“ and “Get down” fill the air.

ONE HOUR EARLIER:

I dump my raid gear at the O and get ready for the cold deal with Red. Rebel is in the bathroom with me, helping tape the transmitter to my body. He cracks one joke after another throughout this dance of ours. Him with the tape and jokes, me with my pants around my ankles. He reminds me to get a 40 ouncer of State Police purchased beer for the ride. Rebel’s jokes ease the tension as always.

In his deep southern drawl Rebel whispers into my ear, “Ya know we’re gonna have to quit meeting like this”.

We test the wire before leaving the O.

RED:

I pound on the door and notice the matching rhythms of my beating heart. Red answers.

Red has reason to be twitchy. He has moved into the territory of others and set up shop. He pays tribute to no man. He is an independent owner/operator. I can tell he deals to feed his habit which, from the looks at him, must be a monster. He is a man that hasn’t slept in days and knows his run is coming to an end.

Passed out in the bed, face down, was a $20 crack whore I’d arrested many times before.

“What the fuck you want”?

“Crack motherfucker, what the fuck you think I want”. That seemed to piss him off but his hunger for money to feed his hunger for Crack took over.

“How much you want”?

Well it turned out that Red was fresh out of Crack but he knew where we could score some “right around the corner”. My plan evolves to include a walk to a crack house with my newest best bud Red. Off we go. I can feel the transmitter riding up my back.

I figure that between the wire and the surveillance team somebody might stand a chance of figuring out the newest plan.

So we walk into a rundown neighborhood just off of Michigan Avenue. Most of the homes were two stories and split into rentals. I notice Festus drive by and feel better about the plan, or lack thereof.

Boom, Red makes a right turn into a backyard and we’re up the stairs and pounding on the door of this newest target. I had an uneasy feeling that the surveillance team might have missed my sudden change of direction. I would learn later that my suspicion was right, the team knew I was in one of three houses but that was the best they had. I didn’t see any address as the door opened. Inside Red and I go.

This newest shit head then did something that sent the hairs on my neck rising. He barricaded the door with a 4X4 timber. Not only did the team not know where I was but if they did they weren’t getting in without a tank. On top of that the transmitter was in and out.

Fuck me, stay cool.

So Red and shit head go into the kitchen leaving me with the babies and the babies momma. Well it turned out that shit head is fresh out of Crack too but he knew somebody that could bring some right over. The plan evolves again.

So there I am for the next 90 minutes sitting in a upstairs loft looking out the window watching Sesame Street with the kids and the crack heads.

Finally the crack dealer shows up. He takes one look at me and “No fucking way am I selling to homie. He looks like a fucking cop”. Red, my newest best friend, then starts lying his ass off telling the dealer he had known me since we were babies and how his daddy use to fuck my momma. Too fucking funny.

The deal(s) go down and the dealer immediately leaves. Red and shit head and the babies momma all start pinching my bag. I start bitching, grab what’s left and head for the barricaded door. My new best friend Red didn’t even say goodbye.

Out the door I go into immediate Chaos.

Shamu comes flying up asking where the hell I’d been. He fills me in on the intermittent wire issue and the Team not knowing where I went. About then Red comes out higher that hell from his just smoked rock. Rebel and another Team member chased him down and tackled him head first into the neighbor’s rose bushes. I see them dragging him back out right the way he went in. He resembles a bobcat attack victim. One down.

I look down the street and see two of the surveillance vehicles have pinched the dealer’s vehicle against the curb. Flash is pointing guns and screaming orders. Two down.

Neighbors start to come out of their homes.

I hear sirens in the distance fast approaching our location.

I look at Shamu and say “I think we’ve caused enough damage here, our work is done”. He belly laughs and I load up with him as he takes me back to the flop and my beater.

TWO HOURS LATER:

There is a tradition within undercover circles that goes something like this. When you “Get your cherry popped” you pick up the bar bill for the whole team.

Not only was my team bellied up at the nearest bar but two other crews showed up along with the big boss. We broke bread, laughed and relived the funniest parts of the day.

Popcorn, one of my bosses, leaned over and asked “So how does it feel to buy drugs for the first time”? I chuckled and said “Popcorn that wasn’t the first time I bought drugs. That was the just first time I bought drugs for the State Police”…

12 HOURS LATER:

Log evidence and write numerous arrest reports and get ready for the next deal or door.

PHOTO:

Me – Then. That’s a uniform you can’t take off. I was shooting for the Charlie Manson look. I got profiled by other Cops more than once and often followed by security while shopping. Family events were interesting.