Raindogblue

Intent

 

Tonight, as Grumpy interviewed

 a domestic violence victim, the suspect, 

handcuffed and sitting on the curb,

 stared into my eyes and said to me,

 “I like you, but if two didn’t have guns.

I’d fight you handcuffed, 

and I’d lose cuz’ you are big.”

 

 

 

Resist

 

A quarter past the witching hour, I forget my crime blinders. I ignore my upcoming vacation, the plane flight at 7 AM. I creep, crawl, through the side streets, the small streets of the Breakers, looking for mopes and prowlers drifting in the dark.

I spot two in the park, two women sitting on the swings after hours.

It’s time to clear the park.

They spot me and drop half-full cans of Four Loco. The alcohol seeps into the wood chips covering the playground as I approach.

You are under arrest.

There’s no alcohol allowed in the park. You are violating park closure hours.

There’s more beer in a bag at their feet.

The gal on the right, twenty-eight, a two hundred plus pounder on a five foot four frame, asks, “Is there anything we can do not to be arrested.”

It’s possible, but I first need to see your IDs and you need to pour out the rest of the beer.

If they are cooperative, if they are clear, I’ll let them go with a warning and a possible park exclusion.

The gal on the right gives me her ID.

The gal on the left does not.

“Why do I have to show you my ID?”

Because you are under arrest.

The gal on the right, twenty-three, tall and thin, is drunk. Red eyed and reeking of beer, she slurs her speech.

There’d be no warnings.

I need to see your ID.

The gal on the right speaks, “Be a good girl and give him your ID.”

I lock eyes on the  gal to the left, assessing intent.

I need to see your ID.

She complies and hands her license to me.

I keep my eyes on her and slide it into my back pocket.

I need you to pour out the beer.

“What beer?”

The beer in the bag.

“But it’s capped!”

It’s a violation of city code to have alcohol in the park, capped or uncapped.

“But it’s not opened yet.”

She’s growing angry.

You cannot have alcohol in the park, opened or unopened.

Her friend says, “Just pour the beer out. You can’t have it in the park.”

The thin gal  growls, “I want my ID back. Give it to me!”

No. You are under arrest.

Time for the cuffs. Time for the custody.

Stand up.

She does.

I take her right wrist and elbow in an escort hold.

She screams, “LET GO OF ME! I’m going to KICK you in the BALLS!”

She spins, tries to break free, then turns and starts to punt.

Arm bar. I move without thought, reversing the wrist, rolling my forearm over the back of her arm, step forward, pivot, and drive her down in the bark chips. Knee in her back, I cuff her left hand. Her right hand is pinned between the ground and her chest.

Give me your hand, your right hand.

She screams, she bucks, she almost throws me off.

Give me your hand.

Her reply is all fucks you and death threats and she starts to mule kick.

I avoid the first few, block others by shoving my thigh against hers, blunting the blows.

This is stupid. 

I’m not going to hit her. I’m not going to kick her. With her left side pinned down, I can’t cross draw my taser.

And then, the other gal, the stocky gal, begins to circle behind me, left to right.

She closes

A man with his dog stands next to her.

Crap. Am I going to have to fight three?

He leans forward and says, “Stop resisting. You have no right to fight the police. Let him handcuff you.”

Better odds: one ally, one enemy, one in between.

The thin gal kicks again.

Right.

Back in the fight.

Time to increase the force.

I pepper spray the right side of her face without warning with one two second blast.

It buys me a second. I grab my lapel mike.

7David4 out with two. I need a car.

All the dispatcher can hear is swearing and screams.

I’m going to pepper you again.

She responds with fury, cranks back a kick.

Fine.

I spray a two second burst onto the right side of her face.

My spidey-sense tingles. 

In-coming motion.

I glance up.

The other gal, the two hundred pounder, charges, slamming into me with a pair of fists. He right hand strikes my face, scratching my chin. Her left hand hammers my right shoulder.

Her right hand cocks back.

I shove her back with a forearm shiver, deflecting the blow from my face to my shirt. She shreds it. Tearing the fabric. Leaving the badge dangling upside down.

I aim the pepper at her. Fire. Nothing happens. The can is clogged. I huck it away. 

The man steps in, grabs the stocky gal, and pulls her away as I feel hot breath on left cheek. 

It’s the dog, a small lab, jaws inches from my face chewing the inverted pepper can, biting down and trying to swallow, looking for attention, affection, and praise.

Good boy. Drop the can.

The dog runs off to chew it in a victory lap.

I can hear the sirens. 

Cover arrives....... Sully, Edge, Ridge, and the rest of the east river gang.

The two are cuffed and put in cars.

 The thin gal is still screaming to fight as I shake the dog owner’s hand, and ask him to retrieve the mobile pepper spray can. 

 

 

 

 

Shoplift Gone Bad

A shoplift gone bad is a strong-armed robbery.

Fight a clerk over an attempt at theft,

and you've committed a felony

The Red Dot of Truth

I understand you want fight,

but are you willing to be tasered?

With a red laser

leveled at their chest,

few people answer, "Yes."

Satan

My first ride in an ambulance

was back when I was a pup;

boots still black, barely broken in.

Multiple burgs in progress

blasted out of the radio.

All caused by the same man,

smashing his way into houses, 

destroying what lay at hand,

only to race out the back door

through the back yard into the next house

repeating his intrusion and havoc

in a line of destruction ten blocks long.

The calls all coming out of sequence.

My old coach said,

"Head five blocks ahead of the last call.

We'll find him there."

We did. 

Half naked, stripped shirtless, screaming,

"I'm Satan! You'll all burn!"

he charged the patrol car.

My coach coated Satan in a stream of pepper spray.

"I'm melting! I'm melting," screamed Satan 

as he threw his hands in front of his face.

Without thinking, without pause,

I lowered my shoulder and charged.

Satan collapsed  as I hit him

square in the stomach

and tackled him to the ground.

A blue tide of arriving officers followed

forming a pig pile of hands and feet and heavy officers.

When Satan was cuffed, 

my coached looked for me, 

but couldn't find me. 

Relieved to find me at the bottom of the pile,

he said, "You'll do alright. 

Now, get in the ambulance and guard Satan. 

I'll follow you in the patrol car."

The ride was unremarkable.

Satan kept his eyes shut

insisting he was dead.

Friday

Friday was May Day. Friday was Hats and Bats: prepare for the protests, the black bloc and their backpack of tricks, a homeless group is threatening to take over a city park and turn it into a Hooverville.

It's the day of Lebowskis as they shamble in bathrobes to beer.

Vespa packs run amok blowing through red lights in a long parade.

It's warm. The sun's out. It's payday.

At roll call, we learn the department is officially pulling the plug on the precinct. We cease to be on June 8th.

It's hopping. The dispatcher needs cars before we're 10-11 and logged in.

I've a call that's held for a half and hour, but first, I need to cover my wingman on a call at the county line. A drunk man wants to die. He'll wait for us outside. In the best conditions, it's a twenty minute drive. In rush hour, on a Friday, I'll be lucky to arrive in forty-five.

He's easy. He likes the police. He's a drunk at the bottom, a veteran who wants help, but he can't wait two months for an appointment at the VA. We get his shoes in a house stained in dog shit.

The dispatcher needs one of us to break away: Car versus bike in the South Village. The next nearest car is four miles away. As soon as my wingman gives me leave, I head that way to find nothing. I circle the blocks. Fire is staging. I ask for an update. After a call back, the dispatcher states the two exchanged, bicyclist rode away. I clear cover, check the box, and take the holding call. It's moldy, an hour and half old, and the victim is still waiting. Her car was hit at noon. She reported it at four. I'm five and half hours late on a hit and run. Make it a double: Two cars hit, parked on the shoulder, an older driver brushed by swiping mirrors. The other victim drove away at three. At least, I have a plate. It's registered in the middle of East Precinct to a couple in their 70's. I make a few phone calls. Both victims don't want to press charges. They just want an exchange. I find the car, chastise the owners, and fill out a pair of exchanges. I call the victims, let them know the other half's info, then drive back to the precinct to drop their copies in the mail.

Task accomplished, I clear and point the prowler towards the Villages, starting the southward slog. As I hit the South Village Road from the Breakers, a theft comes out:

"70 year old man stole a tip jar from the sandwich shop on the highway. He was last seen walking east."

The area check is UTL. I stop at the sub-joint. It's a strong-arm robbery.

The old man took the only two bucks in the jar. When confronted, he raised his fist and threatened to 'bust up' the small female clerk. The man was last seen west, not east, heading to Breaker's Bridge. I check west with my wingman, at the park and in the transient camps.  We check the fast food dives and corner gas stations. No one has seen anything.

I find Tin-man with another beer. He dumps it and I'm satisfied.  It's after eight. I need to write the robbery before I bury myself in more paper. I find my favorite hidey hole and start to write.

A minute later, the dispatcher broadcasts, "Car driving at high speeds north in the southbound lanes of the divided state highway."

I'm a block away. I hit the lights and go.

A half mile down the road, Stewie has parked his prowler in the northbound fast lane. He points across the southbound lanes, over the shoulder to the brink of the bluff. The black compact has missed the edge by twenty feet.

Not wanting to risk running across the highway, I race another half mile to the cut out. Foolio passes me on the way.

When I arrive, they're fighting with a big man in the black car. He's facing the wrong way. He keeps pulling away. They can't control him. The can barely contain him.

There's not enough room for me to join the fight.

Call for more cars. I'm going to taser.

"Taser Him!"

The big guy's screaming, "Kill me! Just Kill me! Give me your worst!"

Stewie moves, exposes the man's stomach. I fire. The probes hit. The marker confetti sprays into the car. He screams, seizes for a second, and returns to the struggle.

Taser, Taser, Taser.

"Drive stun him!"

I do. I hit him in the leg, the back. It's does nothing to him. I know the taser is working. Pulses from the current are blasting into my elbow and Stewie's.

A woman keeps walking from Foolio to me, spaced out, stating, "I'm the greatest." I try to change cartridges, but she's in the way.

The man starts to break free.

I change tactics. I pull out my pepper spray.

Pepper, Pepper, Pepper.

I aim through the open sun roof. Blast a two second burst in the center of his face.

Stewie circles, helps Foolio pull the man out the driver's side. By the time I round the car, he's crouched and ready. I pull his head down, try to pin it with my knees. He goes down, hits the ground belly first. He's starting to breath hard with me on his back. Foolio and Stewie still can't control his arms. He's too strong.

I dry stun again and again. It has no effect.

I try two side strikes, try to collapse his guard. It has no effect.

We need more hands.  I radio.

I reach for the arm Stewie is struggling with. Four hands on one,  we bend the wrist back, reverse the arm, pinned with four hundred and fifty pounds of body weight. We get one cuff on, then the other.

The man is still screaming, but he's slowing down, short of breath. 

Foolio worries he's suffering from cocaine psychosis and excited delirium. Medical units check him out. He's too high to answer any questions. He says he's used all drug and nothings

. 

Foolio talks to the gal. They've been smoking "wet." We've not sure if it's a sherm or joint laced in PCP. Eitherway, he can't go to jail. He could die on the way.

I search him before we put him the gurney. I find crack cocaine, not rocks, but part of a wafer, the size of casino dice. I slip him a cite before the ambulance leaves.

Traffic comes and investigates. 

When Foolio arrived, the woman was in the driver's seat, foot floored on the gas, unconscious. The man was trying to beat the woman awake.

Fullio sits the tow as Stewie and I go back to the precinct to write. I finish at two-thirty.

Breaking a Beef

Tonight, Hunter and I respond to a beef.

A gal found another woman in her boyfriend's bed.

When we arrive, the two are slugging it out on the floor, trading blow for blow. The other woman is winning with a wicked right hand and better reach.

I scan the room.

Clumps of hair litter the floor.
The boyfriend watches the spectacle.

Which one should be here?

The boyfriend won't answer.

Another fist finds a home.
Time to stop the fight.

Ladies, I'll pepper spray ya both if you don't ... stop ... fighting.

Fists raised, they freeze.

Move apart.

They can't. They won't. It doesn't matter.

I grab an arm, drag a gal one way.
Hunter pulls the other gal the other way.

The fight's finished.
The beef's broken.
The investigation can begin.

Zombie: Part II

The fight's done. Cover has yet to come.

Pinned under my knee, the man stops struggling.

The paramedics standing by rush in.

The naked man won't talk to me, but he can't stop talking to the EMTs.

He's bi-polar, he hasn't taken his meds in weeks, and is high on cocaine, alcohol, and heroin.

The medics clean him. They wipe off the blood, and staunch the bleeding. He needs stitches. He has to go to the hospital.

The sergeant arrives as cover. He hands me his taser cartridge to replace the one I have fired. A plan is made. The other officer stays at the crime scene. I get hospital duty.

When the medics are ready, I follow the ambulance to the hospital.

He's rolled into the ER cuffed to the gurney. There's no waiting. The ER has been waiting for us. We go straight to a room in the back of the ER. It's filled with people in scrubs and security. There's a doctor, nurses, assistants all swirling around the naked man.

The charge nurse asks me a dozen questions. The doctor repeats them. The social worker pulls me into the hallway. She wants the same answers.

Then, I hear the doctor ask security to uncuff the man.

I turn to the room.

NO!

It's too late. The naked man, freed, stands up, and tosses the security officer aside.

The room erupts in panic.

"I feel great! I'm going home!" he grins, knocking the doctor and staff aside.

I rush in. He rushes at me.

I growl.

Get back on that bed.

As the staff escapes the room, the man charges, trying to break by me like an absurd game of Red Rover.

I block him, grab his arm, try to force him down with an arm bar, but he spins away.

He's wild. He's not looking to fight. He wants to get away.

The hospital bed has shifted in the melee. It's not locked down. I kick the hospital bed into his legs. It knocks him back.

He recovers quickly, retreating behind the bed to avoid me. As I move, he shifts left and right. The bed is the cobbler's bench. Who's the monkey? Who's the weasel? I tire of the chase.

I counter with the bed. I kick it, then shove it into his legs with my thigh, trapping him against the wall.

The bed has bought me time. I squeeze my mike, radio for cars, but radios don't work in ERs. All dispatch can hear is "cover," and the man screaming.

Duty done, I draw my taser, aim, fire. Hit, he falls. I let the cycle count down.

Do I have to do this again? Or are you going to cooperate?

The fight's done. I shove the bed aside, pinning him down with my knee. He's bleeding all over again.

When the first car arrives, we handcuff him back to the bed.

He is strapped down shortly afterwards by the hospital staff as the ER fills with officers who could not hear my 10-61 and request to cancel cover on the radio.

Breaker Park

I patrol parks after they close at midnight to clear them out, and shut them down.

As I came along the back side of Breaker Park, I could see it was occupied. Four transients sat smoking in the dark. I knew Blonde. I'd seen the girl. The other two, I didn't know. One looked like a wino. The other made the hairs on the back of my neck prick. He smelled like a wolf.

I put myself out at the park on the box.

I spoke to Blonde as I scanned the hands and eyes of the others. The wino, the girl, and Blonde all looked at me. They all produced ID's. They knew the routine.

The other one wouldn't. He tried saying nothing. When it came to ID, he had none. I asked his age, and DOB. They didn't match. He gave an unusual spelling for a common name.

He got the bullshit stare.

I could see the others, the wino, the girl, and Blonde, all start to scoot away from him. As I played the name game, they would all look at him, then me, then away, as he lied.

I could smell a warrant. I patted him down, and took a knife and pair of long scissors off him. I called for another car, so I could have pair of hands and eyes.

As the new dispatcher acknowledged, a car on the far side of the precinct stopped a mope, and then asked for cover.

I walked the man back to my car, had him sit on my bumper. If he moved, I would feel it when I ran him on the MDT.

He sat.

I got in the car. I moved my hand to the MDT, and watched.

He looked back, and took off running.

Ready, I launched out of the car, and called foot pursuit on the radio.

As I began to gain on him, I could hear the other officer call out the same thing. Two foot pursuits, simultaneously. Now there is a rare thing. Cover began flocking to the other officer. The air was tied. Cars confused.

I concentrated on the task at hand.

He ran north along the park, and turned down the first driveway at the end of the property. He trapped himself. There was a fence, a garage, a house, and me. There was no where to run, no where to hide. A mope would have surrendered.

A wolf strikes.

The wolf ran at the garage, and then pushed off like a wrestler hitting the ropes of the ring. He came rebounding toward me. He didn't even try to run around me. He charged, hands balling into fists, ready to fight.

There was no time to pull out my taser. There was no time to pull out my baton.

I struck, right handed, connecting with his left temple. My fist snapping his head back. His legs buckled. He dropped to a knee. I struck again, not thinking, not feeling, all aggression and instinct, driving down and twisting, my fist hitting his cheek.

The blow knocked him off his feet. He collapsed to the concrete. He lay stunned, eyes rolling back into his skull.

Time to finish the fight.

I dove in, knee to his hip, my hands to the closest wrist. He was handcuffed before he knew what was happening.

I went 61, had him stuffed, his real name, and his warrants, before the first cover car arrived, and the adrenaline had burned away.