During my absence for the past few weeks, well, this …

June 10, 2018 – Supervisory Special Agent Brian L. Crews, 53: Federal Bureau of Investigation ~  Cancer developed as a result of the search and recovery efforts at the World Trade Center site following the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

June 24, 2018 – Special Agent Timothy Allan Ensley: Department of Homeland Security: ICE ~ Dengue fever while on assignment to Indonesia.

June 24, 2018 – Officer Richard Lopez, 52: New York City Police Department ~ Cancer developed as a result of the search and recovery efforts at the World Trade Center site following the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

July 6, 2018 – Officer Vu X. Nguyen, 50: Cleveland Ohio Division of Police ~ Medical event during canine handler physical fitness training.

July 9, 2018 – Officer Jarrod Friddle, 40: Cumby Texas Police Department ~ Fatal heart attack following canine training while wearing a bite suit.

July 9, 2018 – Deputy Jailer Randy ZoeRay Haddix, 56: Cheyenne County Nebraska Sheriff’s Office – Fatal heart attack while participating in a custody and control certification class.

July 15, 2018 – Sergeant Michael C. Chesna, 42: Weymouth Massachusetts Police Department ~ Gunfire. Shot and killed after a man attacked him, striking him in the head with a large rock. The subject who’d earlier fatally shot a woman in her home, then took Sergent Chesna’s service weapon and shot him in the head and chest.

July 17, 2018 – Special Agent Nole Edward Remagen, 42: United States Department of Homeland Security ~ Fatal stroke while on an executive protection detail for the National Security Advisor during a presidential visit.

July 18, 2018 – Agent Cadet Immanuel James Washington, 38: Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries ~ Fatal heart attack during morning physical training at the Academy.

July 18, 2018 – Officer Bronson K. Kaliloa, 46: Hawaii County Police Department ~ Gunfire. Shot and killed while conducting a high-risk traffic stop of a wanted subject. The suspect opened fire as officers approached the vehicle, fatally wounding Officer Kalioa.

July 18, 2018 – Corrections Officer Joseph Gomm: Minnesota Department of Corrections ~ Beaten to death by an inmate.

July 19, 2018 – Corrections Officer Kyle Lawrence Eng, 51: Las Vegas Nevada Department of Public Safety – Division of Corrections ~ Fatal heart attack while struggling with a combative inmate.

July 21, 2018 – Senior Corporal Earl James “Jamie” Givens, III, 55: Dallas Texas Police Department ~ Struck and killed by a drunk driver.

July 22, 2018 – Officer Diego Moreno, 35: Kent Washington Police Department ~ Struck and killed while deploying spike strips during a vehicle pursuit.

July 25, 2018 – Trooper Tyler James Edenhofer, 25: Arizona Department of Public Safety ~ Gunfire. Shot and killed after responding to reports of a subject throwing objects at vehicles. The suspect managed to gain control of an officer’s weapon and used it to kill Trooper Edenhofer.

July 25, 2018 – Officer Michael J. Michalski, 52: Milwaukee Wisconsin Police Department ~ Gunfire. Shot and killed while attempting to apprehend a subject wanted for weapons and narcotics violations, and violation of parole.

July 28, 2018 – Officer Adam Edward Jobbers-Miller, 29: Fort Myers Florida Police Department ~ Gunfire. Shot and killed after responding to an assault and larceny.

August 4, 2018 – Investigator Timothy Dale Cole, Sr., 61: Comanche County Oklahoma District Attorney’s Office ~ Gunfire. Shot and killed while serving a high-risk warrant.

August 10, 2018 – Officer Kirk A. Griess, 46: California Highway Patrol ~ Struck and killed by a vehicle while conducting a traffic stop.

August 14, 2018 – Officer Fadi Shukur, 30: Struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver as he was assisting with crowd control outside a club.

August 16, 2018 – Officer Kathleen O’Connor-Funigiello, 56: New Rochelle New York Police Department ~ Cancer developed as a result of the search and recovery efforts at the World Trade Center site following the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

August 21, 2018 – Deputy Sheriff Ben Zirbel, 40: Clay County Florida Sheriff’s Office ~ Motorcycle crash when a pickup truck towing a trailer turned in front of him.

 

 

 

Law enforcement agencies have long used tattoos as a means to identify victims of crimes and accidents.

They’re also an effective tool for identifying members of various gangs who use body art as symbols of their membership to those groups. For example, the number 88 is a numeric symbol for “Heil Hitler” used by white supremacists.

Or, MS 13, also sometimes tattooed simply as MS or 13, are the symbols of the Mara Salvatrucha gang that got its start in Los Angeles by immigrants from El Salvador. This violent unorganized gang, well-known for dealing drugs, child prostitution, and brutal murders, now has MS-13 chapters all over the U.S. and Canada.

But, the FBI has taken tattoo identification, a program called TAG IMAGE, a bit further by attempting to use tattoos as a means to map out people’s relationships and even identifying their religious beliefs. The musical or artistic interests and/or hobbies are also targets to record. Favorite food, drink, actors, loved ones, and so on. The list is practically endless.

The Intoxicated Waskly Wabbit

This collection of information could be a bit concerning depending upon your point of view, and all based upon the tattoo of, during a night of heavy drinking, you had the image of a Waskly Wabbitt inked on the part of your body that somehow draws the attention of authorities.

Using a particular marking on the skin as a means of identifying human remains, or as a way to establish a prisoner’s gang affiliation is one thing. But to the use those identifiers on living people to establish  their religious or political leanings, for example, and then to  lump them into those categories for future reference, perhaps rises to a level of government overreach—an invasion of privacy. A violation of civil liberties.

In addition, the opportunities to misinterpret a person’s body ink is great, furthering the chances of violating the rights of individuals. For example, we’re all familiar with the swasitka, which, prior to adoption by the Nazis who forever tainted it, was symbol of prosperity, goodness, and hope.

Swirling Logs

Many Native Americans used the “swastika” symbol (swirling logs, or four directions cross)  as a means to depict peace and harmony, the polar opposite of how many view it in today’s society.

Suppose a police officer arrested a Native American basketball player who, at the time of the apprehension for a minor assault, wore his team jersey. Well, based upon the FBI’s controversial and perhaps civil rights-violating new practice, the ball-playing nose-puncher could be lumped into a known violent group which could add the additional charge of a federal hate crime.

Chilocco (Oklahoma) basketball team. The swastika was once a common symbol used by Native Americans. It had absolutely nothing to do with the Nazi party.

Furthermore, merely having a gang-related tattoo inked onto a person’s body doesn’t always indicate that the individual is a member of the gang associated with the marking. Kids today sometimes think such images are “cool” and head off to the nearest tattoo shop to permanently stencil the shape or lettering onto their skin. In fact, anyone with basic tattooing knowledge could do it for them.

The DIY Approach

Some use the DIY approach using the old “stick and poke” method. To do so, all that’s needed to accomplish the task are either sewing needles, straight pins, or safety pins, India ink, a marker to draw the outline of the tattoo, and a lot of nerve.

The tactic is easy. Dip the sharp object into the ink and then stick the pin into the skin until you feel a “pop” when it breaks through the skin. Repeat the process over and over again until you’ve successfully inked the object outlined on your body part.

Misidentification

Another way cops could misidentify someone as a gang member is forced tattooing, such as tattooing women against their will as a means of marking them after abducting and brutally raping them.

TAG IMAGE

TAG IMAGE  is a wonderful tool for identification of various tattoos; however, attempting to lump individuals into a particular criminal organization based on any image found tattooed on a person body could be a dangerous path to follow.

After all, having a tattoo of a famous Mouse on your upper arm doesn’t mean you’re a member of the notorious rat’s Club.

Well, maybe …

“M.I.C. … K.E.Y.

M.O.U.S.E.”

While we’re alive our body temperatures are determined by metabolism. It’s a different ballgame, though, once the bucket is kicked.

After death, the body’s core temperature remains fairly constant for a couple of hours. Then it begins to cool by radiation, conduction, and convection, at a rate of 1.5 degrees per hour, until it reaches the ambient temperature—20-30 hours later.

6

However, investigators shouldn’t use the body temperature as the sole means of determining when a victim died. There are factors that could, and do, alter the natural cooling process.

When the “moment” arrives and the victim succumbs to wounds, illness, or natural death, there are elements that may affect the cooling rate of the body, such as:

  • Ventilation: A room that’s well-ventilated could actually speed up the rate of cooling by increasing the rate of evaporation.
  • Humidity: A body in a humid location cools at a slower rate than one in a hot, dry climate.
  • Insulation: A body that’s wrapped in something (including excess body fat) cools slower than one that’s left out in the open.
  • Surface temperature: A body lying on a hot surface will cool at a slower rate than one that’s found lying on a cold surface.

And, of course, a body in a hot environment cools much slower than one found lying in a in the snow, or a vat of ice cubes.

There are also factors that come into play that could alter the body temps even before death occurs, such as:

  • Consumption of drugs, extreme physical activity, and fever could all increase the body temperature.
  • Hypothermia could lower the body temperature.

These factors would change the length of time it takes a body to reach the surrounding air temperature.

10.4 Toe Tag

Finally, the rate of cooling also affects other “after death” processes, such as rigor mortis—heat speeds up rigor and cold slows it down.

By the way, other factors may also speed up rigor, such as extremely violent exertion prior to death, and alkaloid poisoning. Factors that could slow the rigor process are hemorrhaging by exsanguination, and arsenic poisoning, to name a couple.

And … a handy rule of thumb for decomposition:

One week in air = two weeks in water = eight weeks under ground.

The job was fantastic. Everything you wanted and more. Excitement, fulfillment, serving mankind, and action that produces an adrenaline rush like no other. But, along with following your dreams sometimes comes a price. And sometimes that price is quite steep.

Yes, becoming a cop was everything you’d always wanted out of life. And, you’d lucked out when you married the perfect partner, had two beautiful children, purchased a nice home with a not-so-bad mortgage and two fairly new vehicles—a mini-van for hauling the kids to ballgames, scouting events, and family vacations, and a sporty little convertible for weekend fun.

Adding to the perfect lifestyle was an always-by-your-side speckled dog named Jake who the kids forced you to rescue from a local shelter. Work was going great, too, and you’d finally reached the five-year, unofficial, no-longer-a-rookie status. Along with that milestone came a permanent dayshift assignment.

No more graveyards. No more of the Sandman tugging at your eyelids while patrolling dark side streets and alleys. No more trying to sleep with bright sunlight burning its way into your bedroom.

Yes! More awake time at home with the family. Normal meals and meal times. No more Denny’s Lumberjack Slams with a side of hash browns at 4 a.m., or the cold, not-quite-finshed-because-of-the-shooting, three piece, once-extra crispy meals from the Colonel.

Things were definitely looking good.

Better still, you felt good. Well-rested. You’d finally watched your favorite TV show at its actual air time, not as a recording after everyone else has seen and talked about it for days.

You felt so good, actually, that you’d volunteered for extra-duty. Running a little radar on your off time would be an easy assignment, and the extra money would come in handy during the holidays. Besides, little Sally Sue needed braces and Jimmie Joe had already been dropping hints about attending a Boy Scout summer camp.

A few hours each week. How bad could it be?

Your supervisor liked what she saw. You’re a hard-worker. A real go-getter. She wrote a glowing letter recommending you for the Emergency Response Team (ERT). You interviewed and before you knew it you’re on the team. Training was only twice a week, Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons, your days off. Well, there’s the bi-monthly night training exercises, and the team competitions.

You didn’t get called out all that often—two, three times a month at the most? The last time, though, you were gone for two days, but that really wan’t too bad. Well, maybe you could’ve cut back on the radar assignment. But, the money was nice. After the holidays. Yes, that’s it. You’d promised to cut back after the holidays.

The hostage situation was a tense one. Took 14 hours before the sniper finally popped one in the guy’s T-Zone. That piece of crap never had a chance to think about pulling the trigger before his lights went out. At least his victim came out okay. She’d probably be scarred for life, but she’d live. Might spend a few days with a shrink, but she’d live.

Man, that sniper was good, huh? Blew that guy’s brains all over the wall. Sat him down in a hurry, too. Now that’s what a bloodstain pattern is supposed to look like. TV directors should see this stuff.

To celebrate a job well done the team went to a bar for a few drinks and to unwind. You made it home at 3 a.m., drunk. Your wife and kids were fast asleep. There’s a piece of cake on the counter. The chocolate frosting had dried and hardened just a bit around the edges.

Damn, you forgot your kid’s birthday party.

You couldn”t sleep. Brains and blood. That’s all you saw when you closed your eyes.

Brains and blood.

You knew she was awake and could smell the cheap whiskey, cigarette smoke, and drugstore perfume.

Hadn’t smoked in ten years. When had you started, again?

Whose perfume?

Didn’t matter.

Brains and blood … that’s what was on your mind.

You’d stared at the ceiling, knowing that in two hours the clock would ring. Would the Jack odor be gone by then?

Brains and blood, that’s what kept your eyes open and your mind spinning.

The buzzer sounded and you showered and dressed. Skipped breakfast because your gut felt sour and no matter how many times you brushed your teeth, you felt as if your breath reeked of dirty ashtrays and stale booze.

A domestic he-said-she-said, a lost kid, and an overnight B&E at a midtown mom and pop grocery store. Your head pounded. Pearl-size beads of sweat ran down your back, following your spine until they dipped below your waistband. You dreaded the overtime radar detail. Two more months. Only two more months and the holidays would be over.

A drug raid at 10 p.m. A good bust, too. Two kilos and some stolen guns. What’s a couple of beers to unwind? Sure, you’d go.

It was 3 a.m., again, a few hours after switching from beer to hard liquor, when you’d fumbled with your keys, trying to find the lock on the front door. This, after parking your car askew in the driveway with the driver’s side tire on the lawn and leaving the car door wide open, an act you’d very much regret when trying to start the car the next day.

Passed out on the couch. Late for work, again. Forty-minutes late, actually, due to a head-splitting hangover and a dead car battery. A written warning.

A week later you’re late again, but this time the sergeant smelled the alcohol on your breath. Suspended. Ten days.

Your wife went shopping with her friends. You stayed home with the kids. She came home late. Really late. The stores closed hours ago. No shopping bags and you could’ve sworn she’d been wearing panty hose when she left.

Back at work. Another shooting. This time you fired a few rounds at the guy. He ran. You chased. He turned and fired, so you popped off a couple of rounds in return. He dropped, bleeding and twitching on the pavement.

The kid died. He’d turned thirteen just four days before you killed him.

Suspended pending an investigation.

The department shrink prescribed a couple of meds to help you sleep.

The media hounded you relentlessly. Published your name and address along with a photo of your home.

Another paper published your department and academy records, including the one where your  scores on the firing range were darn near perfect. You’d meant to kill him, they’d said. Your skills were that good. Sure, you knew better, but …

Brains and blood.

Pills helped, some.

And Jack Daniels.

She was out shopping, again. This time she wore her “going out” makeup and the tight skirt and top she once wore on the night of an anniversary. The one she called her “you can’t resist this” outfit. She was right, too, because those legs went on for days.

More Jack Daniels and a pill or two or three. Lost count.

She came home drunk at 3 a.m., smelling of Jack Daniels, cigarette smoke, and cheap aftershave.

You’re awake, staring at the ceiling, knowing the clock is set to go off in three hours. She’s snoring gently. You smelled the Jack with each tiny exhale. The aftershave burned your nostrils.

Two more pills. No, make it four.

Then a trip to the garage, in your pajamas. Barefoot.

The concrete felt cool on the soles of your feet.

An owl hooted outside, somewhere far in the distance.

A cricket chirped from behind the old, rusty furnace.

Boxes filled with old clothing meant for Goodwill sat against the block wall where they’d been for a couple of years.

Moonlight wormed its way through a narrow window next to the ceiling. It painted a milky line that reached from the center of the floor to a tall stool next to a dusty table saw.

You slid the stool next to the workbench where you’d mended countless toys, appliances, and fixed the heels on her favorite shoes. You stood still for moment, taking in the surroundings—your tools, the kids’ old bikes, a couple of rickety sawhorses your father used when he was young, the water softener equipment, and a trunk filled with years of memories.

Then you sat on the wooden stool top, resting the balls of your feet on the bottom rung, and glanced down at the off-duty weapon in your hand, your favorite pistol. Never missed a single target with it.

You couldn’t remember taking out of the dresser drawer, though.

Didn’t matter now.

It would be over in a second.

You opened your mouth and placed the barrel inside, tasting bitter gun oil.

The metal was cool against your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Familiar. Comforting in a peculiar sort of way.

A lone tear trickled down your cheek.

Brains and blood …


In 2016, 108 police officers died as a result of suicide. That’s more than the total officers killed by gunfire and traffic accidents combined in the same year.

  • One officer completed suicide every 81 hours.
  • For every one police suicide, almost 1,000 officers continue to work while suffering the painful symptoms of PTSD.

*Source – Officer.com 


The blue line flag above was painted by author J.D. Allen and presented to me as a gift at the 2017 Writers’ Police Academy. For those of you who don’t know, JD was one of the organizers of the first Writers’ Police Academy held in North Carolina. Thank you, JD. You’re a wonderful friend.

You can learn more about JD Allen and her books by visiting her web page at JDAllenbooks.com

 

 

Have you hear the rumor? You know the one, that some people are simply not wired to be cops.Shocking, isn’t it?

There, I’ve said it. And and I’m not spreading gossip because, sadly, it’s true.

Ask any police officer and they’ll tell you that it takes a special kind of person to successfully wear a gun and badge, and to live and work in a manner that coincides with their sworn oath.

Sure, “law dawgs” come in all shapes, sizes, skin colors, and from varying backgrounds. But there was one officer who, for numerous reasons, shouldn’t have made it past the interview stage, let alone advance to actually working the streets. This pint-sized, woefully inadequate cop was quickly nicknamed “The Little Cop Who Couldn’t.”

Before I delve into the tale of the cop who had to sit on a pillow to see above the steering wheel in their patrol car, we need to assign a name to the officer—a gender-neutral name to protect the identity of the thumbnail version of a real police officer. By doing so, it’ll allow you to paint your own mental picture of him/her. The name I choose is Pat (could go either way with this one – remember Pat on SNL?).

The story goes something like this…

Pat was a unique police officer who stood at a towering 4’10” tall, with shoes on. Not a single supply company stocked police uniforms in toddler sizes, so Pat’s clothing had to be specially made and ordered from a company located in a remote corner of None Such County.

Even then, with None Such’s finest clothing maker assigned to the task, a good bit of onsite tailoring was required, snipping here and stitching there, to insure a proper fit. To provide a better picture of the size of this person, had someone bronzed Pat’s Bates work footwear they’d have looked a lot like “baby’s first shoes.”

During basic training, one of the practical exercises for the class was to direct traffic at a busy city intersection. Trainees were required to be in full uniform for the exercise, including hats. Well, they just don’t make police hats that small, so Pat borrowed one from a fellow classmate.

The hat was the thing that sent the rest the class over the edge. The minuscule officer looked like a kid playing dress-up in adult clothing.

Not the actual Pat.

We each took a turn in the intersection, stopping traffic  to permit left turns, right turns, and allowing cars to travel forward. We repeated the process until our instructor felt comfortable with our ability to control traffic flow.

Then it was Pat’s turn. So the recruit in the intersection, a full-sized officer, successfully stopped traffic in all four directions to allow Pat to assume the position in the middle of the street.

Then, with arms outstretched and a short blast from a whistle, Pat then sharply and crisply motioned for one lane of traffic to move forward. And, for a brief moment, all was going well until Pat gave the whistle another tweet to stop the oncoming traffic and then turned to the left to start the next lane of traffic moving. Well, Pat’s cantaloupe-size head turned left, rotating inside the big-man-size cap. But, instead of moving in sync with the turning head, the too-large hat remained facing forward. The entire class erupted in laughter, as did many of the drivers who were absolutely confused about what they should do next.

Our instructor rushed out into the ensuing traffic jam to straighten out the mess and calm the drivers who used their car horns to blast their displeasure. Pat, in a moment of self-induced blindness because the hat had slipped even further down the face, totally blocking any hope of seeing, well, anything. Unfortunately, during the melee Pat dropped the whistle onto the pavement and when attempting to retrieve it, lost the hat. Of course the swift evening wind gusts sent it rolling into the lines of moving cars and trucks.

Pat once responded to a shoplifting call—an 11-year-old girl swiped a candy bar from a local K-Mart—and just as Pat was about to enter the store the little kid ran outside. Pat grabbed the little darlin’ who then pushed Pat down to the pavement. Pat got up and grabbed the 70-ish-pound kid and it was on.

According to bystanders, who, by the way, called 911 to report an officer needing assistance, said the child was absolutely beating the tar out of Pat. One witness told responding officers that Pat closely resembled one of those blow-up clown punching bags that pops back upright after each blow.

Then there was the time when Pat’s fellow officers had responded to a large fight outside a local bar. The dispatcher cautioned that weapons were involved and that several people were already injured and down. Pat was in the middle of answering a domestic he-said/she-said when the call came in.

When officers responding to the brawl saw the massive crowd they immediately called for backup, which, at that point, meant calling in sheriff’s deputies and state troopers since every available officer, except Pat, was already on the scene. The fight was a tough battle and officers and bad guys were basically going at it, toe-to-toe and blow-for-blow. Officers were outnumbered 4-to-1, at least.

And then they heard it … a lone siren wailing and yelping in the distance, like the sound of a ship’s horn mournfully floating across vast salt water marshes at low tide. Soon, intermittent flashes of blue light began to reflect from brick storefronts and plate glass windows. And then, out of the darkness appeared Pat’s patrol car, bearing down on the parking lot and the fight that was well underway.

File:London Polizei-Einsatz.gif

Pat didn’t bother stopping at the curb. Instead, the teeny-tiny officer who, if you recall, had to sit on a pillow to see over the steering wheel (no, I’m not kidding), pulled the car directly into the parking lot beside the action, flung open the car door, and stepped out. Well, sort of.

Pat’s pistol somehow had become entangled in the seat belt, which sort of reeled Pat back into the car like a Yo-Yo on the upswing. Pat’s Maglite hit the pavement, coming apart and spilling batteries in all sorts of directions. The pillow fell out of the car and slid beneath the vehicle. And the hat … Pat had donned the cop/bus driver hat, which, of course remained motionless while Pat’s head spun around like a lighthouse beacon as he/she surveyed the scene.

Suddenly, as if a magic spell had been cast, the fight stopped, with everyone turning to watch “The Pat Show” unfold. Even the bad guys chuckled at the ridiculousness before them—Pat on hands and knees retrieving lost gear and, of course, the pillow. But, at least the fight was over.

By the way, Pat’s hands were so small that the department had to purchase a pistol that’s a bit smaller than standard cop issue. However, Pat’s index finger was still too short to reach the trigger. So he/she learned to shoot using his/her middle finger when firing the sidearm. Didn’t matter, because Pat failed to shoot a satisfactory score during the first annual weapons qualification.

So, I guess the true test of becoming a police officer is not how strong the desire or how big the heart, it’s how well the head fits the hat. And, of course, you must be “this tall” to drive a police car.

 

The rules were simple—write a complete story about the photograph below, using exactly 200 words. Not 201 or 199. Precisely 200 words.

Writers from around the world accepted this challenging assignment, sending us a mountain of entries. Then our team of screeners/pre-judges whittled those short stories down to a list of twelve well-told tales.

The top dozen stories were then sent to our renowned contest judge, NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 50 Contemporary Romance and Romantic Suspense novels, Brenda Novak.

Brenda Novak

Brenda then read each of the stories and subsequently selected a winner and runners up.

Congratulations to everyone for jobs well done!

 

 

 

Here are the top twelve entries, starting with the contest winner, Frank Cook!

Remember, the focus of each story was based on the photo below.
So, without further ado …

2018 Golden Donut Shot Story photo prompt

1st Place

Frank Cook

The Last Look Back

“I show it to all my clients,” Karen told the woman standing in her office. “In the background you see a dead and decaying forest, then this old rickety bridge leading across to this side. I call it, ‘The Last Look Back.’”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t get it.”

“My clients come to me with, how should I put it? ‘Disappointing marriages.’ I make things better. I point to this photo. It represents what they had. A once young and caring relationship that has grown old and dry. And this old bridge,” Karen confided. “It represents their fear of crossing into the future. Can they trust their emotions? Their own decisions? Will they be ok?”

Karen smiled. “It is my job to bring them out of that forest and across that dangerous bridge. This photo is the last time they ever need look back on their past.”

The woman nodded and felt for something in her jacket pocket. “On the other side of that bridge,” she pointed. “And a little bit into that forest. We found six decomposed bodies there this morning.” She pulled a badge from her pocket. “Including your husband you reported missing.”

* * *

 

2nd Place

Ry Brooks

Bridge to Nowhere

I am an old footbridge, and in my time I have experienced some things. When I was young, many traveled over me. Sometimes, children tossed pebbles to watch them fall. Once in awhile, young lovers hugged, gazing at the rocks and rushing river below. Those were good times.

Lately, most people use the highway bridge downriver, and it has been lonely. Six daytimes ago, I had visitors, a man and a woman, but they were arguing, and I was glad they hurried across. They came back two nights past, and this time they were quiet. The man was carrying the woman, which at first I thought was considerate. But he laid her down, in the middle of my span, and then something terrible happened. The man dropped her body into the rushing torrent below and ran away. I felt anger at my powerlessness then, and wondered what could be done.

Tonight he is back, running from pursuers, and I am ready. He is almost half way across – there, I snapped my rusted support cables, right in the middle. It will also be my end, but after all, I am old and the man will not be missed.

* * *

 

3rd Place

Nana Herron

The Open Road

“FIVE!”

That voice. His voice. Echoed throughout the valley. Time was running out.

“FOUR!”

I was thumbing a ride when a pickup truck blew past me and stopped. The driver rolled down the window and smiled. “Didn’t yer mama ever tell you not to hitchhike?”

She had. I got in anyway.

“THREE!”

“The open road ain’t safe for a pretty, young thing like you.”

“I’m not scared.” I shivered.

“You should be.” He laughed.

“TWO!”

When the truck stopped, I ran. Brambles cut my legs. Branches slapped my face.

I hid. Had I been here before? If only I could remember…

“ONE! COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE!”

The game was on.

I ran. My lungs burned as the old bridge appeared. Just a few more steps…

“FREEZE!”

A shot rang out. I halted.

The bridge swayed and creaked as he approached.

When he lunged, I ducked. A scream pierced the valley.

SILENCE.

I looked down the hole at his twisted body and laughed. “Didn’t yer mama ever tell you not to pick up hitchhikers?”

My work here was done. The open road beckoned, and I was itching to hitch another ride.


And, rounding out the top twelve, in no particular order, were …

 

Entry #30-Vinnie Hansen

Bridging the Gaps

The bridge swayed. Mark’s stomach lurched. White knuckles gripped the cable. “I never thought you’d come back here.” He shouted over the noisy river rush.

“What about you?” Erin’s face turned up, gorgeous green eyes searching his. “Samantha was your friend, too.”

Friend. Erin’s tone made Mark avert his eyes toward the trees. “But you were actually here, Erin. How awful.”

Erin sidled closer and wrapped an arm around him. “The scene of the crime.”

“Crime?” Sammi had acted impulsively the newspaper said, standing on the rail, leaning far out, blonde hair whipping, breathing in the ozone. Alive. “It was a horrible accident.”

His heart pounded. Erin had been the newspaper’s source. What was she telling him?

Hardness in Erin’s jacket pressed Mark’s side.

 In the distance, the bridge dumped into a dark hole in the forest. Sammi’s spirit had exerted a force, drawing Mark from Erin. His wife. A rock below had crushed Sammi’s skull. “Sammi was a mistake.”

“Yes,” Erin murmured.

He pivoted toward her. “You knew?”

She nodded.

He gulped. “But it was an accident?”

“A terrible accident.”

Erin backed away and pulled out a hammer.

The truth hit home with a thud.

***

 

Chelle Martin

Over the River and Through the Woods 

“Team Building” day consisted of hiking Black Bear Mountain and promised scenic views from a rustic footbridge. And possibly bears.

Before we’d gone ten yards, I became a mosquito magnet. Moreover, my boss and “teammate” insisted I carry his backpack due to his bad back.

We brought up the rear of six pairs, stopping frequently so John could check for landmarks, and I could gasp for air.

“The footbridge should be just ahead. Give me my roast beef.”

I pulled a sandwich from his pack and handed it to him. The smell wafted heavily on the humid air. “Aren’t you afraid of bears?”

He waved me off.

Out of sight, I called up an app on my phone. Once we resumed hiking, I hit play and John sprinted ahead at the sound of a growling grizzly.

I laughed until I cried, when a text came in.

AVOID FOOT BRIDGE. BEARS IN AREA.

“John! Wait!” The backpacks slowed me down. I arrived as John encountered a bear on the other side of the footbridge.

I hated to admit it, but the Black Bear Mountain brochure was right. The view really was spectacular.

* * *

 

Kathy McIntosh

Bridging Fear

It was not the same bridge. Totally different construction. My brain registered that fact, but the fear that lay deep in my bones and muscles rose unbridled by reality.

Home lay across that bridge. Home, peace, and Grandma’s peach cobbler. Downstream the pond waited for me, cool and refreshing. Ready for me to jump in naked, washing away the pain and soothing the scars.

My brain knew that. Knew that beyond that bridge I’d soon be enveloped in the love of my children and my husband. I knew how sturdy that bridge was, how it could support all of us and all the food we could tote. I smiled, remembering how we pondered each purchase, determining if it was worth the haul across the bridge and up the hill beyond.

That other bridge had been longer, stronger, built from concrete, built to last. Until an IED had destroyed it and most of my squad. Since that day I had been unable to cross bridges.

A cold, wet nose pressed against my fist and a soft, warm body leaned into my side.

“I can do this.” I stepped onto the wooden planks, my dog beside me.

* * *

 

Rick McMahan

GRUFF

“Billy?”

“Yes, little one.”

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“No one is going to hurt you.”  My large hand gripped her small one tightly as we moved on the swaying bridge.   Her palm was soft. Her bones delicate.

“Promise?”

Looking down, I gave her my best toothy smile. “I promise.”

The planks groaned under our footfalls.

Glancing back over my shoulder, I could barely make out the three filled sleeping bags at the edge of the trees in the dying embers of the camp fire. The fourth bag was empty.

My feet picked up speed, urging us both forward.

“They will come for me,” she hissed defiantly.  “They’ll take me back.”

I didn’t answer her.

The cold river rushing below masked the pounding of my heart.

In the moonlight, I watched her free hand dance across the rough hewn railing. Her manicured nails were painted a fierce pink.

“They were a nice family,” my sister said.

“I know.”

My free hand hung down at my side. I still clutched the sharp knife. As we walked, I imagined I could hear every time a droplet of coppery blood fell from my blade and spattered the bridge.

“They were.”

* * *

 

Janice Peacock

Plundered

Tillie bolted across the rickety footbridge, a drawstring bag of gold slung across her back.

“Do you think we lost him?” Sue called to her sister, not slowing to look back.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Keep running!” Tillie replied.

Halfway across the bridge, Tillie’s foot caught on a rotten plank, and she fell hard. Sue caught up with her, gasping for breath. Cannonball Churchill clomped after them, his black boots shaking the bridge with each step. The pirate wanted his gold back and wasn’t going to let a couple of girls outsmart him.

“Sorry we stole from you, sir,” Tillie shouted as she tied the sack to the bridge’s railing. The girls took off for the safety of the forest.

Cannonball stopped to untie the bag, his large hands struggling with the knots. The rotten planks creaked beneath the pirate’s feet and splintered. As his legs broke through the boards, he grasped at the wood crumbling around him. Plunging into the churning river below, he was whisked down to the sea.

Avoiding the bridge’s hole, Tillie tiptoed to the sack, untied it, and ran. Girls are much lighter—and much trickier—than pirates.

* * *

 

Michale Rigg

The Pack

Walking on the wooden suspension bridge over Benson Creek in the pre-dawn chill, Thomas counted each plank. Stopping at seventy-five, he turned toward his colleague, Hidalgo.

“Here,” Thomas said, “put ‘em here. Set ‘em at eight hundred.”

Hidalgo placed three homemade contact-mines on the decking. “Why eight hundred? Pack mules weigh a lot more, especially loaded with gold.”

“Not taking chances.” Thomas paused. “This job means I can move my family to town. They deserve the best.” He smiled. “My boys are working on their Orienteering Merit Badges today.”

“But what if someone—”

“Been watching. Company goons will arrive in about an hour to search for wires and dynamite. This early, there shouldn’t be any foot traffic. Besides, it would take a large group walking together to detonate these beauties.”

The duo camouflaged the devices and hid to await their prey. Shortly, just as the guards arrived, a group of young men dressed in khaki and green started onto the span marching in double-column, like an infantry platoon. Scouts.

Thomas jumped up and screamed. “Stop!” His face went numb.

As the explosions echoed through the valley, Thomas slumped to the ground and wept.

* * *

 

Crystal Smith

Moonshine

The world looks different when you’re hanging upside down by your ankles.

If Carl hadn’t been so obsessed with authenticity, he wouldn’t be in this situation.  He was building the wine list for his farm-to-table restaurant and heard rumors that a whiskey called Lone Bridge was the smoothest.  So Carl headed into the sticks of Georgia to look for the distillery’s secret location.  He didn’t know the liquor business was just a front for the owner’s gun running operation.  When Carl got halfway across the bridge, he was met by a group of men carrying rifles.

“I think we caught us a spy.  Who you working for, boy?”

“No one.  I’m a chef.”  That drew laughter and earned him a few punches.

“Don’t that sound fancy.”

They held him and searched his belongings.  Carl spotted a flask in the leader’s pocket and fear gave way to curiosity.  “Can I have a sip of that?”

“Why not?”  He tipped the flask to Carl’s mouth.  “Good, ain’t it?”

Carl nodded as the men lifted him over the side of the bridge.  Smoky with hint of spice.  It really would have been perfect.

* * *

 

Vicki Tharp

Redeemed

The Drako moons rose high as Coolidge dangled by his legs beneath the rickety suspension bridge. Sweat stung his eyes, and his abdominal muscles burned as he swung up and caught a guidewire with his left hand.

In his right, the remote activated blasting caps.

“Easy,” Holden called out from below.

“Shut it,” Coolidge said, too focused on the job to slap any heat behind it.

“Remember what happened last time?”

Why wouldn’t Holden let it go? “Nothing happened.”

“Exactly. Get this right, or we’re all dead.”

Coolidge attached the caps to the explosives. He panted through the strain on his core, completing the connections, and syncing his quantum controller. “It’s right.”

Finally.

His redemption.

The ground shook as the platoon of Dragoons broke through the trees and stormed toward the bridge.

“Let’s go!” Holden panicked and squeezed off three rounds from his CytoBlaster. A Dragoon vaporized. Then another.

Coolidge fast-roped down under a barrage of return fire. They scrambled over the muddy bank, ducking behind cover. Coolidge energized his wrist-mounted detonator. He hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

Blood pounded behind Coolidge’s eardrums. His throat went disaster-dry. “I can’t remember the passcode.”

* * *

 

64-Susan Vojtik

One Step

She stared at the end of the bridge. Home lay at the end. The little cabin behind the trees. Her husband waited there for her. He was angry with her again. This time it was dinner. Too hot or too cold or too spicy. Too something, for sure. He had yelled at her, beat her and then got drunk. And then he fell asleep. And she had walked down the bridge.

He had woken up a few minutes ago. She could hear him calling her as she stood on the bridge. The bridge that would lead her home or to freedom. He never allowed her to be on the bridge. She was excited and scared. The bridge meant freedom. Or home. But, freedom… He would take her to bed and punish her. The last time he did that, she lost the baby.

He called her again and she turned around. And took one step. Off the edge of that broken bridge, many hundreds of feet above the ground. And, as she took that step, she wondered if they would think he had pushed her off the bridge and would punish him. And then she didn’t care anymore.

 

 

Officer I. Gowj is on foot patrol in the lower east side of Deathtrap, Texas, where the rowdiest of all bars are located. The area there near the docks and strip joints is well known for its drug traffic and gang activity, and there’d been a number of assaults on police officers in recent weeks. So Officer Gowj is already on high alert as he passes a suspicious young man hanging out at the intersection of Kick and My Butt. The two exchange eye contact and, after mumbling a few words to himself, the cross-eyed beefy guy falls in step behind the officer.

Sensing danger, Officer Gowj moves to the side of the walkway and turns his back to the brick storefront of Slim’s House of Pawn, Porn, and Collectible Thimbles.

The large man stopped directly in front of the wary patrol officer. Unsure of the focus of the suspicious man’s gaze Officer Gowj prepared to defend himself and, as the officer suspected, the man attacked, delivering numerous punches and kicks to the officer’s head and body.

Is Officer I. Gowj expected, by law, to fight a fair fight? Must he stand there and exchange punches and kicks with the thug until the best brawler is left standing? No, of course not. Police officers are expected to win every single encounter. They should never lose a battle. Not ever. Their goal is to arrest all suspects and bring them in to stand trial.

But, suppose the attacker is bigger and stronger? What if there’s more than one attacker? If the bad guy is a better fighter, what then?

Well, all of the above are the reasons officers operate under the “1-Plus Rule of Thumb,” which simply means that officers, under normal circumstances, are allowed to use one level of force above the amount of force used by the suspect/attacker/adversary.

What about an encounter such as the one Officer Gowj was faced with in the paragraphs above? The man was unarmed and he began his attack at close range. What is Officer Gowj allowed to do to defend himself?

Well, if the officer feels that his life is in danger he is permitted to use deadly force. But in Gowj’s case he probably wouldn’t have the time or opportunity to reach one of the weapons on his duty belt. Not at first, anyway.

So here are some options officers may want to consider when faced with deadly force encounters while empty handed. The same tactics could be used by citizens to defend themselves against an attack.

Empty-Hand Defensive Tactics

Eye Gouge – Use your palms to guide the thumbs to the eyes, and always use the thumbs when applying this technique. Never a finger. Thumbs are capable of delivering more force than fingers. Besides, fingers break easily as opposed to the sturdier thumbs. But you can use the fingers to grip the head, which helps to provide even more force from the thumbs. A properly applied eye gouge almost always results in the suspect releasing his grip on you.

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Knee Strike – A knee strike to the groin, gut, or the large muscle of the thigh, can be a devastating blow. A huge amount of force is generated by this technique, and that force translates into lots of pain to your attacker.

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The Head Twist – This one’s a little tricky because you could actually kill your suspect if you’re not careful. BUT, if the officer is fighting for her life, then so be it.

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Kick To The Knee – It’s very easy to break a knee, therefore a good kick to it can put your attacker out of commission in a hurry. After all, it’s tough to fight while standing on one leg. It’s also difficult to escape custody with a broken knee. Not many suspects are able to successfully hop their way to freedom.

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Palm-Heel Strike To The Ear – This one is quite painful. Makes ’em see stars and bright white lights. It could also make them release the choke hold they have on you.

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Remember, these are NOT the techniques police use to control suspects—arm bars, wrist locks, and come-alongs. These are empty-handed tactics and techniques used when fighting for survival. Officers should ONLY use the amount of force necessary to control a suspect/situation. Never use deadly force in a non life-threatening situation.

Hell Week

Basic police officer academy training consists of many aspects of law-enforcement. But perhaps the most memorable course is the one our recruits often referred to as Hell Week.

During Hell Week recruits learn how to defend themselves from weapon wielding attackers, and they learn various techniques such as weapon retention, weapon disarming, handcuffing, baton use, how to effectively arrest combative and non-combative suspects, and the proper and safe use of chemical sprays and Taser deployment.

They’re also required to exercise and run. Actually, lots and lots of exercising and running. And when they’ve finished all that exercising and running, they run and exercise some more.

The training is intense, painful, and exhausting. Did I mention … PAINFUL!

Recruits learn to control and handcuff combative suspects by using pain-compliance techniques—wrist-locks and joint control. The tactics taught to police are based on the techniques used by martial artists. Aikido, founded byO-Sensei Morihei Ueshiba, and Chin-Na, are two of the martial arts our academy used as a foundation for these highly-effective techniques.

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Aikido founder Morihei Ueshiba (O-Sensei, “The Great Teacher”).

Sticking to O-Sensei’s original teachings, Yoshinkan Aikido was first taught to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police in the early 1960’s. The Tokyo Riot Police receives Yoshinkan Aikido instruction to this day. Aikido techniques in American police academies are a bit less intensive, but are still extremely effective.

Aikido (The Art of Peace) uses the attacker’s own force against him.

The purpose of police defense tactics training is actually threefold—to protect the officer, make a safe arrest, and protect the attacker/assailant from harm.

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I served as a police academy instructor and instructor-trainer for many years, teaching basic, advanced, and in-service classes such as, Defensive Tactics, Officer Survival, CPR, Interview and Interrogation, Homicide Investigation, Drug Recognition, and Firearms. I also trained, certified, and re-certified police academy instructors.

Outside the academy, my wife Denene, and I, owned our own school/gym where I taught classes in rape-prevention, personal self-defense and self-defense for women, and advanced training for executive bodyguards. I trained others in stick (tambo) and knife fighting. The training at our school/dojo was extremely intense and designed for personal survival and the protection of others. It was not typical police training.

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Throughout my law enforcement career I maintained the rank of Master Defensive Tactics Intructor/Aikido and a black belt in Chin-Na, and Master Defensive Tactics Instructor/Instructor-Trainer.

As I stated above, the defensive tactics I and our other instructors taught to police recruits and to officers completing their mandatory in-service training was based upon Aikido techniques.

Basic Aikido For Law Enforcement

1. Develop a keen sense of awareness. Learn to observe the entire picture. No rear attacks!

2. Being able to quickly move forward, backward, side-to-side, and diagonally… all without losing your balance.

3. Verbally calm down any potential aggressor.

4. Knowing the right time to arrest or detain a suspect. Avoid any escalation of violent behavior.

5. Having the tools to cause pain without causing injury—use of pressure points to safely effect the arrest.

6. Always use the minimum amount of force necessary to make the arrest.

Remember:

– Unbalancing the suspect is key to reducing their resistance.

– Control the head and the body will follow.

– Move the suspect into a position where their chance of reaching you with an attack is greatly reduced—controlling their arms, wrists, elbows or shoulders.

Officers are taught a variety of techniques, such as:

A wrist turnout, for example, applies intense pressure to the joint in the wrist while forcing the suspect off balance. The proper grasp to begin the wrist turnout (Kotegaeshi Nage) technique is pictured below.

A wrist turnout applies intense pressure to the joint in the wrist, forcing the suspect off balance.

Proper grasp to begin the wrist turnout (Kotegaeshi Nage) technique. To complete the technique the officer maintains his grasp, rotates the suspect’s hand up and to the rear in a counter-clockwise motion while simultaneously stepping back with his (the officer) left leg. The suspect ends up on the floor on his back (see picture below). Any resistance inflcts excrutiating pain in the wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

Combative suspects are normally forced the ground for handcuffing. From this position, a quick turn of the suspect’s wrist and arm will force him to roll over on his stomach. Any resistance causes extreme pain and could severely injure the controlled wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

To effectively control the wrist, the elbow must be stationary. From this position, the suspect is easily handcuffed.

This wrist lock can cause intense pain in the wrist, the elbow, and the shoulder. Forward and downward pressure forces the suspect to the ground.

Chinese Chin Na can be categorized in five general areas. They are:

Fen Chin – techniques which tear apart an opponent’s muscles or tendons. Techniques in this category of Chin Na is illegal in all competitive sports.

Ts’o Ku, translated loosely, means misplacing the bone. These techniques are used to position bones in unnatrual positions by manipulating  and applying pressure to joints.

Pi Ch’i, “sealing the breath,” refers to techniques that prevents an opponent’s ability to inhale.

Tien Mai are the techniques used for sealing or striking blood vessels.

Keep in mind, the last four techniques listed above are NOT taught to law enforcement officers. Nor are they permitted as part of arrest and control situations. However, in a life or death situation anything goes, including the use of deadly force.

To see a demonstration of a few techniques taught to law enforcement, please click to start the video below.

Police often keep certain case details secret, away from the public and media. It’s nearly maddening, I know, to people who’d like to help locate a missing person. However, there is a purpose or two to keeping these important and oftentimes scant particulars, those known only to the perpetrator, out of public view. One is to afford police the opportunity to solidly place the suspect at the scene if the person in the hot seat mentions those undisclosed, key details during an interview with investigators.

In the case of Mollie Tibbitt’s disappearance, it seems as if she vanished from the face of the earth without leaving a single trace. However, those who’re familiar with Locard’s Exchange Principle—theconcept that was developed by Dr. Edmond Locard—”that every time someone makes contact with another person, place, or thing, an exchange of physical materials takes place.” The item(s) could be as large as a footprint, a leaf, or a fingerprint, or as small as DNA, skin cells, or body fluid.

The same is true in reverse. The unsuspecting criminal, no matter how careful, will also take similar material away from the crime scene—carpet fibers buried in the tread of a shoe, DNA transferred to the suspect from an item only found in the apartment belonging to the victim, a unique plant seed stuck to the gas pedal of the suspect’s car, and so on. The list is nearly endless. Actually, I once solved a murder using soil and plant material found on a gas pedal and carpeting of the killer’s car. The material was unique in that its characteristics were exclusive to the location where the murder took place.

It’s quite possible that police have in hand one of those a tiny bits of evidence that would or could place a kidnapper or an accomplice in one of the five or six areas police have identified as locations of interest in the case of Mollie Tibbitts’ disappearance. Keep in mind, though, there may be other areas they’re keeping to themselves in hopes the suspect will relax, thinking police are not closing in, when in reality the net is slowly and methodically tightening as clues are revealed.

For the safety of Mollie Tibbetts, it’s imperative that a kidnapper, if this is indeed the case, not be alerted that police are hot on their heels. Desperation on the part of the criminal could led to an unfortunate end to the investigation.

On the other end of the spectrum are the people who confess to crimes they didn’t commit. These individuals often crave attention so badly they’ll march into a police station where they admit to crimes ranging from burglary to murder. When this occurs, it takes away from the valuable time needed to focus on real leads because each false-confessor’s story must be thoroughly scrutinized.

Others who falsely confess to crimes do so because they sometimes succumb to effective and often intense questioning tactics used by skilled police interrogators. For example, The Reid Technique, a method that utilizes three distinct components—factual analysis, interviewing, and interrogation—is designed to help eliminate those who aren’t good candidates as suspects for the crime in question. Once the pool of suspects is narrowed down to a single person, well, police typically have their man, or woman.

A person who seeks notoriety by falsely claiming to have committed a crime that’s receiving national attention will use the information announced by the news media to concoct a believable story. This is a second example as to why police closely guard some details about a case.

Regarding those false confessions, when the innocent confess to crimes they didn’t commit. We see this in cases where death row inmates are exonerated based on physical evidence, even after confessing to the crime. The same was true when John Mark Karr falsely confessed to killing Jon Benet Ramsey back in 2006. Karr’s DNA didn’t match the DNA found on the body of the six-year-old girl’s body. Or, in 1932, when over 200 people who confessed to abducting Charles Lindburgh’s infant son.

Several other factors contribute to confessions offered by innocent people. For example, after being subjected to lengthy, hours-long intense interrogation, some individuals simply become exhausted and profess guilt simply to end the process. In addition, police interrogators often “minimalize” the crime, making it seem less severe. The idea is to convince the suspect that it’s in his or her best interest to confess. And they often do.

Stress leads to false confessions. A person’s level of anxiety generally increases when accused of a crime they didn’t commit; however, those who are not guilty of the crime in question typically feel their innocence will allow them to breeze through the interrogation without fear. They feel protected by their guiltlessness. Unfortunately, this lack of concern sometimes puts them at risk to admit to a crime they didn’t commit because their guard is down, and they’re weary, which increases the likelihood they’ll succumb to a skilled investigator’s use of tried and true tactics and techniques.

With these factors in mind, police try to hold insider information to themselves, away from the public eye. It’s sort of like playing poker. The idea is not show your hand until the last card is dealt and all bids are in. Otherwise, the criminal, who is well aware of the details of the act, could call their bluff and literally get away with murder. That, and have dozens of people confessing to the crime merely to see their names on national news.

I do find it interesting that on the official police-generated “Finding Mollie” website, they use the pronoun “he” when describing characteristics or changes in behavior patterns of individuals who would be likely to commit a violent crime that could be associated with Mollie Tibbitt’s disappearance.

And, there’s the possibility that Mollie Tibbitts is with someone she knows and now that person is afraid to come forward fearing prosecution. This case is a head-scratcher for people not in the immediate circle of people in the know. And it may be a real puzzle for police investigators. But my bet is that the police have a piece, or pieces, of evidence that could tie someone to the case—piece of evidence known only to them and they do not want to suspect(s) to know “they know.”

*Anyone with tips in relation to Mollie Tibbetts’ disappearance is urged to visit findingmollie.iowa.gov. A reward for information about the case leading to her safe return has nearly hit $400,000 ~ Fox News

Excerpts from this article are featured today in the Fox News article “Mollie Tibbetts’ father says Pence meeting was ‘touching’ as 200 new tips pour in.”

To read the entire article, please click here.