Sandra Orchard: How To Become A Better Suspense Writer In A Weekend

Sandra Orchard

 

Attend the Writer’s Police Academy in Jamestown, North Carolina from September 23-26. And get a cool T-shirt in the deal! In addition to the popular Firearms Simulation Training (FATS), this year’s event has added a driving simulator, and for a few lucky participants, ride-a-longs in police cruisers!

Hi, I’m Sandra Orchard. Anita Mae, of Inkwell Inspirations invited me by to tell about my awesome experience at last year’s academy. Lee asked if I’d repeat the article here. So here we go.

The event is held at an actual training facility and offers an incredible array of hands-on, interactive and educational experiences to enhance a writer’s understanding of all aspects of law enforcement and forensics.

First there’s the equipment…

On opening day, almost every imaginable law enforcement and rescue vehicle assembled in the parking lot, and officers were on hand to answer our questions about the equipment. In addition to the sheriff and police command-post trucks pictured, there were motorcycles, cruisers, a fire engine, ambulance, bomb retrieval (that’s little R-2D-2 in the picture), dive team equipment, riot gear, and more weapons than an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

Nothing like handling the equipment, and talking to the officers who use it to add realism to your descriptions.

Second came the classes:
We could choose from a vast array of classes such as handcuffing techniques, fingerprinting, forensics, jail search, arson investigation, pepper spray demonstration—yes, one brave officer let himself be sprayed, crash investigation, tools of the trade, sprinkler demonstrations, the list goes on, and… my favorite, undercover work. Considering that I had just signed a contract for the first book in my “Undercover Cops” series with Love Inspired Suspense, I was anxious to glean all that I could from this class. Not only did Marco Conelli, former undercover cop turned writer, share many of his experiences, he gave us glimpses of what went on in his head and heart during that time, which is where the real meat of my heroes’ stories lie.

NYPD Detective Marco Conelli

On Day Two…
We arrived at the academy not knowing what to expect. It was kept very hush, hush. We were divided into two groups and ushered into the school one group at a time and stationed in the hall. You need to understand that this is an actual college and students were in classes. Suddenly an armed gunman, wearing a conference ID tag just like the rest of us came charging down the hall.

WPA001

click the link above to see the brief video

As you can see in the video it felt very realistic. Within minutes police swarmed the hall, took down the gunman, waited for the paramedics to assess him as others secured the building. One officer kept his weapon trained on the downed gunman until the paramedics ran a strip and confirmed he was dead. Officers then escorted the hostages out of the school to be interrogated separately.

You’ll notice in the picture that the hostages are escorted with their hands on their heads because they have no way of knowing if the gunman had an armed partner. Then we observed the paramedics treating a bullet wound in one of the victims.

Afterward, we were told that we’d observed a “Rapid Deployment Demonstration “provided by local law enforcement & GTCC students.

As a writer, being in the middle of it, hearing the shouts, gunshots, crying students, tasting the fear and panic and desperation, feeling the cloying atmosphere, I was able to absorb so much that I can now write into scenes in my novels.

FATS

Firearms Simulation Training was an added bonus for attending the academy.

We were given Glocks (some had stun guns) and faced with a floor to ceiling screen that showed videos of shoot and don’t shoot situations like the one pictured above in which the driver jumped out of the car and grabbed the officer from behind. Obviously, I (the partner back in the cruiser) can barely see the suspect, let alone take him down.

When we took a shot, the hit would show on the screen. We were surprised more than once by the post-simulation explanation of why we should have, or shouldn’t have, taken a shot.

For example, in one depiction a man held a baby in a car seat and was wielding a knife yelling at us to stay back. We’re calmly telling him to drop the weapon, unwilling to shoot because the guy might drop the baby! He’s not listening so our shouts grow more urgent. I don’t recall if a single one of us took a shot, because of the danger to the baby. The officer conducting the training told us after the scenario that any officer unable to take that shot would be kicked out of the academy. The man was a serious threat to the life of the baby and the officers and was not responding to instructions.

The most adrenaline-pumping moment for me was when I had to face a hostage taker alone in an office (as depicted on screen). A disgruntled employee had his boss in an arm lock and was waving a gun. I was telling him to put down the weapon, that he really didn’t want to do this etc. But to no avail. All the while, I trained my own weapon at the guy’s head—the only part of his body visible past the hostage. The instant he lifted his gun, I took the shot.

The guy’s brains splattered on the wall behind (yes, it looked as gross as it sounds). The officer in charge of the simulation turned to me and said, “Great shot.”

I pretty much freaked out on him, saying I could have hit the hostage. I was shaking, heart pounding. It was unbelievable. It gave me a whole new perspective on the split second decisions officers are called upon to make and the emotional havoc it can wreak afterward.

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In celebration of the launch of her Undercover Cops series, and to show her appreciation to her new readers, on September 30th, using random.org, she will choose one name from her combined lists of newsletter subscribers, Facebook fans, and blog participants. The chosen individual will receive a $25 gift card for their preferred online book distributor. The winner will be announced on her blog on October 1st. If you’d like a chance to win or simply wish to connect, here’s how to reach her:

Visit her website ~ www.SandraOrchard.com

Visit her personal blog ~ http://www.SandraOrchard.blogspot.com

Connect on her Facebook Page ~ www.Facebook.com/SandraOrchard

Subscribe to her newsletter ~ http://bit.ly/OrchardNews

Sandra Orchard writes inspirational romantic suspense set along the northern shores of Lake Erie in the heart of the Niagara region, Canada. In 2009 she won Daphne DuMaurier Award of Excellence and sold to Harlequin’s Love Inspired Suspense the following year. She is an active member of ACFW, several RWA chapters including Faith Hope Love, and The Word Guild. When not writing, she enjoys hanging out with family, especially her new grandbaby, brainstorming new stories with fellow writers, and hiking or kayaking in God’s beautiful creation. Her newly released debut novel, Deep Cover, is the first in her series, Undercover Cops: Fighting for justice puts their lives—and hearts—on the line.
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Point Your Tale In A New Direction: Patrol Cops v. Detectives

Point your tale

 

Why does almost every crime novel feature a muscle-bound, sharpshooting, fast-driving, marathon-running, cool-as-hell detective? What is it about the suit-wearing police officers that attracts a writer’s attention? After all, detectives are normally the last officers to see any real action. They’re rarely in shootouts. They hardly ever chase fleeing suspects. And they almost never get their shiny shoes dirty. In fact, their job is pretty mundane—see a body, collect some evidence, send evidence to a lab, talk to some people, evidence results return from the lab, get a warrant, arrest the suspect (or have a uniform pick him up), testify in court, and then start all over again. And many detectives have been on the job for years and years, NOT doing much more than the above, which may begin to take its toll—flabby muscles, poor shooting skills, slow reaction times, couldn’t run if they wanted to (and they don’t), and hot flashes.

Writers are actually going about this thing all wrong. Bass-ackward, as some of the old-timers on my old beat used to say.

Patrol officers are the guys and gals who see all the excitement—going toe-to-toe with 350lb crooks who refuse to be handcuffed, shooting it out with armed robbers, 110mph vehicle pursuits, chasing armed robbers through dark alleys, getting bitten by dogs, removing unwanted 20-foot-long snakes from beneath mobile homes, rescuing people from burning cars and buildings, performing CPR on unconscious and unresponsive drug addicts, climbing in a window after a burglary suspect, capturing prison escapees, wading into a street filled with drug dealers, gang members, and prostitutes, and rescuing tiny puppies and kittens. Now there’s the complete package—excitement and action along with a tender side. Who doesn’t love puppies and kittens, right?

So let’s explore this concept a bit further. Lots of people are attracted to fit men and women in uniform, right?

But how many people are attracted to older detectives who wear rumpled, out-of-style suits and scruffy facial hair?

Ridiculous to even consider, right?

Patrol officers hit the gym regularly. They have to so they can match muscle-for-muscle with the thugs they arrest on a daily basis. Detectives, well, they do ride by a gym or two while on the way to their colorectal pre-surgery appointments.

Patrol officers hone their skills every single day. They’re out there in the trenches, staying sharp, looking sharp, and acting sharp. Investigators start their day in their offices, drinking a cup of coffee while solving the daily Jumble, using a pencil crudely sharpened with the pocketknife they carry for peeling apples.

Uniformed officers are the front line officers, the “faces of the department.” Therefore, their hair is neatly trimmed, clothing neatly pressed, and shoes shined to glossy perfection. Detectives are often seen wearing t-shirts, old jeans, and sneakers. And the last time their hair saw a set of clippers was the time they spent an entire Saturday morning attempting to groom the family Lhasa Apso.

Patrol officers stare into the face of danger. Detectives work “undercover.”

Patrol officers fight crime. Detectives wait until everything is over before “going in.”

Patrol officers rush into active crime scenes to save the victims. Detectives serve search warrants in the middle of the night, hoping to catch the bad guys while they’re sleeping.

So give this a little thought when you sit down to dream up a character for your next thriller. Do you go with bass-ackward tradition, or will your tale be facing a new direction?

Besides, who do you want saving your puppies, a fit, handsome patrol officer…

Or an out-of-shape, poorly-dressed detective?

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9-12: The Day The Hope Began To Fade

9-12: The Day The Hope Began To Fade

I purposely didn’t post a 9-11 tribute yesterday. Instead, I waited until today, because the “day after” was a time when many people first began to grieve. You see, 9-12 was the day when families realized that their wives, husbands, fathers, mothers, siblings, grandparents, and friends would never return to them. For many, the hope that their loved ones had somehow survived, carried on throughout the day and into the night on 9-11. Waiting for a phone call that never came. Perhaps a glimpse of their beloved on a TV newscast. But deep inside, everyone knew it wasn’t going to happen. Still, the hope was there. Yes, it was possible that somehow, someone escaped the disaster.

But it wasn’t to be.

Then, on 9-12, reality began to set in. Their worlds, and ours, had changed forever.

On 9-11, I was inside a federal building just outside Washington D.C. I saw the billowing black smoke rising from the direction of the Pentagon. I heard the sirens. I saw the panic. I saw the horror unfold on a portable television sitting on a security officer’s small metal desk. And I also heard the sickening cheers and laughter coming from many federal prisoners who were from countries other than ours. They were ecstatic that the U.S. was under attack. In fact, a handful of those people who were celebrating the attacks were citizens of the U.S. I’ve never forgotten those sounds of elation and the expressions of pure joy on their faces, and I probably never will. And I’ll never understand how people can be joyful when innocent people are murdered.

Terrorism is absolutely one of the ugliest words in the dictionary. And terrorists who kill innocent people, well, I sincerely hope this is the next to the last thing they see on this earth.

But the last thing I hope they see is this, with U.S.A. stamped all over it, in large, bold letters.

 

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A Few Of My Heroes

A Few Of My Heroes

The Graveyard Shift is just another blog to many of you. But if you could take a moment to step behind the curtain, you’d see that it’s actually much more than just a blog. There are dozens of people all across the country, Canada, and the UK, who give their time so the visitors to this site have the opportunity for an insider’s look into the world of cops and robbers. And, by writing this blog, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting some wonderful new friends. Here are a few of the people I called on when I needed information for my book (many of them have also contributed to this blog, and to your stories). By the way, many of these officers and experts have a hand in bringing you the Writers’ Police Academy. The first four (below) are chiefs of police who’ve been kind enough to allow us “inside” their departments over the years. They, and the rest who follow, well, they’re definitely some of my heroes.

Of course, there are many, many more, but these photos were the first in file. More to come…

Thank you all, for all you do.

*Please check the Writers’ Police Academy website and schedule. It is being updated almost daily.

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Luck: The Other DNA

Luck: The other DNA

Like all investigators, I’ve solved hundreds of cases, and many of them were real head-scratchers that involved tons of leg-work, phone calls, laboratory analysis, fingerprinting, and interrogations. But out of all the cases, one really stands out in my mind. And it does so because of the reaction it brought from the brand new, still-wet-behind-the-ears detective who was riding with me that morning. He’d asked to tag along to learn the ropes from one of the “old guys” who still believed that knocking on doors and talking to people actually solved cases.

We received the call, a B&E, at 8am, before I’d had a chance to down my daily cup of jail coffee (I liked to stop by the county jail for morning coffee and a “BS” session with a few of the deputies there). The jail coffee was horrible, but the company was great—a bunch of crusty old-timers like myself who remembered the days when every cop carried a leather SAP in their back pocket, and actually used them on a regular, as-needed basis (SAP – a flat, lead-filled blackjack-type weapon).

The B&E had occurred at a local business sometime during the previous night. The thief had kicked in a rear door and removed several hundred dollars from the manager’s hidey-hole beneath one of the display counters. Nothing else was disturbed, and nothing else was missing. The thief clearly knew what he wanted.

My first reaction was to wonder why the midnight shift patrol guys hadn’t seen the wide-open door and broken jamb. My second was to examine the large footprint (explaining how I knew the crook was a “he,” unless somewhere out there was a gigantic woman with flippers for feet) beside the still-locked doorknob. The third was to ask the manager, a young woman with her long, straw-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail, if she remembered anyone in particular who’d shopped there the day before. She rattled off a few names of the customers she knew by name, but went on to say that the store was very busy and there was no way that she could remember everyone. I understood, but my attention had already zeroed in on one of the names she mentioned—I. Will Steel. I’d arrested Mr. Steel a few times over the years for various small-time crimes, including B&E.

I walked back to the door, crossing a checkerboard of red and white floor tiles, to have a look at the shoe print again. My young partner was busy taking photos, dusting for prints (inside a store that sees hundreds of customers each week), frantically writing down everything anyone said, and stepping on my heels…constantly.

After having a final look at the door, I told the manager that I had everything I needed and that we’d be in touch very soon. Then I told the rookie to pick up his toys and get in the car. I had someone I needed to find and talk to, right away. He looked puzzled, but did as I asked and tossed his little fingerprint kit, camera, impression evidence kit, and other junior G-man tools onto the back seat. When he finally slid into the passenger seat I couldn’t help but chuckle and told him to have a look in the mirror. His pasty-white face was now smeared with black fingerprint powder. In fact, he had so much powder there that he sort of reminded me of Dick Van Dyke’s chimney sweep character from Mary Poppins.

So we pulled out onto Main St. heading south and had traveled, oh, maybe five blocks when I quickly made a U-turn, turned on my blue lights and siren, and stopped an old, beat-up foreign-made car. I jumped out and was standing at the driver’s side of the rusty jalopy before the rookie had a chance to open his car door. I asked the driver if he’d please step outside a moment so I could talk to him about a very pressing matter. He did.

By now, my partner had managed to clean himself up a bit and was standing beside me when I asked the driver to hold up a foot so I could see the soles of his shoes. He did.

Then I asked the driver to turn around and face his car, with his hands behind his back. I handcuffed him and told him he was under arrest for the B&E of the little store down the street.

My partner just stood there with a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face as the man, I. Will Steel, calmly said, “Yup, I done it, but I was gonna pay her back.”

Later my inexperienced partner asked, “How could you have known?”

“Well,” I said. “It was an easy case to solve. Steel had been in the store the day before. He’s known for committing petty crimes—”

“But the shoe print…you hadn’t taken it for analysis. There was no real proof.”

“No, but it was close enough for probable cause,” I said. “And the little pink-haired troll hanging from the rear-view mirror gave us PC for the traffic stop. But,” I added. “It was the look on Steel’s face when we passed him on the street, the ‘I’m guilty’ look, that sealed it for me. And that look is something you’ll have to learn to recognize. Oh, and he had a hand-held police scanner lying on the front seat. He’d heard that were there and was going to drive by to see what we were doing. I don’t know why they do that, but they do. Can’t resist.”

“Still…”

“But the most important element that solved this case is one you’ll really learn to rely on during your career.”

“What’s that?” he said bringing out pen and paper again, because I really had his attention at that point.

“Luck,” I said. “It’s something that needs to remain in the top drawer of your toolbox. Believe me, in this line of work you’re going to need it. And lots of it, too”

*My former partner continued on to become a fine investigator and is now “top brass” with a police department in a major U.S. city. He claims to now know “the look” and relies heavily on luck.

 

 

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A Day As A Detective: A Twenty-Four Hour Ride-A-Long With Me

A day as a Detective

As was the norm in those days, my alarm clock sounded a little less than five hours after I’d closed my eyes. The day before was a long one, and this one, like all the others, would be no different. There was a world to save and I felt as if I were the cop assigned to the task. Looking back, I know I tried hard, but it was like spitting into the ocean. Ignorantly, I plowed forward anyway.

I was up at 5:30 am, just in time to see the sun rising over the tin roof of my neighbor’s house. I like sunrises and sunsets, my favorite times of the day. But this particular sunrise had come much too early for my liking.

A hot shower was usually all it took to recharge my batteries. Well, that, and a couple of long sips of Diet Coke and two brown sugar and cinnamon flavored Pop Tarts. Didn’t do much for me this time. But I had a lot on the schedule. I had to get moving.

This was a day I had carefully mapped out in the preceding weeks—dope buys, surveillance, etc. There was a large marijuana field I was going to bust, and a certain crack dealer was going down later that night. I had search warrants to write, informants to meet, a raid team to assemble and brief (I never told anyone about my operations until it was time to move. No leaks that way), searches to conduct, pot plants to pull, tons of evidence to bag, tag, and inventory, arrests to make, and, well, you get the idea. A busy day was ahead.

I dressed in my “trod-through-the-woods clothes”, old jeans, t-shirt, and jump boots, complete with my nylon belt, the one with the Velcro fastener. That belt made wearing a gun a real breeze. You simply slide the holster on it and then press the hook and loops together. Not even a problem after over-indulging on a hefty Thanksgiving Day meal. Nope, fits every time. And it easily held the weight of a fully-loaded SIG Sauer without the usual sag that often occurs while wearing a leather belt and gun (watch a plainclothes cop and you’ll sometimes see them pulling up on their gun due to the its weight pulling down on the belt and pants).

Anyway, by 6:15 I was climbing into my unmarked car, signing 10-41, our code for “I’m officially on-duty now.” At 6:40 I parked in my personal space behind the PD and walked the fifteen steps to the back door where I hit “the button” that was positioned beneath a large security camera. After having a good look to see who was at the rear, private entrance, the dispatcher buzzed me inside. I walked through a large room with hideous green tiles covering the floor, and made my way through the maze of old metal desks that served as a single office for the patrol officers on duty. It was here that they brought in their night’s catch—drunks, robbers, rapists, thieves, and murderers—for questioning and processing. The uniforms also completed their paperwork in the “green room.” And, they met there at the beginning of each shift for muster, to receive their daily assignments and briefings. The green room was, however, almost always empty when I passed through at that time of the morning.

By 9am I’d completed the search warrants and affidavits and was on my way to the magistrate’s office to raise my right hand and swear that the information I’d typed  was true and accurate to the best of my knowledge. Two hours later, a raid team—20 officers, all dressed in camouflage—had assembled in the Green Room and were listening to my instructions. Within an hour after leaving the office in a parade of unmarked and marked police vehicles, our team “hit the woods.” I’d been watching the plot for several weeks, so it was no surprise to me when we finally, after hiking for quite a while through thick brush, poison ivy, and goldenrod, came upon the plants…hundreds of them. But a few of the officers seemed quite impressed at the operation—pallets of fertilizer (Miracle-Gro, a pot-grower’s favorite), creek-fed, elaborate watering systems, top-of-the-line tools, generators, and a guard dog tied to a tree. Some of the plants were 14-16-feet tall. Somebody had a real green thumb.

Well, no sooner than we’d begun pulling the plants, I got a call. I was needed at a murder scene. Then, a couple of hours later, or so, while I was wrapping up at the homicide, I received another call. One of the traffic officers had stopped a car and found what he believed was the mother lode of cocaine. Turns out he wasn’t far from wrong. But I’d barely finished up there when my radio crackled again. “Officer needs assistance!” Yep, I was quite close, so I headed over to help handcuff a guy that had pretty-much gotten the best of one of our female officers. She’d attempted to arrest him on a warrant, but he decided to punch her in the nose, first. The officer and I went a few rounds with the man before finally getting the cuffs on his thigh-size wrists, but not before adding another quarter-size dent in the hood of her police car.

Oh, by the way, have a look at the hood of some police cars. Those quarter-size dents are not from hail damage. Nope, they’re actually nose-prints left by people who resist arrest.

By the time I finished with the “officer-needs-assistance” call, the raid team had wrapped up and was heading back to the office. It was nearly 3pm. So I, too, headed to the office to begin writing the search warrant and affidavit for the drug dealer’s residence. But, on the way back to the office my radio sounded off again. “Shots fired. Man down. Rescue is on the way. Are you close?”

The search warrant would have to wait until later, during my second eight hour shift of the day. And I haven’t mentioned all the little things, the phone-call-fires to put out, calls from prosecutors and other attorneys regarding on-going cases, calls from other detectives regarding on-going cases, calls from the chief who wanted updates about ALL on-going cases, calls from other agencies regarding their on-going cases, and, well, it was never-ending.

Yep, I had a world to save, but not enough time in the day to do it. And you know what? It’s the same world today. I should’ve spent more time with my family. Hey, maybe I should’ve taken the time to write a book…

*By the way, the above photo was taken sometime around 3 or 4am (within the same 24-hour period that we raided the pot field), after I’d served the search warrant on the crack dealer’s house. I must’ve been exhausted because I forgot to remove my pistol while fingerprinting one of the suspects. A deadly no-no. Notice how close his left hand was to my weapon. I was lucky, I guess, that he was as tired as I was.

 

 

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Outsourcing: My Very First Attempt At Writing

Outsourcing: First writing attempt

 

Have you ever run across any of your early writings and wondered what was going through your mind when you put pen to paper that day? Well, I found the very first story I ever wrote and I don’t have a clue what I was thinking about when I pounded out this one. Anyway, I thought it might be fun to share. Here goes.

Outsourcing

Moments ago, the palette of reds, oranges, and purples streaking across the horizon gave way to night’s inky blackness. The sun had finally given up, surrendering its position to a fall moon that hung heavy and swollen just above the horizon. Its milky glow pushed through the twisted and knobby branches of the huge old oak, splattering bits of sparkling, diamond-shaped yellow light across the tired lawn.

Puffs of wind shoved and swirled ribbon-like waves of dried leaves along the cracked asphalt street, making clicking, ticking sounds as the crisp pieces of foliage tumbled and danced along the deserted tarmac.

As he glanced toward the flittering movement in the roadway, an icy chill swept over his jacketless frame. Turning towards the house where his wife lay sleeping, he saw the once toothy jack-o-lantern left over from Halloween. The pumpkin had begun to rot, oozing liquid into the rotting lumber that served as the top step on the porch. Its sagging, twisted grin seemed to mock him.

Time was slowing, and sounds were gradually disappearing, as the oak’s big limb groaned from the stress of the foreign weight. The thick rope tightened around his neck as the massive tree struggled against the gravity that tried to free him.

His feet came to rest two inches above the cool earth, swaying gently, sweeping the tips of the too-tall grass he’d neglected to trim last week. Finally, his grip loosened and the crumpled lay-off notice he had clutched so tightly for the past hour, swirled and drifted to the ground.

Outsourcing…it’s for the good of the company, they said.

There’ll be other jobs…

You’ll be okay.

He wondered, as his last breath rose gently to mingle with the autumn air, if anyone would miss him.

 

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Friday’s Heroes: Remembering The Fallen

Friday's Heroes - Remembering the fallen officers

 

The Graveyard Shift extends our condolences to the families of each of these brave officers.

Probation Officer Tiffany Bishop, 24

Georgia Department of Corrections

August 31, 2011 – Probation Officer Tiffany Bishop was accidentally shot and killed when a loaded weapon accidentally discharged during a firearms training exercise at the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison.

Agent Emiliano Torres-Soto

Puerto Rico Police Department

August 28, 2011 – Agent Emiliano Torres-Soto was shot and killed when he attempted to quell a disturbance involving several men. Agent Torres-Soto intervened when he saw one of the men brandish a handgun. He was shot multiple times by multiple suspects. Agent Torres-Soto is survived by his wife, two sons, stepdaughter, parents, and five brothers.

Sergeant Mark Scianna, 49

Bexar County Texas Constable’s Office – Precinct 3

August 27, 2011 – Sergeant Mark Scianna was killed in an automobile crash while responding to an emergency call. He is survived by his three sons.

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Two Heads Are Better Than One: Working The Graveyard Shift

Two heads better than one

Citizens are rarely allowed to see the private lives of police officers. From the public’s point of view, cops are sometimes seen as uncaring, gruff individuals with little or no sense of humor. Nothing is further from the truth. Many police officers I worked with thought of themselves as the ultimate practical jokers.

After all, what could be funnier than squirting a thick cloud of pepper spray under a locked restroom door while your partner is in there with his uniform pants around his ankles?

And, taking and hiding a fellow officer’s patrol car after he left his keys in the ignition while in foot-pursuit of a fleeing suspect, was another favorite trick. Watching him frantically search for the missing vehicle, while wondering how to explain the loss to his supervisor, was hilarious to the pranksters. There were times, however, when the last laugh was on the comedians.

In the South, winters can be brutal. The nighttime cold and bitter winds pierce the uniforms of cops like rifle-fire. As patrol deputies, we thought of every excuse available to hang around the office on those nights of unforgiving temperatures. And graveyard shifts were the worst for the cold. And, they were the sometimes the worst shifts for boredom. So, to pass the time, we dreamed up some of the wildest practical jokes imaginable. Our victims were fellow officers, dispatchers, and the jail staff.

One particular night, a couple of the guys borrowed a department-store mannequin and quietly smuggled it upstairs inside the county jail. There they dressed the mannequin as an inmate, in orange, jail-issue coveralls. The plan was for two of the deputies to make their way down the steps while pretending to fight with the dummy. The scuffle was to end at the office of a graveyard-shift dispatcher who thought of herself as the queen of all jokesters, whose most famous prank was baking homemade Christmas cookies laced with a very strong laxative. The mannequin idea was supposed to scare her into sending out an officer-needs-assistance call; we all expected a good laugh when she realized the joke was finally on her.

The officers began the descent down the stairwell, yelling and screaming as they neared the dispatcher’s station. When they rounded the corner and were in full view of the poor woman, the “fight” became more intense. The dispatcher stood to see what was causing the disturbance and, as they expected, she panicked—big time. Just as she reached for the microphone to call for assistance, the head fell off the mannequin. The wide-eyed dispatcher watched in horror as it tumbled down the steps and rolled to a stop at her feet, face down.

Thinking the deputies had decapitated the poor inmate, she promptly fainted and struck her head on the concrete floor. An ambulance had to be called, an accident report had to be completed, and the sheriff had to be notified—at 3:00 a.m.

The dispatcher was fine, but when the sheriff arrived, real heads rolled.

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