Corrections Officer Joseph Parise, 37
Minnesota Department of Corrections
September 24, 2018 – Officer Joseph Parise suffered s fatal heart attack after responding to a violent incident where an inmate injured two officers who were attempting to subdue him.
Officer Parise, along with additional officers, managed to restrain the prisoner, Then, after he’d returned to his post, he collapsed. He was transported to a local hospital where he passed away.
Sometimes it’s the tiniest of details that offer the extra oomph needed to send a good story over the edge to “can’t-wait-to-turn-to-the-next-page” greatness. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on the point of view, many writers of whodunits and other such crime novels have not had the opportunity to visit an actual crime scene where the victim du jour has been murdered.
Sure, there are tons of books that describe the experience, and there are many writers conferences around the country that feature experts who detail the steps and equipment used to solve crimes. But a list of procedures and pictures of investigational do-dads don’t quite add the over-the-hump material that sends a tale into sensory overdrive.
Writers must express the sights, sounds, odors, and emotions that detectives experience as they process a crime scene. Actually, what I just described is what investigators should do before entering a crime scene—look, listen, and smell.
Those are three very important initial assessments, and that’s so for a variety of reasons.
Be on the lookout for animals. Wildlife may be on the prowl for, as unpleasant as this sounds, a meal. Therefore, the officer may need to call upon animal control or area game wardens for assistance. The same is true for family pets who will often stop at nothing to safeguard their domain and/or the lifeless bodies of their owners.
Make note of any vehicles scene driving through or leaving the area.
Notice insect activity.
Visually scan the entire area for secondary crime scenes, areas where evidence of the main crime is located.
For example, Tom Ishotem killed Bill Isdead, using a hollow point fired from a .357. Tom ran twenty yards and then tossed the revolver into Ms. Irene Iseenitall’s front yard next to her blue-ribbon-winning salmon-pink Barbara Bush hybrid-tea rose bush she ordered from the Rogue Valley Roses over in Oregon.
Then the murderer hopped the hedges and disappeared into the night. Actually, he landed in a manure pile in Harvey Jenkins’ hog pen, but it sounded far more cool to say he vanished into the darkness, right?
Anyway, Ms Iseenitall’s front yard is considered a secondary crime scene because evidence, the gun, was found there. Remember, the spot where the crime actually takes place is “the scene of the crime.” All other locations where evidence is found are secondary crimes scenes.
2. Listen – Be alert for the hissing of broken gas lines, snarling dogs, and even the rattle of snake’s tail. After all, the cause of death could be the bites of a baker’s dozen of rattlesnakes. Listen for the sounds of footsteps and moving brush. The crackling of twigs. I once discovered a killer hiding in the tangle of bushes because he’d moved slightly which caused a thin branch to snap when his shirt caught a sharp end of the limb. Had he not done so (it was nighttime and raining) he may have gotten away.
3. Smell – Again, take a moment to put your nose to work in the event there’s a gas leak. What about the lingering odor of a cologne or perfume? The fresh scent of gunpowder? But whatever you do, do NOT write that your hero smelled cordite. NO, NO, and NO! The manufacturing of that stuff ceased at the end of WWII. Again, NO!
Be alert for the odor of toxic chemicals—meth labs or even biological weapon manufacturing.
4. The first responder should ALWAYS assume the crime is currently in progress until they’re certain it is not. All too often officers are surprised by the guy behind the door (hypothetically) with a knife. However, that’s exactly what happened to my rookie butt one night when I stepped into a room, assuming the bad guy was either under the bed or in a closet. Thankfully, my experienced partner stopped the guy from inserting a serrated-edge steak knife between my shoulder blades. That’s a lesson I’ve not forgotten.
So, yes, tiny details, such as the sweet scent of a lovely Barbara Bush hybrid tea rose, the salmon pink ones, mingled with the odor of escaping propane from a loosened copper fitting, along with the putrid funk of Mr. Bill Isdead’s decomposing corpse, a scent that brings to mind a forgotten Purdue chicken left to thaw in a kitchen sink for two solid weeks, added to the chemically-offensive meth lab concoctions, would certainly add a bit more “flavor” to a tale than simply writing …
“Detective Johnson approached the scene with caution before entering the room where the body of Mr. Billisded lay dead. He wondered, whodunit.”
Look, Smell, and Listen!
The first few hours of the shift were filled with the usuals—he-said-she-said arguments, drunks up to their typical drunken stupidity, Toms peeping, and crooks doing crooked things. But now it’s four in the morning and things have become quiet. Too quiet.
So serene, actually, that fatigue slowly gains control of your eyelids. It’s a subtle move, like grasping the string on your grandmother’s window shades, slowly tugging them downward. The Sandman’s gentle action is so gracefully executed and so well-choreographed that even your advanced investigative skills are unable to detect the hostile takeover.
Thoughts of your family occupy your mind–little Susie and Jimmie and your loving wife of eighteen years, Mollie Jean—asleep in their warm beds, with images of them nestled between clean and fresh-smelling sheets with heads resting on downy pillows and with soft covers pulled to their chins. Claude, your faithful black lab, named, of course, after the the painter, Monet, snoozes on the oval braided rug near the front door so he can hear when your car pulls into the driveway.
Five minutes. That’s all you need. Then you’d be as fresh as a springtime daisy.
Guiding your black and white onto the side street between the U-Nailem Hardware Store and Harry’s Barber Shop, you next steer the car into a long and narrow alleyway, the one behind Bert’s Breads and Cakes, hoping to find a quiet and dimly-lit place to pull over. Five minutes. Just five measly minutes.
Shouldn’t have spent those three hours today playing with the kids when you could’ve been sleeping. Still, that’s the only time you get to see them awake. And, someone had to mow the lawn this afternoon, right? The grass was already knee-high to a baby giraffe.
Oh, yeah, tomorrow is the day you’re supposed to go to your third-grader’s class to tell them about police officers. How long could it take? One or two hours at the most, right? Well, there is the lunch afterward. Another hour. After all, you’d promised. Besides, it’s impossible to say no to those sweet brown eyes and minus-one-tooth smile.
Sleep. You need sleep.
Your headlights wash over the back of the alley as feral dogs and cats scramble out of the dumpster that sits behind the bakery like an old and tired dinosaur waiting for extinction. The knot of animals scatter loaves of two-day-old bread in their haste to escape the human intruder who dared meddle with their nocturnal feeding. A speckled mutt with three legs hobbled behind a rusty air conditioning unit, dragging a long, dirty bag filled with crumbled bagels.
You move on, shining your spotlight at the rear doors of a five and dime, an auto parts store, a pawn shop, and the real estate office you used when buying your house. Only twenty more years to financial freedom and six more before experiencing the joy of seeing the first AARP invitation-to-join letter in the mail.
The night air is damp with fog, dew, and city sweat that reeks of gasoline and sour garbage.
Tendrils of steam rise slowly from storm drains—ghostly, sinewy figures melting into the black sky. Mannequins stare into infinity from tombs of storefront glass, waiting for daylight to take away the flashing neon lights that reflect from their plaster skin.
Desperate to close your own eyes, just for a minute or two, you park at the rear of the next alley, below a grouping of the upstairs, low-rent apartments of the city’s less fortunate citizens. Your choice of nap space is alongside a stack of flattened cardboard boxes and crumpled bags filled with the evidence of someone’s life for the week—chicken bones, dirty, disposable diapers, wilted lettuce leaves, cigarette butts and ashes, and empty bottles of two-dollar wine.
Placing the strip of black electrical tape over the FM radio dial light, the one you keep stuck to the dashboard to block the glaring light, you turn up the volume on the police radio, just in case, and you close your tired eyes and then take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Ahhh … Just what the doctor ordered.
Suddenly, a voice spews from the speaker behind your head, “Shots fired! Respond to 1313 Mockingbird Lane. Back up is en route.”
You quickly grab the radio mic and say …
“10-4. I’m 10-8.”
And so it goes. Night after night, after night, after night.
From zero to eighty, just like that …
Officer Garrett Hull, 40
Fort Worth Texas Police Department
September 14, 2018 – Officer Garrett Hull died as a result of a gunshot wound sustained as he and other members of the Criminal Intelligence Unit attempted to apprehend three suspects who’d been involved in fifteen armed robberies. The suspects shot three people during those robberies and had just robbed ten patrons inside a bar at gunpoint when Officer Hull and team approached to initiate the arrest. The suspects fled and during the foot pursuit one of the men turned and fired, striking Officer Hull in the head.
Officer Hull is survived by his wife and two daughters.
Chief of Police Frank McClelland
Ludowici Georgia Police Department
September 15, 2018 – During a multi-county pursuit, Chief McClelland was attempting to stop traffic at an intersection when the suspect’s vehicle struck him. The vehicle then left the roadway and fatally struck a motorcyclist.
Officer Oscar Reyes, 43
Costa Mesa California Police Department
September 12, 2018 – Officer Oscar Reyes suffered a fatal heart attack after participating difficult training and skills competitions during a police Motor Rodeo. He is survived by his wife and three children.
ROBERT K. KUNZE, III, 41Sedgwick County Kansas Sheriff’s Office
September 16, 2018 – Deputy Sheriff Robert Kunze was shot and killed after making contact with a suspect in a stolen vehicle. During the encounter he and the suspect exchanged shots and both were fatally shot.
Deputy Kunze is survived by his wife and child.
Corrections Officer Armando Gallegos, 56
California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation
September 14, 2018 – Officer Armando Gallegos succumbed to injuries sustained on April 21st, 2018 when he was brutally attacked and severely beaten by eleven inmates.
Deputy Sheriff Mark Stasyuk, 27
Sacramento County California Sheriff’s Department
September 17, 2018 – Deputy Sheriff Mark Stasyuk was shot and killed after he and another a deputy responded to a disturbance call. The subject opened fire on them without warning as they arrived on the scene, killing Deputy Stasyuk and wounded other officers.
It was the late Hans Conried who provided the voice of Snidely Whiplash, the main antagonist of the cartoon, Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties.
As a stereotypical villain, much like those portrayed in today’s novels, he wore a tall black top hat and cape and had a long nose and a mustache.
Okay, present day authors may not dress their villains in such attire but the premise is the same … they’re evil, often dark, and they’ll stop at nothing to achieve their goals, even if murder is the only thing standing between them and getting what they want, and, of course, their freedom after the deed is done.
Therefore, it’s up to the hero of the story to save the day.
In Whiplash’s time it was Dudley Do-Right who rescued Nell from oncoming trains and other hazards. Nowadays there’s Reacher, D.D. Warren, Joanna Brady, Ellie Hatcher, Harry Bosch, Lincoln Rhyme, Sam Kovac and Nikki Liska, Dave Robicheaux, Eve Dallas, and, well, the list goes on and on. But in the end, the hero always wins, leaving the villains and/or antagonists to say, as did Whiplash, “Curses, foiled again!”
I imagine that’s what went through the mind of Peggy Jo Tallas, an ex-convict, just prior to being shot and killed by four Tyler, Texas police officers after she pointed a handgun at them. The shooting occurred after Peggy Jo made her escape after robbing the Guaranty Bank shortly after 11 a.m. that morning. Police later identified Tallas’ weapon as a toy gun.
In the early 90’s, a polite and quiet man with a pot-belly and graying hair, who wore sunglasses to hide his eyes and a ten-gallon hat perched backward on his head, robbed several area banks. The suspect never looked at the security cameras and was careful about checking for dye packs (more on dye packs in a moment).
Nothing the robber did stood out to investigators. No odd manners of speech (he didn’t say a word, making the demands by way of written notes). No fast get-a-aways (no tire tracks or identifying marks on the pavement). Always had stolen plates on the get-a-way car making it difficult to track.
However, when Cowboy Bob robbed the First Interstate Bank in Mesquite, Texas, he’d left on the actual license plates assigned to his Grand Prix. When police tracked down the vehicle belonging to a man named Pete Tallas, a Ford factory worker, Pete told investigators that he’d given the car to his sister, Peggy Jo. So off they go to pay a visit to Peggy Jo Tallas, expecting to find the mysterious pot-bellied, sunglass- and ten-gallon-hat-wearing man with graying hair hiding out in the apartment. Instead, they found Peggy Jo and her mother.
During a look around the apartment, the officers located a mannequin head with a fake beard, and a big ol’ bag of cash. The items had been stashed away in a bedroom closet. They pressed Peggy Jo about the possibility of a boyfriend and his location. She denied knowing either. It was at this point when one of the detectives noticed a bit of dried glue hanging from her lip AND, flecks of gray dye in her hair.
Cowboy Bob was actually Cowgirl Peggy, obviously, and for her crimes she served a whopping three years in prison. When she got out she bought an RV snd robbed another bank. This time, though, and perhaps she wanted to be caught, she wore sunglasses and a big floppy hat—no male disguise—, she spoke to the teller instead of passing a handwritten note, and she didn’t bother to check for dye packs.
Peggy Jo walked across the street to her RV. On the way, a dye pack exploded. She climbed into her RV and drove away. Police were notified and were provided a description of the RV. It was only a matter of minutes before a pursuit began and ended shortly after it started. Peggy Jo emerged from the camper with gun in hand, pointed at the officers and she dared them to shoot her. They granted her request by responding with four rounds fired from the sidearms.
Peggy Jo “Cowboy Bob” was dead.
“Curses, foiled again” ~ Snidely Whiplash, stereotypical villain whose hobbies were tying women to railroad tracks and bank robbery.
Dye packs help officers locate both the robber and the stolen loot.
The packs look like real money, but they’re designed to stain stolen currency by exploding a colored substance, typically red dye 1-methylaminoanthraquinone (MAAQ), that covers the cash and often the robber as well. Depending upon the timing of pack’s explosion, it’s possible that it occurs inside the suspect’s vehicle, which stains the seats and other portions of the interior. It’s messy.
Tear gas is included in some dye packs, making the device doubly effective. Now you have a grown red guy who’s bawling like a baby.
Should the crook successfully make his escape, the dye does not easily come out during even several washings. The same is true when contacted with skin. The stuff is extremely difficult to remove, especially in places such as nail beds and ridge areas of fingerprints.
If a suspect is located, an examination of clothing found would be conducted in a laboratory. The testing is as follows.
Fabrics are examined visually and/or microscopically.
If the telltale red or pink staining is observed, dichloromethane is used extract it from the material.
Red dye 1-methylaminoanthraquinone is soluble in Dichloromethane.
If the tested material is indeed soluble in dichloromethane, it’s then examined by Gas Chromatography-Mass Spectrometry and/or Fourier Transform Infrared Spectroscopy.
A positive result indicates the material was exposed to the red coloring in the bank’s dye pack.
Bingo! You have your bank robber.
Apply cuffs and take the crook directly to jail.
A dye pack consists of a hollowed-out stack of real bills. Inside the stack are the red dye, tear gas, and and electronics used to activate the explosion.
The dye pack remains in “safe mode” resting on a magnetic plate inside the teller’s cash drawer.
When a robber approaches and demands money, the teller simply slips the dye pack in with the rest of the cash.
When the pack is lifted from the magnetic plate, the pack is “armed,” or activated. It’s then ready to do it’s job.
Somewhere near the exit doors are activation points and, as the robber and his sack of money pass by on his way outside, a timer inside dye pack’s explosive device is automatically activated. It’s set to allow the robber to get a bit of distance away from the bank before going Kaplooey!
I’ve seen this first hand and the results are impressive. The packs basically render the stolen cash useless since it’s all stained a bright reddish-pink color, as is the robber.
You’ve most likely read about the shootout I was in with the bankroller, right? Well, the cash he stole was indeed red when we recovered it. He, too, had reddish stain on his face, hands, arms, legs (he wore shorts) and his tennis shoes. The pistol he used to fire at me also had bits of dye on the grips, a transfer from the palms of his hands.
Bank robber after an intense shootout. 68 rounds were were fired during the incident. I fired 5, with all 5 hitting the intended target, once in the head and four in the chest. Yet, he still got up and ran. A sheriff’s captain and I tackled him to apply handcuffs. He died on the way to the hospital. The staining on his legs is the red coloring from the exploding dye pack.
Have you ever read what you thought was a fantastic book, the kind that forces us to read into the wee hours of the morning, not wanting to stop because the writing is so doggone good? But then on page 1,617, well, there it is, the sentence that makes us scream like the shopper on Black Friday who lost the last 100-foot-flatscreen Kawasaki Supersonic television to the old lady with the great left jab who immediately zipped over to the checkout counter on her suped-up Hoveround with YOUR TV strapped to her back.
Yeah, you know those books. The stories written by the author who figured no one would notice that he didn’t know the difference between a revolver and a semi-automatic pistol. Or that cordite hasn’t been used in the manufacturing of ammunition since the last days of WWII. Yep, those books.
We’ve all heard (over and over and over again) about fake news, right? You’ve even heard me mention the nonsensical reporting so often seen floating around the internet. Well, the use of incorrect firearm and other forensic terminology and information has the same stink to it as does the news reporter who kneels down in a shallow puddle of water to make it seem as if he’s standing in raging floodwaters.
So let’s have a fresh start today and we’ll do so by clearing a bit of the stinky faux pas from our writing. We’ll begin the funk-cleansing by quashing a few details about blood evidence. First, up …
Some writers have their crime-solvers rush into a murder scene while soaking the area with a luminol-filled power washer. They spray and spray until every surface—walls, ceilings, and even the family dog and Ralph the goldfish are dripping with the glowing liquid.
Others, well, their detectives have the uncanny ability to merely look at blood droplets and immediately know its type and what the bleeder had for dinner and the exact time the red stuff spattered the family portrait hanging above the mantle.
~ Sung to the tune of The Hokey Pokey.
So, as the peppy little jingle above indicates, investigators should always examine a scene visually before taking the first step inside. This includes looking up. See if there are bloodstains there. Any brain matter? Bullet holes? Insects?
Next, the walls and for the same items of evidence and/or clues.
The floor and the body, if that’s where it was found. Of course, the victim should be the first concern. After all, he or she just might still be alive and need prompt medical attention. Oh, and a quick check for the suspect is always a good idea. No need to take a bullet or stab wound in the back if not absolutely necessary. Priorities!
Then look all around, and do examine the smallest of details. Evidence, as any seasoned investigator will tell you, is sometimes found in the most unlikeliest of all places.
Crime-scene searches must be methodical and quite thorough. Every single surface, nook, and cranny must be examined for evidence, including doors, light switches, thermostats, door knobs, etc.
For example, removing the plastic light switch or receptacle covers reveals an ideal hiding spot for small evidence.
Was evidence disturbed or altered when first responders arrived at the scene? Did they open or close windows and doors? Did they walk through blood or other body fluids?
Investigators must determine if the body has been moved by the suspect. Are there drag marks? Smeared body fluids? Transfer prints? Is there any blood in other areas of the scene? Is fixed lividity on the wrong side of the body, indicating that it had been moved after death
Does the victim exhibit signs of a struggle? Are there defensive wounds present on the palms of the hands and forearms?
Okay, back to the blood found at the scene. Your detective has detected a bright red and wet substance spattered across a bedroom wall. The victim ju jour is spread eagle on the floor beneath, obviously dead due to a large gap between the eyes. Therefore, the reasonable assumption is that the material dotted and smeared across the wall is indeed blood. But this must be verified.
The procedure for identifying the red, wet substance is not like we see on television.
Officers do not dig through their crime scene kit to pull out a UV light, shine it on the red drops and drips and then turn toward the camera to say, “It’s blood. Type O. She consumed orange juice and a ham sandwich three hours before a left-handed shooter, probably the waiter at the Golden Horseshoe Lounge, popped a cap into her oval-shaped head. I know this, TV viewers, because I magically saw the DNA and it’s a match for all of the above. I’ll be available for autographs later tonight in the lobby of Bucky Bee’s Motor Lodge out on Route 66.”
For starters, unlike saliva and semen, blood doesn’t fluoresce under UV light. Instead, the appropriate light source for viewing (and photographing) blood evidence is an infrared light source. Infrared light is at the wavelength between visible light and microwave radiation. It is invisible to the naked eye.
To avoid altering, contaminating, or destroying blood’s usefulness as evidence, a savvy detective must first determine the reddish-brown substance is blood and not spilled, leftover pasta sauce. To do so, investigators conduct a simple presumptive test such as the Leuco-Malachite DISCHAPS test. This is a field test kit that contains chemical filled ampoules that, when exposed to the evidence, displays an intense blue/green color reaction in 3 seconds if blood is present.
Now that your protagonist has determined that blood is present, the next step is to photograph the evidence/area where blood was found.
Luminol, the chemical used to detect blood at crime scenes, reacts with the iron in hemoglobin. It emit a blue glow that can then be photographed as evidence. It’s helpful with locating the presence of blood even after the place has been thoroughly cleaned. However, it has its limitations because the chemical dilutes blood to the point where DNA is destroyed.
The use of various filters on infrared cameras helps to reveal evidence that can only be seen with specific areas of the infrared spectrum. For example, when capturing images of blood, filters coated with a protein that is found in both egg whites and blood plasma—albumin—are often used.
Other filters are available to detect drugs, fingerprints, and explosives.
Those of you who attended the fabulous presentation by Sirchie at the 2018 Writers’ Police academy saw the use of these demonstrated in real time.
To recap in simpler terms:
*Remember the name “Sirchie” because you’ll soon be hearing more about them. Very, very soon. The news is exciting!
During my earlier days a police detective, I spent a vast amount of time investigating drug crimes, typically involving large-scale narcotics activities. Most cases were those involving trafficking and sales, including pharmaceutical drugs and the forgery of prescriptions, etc., the manufacturing of methamphetamine and crack cocaine, and large marijuana grow operations.
I made it a part of my job to study not only the crime itself, but the habits and lifestyles of dealers and users, and this was to help me better understand the mindset of the players and their culture. This educational portion of my job provided an insight that I believed would serve two purposes.
The first was, of course, to help get the dealers off the the streets. The second was to help users rid themselves of their habits by entering into treatment programs and/or other means of finding the assistance and support they so desperately needed.
I tried to help dealers find suitable employment. The latter was also the case for the men and women I’d placed behind bars for their crimes. I offered to help secure meaningful employment after their release from jail or prison. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. But my goal was to stop the problem at its source instead of waiting for the trouble to fester and then react to the trouble after the fact. And ounce of prevention, right?
But, sometimes nothing worked and the offenders went right back to their old ways, continuing the in-and-out cycle of breaking the law, going to jail, getting out with every intention of going straight, and then breaking the law again and again and again, and ….
Felony arrest warrant served/executed by me after a stop and frisk led to guns, drugs, and cash.
Later, while transitioning from narcotics investigations into other areas, I found that most criminal activity seemed to circle back to narcotics. And I found that even the informants with whom I’d dealt during the drug investigations were often in and around other criminal activity. The circle, in fact, was small. A never-ending and very tight loop.
Most crimes were connected by a single factor … drugs.
This circle, that never-ending and very tight loop I mentioned above is, in fact, quite small. And at the top of it was, of course, drugs.
The dealer sells to a user. The user shoplifts to purchase drugs. When he can’t steal he assaults someone and then steals their money (he robbed the victim). Then he steals a car to get away or to sell parts to get money to buy drugs. And sometimes they kill during robberies gone bad. Or drug dealers kill people who fail to pay, or they kill snitches or rival drug dealers.
I devoted a chapter about this issue in my book about police procedure.
Police Procedure and Investigation
Drugs, Not Money, Are the Root of All Evil – Chapter 11 of Police Procedure and Investigation
Many homicides often involve the use and abuse illegal drugs. Robbery, rape, assaults, abduction and even suicide, well, you name it and a drug of some type, including alcohol, is often involved. Not in all cases, but I think it would be a safe assumption to say that in most instances of criminal activity, drugs and/or alcohol are an underlying factor in the crime that resulted in a suspect’s arrest.
Not only are drugs interwoven into the commission of the crime that landed an abuser behind bars, the abuse of those substances has a far broader reach than what the general public sees on its surface. For example, did you know:
Since a whopping 2/3 of the people in treatment for drug abuse report being abused as children, how many incarcerated individuals have found themselves in their current situations with drugs or alcohol as a contributing factor?
According to the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), children under the age of 18 who reside in homes where drug related crimes and/or other similar incidents occur are referred to as “drug endangered children,” or “DEC”.
These children (DEC) are at risk due to exposure to the possession, manufacturing, and sales of illicit drugs, including the non-medical use of pharmaceutical drugs. In many cases, the risks involve bodily harm and sexual and/or emotional abuse. They’re often neglected to the point where they’ve been forced to fend for themselves, even having to find their own food and ways to keep warm in the winter.
They’re victims of PTSD and their exposure to drugs and drug paraphernalia is constant. They’re witnesses to pornography and they often reside in squalor, and where violence of all types, include murder, is an everyday lifestyle. Weapons are easily accessible to anyone in the home, including small children.
Children growing up in these horrid circumstances are sometimes forced to participate in sexual activities in exchange for money and/or drugs, and it is often their own parents who force them to do so. Sadly, this includes even small children and infants.
Children living in drug environments often test positive for drugs due to accidental inhalation, needle sticks, and ingestion, and even secondhand smoke inhalation due to being in close proximity to drug users while they’re using.
Many kids whose parents engage in the manufacturing of methamphetamine are at risk of exposure to extremely toxic and other dangerous chemicals including highly combustible materials that could and have leveled homes in a flash.
As a means to help victims of drug crimes, The DEA offers assistance by way of the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), Victim Witness Assistance Program (DEA-VWAP).
The much-needed program provides immediate emergency treatment by locating and introducing child and adult victims to appropriate service agencies. Other services include, but are not limited to, counseling and medical care, immediate access to safe shelter, and transportation and relocation assistance, to name a few.
State crime victim compensation programs are also available, and are in every state in the country, the District of Columbia, Puerto Rico, and the Virgin Islands.
Victims of most violent or personal crimes—assault, rape, child abuse, and domestic violence, as well as family members of murder victims—are eligible for compensation. Victims of property crimes such as theft and burglary are not eligible for compensation. These programs help victims by covering the expenses for medical care, mental health counseling, lost wages and funerals.
From the DEA:
Under Title 18, U.S.C., Section
3771(a), a crime victim has the following rights:
1. “The right to be reasonably protected from the accused.
2. The right to reasonable, accurate, and timely notice of any public court proceeding, or any parole proceeding, involving the crime or of any release or escape of the accused.
3. The right not to be excluded from any such public court proceedings, unless the court, after receiving clear and convincing evidence, deter- mines that testimony by the victim would be materially altered if the victim heard other testimony at that proceeding.
4. The right to be reasonably heard at any public proceeding in the district court involving release, plea, sentencing, or any parole proceeding.
5. The reasonable right to confer with the attorney for the Government in the case.
6. The right to full and timely restitution as provided in law.
7. The right to proceedings free from unreasonable delay.
8. The right to be treated with fairness and with respect for the victim’s dignity and privacy.”
Jerome, a professional thief and drug addict who was no stranger to judges, cops, and attorneys, sat on a well-worn wooden bench outside a courtroom door. His attire for the day … an orange jumpsuit, handcuffs, a waist and ankle chains, and white rubber shower shoes. The tile beneath his feet was scratched and dented and dull, the effects of years of footsteps and scuffling of nervous feet of offenders, like Jerome, who’d waited their turn to hear whether or not they’d spend a portion of their lives behind bars.
The wall behind Jerome was mint green in color and had a row of individual greasy head-shaped stains above each of the benches lining the hallway, stains left behind by the men and women who’d committed crimes ranging from petty theft to killing and butchering other humans.
Jerome was nervous and scared. He was also once a dear friend of mine.
Our bond began when we were teammates on our school football squad. We were the meanest and nastiest linebackers around and together we were practically unstoppable when it came to at least one of us penetrating the offensive line. In fact, it wasn’t unusual at all for an opposing team to go scoreless against us, and part of that success was due to Jerome’s and my (mostly Jerome) hard hits at the middle of the line, along with our regular sackings of quarterbacks.
Back in the day, Jerome was big and muscular and could run seemingly as fast as a frightened deer. He also carried a high GPA. The guy was smart, witty, and popular. He didn’t smoke, nor did he drink alcohol, and he was quite outspoken when it came to condemning drug use. He had hopes of getting out of the projects and attending the University of North Carolina, and possibly a career in the NFL. Drugs and alcohol were not a part of that picture.
In those days, our football days, my friend was a bit vain, though. He spent a lot of time grooming in front of mirrors, storefront windows, or any other reflective surface capable of returning his image. He carried a large Afro pick in his back pocket and frequently pulled it out to work on his hair, and he was forever mopping and rubbing and slopping gobs of lotion on his arms and face until his molasses-colored skin shone like new money.
His perfectly-aligned teeth gleamed like the white keys on a showroom Steinway. And, for a big, beefy and manly guy, he smelled a bit like lavender garnished with a hint of coconut.
There in the courthouse, though, Jerome appeared weak and sickly. He was rail thin and his complexion was muddy. The whites of his once bright eyes were the color of rotting lemons; their rims, and the edges of his nostrils, were damp, just on the edge of leaking trails of tears and mucus.
His hands shook and his teeth, the remaining ones, were spattered with black pits of rot and decay. His breath smelled like a week-old animal carcass. His fingernails were bitten to the quick and his hair was dry, uncombed, and had bits of lint and jail-blanket fuzz scattered throughout, and it was flat on one side like he’d been asleep for days without changing positions. He smelled like the combination of old sweat and the bottom of a dirty, wet ashtray.
With a few minutes to kill before my first case was called, I took a seat beside Jerome, with my gun side away from him, of course. I asked him why he continued to use a drug that was ruining his life and could eventually kill him.
His lips split into a faint grin and then he said, “Imagine the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, then multiply it a thousand times. That’s how it feels just as the stuff starts winding it’s way through your system. Then it really starts to get good. So yeah, that’s why I do it.”
Heroin (r) south east asian (L) south west asian
He clasped his hands over his belly, stretched his gangly legs out in front of him, and he started talking, telling me about the first time he got high and about the last time he used, and he spoke about everything between. He told me about about the things he stole to support his habit and he told me about breaking into his own grandmother’s house to take a few of her most prized possessions, things he traded to his dealer in exchange for drugs.
Jerome told me he performed oral sex on men out at the rest area beside the highway. They, the many, many nameless truckers and travelers, had given him ten dollars each time he entered one of the stalls to do the deed. He described the urine smell and how disgusted he was with himself when he felt the knees of his pants grow wet from contacting whatever fluid was on the tile floor at the time. But whatever it took to get the next high was what he’d do.
Once, a man asked him for anal sex. He was desperate, so he agreed. Jerome said he was to earn twenty-dollars for enduring that painful and humiliating experience, all the while knowing the people in nearby stalls could hear what was going on. He said he’d read the graffiti on the wall above the toilet as a means to take his mind off the obese man behind him. When it was over the man pulled up his pants and left Jerome in the stall, crying. The man didn’t pay.
Jerome told me that he wasn’t gay—despised having sex with men is what he said—, but he did it for the high, even though he often vomited afterward when recalling what he’d done. But the drug was more important. It was THE most important thing in his life.
Heroin Fentanyl pills
My high-school buddy’s habit cost him a thousand-dollars each day, seven days a week, unless he wasn’t able to produce the funds. Then he’d grow sick with the sickest feeling on earth. The hurt was deep, way down to his very core. Even his bones hurt. He’d sweat and he’d vomit and vomit and vomit and vomit until the pain in his gut felt like someone inside was using a hundred power drills and another hundred jackhammers to assault his brain and lungs and emotions. His heart slammed against his chest wall like a sledgehammer pounding railroad stakes into hard-packed Georgia clay.
Then he’d drop to his knees in another restroom, or steal another something that would help make it all go away until the next time. And he’d do it over and over and over again.
Hydrocodone
Jerome was lucky. He was caught by a deputy sheriff who was passing by a house and saw Jerome climbing out—feet first—from a bedroom window.
He was awaiting arraignment the day I saw him sitting on the bench outside the courtroom door. A dozen or so other jail inmates occupied the nearby seats.
Jerome asked if I would call his grandmother to tell her he said he was sorry for all he’d done, and that he was starting to feel better and was ready to seek help as soon as he was back on the outside. I told him I’d tell her. Actually, I went one step further and stopped by her house to tell her in person. When I arrived, she offered me a glass of iced tea and then we sat at her kitchen table where she settled in to hear about her beloved grandson, the happy little boy she’d called “Lil Jermy” since the day he was born.
I didn’t talk about the prostitution or that her grandson was a thief and robber and that he’d once stabbed a women so he could take the last three dollars she had to her name. Instead, I told her that he loved her and that he was truly sorry for the things he’d done. And I told her that I’d help him in any way I could.
She sat there listening with fat tears leaking from her old and tired eyes, following the convoluted trails of deep wrinkles until they spilled onto her floral housecoat and freshly ironed apron.
After I finished the last of the tea, down to the tinkling of ice cubes at the bottom of the Mason jar, I told her I needed to get back to work. We stood and she thanked me and gave me one of her sweet grandma hugs. She was trembling so I held her for a moment, allowing her to cry without having to face me. Then she stepped back and told me that she’d be praying for my safety. She asked me to tell Jerome that she loved him and that she forgave him for stealing her things and selling them for drug money.
I said I would and then stepped outside onto the old woman’s front porch. It was all I could do to hold back my own tears.
Yes, drugs are evil. They hurt and they kill. They ruin the lives of good people.
Now, I said Jerome was lucky, and I say this because going to jail prevented him from using the drug he grown to so desperately depend upon. His body ached for it, yes, but he beat the sickness and lived.
Unfortunately, many have died because of that same ache.
Contrary to the belief of some, and to the image that’s often portrayed on television, police officers cannot enter a private residence without a warrant or permission to do so. Of course there are exceptions to every rule, but the exceptions to this one are few and far between and must be utilized only in dire emergencies. FYI – the entries and searches we see each week on many crime TV shows are, well, totally unrealistic.
A search warrant is issued pursuant to an affidavit, a document stating each and every fact that establishes the probable cause to legally search for certain people and items. Simply put, the officer seeking a search warrant must apply for it by filling out a form, a sort of application. This “application” is the affidavit. An affidavit must clearly explain every single reason why the officer wants/needs to go inside someone’s house without the owner’s permission, and by breaking down the front door if necessary.
Affidavit for search warrant, written by Detective David Collins, Hamilton Ohio Police Department.
Normally, the officer must swear to (under oath) the facts listed in the affidavit.
If a judge or magistrate approves the warrant, he/she signs it and hands it over to investigators for service. (Keep in mind that some courts allow electronic submissions).
Signed search warrant
“Wrong cartoon …”
Typically, search warrants are to be served in the daytime unless specified differently within the body of the warrant, such as in the warrant pictured above.
There are situations when warrants must be served under the cover of night.
The exceptions to the knock and announce rule (“no-knock” warrants) occur when/if the officer has good reason to believe that:
The easiest way to serve a search warrant, of course, is to knock on the door and wait for someone to answer. Not only is the knocking method the easiest, it’s by far the safest means of serving a search warrant. After all, bad guys rarely play by the rules, so safety is a top concern.
If no one answers the door within a reasonable amount of time police officers are legally permitted to damage property, if that’s what is required, to gain entry. What’s a reasonable amount of time? Courts have ruled that a few seconds is considered reasonable—15 seconds or so. This all depends upon the circumstances at the scene, though. For example, when the officers announce their presence and then hear sounds—people running, overturning furniture, toilets flushing, glass breaking, etc.—that would lead a reasonable person to believe that evidence is being destroyed, they may enter immediately.
Once inside, however, officers may only search for the item(s) listed on the warrant, and they may only search in areas where those items could be found. For example, if searching for a stolen refrigerator, investigators may not open and paw through underwear and sock drawers. If the item they’re seeking is small (a piece of jewelry or drugs), then they may search from chimney top to basement floor and everywhere and everything between. That’s when they sift through the unmentionables.
When the search is complete, officers must finalize a detailed inventory of all items seized. A copy of the inventory is left with someone at the location, or at the home/business.
Search warrant inventory
Copies of all paperwork are filed with the court.
Search warrant service is not for the faint of heart. It’s dangerous, and not knowing what’s waiting on the other side of the door is nothing short of nerve-wracking. But that’s no secret. However, there’s a side of search warrant service that most people on the outside of law enforcement never hear of, and this tidbit of information could a fantastic detail to insert into a story.
Think about it for a moment … entry teams show up unannounced. This means residents do not have time to tidy up, clean up, dress up, wash dishes, and hide things they prefer that others do not see. And that means cops “see it all,” and they, unfortunately, must sometimes handle things they wish they could erase from their memories (yuck).
Believe me, sometimes you want to double-glove your hands before touching some of the things people keep tucked away in drawers, between mattresses, under the bed, and beneath pillows. Even then, a gallon of disinfectant never seems to be enough to clean your hands after a particularly distressing search. So feel free to think the worst and then multiply that times 1000. Remember, some items use batteries, and those batteries are kept inside battery compartments. Those chambers must be searched for contraband (no stone unturned, right?). So … whatever sort of device that’s discovered in a nightstand, or between mattresses, must be physically examined by officers. This means actually holding the item in one hand while opening the battery compartment with the other. I know … yuck.
I should also mention the roaches—roaches on the ceilings and walls, on the stove, on dishes, in the dresser drawers, on the beds, on the sheets, in the crib, and on the BABY! Thousands of roaches scurrying throughout the house. Roaches that fall from above like summer raindrops when you shine a flashlight in the bedroom closets. You’re inside the house for less than a minute when you find roaches crawling on your pant legs and across the tops of your shoes. Roaches. Roaches. And more R.O.A.C.H.E.S. It’s skin-crawlingly disgusting.
Here’s a lesson learned the hard way. When in the midst of a search and you see half-empty roll of toilet tissue on the floor beside a dish-towel-covered five-gallon bucket that’s sitting all by itself in a far corner, well, just never, ever lift the towel. I’m sure your imaginations will once again come in handy and help figure out this scenario.
*Fun fact – When serving search warrants it’s best to try the doorknob before wasting precious time and energy. I once saw an officer, a guy who claimed to be a top martial artist, kick, and kick, and kick a heavy steel door, trying to gain access to a drug dealer’s home. In fact, the door-kicking cop wailed away at the barrier so many times that his face turned beet red, he was sucking wind like a marathon runner, and he stated that his legs were so tired they felt like worn-out rubber bands. He finally sat down in the grass and waited for his legs to rejoin the party. That’s when someone decided to try turning the doorknob … it was unlocked.
Deputy Sheriff Aaron Roberts, 35
Greene County Missouri Sheriff’s Office
September 7, 2018 – After responding to a 911 call, Deputy Aaron Roberts’ patrol car was swept off the roadway by rapidly moving floodwaters. Rescuers later discovered the vehicle several yards downstream and recovered his body from inside. He is survived by his wife, 7-year-old daughter, and his parents.
Officer Kirt R. Ricks, III, 24
Montgomery Louisiana Police Department
September 7, 2018 – Officer Kirt Ricks was killed in a head-on vehicle crash. The driver of the other vehicle was also killed.
Officer David A. Tinsley, 50
Fort Wayne Indiana Police Department
September 10, 2018 – Officer David Tinsley suffered a fatal heart attack after assisting with a canine track of a wanted suspect who’d crashed his car during a pursuit and then fled on foot. Officer Tinsely helped capture the suspect and was returning to his patrol car when he collapsed. Resuscitation efforts at the scene were not successful.
It was an extremely difficult and odd case, busting a woman whose brother had snitched on her to protect his own skin. Yep, threw his own flesh and blood under the bus the second the cuffs touched his wrists.
It started when I’d decided to do a little cold-calling, like an old-time door-to-door encyclopedia salesman. Picking the names of a few known drug dealers, I paid each of them a visit at their homes. The idea was to knock on the door, tell them my name and that I was a police detective (most already knew), and then ask if I and my partners could search their home(s), looking for drugs and illegal weapons. Well, you would not believe the number of idiots who said, “Yes, Officer. You may search my home because I’m a fine upstanding citizen and there are absolutely no drugs or guns here. Honest.”
Anyway, I knocked on this one guy’s door (let’s call him Dumb Jimmy), giving him my little speech about the drug problem in his neighborhood and that I’d like to search his house, with his permission, of course. I even told him that I suspected him of selling illegal narcotics. I also let him know that he could refuse the search and I’d be on my way.
Guess what? Yep … His narrow chicken lips split into a wide grin. Then he said, “Come on in!”
He was so enthusiastic with the invitation, it was like listening to the Price Is Right announcer. “Come on in, Detective Lofland. You have the chance to find fifteen pounds of primo weed and two ounces of the finest cocaine money can buy. And … an absolutely free trip to COURT to visit with distinguished judge! Yes, you and your fellow detectives could win an all expense paid trip to circuit court, where you and your co-conspirator will enjoy the company of some of the best thieves, murderers, and whores in the business! All this and more, IF … the search is good.”
So Dumb Jimmy stepped aside and waved us in. The place was extremely neat and very clean. Sparsely furnished. He’d gone for IKEA chic, all blonde wood and bright solid-colored burlap-type upholstery. A few Ansel Adams prints dotted the walls. The room was open to the kitchen and a small but adequate dining area. The table there was dark walnut, topped with quite a bit of camera equipment. Nothing cheap. All high-end goods.
Dumb Jimmy’s girlfriend sat on the couch with her outstretched legs and bare feet planted on a glass-topped coffee table, watching TV. Never batted an eyelash in our direction. I understood. Eight Is Enough had that effect on most viewers—a must see.
I guess she’d forgotten, or didn’t care about the big bag of pot and the large bong sitting not two feet from her polished-pink toenails. I turned to Dumb Jimmy, and I kid you not, his first words were, “That’s hers.”
I spun him around to slip the stainless-steel jewelry on his wrists and that’s when he really started spilling his guts. Yodeled like a canary on speed. Anything to get out of the mess he’d suddenly found himself in.
I found myself wanting to make a deal with his girlfriend—I’d let her go if she’d go to the kitchen junk drawer to find some duct tape I could use to cover her boyfriend’s mouth.
“My sister’s got some heroin,” said Dumb Jimmy. “Acid, too. And probably some pot, mushrooms, and meth. Oh, yeah, there’s hash and some horse tranquilizer in the basement.”
“Is that all?” I said. What a dirtbag, rolling over his own sister. I’d meant it as a rhetorical question, but DJ (Dumb Jimmy) hadn’t taken it that way.
“Well, she’s usually got a bunch of Oxy or Percocet …” He scrunched up his nose, a gesture that caused his eyes to narrow into a deep squint. I thought he was going to sneeze, but after a couple seconds passed I realized he was thinking, hard. He was actually trying to come up with even more things his sister had done wrong. Suddenly, his eyes opened, wide. “Hey, what about Botox? That’s illegal, right? I mean, she shouldn’t be giving those shots to people, should she? Does it at home. Shoots ’em up right there in the living room. She steals the stuff from the doctor she works for. That’s where she gets the pills, too. Swiped a few of his script pads. Keeps them in her room with—”
I stopped him, pulling the Miranda card from my badge case. “I need to read something to you,” I said. “And you need to listen carefully. Then, if you still want to talk to me about your sister, you can.”
DJ nodded his head vigorously. “I want to help. And you’ll help me, right?”
His girlfriend shook her head from side to side, slowly. “What a dumbass,” she said before using one hand to stifle a belch while reaching for a pack of smokes with the other.
I heard one of my partners agree with her. “No, not him,” she said. “Me, for staying with that wimp. But, his family has a boatload of money and they always have really good dope. So …”
I spent the next several hours listening to DJ ramble on about his sister’s illegal activities, deciding that he was probably being pretty darn truthful. If so, we had a much bigger fish to fry. The prosecutor agreed and a deal was made. If all went as planned, we’d raid the sister’s house, arrest her, and DJ would testify against her in court in exchange for having all his charges dismissed. We held the girlfriend on minor charges so we could keep the lid on the operation until we were ready to make the next move.
Of course, it took all of three minutes into our search of the sister’s house before she said to me, “My brother sells weed. Lots of weed.”
So, with another warrant in hand and my drug dog leading the way, well, this …
