Factory
Massive, abandoned
Machinery, steel dinosaurs
Tangled debris.
Rust.
Rats
Shadows, graffiti
Glass, jagged shards
Footsteps echo.
Cold.
Hallway
Leather, squeaking
Keys rattle, jingle
Nervous, anxious.
Fear.
There
Hanging, swinging
Rope, rafter, neck
Boy, dead.
Twelve.
Shoes
One on
Other on floor.
The choking game.
*Top photo is mine. The rest are by Sunday K. Kaminski
Agent Ángel Lorenzo-González, 47
Puerto Rico Police Department
September 21, 2017 – Agent Ángel Lorenzo-González drowned when his patrol car was swept away in flood waters during Hurricane Maria.
Agent Héctor Matías-Torres, 53
Puerto Rico Police Department
September 21, 2017 – Agent Héctor Matías-Torres drowned when his patrol car was swept away in flood waters during Hurricane Maria.
Fingerprints found and collected at crime scenes are eventually developed and hopefully lead the heroes of your stories to the perpetrator(s) of the crime du jour. But there’s a bit more to the process than merely using a brush, a bit of black powder, and a piece of clear tape. For example, did you know about …
Amido Black – protein enhancer for blood prints. Click this Link for details.
Gentian Violet is a skin cell stain for developing print on the sticky side of tape. Click this Link for details.
Ninhydrin – chemical for developing latent prints on porous surfaces, such a paper. Click this Link for details.
Physical Developer – chemical for developing latent prints on wet paper. Click this Link for details.
Powders are typically effective on smooth, non-porous surfaces.
Small Particle Reagent (SPR) – liquid powder solution effective on wet porous evidence). Click this Link for details.
Cyanoacrylate – Superglue fuming for all types of non-porous surfaces.
Dye Stains, such as MBD, are used to detect prints in conjunction with an ALS (Alternate Light Source) on non-porous evidence after using Cyanoacrylate (Superglue) fuming. Click this Link for details.
Officer Elias Martinez, 56
Texas Metropolitan Transit Authority Police Department
September 17, 2017 – Officer Elias “Sonny” Martinez succumbed to injuries received in a motorcycle crash one week earlier. He is survived by his wife and two children.
Trooper Timothy O’Neill, 28
Michigan State Police
September 20, 2017 – Trooper Timothy O’Neill was killed in a motorcycle crash while on patrol. He is survived by his parents, sister, brother, and fiancee.
“Yep, it’s an ABLE BOLO for a WM. Yes, A/B, well, really it was a case of ABWIK during a B&E. You know, I think the guy’s a SO, too.”
Have a little trouble following that sentence? Well, don’t feel bad. Even the experts can’t keep up with all the acronyms used by the various law enforcement agencies across the country. So, I’ve compiled a short list of them to help you better understand that aspect of cop speak. (Remember, these may differ from agency to agency. Always check with the authorities in the area where your story is set).
ABLE – Airborne Law Enforcement
AAG – Assistant Attorney General
ABH – Actual Bodily Harm
A/B – Assault and Battery
ABH – Actual Bodily Harm
ABWIK – Assault and Battery With Intent to Kill
ACHILD – Abandoned Child
ACU – Animal Control Unit
ADW – Assault with a Deadly Weapon or Assault with a Dangerous Weapon
AEW – Airborne Early Warning
AFTE – Association of Firearm and Tool Mark Examiners
AKA – Also Known As
ALS – Alternate Light Source
ASU – Air Support Unit
ATL – Attempt To Locate
BAC – Blood Alcohol Concentration
BAU – Behavioral Analysis Unit
BCA – Bureau of Criminal Apprehension
BCI – Bureau of Criminal Identification or Bureau of Criminal Investigation
BDU – Bomb Disposal Unit
B/E – Breaking and Entering
BEO – Bicycle Enforcement Officer
BLS – Basic Life Support
BOLO – Be On the Lookout (Not APB!)
BOP – Bureau of Prisons
BRD – Beyond a Reasonable Doubt
CART – Child Abduction Response Team
CBPE – Certified Bloodstain Pattern Examiner
CBR – Chemical, Biological, and Radiological
CCF – Citizen Complaint Form
CCSI – Certified Crime Scene Investigator
CDE – Certified Document Examiner
CFN – Criminal File Number
CHINS – Child in Need of Services
CID – Criminal Investigation Department, or Criminal Investigation Division
CLT – Crime Laboratory Technician
CO – Commanding Officer or Correctional Officer
CWP – Concealed Weapon Permit
DA – District Attorney, or Domestic Assault
DARE – Drug Abuse Resistance Education
DARPA – Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency
DB – Dead Body
DBV – Dog Bite Victim
DC – Death Certificate
DCJS – Department of Criminal Justice Services
DIP – Drunk In Public
DL – Driver’s License
DNR – Do Not Resuscitate
DUID – Driving Under the Influence of Drugs
DW – Dangerous Weapon
FEL – Felony
FLETC – Federal Law Enforcement Training Center
FOP – Fraternal Order of Police
GBH – Grievous Bodily Harm
GDC – General District Court
GL – Grand Larceny
GM – Gang Member
GNG – Gang-Related
GSR – Gunshot Residue
GSW – Gunshot Wound
HAZMAT – Hazardous Materials
HME – Home-Made Explosives
HO – Habitual Offender
IAD – Internal Affairs Division
IAU – Internal Affairs Unit
IBIS – Integrated Ballistic Identification System
IBR – Incident-Based Reporting
ICD – In-Custody Death
JDC – Juvenile Detention Center
JPO – Juvenile Probation Officer
JT – Jury Trial
K & R – Kidnap and Ransom
LKA – Last Known Address
LS – License Suspended
L/S – Lost/Stolen
LSA – Leaving the Scene of an Accident
OP – Life Without Possibility of Parole
MC – Medical Center
MCV – Mobile Command Vehicle
MDT – Mobile Data Terminal
Misd. – Misdemeanor
MU – Murder
NCIC – National Crime Information Center
NFI – No Further Information
NG – Not Guilty
NVG – Night Vision Goggles
OC – Oleoresin Capsicum (pepper spray)
OIC – Officer in Charge
OIG – Office of the Inspector General
OIS – Officer-Involved Shooting
OR – Released on Own Recognizance
PC – Passenger Car or Probable Cause
PCU – Property Crimes Unit
PEND – Charges Pending
PERK – Physical Evidence Recovery Kit (rape)
PIO – Public Information Officer
POB – Place Of Birth
POC – Point of Contact
POD – Place Of Death
POE – Port Of Entry
POI – Person Of Interest
RLSD – Released
SMT – Scars, Marks, Tattoos, and other characteristics
S/N – Serial Number
SO – Sex Offender or Sheriff’s Office
TF – Task Force
TOD – Time Of Death
TS – Top Secret
UC – Under Cover
UF – Use of Force
V/C – Victim / Complainant
For ten long years, David Foran, a molecular geneticist and forensic scientist at Michigan State University, has worked to turn the bacteria found in soil into permissible evidence in criminal cases. It was a former student, though, a microbiology major, who first came up with the idea.
This could be an earth-shattering breakthrough since the goal of the research is to establish an objective standard, backed by solid statistical data, that could link soil found on a particular item to soil from a crime crime. The technique uses the DNA of bacteria from a sample, say on a digging implement—shovel, pick, spade, etc., to that found in soil from the scene of the crime. Of course, numerous factors could alter/influence each sample—temperature, foreign substances such as blood, sweat, chemicals, etc.—and each of those would be studied, classified, and categorized to allow for inclusion or exclusion (sample matches a known soil and substance, or not).
Once the research is perfected courts may then allow the testing method and soon after crime labs would then add it to their crime-solving toolboxes.
So how does a procedure become suitable for courtroom and legal proceedings? What are the rules regarding who may testify as an expert witness?
Narcotics investigations
I was once put through the ringer in a courtroom before being declared, by a superior court judge, as an expert witness on narcotics and how they’re made, packaged, and sold.
This was during a time when my major focus as an investigator was on major drug cases.
Typically, judges make the final decision as to who or what is allowed in their courtrooms, and that includes which evidence is admissible and who may or may not testify as an expert witness. And, they normally rely on either the Daubert standard or Frye, both precedent setting case. Some states follow Daubert. Others follow Frye. And a small handful use either.
Daubert is by far the most widely used standard in courtrooms across the country, and the rules according to Daubert are:
Per Cornell Law School (law.cornell.edu) – “Standard used by a trial judge to make a preliminary assessment of whether an expert’s scientific testimony is based on reasoning or methodology that is scientifically valid and can properly be applied to the facts at issue. Under this standard, the factors that may be considered in determining whether the methodology is valid are: (1) whether the theory or technique in question can be and has been tested; (2) whether it has been subjected to peer review and publication; (3) its known or potential error rate; (4) the existence and maintenance of standards controlling its operation; and (5) whether it has attracted widespread acceptance within a relevant scientific community. See Daubert v. Merrell Dow Pharmaceuticals, Inc., 509 U.S. 579 (1993). The Daubert standard is the test currently used in the federal courts and some state courts. In the federal courts, it replaced the Frye standard.”
Now, back to the soil sampling. Here’s a nugget for your research files. I once investigated a murder where I collected soil samples, among many, many other pieces of evidence, hoping to find the needle in the haystack. Without a bit of good luck this case could’ve quickly gone cold. 
Fortunately, scientists matched a single, unusual plant seed I found and collected at the crime scene to one found in dried mud stuck to the accelerator pedal of the killer’s car (I also collected this sample). The plant grew in only one location in the area, at a particular spot near a river—the very spot where the body was found. I had a hunch and it paid off.
That one tiny seed was the icing on the cake in this case. I also matched tire tracks and I eventually obtained a confession from the suspect.
Here are the details of the sad case case (above) told in a brief writeup you might find interesting. A Dead Woman Crying: Murder in the Rain.
My protagonist is former police detective turned college writing professor. (Hey, we have to have some stuff in common!) Because I share her disabling hearing loss but not her police experience, the Writer’s Police Academy is the perfect place to put myself in my character’s shoes.
I know TV is not the place to learn correct police procedure and even the best authors can make mistakes. Writers need to learn as much as they can so they write about police procedure correctly.
So what did I learn?
Yup, it looks cool, but it’s bulky and heavy. Notice that that duty belt is mostly empty. It needs extra ammo, a night stick, extra handcuffs, extra pouches of miscellaneous stuff (like medical gloves and tourniquet), etc. These make the belt so bulky you can’t comfortably lean back in a chair or car seat – and female officers have to take the belt off to go to the bathroom. (Ask Tami Hoag about that.)
And it’s HOT. In the photo I’m comfortably dressed in shorts and t-shirt. In her patrol officer days, my protagonist would have worn long pants and a uniform shirt over that t-shirt and vest. Did I mention how hot that would be? The vest doesn’t breathe well so you sweat more. That means your t-shirt, vest, and even your uniform shirt become sweaty in no time.
Now imagine how hard it is to get in and out of a patrol car in all that gear, without snagging it on the seat belt, steering wheel, car door, etc. It impedes other movement too, like chasing bad guys and tying your shoes.
The equipment changes your stance, too. The first couple hours I wore a duty belt, I was busy trying to figure out what to do with my arms. I ended up putting my hands on my hips or resting them on the duty belt. Now I understand why some people find the cop stance threatening or intimidating.
(Photo by Angi Morgan)
In some situations, officers carry a Break Out Bag (BOB) with extra gear. That way if they’re stuck in a stand-off they have extra ammo, snacks, water, first aid stuff, cargo straps for hauling injured office to safety, and any extra equipment they might need. In this photo Matt Ninham is showing just a few things from that BOB: a mirror on a stick, a selfie stick (for looking in attics, etc.), a pry bar, first aid gear, etc. The BOB is carried on the officer’s non-weapon side. Yup, even more added weight. My protagonist definitely does her push-ups and weight lifting.
Need to use your night stick to get a suspect to back up? Don’t aim for the head!
(Photo by Annette Dashofy)
When searching a building for an armed suspect, can you walk quietly and safely using a roll-step? Communicate silently with your fellow officers? Go though doorways without whacking your weapon, duty belt, etc., on the doorframe? It’s a good thing my protagonist knows this stuff!
That doorframe probably has marks from my weapon and duty belt whacking it. The bad guys would definitely hear me coming.
Can you anticipate an attack?
This was an example of how fast a suspect could draw a knife and kill an armed officer.
Writers Police Academy 2017 Knife Vs. Gun
It’s one thing to read about that on The Graveyard Shift; seeing it in action is an eye-opening experience.
This was also a good example of other skills my protagonist needs, like dealing with Emotionally Disturbed Persons (EDPs) and having a basic understanding of languages used by local populations (like Spanish in Green Bay). Hmm, what language does my protagonist need to learn?
I thought hitting a target on a shooting range meant I was a good shot. During Shoot/Don’t Shoot training I learned that hitting a moving target is NOTHING like hitting a stationary target at a range.
I also learned that If my life depended on drawing a Glock from the holster on a training duty belt, I’d probably die. Officers have to practice drawing their weapon tens of thousands of times so they can do it quickly and smoothly when their lives depend on it.
Shoot/Don’t Shoot training really gave me insight into what a shooting situation feels like. I knew it was just a training scenario and that I was completely safe but I felt my heart rate increase when the countdown started. (“Your scenario will begin in 5 seconds… 4…. 3…” Yikes!) In my second scenario I even experienced the stress-induced slow-motion effect. It was like the bad guy reaching for that revolver was moving underwater. (Too bad for him that all but one of my shots hit center mass.) I was so focused on being ready to shoot that I forgot all the other things I should have done like speak, move, and take cover. This give me a lot more to work with when I have to imagine what my protagonist is experiencing in a shooting situation.
WPA is only four days. I’d love it if it were at least two day longer so I could take all the sessions. Here’s a smattering of what learned in the sessions I haven’t mentioned yet:
I learned so much more about procedure, mind set of cops, interview and interrogation, etc. than I could possible describe in one short blog post.
After thinking about all I learned at WPA and how little I have in common with my protagonist, I’m now working on making her a more realistic, well-developed character. It’s working, too. For the first time, I feel like my character is telling me things I need to know about her, like what her name really is (which is not the name I chose for her). Either I’m starting to get the hang of this writer thing or I’m becoming an EDP – and I have WPA to thank for it. I can hardly wait for next year!
Cathy is a college writing instructor at the University of Michigan-Flint. In her copious spare time she’s working on her first mystery novel and enjoys attending mystery writing conferences and the WPA. She can be reached at cathyaj@icloud or cakers@umflint.edu.
Each year, the Writers’ Police Academy hosts the fun but challenging Golden Donut Short Story Contest. The rules are simple—each story must be exactly 200 words, including the title. The focus of the tale must be based upon a photo prompt (above image was the photo selected for the 2017 contest).
This year, the judge of the contest was Craig Johnson, the bestselling author of the Longmire series.
Craig Johnson
After reading through a mountain of excellent entries, a team of pre-judges narrowed the pile to twelve stories, which were passed on to Craig for final review.
*All judging and screening was performed blindly, meaning author names or other identifiers were not attached to the entries.
So, without further ado, here are the top dozen, starting with Craig Johnson’s pick for first place, “Hide and Seek…” by A.R. Kennedy. By the way, this was Kennedy’s second win having also placed first in last year’s contest.
The second place honor goes to Michael Ring for “The Choice.”
And, coming in the third spot was Ry Brooks with his tale, “Echoes.”
Congratulations to the 2017 winner and to all who entered. I understand that each of the stories were excellent, making judging extremely difficult. Thanks, too, for your continued support of the WPA!
2017 Winner
Hide and Seek…
By A.R. Kennedy
“Found!” Bryce yelled.
“Time to go!” their father hollered. “No more of your games. The tour starts in thirty.” The trio headed to the penitentiary. “I must be some big shot to get us on the first tour ever.”
The boys marveled at the old, now closed, jail. All the places they could hide. All the hours they could play.
The tour guide prattled on about the jail’s history, its famous inmates and one inmate never found. Convicted murderer Oliver Seaver. “Escaped, dead, or still here? We do not know.”
Reign and Bryce trailed behind, bored.
The guide continued, “Some say they still see him wandering the halls.” He cackled, scaring no one. “Is it his ghost? Or is he still here?”
“Hide and seek?” Bryce whispered.
Reign nodded and started to count. “Ten…nine…”
Bryce hid under a bed and waited. He heard Reign’s calls. And he remained hidden.
He heard his father’s calls. And he remained hidden.
Bryce heard the jingle of keys and the cell door closed. The lights shut off.
The museum closed for the night.
Leaving Bryce still hidden under the bed.
And then he was found.
But not by his brother.
2nd Place
The Choice
By Michael Rigg
Montresor fumed at the delay. What was taking so long? And he gagged at the odor— despite covering his mouth with his kerchief. Was it the foul-breathed vintner unlocking the heavy iron door? Or the stench of the nitre lining the brick archways and plastered walls of the cellar?
No matter, but each passing second impeded completion of his business and delayed his return to the fresh light of day, where a carnival of joy and reckoning awaited. The plan was in motion. He must continue.
At last. He moved rapidly past the prison-like bars toward sturdy wooden racks laden with barrel after barrel of sherry.
“Which shall you choose, Signore?” The vintner adjusted his lantern, illuminating oaken casks as far as the light would carry. “A mature Fino—still protected by the flor—or an Oloroso, perhaps?”
“Neither. Something more refined. I have a colleague—a true connoisseur—who will embark this night on a long sojourn. I wish to give him a memorable farewell.”
“Amontillado, then?”
“Yes, of course.” He nodded. “A full pipe of Amontillado. Only the best will suffice. Send it forthwith to my palazzo. Your silver awaits.”
Montresor smiled in anticipation.
3rd Place
Echoes
By Ry Brooks
“Dispatch, I’m ten-twenty at Valley Juvenile Detention building. Exterior is clear, and proceeding inside. Ten-four”.
The former minimum security facility, abandoned for decades, was soon scheduled to be bulldozed for a shopping mall. A passer-by had reported movement inside. As new man on the roster, it was my duty to check for unauthorized “visitors” tonight, likely nocturnal copper thieves stealing wire and plumbing. It was almost midnight and I apprehensively swung the entrance door aside and stepped into the gloom.
From the dormitory cells, I heard faint shuffling sounds and swept my Maglite, but there was no one and no sign of activity. Then, I heard a low crying from an area I had already cleared. It was a boy of about ten, curled up in a ball, hugging his knees.
“Is there anyone here with you?” He shook his head no. “Come with me, son.”
I got him into the back seat of my cruiser.
“Dispatch, it was just a kid. I’m bringing him in, ten-four.”
“Uh-huh. We’ll see. Ten-four.”
At the station, I opened the rear door and froze. The car was empty and the boy was gone.
THE MONSTER INSIDE
By Barbara Venkataraman
Rusting iron smells like blood; it sickens me. This foul odor permeates my senses and defines my barren existence, overpowering all else. But do not pity me in my cage, I chose this life. No, I am not a monk; they abandoned the monastery years before the gates went in. These wretched bunks were theirs. The brotherhood eschewed comfort to better concentrate on prayer–as if prayer could save them. One by one, fear drove them out, down the mountain, away from the village, beyond the reach of the monster that killed indiscriminately, for his own pleasure. Some said he was the devil sent from hell to torment them. Others said he was a man, tortured by demons that forced him to do unspeakable things. But is that not the case with all murderous villains? Bloodlust is madness, a blind frenzy that feeds on fear, thrives on terror; it cannot be resisted. I would know…
I, too, feared the monster. He terrified me more because I knew him so intimately. But I was the only one who could stop him, end the killing. Thus, I did what had to be done. I locked him in this cage.
End of the Road
By Brent Maguire
The guard stands, silent, in the corner, staring at the floor. Not intrusive, but no confidentiality exists in this space. While not a restricted area, most inmates shun this steel gate.
Bill West, the prisoner with whom I am waiting, wears the traditional orange jumpsuit of this facility. Today he is clean-shaven. He shows no sign of distress or anxiety. His gaze is fixed on the stone courtyard beyond us, leading to another gated area. Through those bars I can see the infamous corridor in the distance, leading to the theater that houses the electric chair. I consider Bill’s veneer of calm.
“You’re the psychologist,” Bill would say, whenever I shared my clinical wisdom.
On this occasion, he remains quiet, watching. The steel doors past the flagstones are now open, waiting.
“Anything you want to say?” I ask.
“I’m good. What about you?”
I smile. Deflection is a well-worn tool of prisoners and psychotherapy patients.
We embrace.
Bill sighs, the first sign of tension breaking through his stoic demeanor.
The guard stirs and reaches for his keys.
“C’mon Doc,” he says, grasping one of my shackled arms, “it’s your time.”
Camp
By Fleur Bradley
They called it camp, but everyone knew what it was. Using an old fort as a teen detention facility was smart, Charlie thought. What better place to keep kids in than a place designed to keep people out? The bars looked original, clanked as they shut behind him.
He was getting the bottom bunk. Below a burly, sweaty guy.
“Welcome to Campatraz!” The guy jumped off the top. “Get it? Camp, Alcatraz?”
“Genius.” Charlie dropped his sheets on the cramped bottom. At least he was scrawny.
“Apologies ahead for the farts, Chicken Little. Name’s Gary.” He saluted.
The other guys were busy reading.
“Shoplifting, petty theft, fraud,” Gary said, nodding, assessing the room. “Can you believe they put us together? By the end of six months, we’ll be Ocean’s Eleven.”
Six months, must be nice.
“Except for this one guy I heard about. Stabbed five boy scouts at camp, in his tent, because they called him short.”
Charlie said, “But they couldn’t prove it, so now he’s here on lesser charges.”
“You heard.” Gary nodded. “The press named him Chucky. But it’s Charles.”
“Charlie.”
Gary leaned closer. “Which one do you think it is?”
Vow of Silence
By Nana Herron
My dear Sister Angelica. Swish.
When you arrived, you were a breath of fresh air. So light and carefree. Swish.
Everyone was drawn to your ethereal beauty. Swish.
But with your beauty, you brought the noise of the outside world in. Swish.
It started with the questions. Oh, so many questions. Swish.
Then there was the laughter. Swish.
Just a little at first. Soon everyone joined in. Swish.
I tried teaching you our ways. Swish.
But you would not listen. Swish.
How could you? You were too busy talking. Swish.
Cloistered life is for the chosen. For someone like me. Not someone like you. Swish.
Waiting in the shadows, I heard you coming from a mile away. Swish.
Rosary beads jingling. Feet dragging. Humming. Swish.
I only wanted a word. To help you see the light. Swish.
Instead you died of fright. Swish.
Weak heart? Who knew? What now? Swish.
Your body was heavier than I expected. Swish.
Tucked in bed, you appear asleep. Swish.
Rest assured. The vow of silence shall be obeyed. Swish.
Having swept away the drag marks, my work is done. Swish.
All it took was a little faith… and a broom. Amen.
Secret Dead
By Ford McMurtry
Archibald Duke crossed the terreplein overlooking the parade ground once used by the Confederates garrisoned at Fort Pulaski. There was no sign of life at the caretaker’s shack atop the southwest wall. Relieved, he lowered himself down to the prison gate.
Inside, mason’s hammer in hand, he lit a lantern and pushed back a bunk to reveal a hole where the secret cache was hidden twenty years before. “It must be here,” he thought! “It’s… gone,” he stammered. Silence. Then, behind the click of the turning cylinder of the Peacemaker, a familiar voice beckoned. “Looking for this?” Eying the map held by his former captor, Duke’s heart sank. “Hopkins squealed afore he died and I’ve been waitin fer you,” Rollins laughed. “I trust two million in Lee’s gold is worth a dyin for Reb!”
Deftly, Duke snapped his wrist and the hammer flew. Its spike pierced Rollins’ eye cavity and he fell back against the grated gun port. The Colt barrel flashed and Duke’s shirt shredded in a pink mist. The paper caught wind and fluttered to the moat below as the digger, captor and map each released their secrets back into the earth. Secret dead.
The Request
By Michael Rigg
As Margaret Skaggs hastened under the archway—through a huge iron gate—and into the monastery’s wine cellar, she thanked God that the walls couldn’t speak.
The formerly white bricks—now dusty and gray—had witnessed desperate acts. Unsanitary surgery—without anesthesia—became routine in their struggle to mend the wounded. Those deemed unsalvageable? Cast aside—stacked like cordwood on racks built to hold casks of Bordeaux and Chardonnay—to face the inevitable, alone.
“Nurse.” A whisper. “Nurse.”
Her flashlight beam darted between corpses. Dozens more dog tags to collect. She followed the light—watching, listening.
“Can’t feel my legs.”
Mangled flesh. The stench. Gangrene.
“Johansen, is it?” She returned his dog tags. “Been here long?”
“Couple days,” he wheezed. “Everybody left.”
“Right. Negotiations failed. Wainwright surrenders at midnight.”
Silence. Had he heard her?
“Surrender. Japs. Captain, don’t let ‘em take me.”
“Don’t worry soldier. They promised…”
“Your sidearm.”
“What?”
“Your sidearm. Please.”
“I can’t.”
He touched her arm. “You do it.”
“Do what?”
“End the pain.”
“Johansen…no…”
“Look… my legs. Smell‘ em?”
She nodded, eyes tearful. “I understand.”
Chambering a round, Margaret Skaggs thanked God that the walls couldn’t speak.
BARS
By Regina Sestak
I see bars every time I close my eyes. Those black iron bars in concrete marked the entrance to this prison where I have been rotting for so many years. I came in through that doorway only once, but I remember.
I was drinking in a different kind of bar that night. A stranger said he knew where we could get some cash. I only had to drive him there and wait. While I was sitting in my idling car I heard the shot.
I swear I never knew what he had planned. I never took a life. I told the Judge, who said, “Felony murder,” when he locked me up.
The Judge has lived behind another kind of bars; a decorative iron gate blocks the entry to his drive. I have seen photographs in magazines. His house. His wife. His kids.
After my sentencing, the girl I loved married somebody else. The job I had been hoping for went to another man.
Although I never took a life, the Judge took mine.
When I get out tomorrow, I will obtain a knife and hold it to the Judge’s throat and say, “I never took a life. Until now.”
2084
By Christine Clemenston
A siren blared from the distance.
“Come quickly.” Genevieve gripped the boy’s tiny hand and shuffled faster down the cobblestone path. Her chest thundered.
“Where are we goin’, Grammie?”
“Hush.” She refused to die without showing him first.
Genevieve peered back one last time, and pushed on the rusty iron gate filling the archway. The hinges squealed but gave way.
“This is it,” she whispered.
Inside, dust coated the floor and empty metal shelves. Paint chipped walls stared back at her, as if apologizing for what had been done.
Her gaze rose to the boarded windows.
This wasn’t supposed to be.
“Why are we here, Grammie?”
The answer stuck in her throat. She came to show him. But how did she begin to describe how much knowledge, how much hope used to live here? Her breath hitched. Or even dare to let herself remember?
Suddenly, her grandson let go and darted between the rows of shelves. His pounding feet echoed off the high ceiling.
“This place is big!”
“They were right here, honey.” She inhaled, pulling the memories into her lungs, her veins. “Can you smell them?”
“Smell what?”
“The books. The glorious library books.”
CHAINED
By Peggy Strand
I clutched a corner of dank bulkhead to delay them.
“Cease,” I begged. “I am innocent.”
My plea waffled beyond the first limestone archway of a macabre Roman labyrinth.
My captors yanked my shackles, tearing tender flesh. The soldier at my left, his sour breath radiating infirmity, struck my head to a black iron grate. “Shut yer yap.”
My concussed gaze fell to broad, age-worn planks underfoot. Blood spackle denoted the doom of my predecessors. Thrust onward, I flinched as my toe struck an upturned brick of a scalloped pattern conceived ages ago. Now only one stone curvature separated me from a deep throated rumble where padded feet paced.
Propelled unrestricted from dismal shadow to blinding sun, I staggered in the charring sand. The coliseum roared its desire to witness fresh slaughter.
Two lionesses crept forward, their eyes fixed upon me. A third majestic beast trundled inward, a dense mane framing his massive head. Baring fangs, he charged the grumbling females. This kill was his.
“Lazarus,” I whispered.
The beast stormed forward. His leap encircled my shoulders in joyful recognition.
I bowed. I stood tall.
Silent, the people took to its knees in reverence. Here was their king.
Agent Roberto Medina-Mariani, 35
Puerto Rico Police Department
September 11, 2017 – Agent Roberto Medina-Mariani was shot and killed while attempting to stop an armed robbery in progress. Despite his wounds, Agent Medina-Mariani managed to return fire, wounding one of the robbers.
Agent Medina-Mariani is survived by his wife and two children.
Sergeant Joseph Ossman, 53
Florida Department of Corrections
September 10, 2017 – Sergeant Joseph Ossman was killed in an auto crash when his vehicle was struck head-on by a patrol car driven by Deputy Sheriff Julie Bridges of the Hardee County Sheriff’s Office. Both were working in mandatory evacuation areas during Hurricane Irma, having been required to remain during the storm. Deputy Bridges was also killed in the crash.
Deputy Sheriff Julie Bridges, 42
Hardee County Florida Sheriff’s Office
September 10, 2017 – Deputy Sheriff Julie Bridges was killed in an auto crash when her patrol vehicle struck head-on, a car driven by Sergeant Joseph Ossman of the Florida Department of Corrections. Deputy Bridges was in the process of picking up supplies for a hurricane shelter when the crash occurred. She is survived by her eight-year-old son.
Officer William Mathews, 47
Wayzata Minnesota Police Department
September 8, 2017 – Officer William Mathews was struck and killed by a vehicle as he was removing debris from a highway. The driver of the vehicle was found to be under the influence of narcotics, and she was driving on a revoked license.
Officer Mathews is survived by his wife and seven-year-old son.
It’s no secret that many children of incarcerated parents are practically pre-destined to follow those same paths to a life of crime, followed by time spent in prisons and jails.
If memory serves, these kids are five or six times more likely to commit crimes than other kids their own age.
What’s it like to live as a member of one of those families? Well, let’s take a peek into the life of the Atwood family—Vernon and Vernon, Jr. Carly Atwater, Vernon’s wife and mother of Vernon, Jr., left many years ago. Couldn’t take the drinking and abuse.
So …
It had been nearly three years since Vernon Atwater had last seen his oldest son, Vernon, Jr.
December 14th, a day he would never forget, started when the judge, the Honorable James T. Williams, found Junior guilty of murder and sentenced him to twenty-five years in the penitentiary. Sheriffs’ deputies immediately handcuffed the newly convicted man and led him from the courtroom through a set of heavy wooden doors at the rear of the room.
Two hours later, Vernon stood outside on the sidewalk, pulling a few drags on a Lucky Strike, watching as two burly deputies helped his boy into an unmarked car to take him to the state prison in Rocky Creek.
Vernon spent the rest of the day in his grassless backyard, sitting in an old rickety kitchen chair drinking cheap beer and wondering what he’d done that caused Junior to do the things he did.
Vernon felt guilty for not driving to “The Creek” to see Junior, but something had always come up—overtime at the mill, the truck needed new brakes, the roof needed replacing. Those things took time and before he knew it weeks had turned into months and months into years.
Needless to say, Vernon was more than a little nervous about seeing Junior. Three years was a long time. His heart pounded and thumped against the inside of his chest as the car turned from the main highway onto the narrow blacktop leading to the penitentiary.
The sight of the gleaming razor wire atop the double fences caused his throat to tighten. He hoped his boy was all right. He’d heard every horrible prison story there was to tell. But Junior was tough. He’d never allow anyone to do him harm. Of that he was firmly convinced. Still …
Hundreds of men behind the fences were engaged in all sorts of activities. They paused from their weight-lifting, jogging, handball, bocce ball, and basketball, trying to get a glimpse inside the passing vehicle.
He wondered how his son was going to react to seeing him today. He wondered if anyone had even told him he was coming.
At least this visit would be a long one.
Two six packs of beer. An argument over a stupid football game. One thing led to another and out came the hunting knife. A few months later Vernon found himself standing in the same upstairs courtroom, in the very spot where Vernon, Jr. once stood, facing Judge James. T. Williams.
Judge Williams, by the way, remembered Vernon, Jr’s case and made a point to mention it during the tongue-lashing he delivered to the elder Vernon during a lengthly and fiery pre-sentencing statement.
Vernon tried to be strong but his knees nearly buckled when he heard the judge hand down his sentence—twenty-five years to life.
It’s really true, Vernon thought as the unmarked sheriff’s car pulled into the prison sally port, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
The apple doesn’t fall far
