In the world of make believe, the place that exists in the minds of writers and readers alike, THIS is how the story begins … for the savvy writer. So go full screen, crank up the volume, and hit the play button. Oh, and please do watch to the very end (after the credits). You know how I like twists and surprises!
For details – Writers’ Police Academy
Lt. Aaron Allan
EOW – 7/27/17
Lieutenant Aaron Allan, 38
Southport Indiana Police Department
July 27, 2017 – Lieutenant Aaron Allan responded to a rollover crash and as is typical of these calls, officers run toward the scene hoping to help or save victims. As Lt. Allan approached this one, though, one of the occupants of the vehicle opened fire striking him multiple times. A nearby witness says at least twenty rounds were fired.
Sadly, Lt. Allan succumbed to his wounds.
He leaves behind his wife and young son.
Lt. Allan walking his son to his first day in school … yesterday. He did not live to see his son return home. ~ Photo posted to Facebook by Lt. Allan’s sister.
Lt. D. Heath Meyer
EOW 7/24/17
Lieutenant. D. Heath Meyer, 38
Oklahoma Highway Patrol
July 24, 2017 – Lieutenant D. Heath Meyer was struck and killed by a patrol car involved in a pursuit. He’d deployed stop sticks and as two patrol cars attempted to avoid the spike strips they collided. One of the two police vehicles then struck Lt. Meyer.
He is survived by his wife and two daughters.
Police officers do not shoot to kill, nor do they shoot to wound. That, my friends, is the answer to the question.
Already confused? I thought so. Here’s how it works.
Police officers are taught/trained to stop a threat to human life. U.S. police officers are not soldiers and criminals are not enemy combatants. Contrary to the belief of some people, U.S. streets are not battlefields where cops shoot first and ask questions later. It cannot and does not work that way. Instead, a police officer’s job is to enforce the law and protect property and life.
In a perfect world there would be no crime and we’d all be safe, all the time. But our world is FAR from perfect, therefore, cops are tasked with arresting those who break the law. Unfortunately, some bad guys choose to not be arrested and will do what it takes to remain free, including trying to kill police officers. And, they may also choose to seriously harm or kill others during the commission of their crime(s). These two scenarios force officers to resort to deadly force to stop the threat to the lives of others, and to themselves.
Back to the earlier statements—police officers are not taught to kill anyone, nor are they taught to “wound” anyone. Officers do not aim for hands, feet, firearms, etc. Instead, during a deadly force confrontation—when lives are at stake, officers are taught to shoot center mass, meaning the center of their target. If all they see is the suspect’s head, then that is their target. If they see the entire body they then aim for its center.
The reason behind not shooting to wound is pretty simple, actually, and here’s why. Most police officers are not sharpshooters. Not even close. To expect them to hit a fast-moving target, such as an arm or leg, while under duress, is unrealistic. Hands and arms can move across the body as quickly as 12/100th of a second. From hip to shoulder in 18/100th of a second. The time it takes a police officer to pull the trigger on one of the faster reacting trigger pulls, that of the Glock, is a slow 1/4 of a second. And that’s if the officer has already drawn his/her sidearm and has it pointed at the suspect.
“Drawing” a service weapon
It’s nothing short of impossible for an officer to see the threat, react appropriately, unsnap the holster, perform the required series of motions to free her weapon from the security holster, think about what she’s doing, decide whether or not the threat is real, and, if so, pull the trigger (I’ll bet you didn’t know there are a combination/series of actions required to remove an officer’s pistol from a security-type holster).
Oh yeah, she’d also have to take time to aim for the arm, hand, or leg. Impossible. No way. No how. Can’t and won’t happen, not even on her/his best day.
Then there’s this. Suppose the officer somehow managed to hit the suspect’s arm, or hand, or foot? Well, that leaves the suspect’s free hand to continue his attempt to kill the officer or other potential target, such as a wife, a bank teller, a child, and, well, you get the idea. Wounding someone, hoping that’ll stop them from killing is stuff you see on TV. It’s just not that way in real life situations.
I’ve seen bad guys continue shooting after being struck by several rounds. Actually, I was in a shooting situation where the bad guy continued to shoot after being shot in the head once, and in the center of his chest four times, and he still got up and ran several yards. I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. In fact, I was the detective who shot him. I was also the detective who ran him down and tackled him. Five wounds.
Does it matter when the suspect holding the gun is a woman?
Therefore, being wounded, even severely wounded, does not necessarily stop a threat to human life.
Now, back to “shooting to kill.” Can you imagine the liability involved, not to mention public outcry, if police officers were trained to kill people? I’m not aware of any police agency in the U.S. that teaches/trains officers to kill, by the way. There may be one, but I wouldn’t want to work for them. Deadly force, yes.
But to respond to a threat by intentionally planning to kill someone, well, in my book that’s murder. Not many people would sign on with an agency if they were told they must kill people as part of their daily duties—write speeding ticket, respond to kids playing in traffic, kill the guy standing in front of the Piggly Wiggly, go on lunch break.
In a shootout officers typically do not have time to aim.
Sight picture – downrange
Instead, they revert to their training—draw, point, and shoot for the center of the target. Shootings involving police officers most often happen in a matter of seconds, and usually at very short distances—a mere few feet. In fact, these close-range situations occur so often that officers train quite a bit at shooting from short distances, without taking aim. They’re taught to draw and point their weapon at the center of the target, or as close as they can get to the center.
Again, even at greater distances, there’s still no time to stop, take a proper stance, draw a weapon, take careful aim, ask the offender to stand still so the officer won’t miss and hit an innocent bystander, and then fire. So officers shoot for center mass, the largest portion of the body they see. That’s it. Nothing more, and nothing less.
Question – Take another peek at the photo above, the one where the woman and officer are in a standoff in the alley. If the officer fired his weapon at the woman, would he be justified in doing so? Suppose he killed her? Should he then be charged with murder? Think carefully, and then please post your answers in the comments below.
This bit of information brings us to the recent officer-involved shooting in Minneapolis, where Officer Mohamed Noor fatally shot Justine Damond, an Australian woman who’d called to report what she thought might have been a crime-in-progress.
Officer Noor is the first Somali police officer to be stationed in his precinct. The area he patrolled has a large immigrant population. It was believed by Minneapolis officials that Officer Noor could help bridge the gap between immigrants and the police.
Ironically, a day before the shooting, a lawsuit was filed accusing Officer Noor and two of his fellow officers of misconduct—violating a woman’s rights by illegally taking her into custody. The woman, like the Australian woman shot by Noor, had also called police for help. Officer Noor was one of the responding officers.
Noor is accused of taking the woman’s cellphone and then pinning her arms in a manner that immobilized her, which, by the way, sounds like a typical arrest or other scenario where officers are placed in situations where they must restrain someone, even temporally for their safety, the safety of the suspect, and the safety of people nearby.
But the lawsuit, for now, is apart from the current situation. Was the shooting of Justine Damond a justified shooting? We’ll discuss this case tomorrow here on The Graveyard Shift. You might be surprised to “hear” what I have to say.
*Remember, the idea is to stop the immediate threat. If the bad guy surrenders, then the threat to life is over and the officer switches to an attempt to restrain and arrest.
It’s the year 2525 and yes, man is still alive. Things are different, though, in that scientists have unlocked the secrets of altering and editing genes.
Experts began gene-altering for the purpose(s) of having the ability to switch on the “good stuff” and turning off “the bad characteristics.”
With this process in full play, the U.S. government (they control all gene altering) hired numerous “gene editors” who were once former employees of major publishing houses.
When the Great Book Plague struck in 2500, well, book editors and agents were left twiddling their thumbs. This transition was a no-brainer. Gotta pay the bills, right?
Red pencil
So, with red pencils in hand and the luxury of never, not ever, having to respond to emails, the former literary folks hopped into their teleporters and zipped over to the DARPA headquarters situated on WIP123, the meteor tethered to the spot where New York City once sat. There, the editors and agents were divided into two groups—one responsible for gene drive and genetic remediation technologies, while the second … vivo therapeutic applications in mammals.
I know, a huge leap from the written word to dealing with live mammals (some of you will recall that literary agents are mostly solitary creatures who often avoid contact with other humans, especially writers). But, upon closer examination, the change is not all that drastic. Think about it. Book editors and agents are tasked with finding the good in a manuscript. Then, using a red pencil they trim away all the bad, leaving behind a desired product.
Genetically altered turtle
The same is true when altering the genes of living things—trim away the bad and leave the good.
This entire process started way back in the year 2017, when the U.S. government awarded DARPA grants to seven teams—The Broad Institute of MIT and Harvard; Harvard Medical School; Massachusetts General Hospital; Massachusetts Institute of Technology; North Carolina State University; University of California, Berkeley; and University of California, Riverside.
Those scientists were tasked with collecting empirical data and developing an assortment of versatile tools that would work to support bio-innovation and combat bio-threats.
The idea was for the seven teams to devise and develop biomolecular “instructions” that provide actual and reversible control of certain genes in living systems. They were also to go even deeper by devising drug-based countermeasures to provide the ability to prevent disease, as well as offering treatment options.
Edited “Tweet”
Gene editing is designed to protect the integrity of the “good genes” in populations of organisms, as well as providing a means of detecting and eliminating unwanted engineered genes.
And …
Okay, enough Sci-Fi. This is happening right now. Today. In the United States.
Those seven teams mentioned above are currently hard at work devising means to switch on and off genome editing in bacteria, mammals, and insects.
Angry mosquito in need of intervention
The plan is to limit or protect against future biological threats, reverse mutations caused by exposure to radiation, develop an “off switch” in mosquito species relevant to human and animal health, gradually improving mosquito performance (little or no malaria), regulating invasive species, target species that spread Zika and Ebola (for example).
The program could go a longs ways toward making the world safer, I guess. But at what cost? Well, other than providing an income for all of those out of work editors and agents … in the year 2525.
So, what are your thoughts about our government having the capability of altering genes to force living things to behave according to the desires of government officials? I know I don’t mind at all. In fact, I signed up as human guinea pig to help further the research. And, you know, I haven’t seen a single thing go wrong. Not one side effect.
Saturday 2345 hours – It was not at all unusual for the sheriff to schedule his patrol deputies to work the graveyard shift alone, covering the entire county with our nearest backup—a state trooper or a police officer from a nearby city, or a deputy or two from the next county over—sometimes 30-45 minutes away, or more.
At first, the thought of covering such a vast amount of real estate was a bit daunting. But we did it without complaint. After all, to question the high sheriff, a man as rough and gruff as any typically stereotyped southern TV sheriff, was practically a death sentence. Or, at the very least, a guaranteed trip to the unemployment line.
The boss seemed to enjoy applying pressure, holding his employees held tightly beneath his thumb. Needless to say, at times conditions, were a bit stressful, to say the least.
So this particular Saturday night, after enjoying a nice, hot TV dinner (single dad with daughter away for the weekend), I did the usual routine of walking to my driveway where I took a seat behind the wheel of my milk-chocolate-brown patrol car. I checked the light bar and wig-wag headlights to be sure they were working properly, moved a pair of cheap sunglasses from the dashboard to the center console, and then used the radio to let dispatch know I was on duty.
A few minutes later I was deep in the county, making the rounds to the various businesses—hotels, restaurants, bars, convenience stores, nightclubs, etc.—to let the night shift employees and partiers see a police car cruising through the parking lots. Not that it was any real crime deterrent, but it made the lonely clerks feel better. Seeing another human let them know they weren’t alone in the world. Those of you who work the late-night shifts know the feeling.
I also drove through the lots of businesses that had closed hours earlier, shining my spotlight through storefront windows and into alleyways, checking doors, and calling in the license plates and VIN numbers of cars that shouldn’t be parked where they were (sometimes a quick check revealed a stolen car or one that was used while committing a crime).
0115 hours – A little over an hour into the shift and I’d already covered a lot of ground. Nothing major had occurred. I’d checked a vehicle I spotted a hundred yards down a dirt path—a couple of half-dressed teens who’d steamed up the windows in dear old dad’s station wagon—, stopped a car that suddenly veered from one side of the road to the other (the guy, a sort of rough boy with a large scorpion tattoo on his neck, said he’d dropped a Twinkee onto the floorboard and was trying to retrieve it, causing him to jerk the steering wheel).
I was heading to the north side of the county to make my rounds there when dispatch called to report a disturbance at a south-side hotel next to the interstate. She said she’d heard yelling in the background and then what could’ve been gun shots. I was at least 20 minutes away.I made the trip in fifteen, driving like a bat out of hell with my foot jamming the accelerator to the floor.
On the way, my alternating headlights, the rotating overhead lights, and the strobes in the back window, all winked and blinked and flashed at once, but were totally out of sync with one another. To add to the confusing light show, Led Zeppelin’s Black Dog spewed from the car speakers. John Bonham’s syncopated drumming, already sort but not quite of out of time with Page’s lightning-fast guitar licks, added a Twilight-Zonish back-beat to a constantly revolving kaleidoscope that should have been quite distracting. I, however, paid it no mind. Tunnel vision is normally a cop’s nemesis. This time, however, it kept my focus on the roadway and not the ten ring circus that was going on in and outside of my patrol car.
As I approached the chain hotel’s parking lot I turned off my lights and the radio (Zeppelin had long since finished their time on the turntable and the Beatles were then in high gear). I keyed the mic and signed 10-23 (arrived at scene).
The lot was packed with cars of all types, but I saw no signs of a fight. I decided to drive around the hotel to hopefully get a feel for what was going on before speaking with the night manager (often, callers exaggerate situations).
When I rounded the first corner I quickly realized that this was no exaggeration. I needed backup, and plenty of it. There must have 200 people outside, with at least 75 engaged in a massive fight. There were another 15 or 20 going at it on the upper walkways.
I told the dispatcher to send everyone and everyone she could find. A second later I heard the dispatcher calling for troopers and any other available help from the nearest city. Shoot, they could’ve sent every cop on the payroll and that still wouldn’t have been enough to suit me. At that point, I’d have welcome a boy scout troop and a church choir as long as they didn’t mind possibly loosing a couple of teeth.
I even saw one woman in the midst of delivering a flurry of punches to the head of another woman. The recipient of the vicious pounding was overdressed for parking lot brawling, to say the least. I say this because each time she was struck, the pearl necklace she wore whirled around her neck like a cowboy’s lasso.
Delivering the “Hot Sauce.”
I checked my arsenal of weapons. I had my Beretta 9mm, a PR-24 (side handle baton), a riot-size can of pepperspray, and a shotgun. I looked back to the crowd. Then back to my little 9mm and tiny PR-24. Both seemed to be shrinking in size as the seconds passed. The odds were not in my favor.
I sounded a blast from my siren, hoping the masses would realize that the police were on the scene and ready to start kicking butt and taking prisoners. Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. Time for plan B, to sit in my car and wait for the cavalry, meanwhile, hoping the crowd wouldn’t turn my car over on its roof with me inside.
But doing nothing was just not in my nature. Instead, and sort of foolishly, I got out of my car with my trusty side-handle baton in my left hand and the other on my still-holstered gun. Somebody, and I didn’t care who, was going to jail.
Luckily, the troops began to arrive just as I hitched up my pants and waded into the pile, spraying a mist of pepperspray as I went. The other officers entered the fracas at different points, and we began to separate the instigators from those who really didn’t want to fight, but were because everyone else was doing it. 
Still, this was an all out brawl, the kind where police defensive tactics are often abandoned in favor of the ever popular “do-watcha-gotta-do” tactics. In fact, I remember seeing one officer using a baseball bat to prevent a group of men from attacking him. Where he got the bat, I haven’t a clue.
Eventually, the group’s size diminished and we were able to gain control with very few bruises, scrapes, and torn uniforms. Each of us arrested as many people as we had handcuffs and other restraints, and we had them packed in police cars like sardines. I’d arrived there alone, but left leading a long caravan of assorted police cars from several jurisdictions.
Once each of the little darlin’s had been booked and tucked in for the night, I thanked everyone for their help and watched as they all drove away. It was nearly 0500 when I headed back to the county for a final pass of the night.
0520 hours – Dispatch called to report a fight at yet another south-side hotel. Yes, she’d said, there were weapons involved and shots had been fired. Ironically, ZZ Top’s Sharp Dressed Man was playing on the radio at the time I received the call. I looked down at the spot where my badge used to be attached to my shirt. My shoes were scuffed and my pants had streaks of ground-in asphalt across the knees and along the side of one leg. The knuckles on my gun hand hurt and my lower lip was swollen. Sharply dressed, I was not.
I switched on my emergency lights and siren and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. Then I turned up the volume on the radio and I and ZZ Top headed south like a bat out of hell.
“Clean shirt, new shoes, and I don’t know where I am goin’ to…”
Man, I loved that job.
But these days, well, I’m 10-42 … Off Duty
Have mercy
A haw, haw, haw, haw
Jerome, a professional thief and drug addict who was no stranger to judges, cops, and attorneys, sat on a well-worn wooden bench outside a courtroom door. His attire for the day … an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs and ankle chains and white rubber shower shoes. The tile beneath his feet was scratched and dented and dull.
The wall behind Jerome was painted a mint green color and had a row of individual greasy head-shaped stains above each of the benches lining the hallway, stains left behind by the men and women who’d committed crimes ranging from petty theft to killing and butchering other humans.
Jerome was nervous and scared. He was also once a dear friend of mine.
Our bond began when we were teammates on our school football squad. We were the meanest and nastiest linebackers around and together we were practically unbeatable. In fact, it wasn’t unusual at all for an opposing team to go scoreless against us, and part of that success was due to Jerome’s and my (mostly Jerome) hard hits at the middle of the line, along with our regular sackings of quarterbacks.
Back in the day, Jerome was big and muscular and could run as fast as a frightened deer. He also carried a high GPA. The guy was smart, witty, and popular. He didn’t smoke, nor did he drink alcohol, and he was quite outspoken when it came to condemning drug use. He had hopes of getting out of the projects and attending the University of North Carolina, and possibly a career in the NFL. Drugs and alcohol were not a part of that picture.
In those days, our football days, my friend was a bit vain, though. He spent a lot of time grooming in front of mirrors, storefront windows, or any other reflective surface capable of returning his image.
He carried an Afro pick in his back pocket and frequently pulled it out to work on his hair, and he was forever mopping and rubbing and slopping gobs of lotion on his arms and face until his molasses-colored skin shone like new money. His perfectly-aligned teeth gleamed like the white keys on a showroom Steinway. And, for a big, beefy and manly guy, he smelled a bit like lavender garnished with a hint of coconut.
There in the courthouse, though, Jerome appeared weak and sickly. He was rail thin and his complexion was muddy. The whites of his once bright eyes were the color of rotting lemons; their rims, and the edges of his nostrils, were damp, just on the edge of leaking trails of tears and mucus.
His hands shook, and his teeth, the remaining ones, were spattered with black pits of rot and decay. His breath smelled like a week-old animal carcass. His fingernails were bitten to the quick and his hair was dry, uncombed, had bits of lint and jail-blanket fuzz scattered throughout, and it was flat on one side like he’d been asleep for days without changing positions. He smelled like the combination of old sweat and the bottom of a dirty, wet ashtray.
With a few minutes to kill before my first case was called, I took a seat beside Jerome, with my gun side away from him, of course. I asked him why he continued to use a drug that was ruining his life and could eventually kill him. His lips split into a faint grin and then he said, “Imagine the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, then multiply it a thousand times. That’s how it feels just as the stuff starts winding it’s way through your system. Then it really starts to get good. So yeah, that’s why I do it.”
Heroin (r) south east asian (L) south west asian
He clasped his hands over his belly, stretched his gangly legs out in front of him, and he started talking, telling me about the first time he got high and about the last time he used, and he spoke about everything between. He told me about about the things he stole to support his habit and he told me about breaking into his own grandmother’s house to take a few of her most prized possessions, things he traded to his dealer in exchange for drugs.
Jerome told me he performed oral sex on men out at the rest area beside the highway. They, the many, many nameless truckers and travelers, had given him ten dollars each time he entered one of the stalls to do the deed. He described the urine smell and how disgusted he was with himself when he felt the knees of his pants grow wet from contacting whatever was on the tile floor at the time. But whatever it took to get the next high was what he’d do.
Once, a man asked him for anal sex. He was desperate, so he agreed. Jerome said he was to earn twenty-dollars for enduring that painful and humiliating experience, all the while knowing the people in nearby stalls could hear what was going on. He said he’d read the graffiti on the wall above the toilet as a means to take his mind off the obese man behind him. When it was over the man pulled up his pants and left Jerome in the stall, crying. The man didn’t pay.
Jerome told me that he wasn’t gay—despised having sex with men is what he said, but he did it for the high, even though he often vomited afterward when recalling what he’d done. But the drug was more important. It was THE most important thing in his life.
Heroin Fentanyl pills
My high-school buddy’s habit cost him a thousand-dollars each day, seven days a week, unless he wasn’t able to produce the funds. Then he’d grow sick with the sickest feeling on earth. The hurt was deep, way down to his very core. Even his bones hurt. He’d sweat and he’d vomit … and vomit and vomit and vomit until the pain in his gut felt like someone inside was using a hundred power drills and another hundred jackhammers to assault his brain and lungs and emotions. His heart would slam against his chest wall like a sledgehammer pounding railroad stakes into hard-packed Georgia clay.
Then he’d drop to his knees in another restroom, or steal another something that would help make it all go away until the next time. And he’d do it over and over and over again.
Hydrocodone
Jerome was lucky. He was caught by a deputy sheriff who was passing by a house and saw Jerome climbing out—feet first—from a bedroom window.
He was awaiting arraignment the day I saw him sitting on the bench outside the courtroom door. A dozen or so other jail inmates occupied the nearby seats.
Jerome asked if I would call his grandmother to tell her he said he was sorry for all he’d done, and that he was starting to feel better and was ready to seek help as soon as he was back on the outside. I told him I’d tell her. Actually, I went one step further and stopped by her house to tell her in person.
Now, I said Jerome was lucky, and I say this because going to jail prevented him from using the drug he grown to so desperately depend upon. His body ached for it, yes, but he beat the sickness and lived.
Unfortunately, many have died because of that same ache.
How much prison time (for various crimes) could someone receive in federal court? Here’s the breakdown.
Police Procedure and Investigation
Drugs, Not Money, Are the Root of All Evil – Chapter 11 of Police Procedure and Investigation
The state of Oregon recently passed a bill to reduce some drug crimes from felonies to misdemeanors—possession of small, usable (typically not enough to sell) quantities of methadone, oxycodone, heroin, MDMA, cocaine, and methamphetamine. An offender is allowed two arrests before prosecutors may up the ante and charge the suspect with a felony. Officials say the law will help addicts, and that it will help reduce the number of minorities incarcerated in jails and prisons. They say the current laws unfairly target people of color.
The bold move is also a means, officials say, to help prevent offenders/users/addicts from falling into the lifelong situation of being unable to secure decent housing, good jobs, vote (in some areas), and even an education (student loans are denied because of some drug convictions).
For those people, there is absolutely no light at the end of a lifelong tunnel. No second chances, no matter what. Many grow weary of always living at the bottom rung of the ladder without a support system of any type, working menial jobs, if they can get a job, that is, and living in crappy apartments because a background check prevented them from renting in a nicer, drug-dealer-free neighborhood. So they re-offend and back to prison they go.
Keep in mind, state law does not supersede federal law, which still squarely places the above list of illegal drugs in the felony category. Therefore, arrested for small quantities of drugs by local Oregon police = misdemeanor. Arrested by the feds, in the same location, for possession of the same quantity (any amount) = felony. However, it’s highly unlikely the FBI, ATF, or DEA are planning to kick in Daryl Dope’s front door over $12 worth of cocaine. But they could.
Schedule I
Schedule I drugs, substances, or chemicals are defined as drugs with no currently accepted medical use and a high potential for abuse. Some examples of Schedule I drugs are:
heroin, lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD), marijuana (cannabis), 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine (ecstasy), methaqualone, and peyote
Schedule II
Schedule II drugs, substances, or chemicals are defined as drugs with a high potential for abuse, with use potentially leading to severe psychological or physical dependence. These drugs are also considered dangerous. Some examples of Schedule II drugs are:
Combination products with less than 15 milligrams of hydrocodone per dosage unit (Vicodin), cocaine, methamphetamine, methadone, hydromorphone (Dilaudid), meperidine (Demerol), oxycodone (OxyContin), fentanyl, Dexedrine, Adderall, and Ritalin
Schedule III
Schedule III drugs, substances, or chemicals are defined as drugs with a moderate to low potential for physical and psychological dependence. Schedule III drugs abuse potential is less than Schedule I and Schedule II drugs but more than Schedule IV. Some examples of Schedule III drugs are:
Products containing less than 90 milligrams of codeine per dosage unit (Tylenol with codeine), ketamine, anabolic steroids, testosterone
Schedule IV
Schedule IV drugs, substances, or chemicals are defined as drugs with a low potential for abuse and low risk of dependence. Some examples of Schedule IV drugs are:
Xanax, Soma, Darvon, Darvocet, Valium, Ativan, Talwin, Ambien, Tramadol
Schedule V
Schedule V drugs, substances, or chemicals are defined as drugs with lower potential for abuse than Schedule IV and consist of preparations containing limited quantities of certain narcotics. Schedule V drugs are generally used for antidiarrheal, antitussive, and analgesic purposes. Some examples of Schedule V drugs are: cough preparations with less than 200 milligrams of codeine or per 100 milliliters (Robitussin AC), Lomotil, Motofen, Lyrica, Parepectolin.
Felony arrest warrant served/executed by me after a stop and frisk led to guns, drugs, and cash.
My Friend Cayla is not the typical secret agent. Not even close. In fact, her identity is out there for the world to see and she doesn’t care who knows her capabilities. She’s that good.
Standing at a towering 18 inches and powered by 3AA batteries, Cayla is able to carry on conversations with your children. She can also ramble on and on about herself—likes, dislikes, and even her possible career choices as she grows older.
Yes, Cayla is a doll, a child’s toy labeled as a “mole” and recently banned by the German government because of her ability to spy on the people around her. The country considers the doll to be so harmful that the FNC, Germany’s telecommunications network, issued an order to the public, instructing them to destroy every single Cayla doll in their possession.
The order further instructed parents/Cayla doll owners to fill out a certificate of destruction and have it signed by a legitimate waste-management company official. The signed documents are then to be sent back to the FNA as proof the dolls were indeed destroyed. German law provides for aa potential fine of $26,500 and two years in prison as a general punishment for not following the FNA orders.
Cayla, you see, can be easily hacked by anyone within 30 feet of the dolls transmitting device. And, the Cayla dolls (also included are the i-Q Intelligence Robot) were found to be transmitting audio recordings to a third party specializing in voice recognition for police and military forces.
Banned in Germany, Cayla dolls are capable of spying on your kids, and you!
The dolls, designed as playmates for children, ask kids for their personal information—name, address, phone number, parent’s names, hometown, names of schools attended, and much more. All this without obtaining parents’ permission to collect the personal data.
The company producing the dolls says there’s nothing shady about the practice of collecting the data, which, they say, is used to enhance the experience of playing with an interactive doll.
Nuance, the company best-known for Dragon, the speech-to-text dictation software (I used it from time-to-time when writing my book on police procedure and investigation), is also a defense contractor that sells “voice biometric solutions” to the military and to government intelligence and law enforcement agencies. Nuance makes the interactive voice recognition system used in these toys (Cayla dolls, etc.).
Nuance’s privacy policy states “We may use the information that we collect for our internal purposes to develop, tune, enhance, and improve our products and services, and for advertising and marketing consistent with this Privacy Policy.”
It continues, “If you are under 18 or otherwise would be required to have parent or guardian consent to share information with Nuance, you should not send any information about yourself to us.”
How many 6-year-olds will keep that directive in mind when her best friend, Cayla, asks for her mommy’s name and where she works? You’re right – Zero. And, who’s watching for the person who’s truly directing Cayla to ask the questions spouting from her plastic mouth?
After all, it could be the kidnapper/rapist sitting inside the ice cream truck parked at the curb—the creepy guy who just learned from your 9-year-daughter that her mommy will out for a couple of hours, but her 12-year-old sister is babysitting, and sure, they both like ice cream. And, of course she promised her friend Cayla that would not tell mom or dad.
So … as soon as you’re out the door and out of sight, Mr. Stranger arrives at the front door with ice cream, balloons, and candy in hand …
The dolls are connected to an app (typically a parent sets it up on their phone(s). Once accessed, the dolls are in the control the hacker, and the information received is theirs to do with as they wish.
Data received and recorded can also be “voiceprint” for future access to “locations” without having to be physically present.
*Source – Consumerist, NPR, Washington Post… and me.
Before you read the first word word of the article below, I want you to know that it’s far from what I normally present to you. If the following text offends you, well, let me say right now that I apologize. I do not, however, apologize for the message. So here goes…
There’s been lot’s of name-calling and outright hatred spewing from the mouths of many people who are totally against law enforcement agencies utilizing what some are calling military-like equipment—armored vehicles, camouflage and/or night-black uniforms, Kevlar helmets and other protective gear, and automatic weapons. Those are only a few of the despised items, by the way. The list is long.
I recently read an article where the author, a “news” reporter, wrote that police officers absolutely do not need any of the aforementioned gear and equipment, nor should any of it be made available to them. The writer went on to say that officers should return to the days of six-shooters, avoid physical confrontations, and never, ever use deadly force. Instead, the writer suggested that officers should simply talk bad guys into giving up their weapons and ask them to surrender. No surrender? In that case, he stated that officers should be taught to passively disarm and handcuff the naughty folks and cart them off to jail.
Obviously, this person lives on a planet other than earth. And, there’s no doubt the author of that ridiculous piece has never, not once, come face-to-face with the business end of a gun or knife. Well, Mr. Don’t-Know-S**t, I’ve ducked a few rounds in my day. I’ve been cut and stabbed more than once. And I’m only one of thousands of officers who’ve “been there, done that”, and in my day things were nowhere near as bad as they are now.
It’s not a good feeling to think you’re about to die because some two-bit thug would rather shoot you or stab you than be arrested. By the way, a thug is a criminal. The term has nothing to do with race. Skin color makes no difference to me. A thug is a thug is a thug—green, blue, purple, or pink.
Metal boxes on wheels are soooo …. spooky, right? No weapons whatsoever! (Writers’ Police Academy photo)
Okay, where was I? Stabbings, I believe, and I’ll be the first to say that those particular wounds hurt. Knife wounds are extremely painful, actually. I occasionally feel/imagine the pain from my old wounds. It seems very real, at times. And to make stabbings and cuttings even worse, I’m not fond of bleeding so profusely that my hands are slimy and slick to the point where I can’t hold onto my pistol or handcuffs, not to mention struggling to arrest and handcuff the bad guy who’s trying to puncture my liver with his mom’s best carving knife.
Today’s bad guys are armed to the teeth. They train to fight and they practice shooting. They study police officers, trying to find their weaknesses. They develop ways to beat the system. And they kill cops. Let me say that again to be sure you heard me, Mr. Anti-Cop-Writer.
It’s almost like a game, or a badge of honor. Many of these killers are cowards, so they use high-powered rifles to ambush officers from safe distances. Some even ambush cops while they’re enjoying a meal, like the two cop-killers in Las Vegas a while back. Of course, there are the baby and child murderers who go to schools and shoot little kids to death. They, too, have used high-powered rifles. Whatever it takes to kill.
Do you think it’s fun entering a building not knowing what, or who, is waiting on the inside? How about entering a school full of kids and teachers, knowing a killer is there salivating at the idea of killing you. Sounds like a great time, doesn’t it?
Do you, Mr. Article-Writer, truly believe that cops enjoy the fear that causes them to sweat when the temperature outside is below freezing? Is it the perfect day when you tremble and feel your heart pounding against the inside of your chest because deep inside you know you could be shot and killed at any moment?
Even more horrifying is knowing that children are being slaughtered while you step across the lifeless bodies of those already dead. Sure, you’re hoping to save those still alive, but will you get to them in time? If only you had some of that protective gear, like the Kevlar helmet that would stop a bullet from ripping through your skull like a hot knife through butter. A real hoot, isn’t it? Yeah, a real knee-slapper. Fun, fun, fun.
The mere sight of the rear compartment of a police Bearcat is terrifying to all who enter. OMG, It’s a freakin’ metal box that stops bullets. That’s it!
Image this, just for a second, Mr. I-Hate-Cops. You’re at work, clacking away at the keys on your laptop, when the guy in the next cubicle stands up and yells, “I hate you!” Then he pulls out a pistol and shoots you and your coworker, Bobby Jenkins. No warning. Just four or five rounds to your head. The same to Mr. Jenkins, the former father of three little girls.
Or, your boss sends you to a client’s house to pick up some paperwork. You knock on the man’s door and the last thing you hear in your short 37 years of life, is a shotgun blast. Just like that, Mr. Do-Not-Know-What-I’m-Talking-About, your wife is left to raise your kids and care for your elderly mother while maggots feed on your flesh and beetles slurp up what’s left of your internal organs.
Would you not want all the protection you could possibly have to prevent being killed? Is it really so horrifying to see a cop wearing a pair of camouflage pants and vest, knowing that those simple things would help him make it home safe and sound, where his kids could feel his arms around them one more time?
Are you, Mr. Cold-Hearted-and-Clueless, so offended by a bulletproof steel box on wheels that you don’t value the lives of the men and women inside?
MRAPs save officer lives. They are not TANKS!! No weapons. none!
Those tools—that’s all they are, you know, not some evil contraptions built by a zombie king—keep officers safe. They keep the officers inside safe, and they keep them alive.
I know, you’d rather that police officers run into a hail of automatic gunfire carrying only a whistle and some really stern words. Well, Mr. S**t-For-Brains, I invite you to search for an armed cop killer in a dark warehouse, carrying only your mighty keyboard for protection. And when a robber kicks in your door and grabs your wife or daughter, don’t call 911. Instead, I want you to aim your computer mouse right between the rapist’s eyes and tell him to drop his weapon and leave your home immediately. Better yet, grab a whistle and blow it. I’m sure he’d tuck his tail and flee. Be sure to tell him he’s a naughty boy as he runs away.
Your argument, Mr. Chicken-S**t, about law enforcement wasting your tax money on those “so-called” toys is totally invalid. The equipment you see making its way into police departments is mostly surplus military equipment, and it’s free to law enforcement through various grants. I was in charge of the program at my department, and I made regular trips to a DOD warehouse to pick up various much-needed items.
Sure, I could’ve grabbed a hovercraft or a couple of armored vehicles because they were there for the asking and taking. Otherwise, the stuff just sits and collects dust and rust. Actually, there are acres and acres of unused rusty and dusty military equipment, so why not put it to good use protecting the lives of the men and women who keep even your sorry hind parts safe.
So there, I’ve had my say and I probably won’t address this topic again. As for the author of the article I read, well, it was obvious he’d used only the information needed to push his one-sided agenda (and possibly to sell a book or increase ratings). Unfortunately, people will read the piece and form a conclusion based on nothing more than one man’s hatred of something he knows nothing about. Absolutely nothing.
Finally, and this is to Mr. I-Hope-We-Never-Meet, I want you to understand something—many good men and women have died this year in the line of duty. They were out there protecting us.They did not deserve to die.
Some of those murdered officers were shot to death by ambush or other means. But it doesn’t matter how they were killed. What does matter is that they died while running toward the gunfire, when necessary, not by running away from danger. Had they been inside one of those free armored vehicles at the time, Mr. Article-Writer, well, chances are they’d still be here with us and their families, including small children.
German book translator Jeannette Bauroth behind the wheel of a police MRAP – No on-board weapons. None!
– One police officer dies every 58 hours.
– Nearly 60,000 officers are violently assaulted each year.
– There are are occasional stories about “bad cops.” Perhaps two or three in some weeks and none in others. Out of 900,000 police officers in the U.S., those numbers, even though bad, seem a bit smaller when looking at the whole picture. But the public rarely ever sees the big picture.
How many of these lives could have been saved had the officers been issued better protective gear/vehicles? Does the appearance of the equipment really matter more than the lives of good men and women who work long hours for low pay while protecting our families from harm? Wouldn’t you want your husband, wife, brother, sister, daughter, son, father, or mother to have everything possible to help keep them alive? Or, is a personal agenda/opinion more important than the healthy heartbeat of someone’s loved one?
I’ve heard this advice many times, Mr. Is-Probably-Afraid-of-Puppies-and-Rainbows, a real super-duper keyboard warrior, and it’s something you should try at least once … and that’s to write what you know. Hint … this topic wasn’t it.
Now I’m done…
*Please, no debate or arguments about gun control issues, or to bash cops. Take those things to your own sites, if you don’t mind. This stuff wears me out. Oh, no politics, race, or religion. They, too, wear me down.
*Photos of the police vehicles – Writers’ Police Academy. The reporter – typical keyboard warrior. No clue what life is like outside mom’s basement.
A weed eater that refuses to start no matter how many times I pull its cardiac-event-inducing rope. A leaf blower cut from the same cloth. An asthmatic air compressor. Pliers that no longer … ply (is that even a word?). And, well, you get the idea. My tools are broken.
It seems like just yesterday when I could sound the alarm, calling all my tools to be ready at a moment’s notice. And there they’d stand, handle to handle with looks of determination on their gleaming metal surfaces. Together, we could build or fix anything.
Recently, however, when I called my tools to action their response was lackluster at best. Why, it nearly took an act of congress (well, a congress that will actually do something) to get them out of their drawers and off the garage shelves.
When I finally managed to assemble my once faithful tools … well, I could hardly believe my eyes. What had happened to my rugged and sturdy friends? The screwdrivers, for example, were nervous and barely able to stop trembling long enough to connect with the slots on the screws needed to secure pictures and other do-dads to our freshly painted walls. Other hand tools were equally as shaky. It was a true puzzle. After all, they were all perfectly fine when I put them away after our last team venture.
Nuts, bolts, nails, and other fasteners were also in on the mysterious rebellion. The boxes of screws that line my workshop shelves quickly stepped forward to mess with me as well. That’s right, sometime between the last project and the new one, my assortment of sneaky drywall screws had reduced the size of the text on their containers. I couldn’t read the labels! I think it’s an attempt to prevent me from using any, keeping their twisted family members together.
There’s more—worn out wrenches, dead drill batteries, and to top it all off, my hammers are heavier than they used to be. 
What, I wondered, could they have possibly consumed that caused them to add all that extra weight? Was it due to a lack of exercise? Adding insult to injury, some prick glued my sledgehammer to the floor. Can’t budge it.
So, standing in the center of my workshop I slowly examined each item on each of the shelves. I was a visitor to an old-tools retirement home. Then it hit me, and my mind took me back to when I was a kid staying with my grandparents, something I did every summer.
My grandfather was extremely handy. He could build, fix, paint, hammer with the best of them. In fact, he may very well have been the best fixer-upper man on the planet. In my eyes, he was the king of all things hammer and nails. I watched him work and, in turn, I learned his secrets. AND, I recalled that he performed his DIY miracles using…broken tools. Yes, his tools, too, were in a shoddy state—hints of decay, worn pull-ropes, dents, nicks, scratches, and so on.
Broken tools – life is short.
#brokentools
My fingers in those days, small and stubby, were not of sufficient length to fully close around the handle of my grandfather’s rusty-red pipe wrench. Nor were my young muscles strong enough to heft the blasted thing from its spot in my grandfather’s homemade wooden toolbox, a box filled with damaged goods. While digging through the vast assortment of antiquities, I remember thinking that when I grew up I’d never let my tools get in such a state.
Well, it’s been fifty years since I first dug my paws around in my grandfather’s toolbox. It took me that entire half-century to realize that broken tools are THE sign that someone has reached the threshold that divides the uphill climb of youth to the point where it all goes downhill. And there, my friends, is the place where I am today, in the midst of broken tools. I have become my grandfather.
Now, I could sit around the house and pout and whine about my advancing years and the dismembered and rusty work implements in my garage. But that’s not me. I’m not yet ready to totally succumb to the dreaded “broken tool syndrome.”
In fact, I did what all adult men should do at the first sign of the dreaded disease. I drove straight to a local home improvement store where I purchased a new, battery-powered weed eater and a battery-powered leaf blower. Why battery power? Because I’m too freakin’ old to pull those ropes! That’s why. Besides, the city doesn’t allow large livestock (grazing animals) in our yards. 
They do, however, allow residents to own a few chickens, but they only eat bugs, not grass and weeds.
Yes, my tools are broken, but I’m not stupid. I know I’ve grown older and arthritis doesn’t permit me to do many of things I used to enjoy. Yard work falls directly into this category. Sadly, I’ve had to hire a professional to assist me with my outdoor chores. Fortunately, we get along just fine. He’s a bit stubborn at times, but gets the job done.
By the way, the hammer pictured above (with the broken mirror) belonged to my grandfather. Prior to his ownership, it belonged to his father. I still use it.
I plan to pass on all of my grandfather’s tools to our grandson, Tyler. Actually, he first used a couple of them when he helped me with a project several years ago. His hands were small, too small to hold them properly, but he tried. We even used some of those tools to cobble together a few wooden toys—police tools. And then we played cops and robbers, for hours.
Several years have passed since those days. Tyler is now in high school. He’s a champion wrestler and martial artist with a room filled with trophies and numerous other awards.
It was an important moment for me, the day I first placed one of my grandfather’s tools into the hands of my grandson. Silly, I know. I also know the sentiment surrounding these tools will most likely fade with time, possibly as soon as the day I’m no longer here.
Still, I will rest easy knowing they’re in Tyler’s hands.
#WilliamLeeGolden #OakRidgeBoys
Each year as a means to help support the mega-beast known as the Writers’ Police Academy, the event features a raffle and silent auction. It’s fun. Really fun.
Well, since we tend to offer some unusual items not typically available anywhere else, and after receiving so many requests to allow non-attendees to participate in the auction, we pondered the idea and, in 2016, decided to offer a few items for sealed bids. The move was a huge success, thanks to each of you!
This year we’re offering five exciting items for sealed bids. These are available to the public, therefore anyone and everyone is welcome to participate.
Also, please include your full contact information.
Bids will remain a secret until bidding closes at midnight PST, Saturday August 12, 2017. You need not be present at the WPA to win. Attendees of the 2017 may submit sealed auction bids as well, and the same rules apply.
Sealed bids are in addition to the raffle and silent auction items available at the event. You must be present to participate in the raffle and silent auction.
A guitar and CD signed by the legendary Grammy-winning Oak Ridge Boys. This unique item is a wonderful addition to any room in the house. I have one in our den, a gift from my wife who, by the way, spent big bucks for it at the auction. Superstar author Lee Child placed the winning bid a few years ago and he, too, has one of these signed beauties in his Manhattan office. WPA instructor/Detective Marco Conelli is another owner of one of these prized guitars. (In case you didn’t know, Marco is also a singer-songwriter/frontman for his own band in NYC).
Murder, She Wrote script signed by head writer/showrunner Thomas B. Sawyer. Tom also served as Head Writer/Showrunner or Producer on 15 network TV series. He has sold and written TV movies, 9 series pilots, 100 episodes, both comedy and drama. This script is a must-have prize of epic proportion, especially so for Murder, She Wrote fans, and writers of all genres.
This is HUGE! We have two seats available to a “law enforcement only” gang conference.
That’s right, for the first time EVER, two lucky writers will have the opportunity learn and train side-by-side with top police investigators, all at a conference where outsiders are not permitted. That’s right, you’d be the ONLY writer privy to insider information about developing and maintaining confidential informants—gang-related, so this is especially tough for cops—human trafficking, how gangs infiltrate communities, Asian gangs, gangs and social media, and much, much more. This is a rare and EXCITING OPPORTUNITY that’s not available to the public.
Cool indoor/outdoor pond.
A pond! No, your eyes are not playing tricks on you. We have available for you a wonderful indoor/outdoor pond. It stands appr. 2-feet tall and appr. 4-feet across (appr. 40-50 gallons). The pond comes with everything you need. Well, you’ll have to supply water, plants, and fish, of course, but the rest—pump, liner, filters, plant baskets, light kits, etc.—are included in this package. Denene and I have one and we love everything about it, from the soothing sounds of the fountain to watching and feeding the goldfish to watching hummingbirds bathe beneath the fountain spray. This pond (retail value over $500) is absolutely COOL! Ours has provided countless hours of joy for us, especially seeing hummingbirds zip in to drink from the fountain spray and to bathes beneath the shower. It’s perfect for indoors as well. We’ve arranged to have the pond shipped directly to you from the warehouse (Assembly is required – takes approximately one hour and is remarkably simple. Hey, I did it).
Ann Leslie Tuttle, Senior Editor at Harlequin Books is offering a critique of a synopsis and first chapter (up to 25 pages). How exciting, and what a wonderful means to place your work on the desk of a top editor!
ABOUT ANN LESLIE TUTTLE
Ann Leslie is actively acquires for HQN Books, MIRA and Harlequin/Silhouette Books, she is especially interested in finding paranormal romance and commercial literary fiction. Ann Leslie has acquired trade, hardcover and mass market titles with critical and bestselling potential. Edits an diverse author base, including NYT, USA Today and international bestselling authors Sylvia Day, Julia London, Megan Hart, Vanessa Fewings, Lisa Renee Jones and Rachael Johns. She manages lines of contemporary romance and special projects, including e-books. She is a popular speaker at writer conferences, including the Australia and New Zealand conferences in 2015.
**FINE PRINT**
The manuscript will be of standard manuscript formatting. The names of the winners will be provided by the WPA to Jenna Kernan who will let Ann Leslie Tuttle know to expect your material for critique
*This prize was acquired by author Jenna Kernan for WPA.
Right NOW! Yes, you are free to begin submitting bids this very moment. So … GOOD LUCK!! And, yes, we still have a few available spots at the Writers’ Police Academy. See you soon.
To add to the fun, we will also be hosting a live auction of a few special items. Tami Hoag (that’s right, THE Tami Hoag) is the 2017 auctioneer. She is joined by author JD Allen. This is going to be a real hoot! Details coming soon.
Proceeds are combined with overall WPA funds and go toward overall event expenses, the opening ceremonies (featuring the blessing of the WPA by the Oneida Nation dancers, Miss Oneida, tribal elders), and a student scholarship funded by the WPA. Remember, the WPA takes place on the Oneida Indian Reservation (hotel, academy, and college).
*Winners will be notified by email. We will attempt to contact winners three times (one every other day, starting on August15, 2017), so please check your spam folders. If we do not receive a reply with five day after the third message is sent we will move on to the next highest bidder, and so on until the prize is claimed. Funds to secure bids must be made via WPA PayPal. Once we’ve established contact with the winners we will provide payment details. Items will ship/can be claimed once payment is received.
