December 2019 - Page 2 of 2

Recipe for Death: A 4×4 Truck and an Angry, Drunk Boyfriend

Like all patrol officers and police detectives, I’ve seen a lot of horror. The real-life kind, though. Not the kind that sprouted from an idea that once lived in a dark, dank corner of Stephen King’s twisted mind.

Sadly, quite a bit of the terrifying gruesomeness stemmed from domestic violence, and some of the acts were far beyond the comprehension of the typical human being. The brutality discovered during many investigations were both heartbreaking and stomach-turning.

For example, one night we received a call to be on the lookout for a pickup truck with oversized tires, the kind used for off-roading. The caller said the the driver was a white male with short hair. She went on to say that he appeared to be heavily intoxicated and that had physically assaulted and abducted a white female from the parking lot of an area nightclub.

Witnesses at the scene told us that the man was known to be armed with a handgun and his truck was equipped with a gun rack mounted behind the seat and was clearly visible through the rear window. The rack contained both a rifle and shotgun. He was an avid hunter and an equally avid drinker.

Just minutes after dispatch received the initial call, they received another about the same incident. This caller, though, shed more light on the situation. The abducted woman was the girlfriend of the man who’d taken her and he’d returned home after a day of deer hunting and liquor drinking to find her gone. They surmised that he’d noticed her favorite party outfit was missing along with her “dancing shoes” and then, in a rage, set out to search for her. This would not be the first time this had happened.

A few miles from their home, the angry drunk, with a pistol tucked into the waistband of his faded Levi’s, indeed found his girlfriend on the dance floor of a local club, cheek-to-cheek and belly-to-belly with a city slicker from out of town.

After promptly decking the rosy-cheeked man who wore a crisp button-up shirt, creased khaki pants, and brown leather shoes, the boyfriend pulled the woman from the parquet floor and dragged her out into the parking lot where he punched her a few times before ripping her polkadot mini dress from her body. She’d worn nothing but her birthday suit beneath.

He pulled her across the rocky lot and then shoved her inside the cab of his truck. Witnesses said he’d caught her long blonde hair in the door when he slammed it shut and, as he tore from the parking lot spraying cars and bystanders with stones and bits of fine gravel dust, they saw her hair fluttering and waving in the breeze.

Every cop in the area was watching for the truck. Officers checked the homes of the couple and those of their families and friends. They searched the man’s hunt club, and other night clubs in the city. They drove down dirt roads and along side roads and country roads. In the city they made passes through alleyways behind shopping centers and malls and grocery stores. Beside railroad tracks and in city parks and cemeteries.

Then we received the call we didn’t want to receive. A young couple were traveling along a country road a few miles from the city when they saw something in the road. At first they thought someone had perhaps struck a deer. Could’ve been anything, though. Maybe an old mattress, a garbage bag, or even a hippopotamus for all they knew. After all, “seeing things” was a possibility since the purpose of their super-slow drive in the countryside was to smoke weed, enjoy a bit of acid, and listen to good music.

When they drew closer they realized what they’d suspected to be a deer, or a hippo, was actually the bloody body of a nude woman. They guessed her age as somewhere around 22 or 23. She was dead, of course. Her entire body was one single hunk of road rash.

We finally located the man sitting in his truck parked at the edge of river. The place was a favorite of teens and young adults. They went there to drink, swim, smoke dope, and party. The spot was in the middle of nowhere. So far out, actually, that when you reached the middle of nowhere you took a left and traveled 10 additional miles to get to this place.

The boyfriend confessed to the abduction. He also said that he and his girlfriend had argued. He told us that he’d held a gun to her head, but it was just to scare her. He also said he’d ordered her to perform sex acts on him while he drove. When she refused he hit her repeatedly with the barrel of the pistol. Then, suddenly, she managed to open the truck door and jumped out. At the time he guessed that he’d been driving at a speed of approximately 70-80.

The man said he saw her body, in his side mirror, as she tumbled along the pavement. He stopped and backed up to check on her, but decided not to get out of the truck, thinking there was nothing he could do for at that point. So he left her there, like a chunk of roadkill.

I’d previously arrested this same man for domestic violence—threatening his family with a shotgun and later pointing that same firearm at me. The woman, his wife at the time, was not the blonde who’d leapt to her death from his truck. This was a different woman—his former wife—who he’d beaten more times than I can remember. And each time, she took him back and refused to testify against him in court. It was only after he’d fired the shotgun in the direction of their children that she’d decided she’d had enough and left him for good. Still, the judge merely ordered a fine, no jail time, and he was back at it again with other women. I guess shooting up his house and threatening people with a loaded firearm, and pointing that loaded firearm at police officers, well, I guess that was simply not a big deal to the judge.

This last time, though, he was charged with manslaughter for the death of his girlfriend.

Finally, the man would get what he deserved; however, the judge, the same as before, found the man guilty as charged but let him go with time served. He’d been in jail for only a few months prior to his release.

December 7, 2019/by Lee Lofland

firearms

The Ghost Gun of Santa Clarita: How Crooks and Kids Make Firearms

The Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department has indeed confirmed that the .45-caliber handgun used in the Santa Clarita, California school shooting was what is commonly referred to as “ghost gun,” a homemade, unserialized firearm.

The suspect in the Santa Clarita shooting, a 16-year-old Saugus High School student, used the handmade pistol to shoot five of his classmates. During the shooting spree a 14-year-old boy and 16-year-old-girl were killed.

Like the .45 used in Santa Clarita, ghost guns are assembled from parts, also known as “80-percenters,” that are available for purchase from online sources. Buyers, often the people who often are unable to legally possess a firearm of any type, typically make ghost guns in their basements and other rooms of the home.

And, since they purchase the parts through online and other businesses, they are not subject to pre-purchase background checks (they’re not purchasing an actual firearm, only parts). The lack of background checks for these unserialized firearm parts also means that minors such as the Santa Clarita shooter, and people with criminal records, can and have easily acquired the parts needed to create fully functional weapons.

“80 percenters

From ATF – “80% receiver,” “80% finished,” “80% complete,” “unfinished receiver” are all terms referring to an item that some may believe has not yet reached a stage of manufacture that meets the definition of firearm frame or receiver found in the Gun Control Act of 1968 (GCA). These are not statutory terms or terms ATF employs or endorses.” ~ ATF

Are “80%” or “unfinished” receivers illegal?

Receiver blanks that do not meet the definition of a “firearm” are not subject to regulation under the GCA. The ATF has long held that items such as receiver blanks, “castings” or “machined bodies” in which the fire-control cavity area is completely solid and un-machined have not reached the “stage of manufacture” which would result in the classification of a firearm per the GCA.

See comparison examples:

ATF image

Making 80 percent receivers into working firearms is legal as long as the person making the guns is not a person who’s prohibited from possessing it and that the gun is strictly for personal use. They may not legally sell these homemade 80% firearms without first obtaining a federal license to sell firearms.

How to Build an AK-47

December 6, 2019/by Lee Lofland

Prisons and Jails

Hardhat in the Belly of the Beasts: My First Day as a Corrections Officer

Thinking back to the days prior to working in law enforcement I recall the intense desire to become a police officer.

I especially wanted to work in a sheriff’s office. However, openings in the local sheriff’s office were as scarce as hen’s teeth. It was a job that deputies loved and there they remained. Sure, I’d applied and I’d spoken to the sheriff to express my eagerness to become a deputy. But his reply was the typical “I’ll keep you in mind if an opening becomes available.”

So, while impatiently waiting, I decided to apply for a job as a corrections officer within Virginia’s state prison system. And, soon after applying I received a call directing me to come in for an interview.

The day for the initial meeting finally arrived and I was escorted inside to a small conference room. To set the stage, a three person interview panel were seated behind a long table. The chair where my escort indicated that I was to sit, was positioned approximately eight feet in front of the trio of white-shirted ranking officers—one captain, a lieutenant, and a sergeant. No one had passed out smiles that morning.

The captain spoke first, introducing himself and the others. He then asked me to tell them a bit about myself and my background and why on earth did I want to work in a place that could be described as hell’s stinky armpit.

Could you, would you?

When I finished my opening spiel, the real questioning began. “Have you ever belonged to a gang?” “Do you personally know anyone who’s in prison?” “Have you ever been struck, punched, or physically injured by anyone?” What are your views on the death penalty?” Could you shoot another person, if necessary?” Could you bring yourself to shoot a coworker if they’d been taken hostage by an inmate and that shooting through the fellow officer was the only means of preventing the escape?” “Could you?” Would you? And why?”

A few weeks later I received another call instructing me to report to the prison for a physical and a drug test. Two weeks after the exam and drug testing I was officially hired and was scheduled to report for orientation and assignment of uniforms and other equipment, including the first badge I’d ever pinned to a uniform shirt.

Then I received my duty assignment, a prison in the middle of nowhere that consisted of four separate sections, with each building surrounded by a tall, razor-wire topped fence. The four individual areas were contained by a double set of larger fencing that encompassed the entire place. Towers were strategically positioned around the perimeter and an asphalt drive circled the prison, just outside the fence.

Armed officers drove around the compound on a never ending loop. I found out during my orientation that this particular prison was where the state housed many of the inmates that other prisons couldn’t handle.

The prisoners were divided into four categories—those with medical and mental problems, bad-to-the bone dangerous, younger inmates, and finally a mixture of “not super rowdy but were there anyway.” Inmates classified as either of the four groups were housed appropriately—medical and mental were assigned to C Unit, younger inmates to D Unit, the mean and nasty to B Unit, and “the rest” to A.

The Guard Shack

An officer’s station, a small building, sat in the middle of the main compound yard. Inmates were allowed inside this area only when moving from place to place and under controlled circumstances—medical department, visiting room, etc. Each individual section had it’s own recreation yard. The inmates were not permitted to mix (No As with Bs, etc.). The only exception would be during visitations and medical visits.

Nurses delivered medication to each unit. It was at this time when prisoners were permitted to address their medical needs. They would then schedule an appointment to see the prison doctor who, by the way, only visited the prison only once or twice per month unless there was an emergency.

Okay, so I’m at work on my first day and they’ve assigned me to the main compound. My job was to check the passes of inmates before manually unlocking the gates to allow them outside of their designated unit yards. Yes, each gate was locked with a large padlock and I carried a huge ring of keys, many of which I never learned their purpose.

When I arrived at the main gate that morning, an officer used a key to open the lock and let me inside. We walked to the “guard shack” where he gave me a quick briefing about the goings-on during his shift (nothing at all) and then handed me the keys. We walked back to the gate where I opened the lock to let him out. On the way we passed by large man wearing jeans, work boots, a green long-sleeved shirt, and a bright yellow hardhat. The officer spoke as did Mr. Hardhat. Then I snapped the lock closed and returned to the guard shack.

Belly of the Beast!

I was in the process of entering a bit of information in the logbook when “Hardhat” poked his head inside the door. He said good morning and offered his name and mentioned he’d be around if I needed anything. Of course, I appreciated his presence since I felt as if I’d been shoved into a caged arena as the star of a Roman execution ad bestias, “to the beasts.”

Assuming Hardhat was a prison maintenance worker I gladly took him up on his offer and he joined me out on the yard to advise me as to where and when inmate movements should take place. He also kindly provided whispered information regarding which prisoners could be trusted and which could not.

An hour or so later Hardhat suddenly made himself scarce when he spied a sergeant on his way to check on me. Everything was in order—inmate movements were flowing smoothly, logbooks were in excellent shape, keys and other equipment were present, etc. He was pleased.

As my supervisor started to walk away he stopped and turned around to say, “By the way, if you see an inmate walking around wearing a hardhat, send him to C Unit. He didn’t show up for an appointment. Not unusual for him, though, so not to worry. He often hangs out in this area. But he’s as wacky as a box of Fruit Loops. Sometimes he thinks he works here.”

Believe me, the call from the sheriff’s office didn’t come soon enough.

December 5, 2019/by Lee Lofland

Ellen

From Ellen, Our Daughter

It’s me again. Many of you know me through my dad and by way of the Writers’ Police Academy. Most of you, however, know me from the tragic events of my life.

As many of you are aware, I was diagnosed with Endometrial Cancer and underwent surgeries and received extremely aggressive chemotherapy and radiation. By the grace of God, I made it through, but not without severe repercussion. Still, I truly believe all the prayers helped me through my journey.

Throughout the process medical bills soared into the millions. Each of your generous and kind donations were the means that helped my family survive. Eventually, an end of the cancer was in sight. Then all of the side effects of the chemo and radiation started.

But I was alive, and I had an army fighting with me and I was going to deal with it. Then it happened, I received the call that our house was on fire. That feeling was actually worse than hearing the “C” word. Because, not only was this new devastation was something I’d have to endure, but now my family members were suffering. We’d lost everything—our fur babies, clothing, memories, and suddenly we were homeless. All we had were the clothes on our backs.

We lived in a hotel for four months. Tyler slept on a pullout couch in hotel room while finishing his junior year of high school. We made it, though, and again, we pulled through as a family. We sucked up all the pain, leaned on each other, and came out the other side. I applied for disability but was denied. The same for other assistance.

After those four long months we finally secured a house. It was a house that needed a lot of backbreaking work before it was a livable structure, but it was a house and not a hotel room.

We worked on the house for months. John, my husband who worked 12-hour shifts, left the hotel for work each morning at 4:30 a.m. When his day was done, he came to get me and we worked on the house until 10 p.m.

In the meantime, neuropathy in my feet and legs had become unbearable, to the point where I couldn’t walk at times. We still moved forward. Unfortunately, the little money we had for repairs ran out long before the work was done.

The day finally came where we had to move out of the hotel and into the house. There were no floors or walls in a couple of the rooms, and when I say no floors, I mean that the ground below was visible. There was no working tub, and the list goes on. But we made it and have since installed both floors and walls, thankfully.

We consider ourselves blessed to have a roof over our heads, but we’re living without heat. There is no heating system in the house. We have a couple of electric space heaters, but it’s cold. We made do without air conditioning last summer in southern N.C. But the wintertime cold causes my neuropathy act up so very bad. The pain is excruciating.

Recently, I saw my endocrinologist who informed me that a thyroid nodule they’d wanted to remove before my cancer diagnosis had grown substantially since I stopped chemo. It had wrapped around my esophagus and windpipe. Surgery was scheduled for the 24th of November. During this time my husband was laid off from his job at a company who makes parts for GM. Therefore, when the workers of GM went on strike there was no demand for car parts. His unemployment caused us to go further into debt that we were already drowning in.

As my luck would have it, soon after John was laid off my car broke down while on the way to a medical appointment. My used car wouldn’t budge and I’d only had it barely a year. The transmission was shot. It’s now parked in our yard.

I decided that, after shedding many tears, I would use Tyler’s car, a car with 253,000 miles on it, to get me back and forth to medical appointments. My doctor’s office and other appointments are an hour’s drive one way to my Dr appointments. It wasn’t pretty but it did the job, until a week before my surgery date.

On November 16, Tyler, my son, was involved in a pretty serious car crash. The subsequent phone call was the call that brought me to my knees. It was the call no parent ever wants to receive. Cancer, fire, surgery, chemo, radiation, losing my doggies, none of that held a candle to the thought Tyler may be hurt.

Thankfully, Tyler and his friend walked away with a few bumps and bruises, but they were safe. His car was not. It’s totaled.

Currently, we are living day to day. We may have dinner tonight or we may not. The lights and water may be on tomorrow, or not. It’s shameful to have to admit these things. I feel like a failure as a parent. I’m tired, I’m embarrassed, and I’m an emotional wreck.

I sit here today with a cut across my throat from surgery, worrying about if I will be able to see the doctor for my post op visit because we don’t have the co-pay. John has finally gone back to work but has to take off to get me to see the doctor. I hate to reach out to all of you again, but I need help, please.

I hope y’all can find it in your heart to help us. Thank you.

With love,

Ellen

To help, please go to:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/ellen039s-struggle-to-survive

December 4, 2019/by Lee Lofland

Police Procedure

Bar Fight!

Working the graveyard shift on weekend nights comes with a special worry … closing time of local bars. Before streets and highways become obstacle courses for pin-balling drunk drivers, comes last calls and the traditional bar fights. And, with those last calls for alcohol and final, desperate pitches for late night encounters, some inebriated patrons find themselves involved in physical altercations.

Sometimes barroom brawls are nothing more than shouting and shoving matches; however, there are times when the action involves weapons and bloodshed and even murder.

Club brawls are a unique breed of fighting. They’re where typically everyday people who, with the irresistible goading of alcoholic beverages, are suddenly transformed from the meek and mild of fuzzy kittens to someone who believes they’re ten-feet tall and bulletproof. And why wouldn’t they feel so invincible? After all, they’ve spent several hours chugging drink concoctions with names such as Cobra’s Fang, Mind Eraser, Corpse Reviver, and Death in the Afternoon.

The transformation from quiet librarian or gentle mystery writer to a beast who eats rusty nails for breakfast”is a slow one. Their speech grows louder and their eyes wilder and wilder as time and drinks pass. Tongues grow thick and nerve grows bold.

Vision becomes blurry. Rooms spin and sometimes the transformers even see things that aren’t there.

Live bands and DJs add to the frenzy by playing music that turns even the tamest hearts into pulsating and throbbing, blood-pumping workhorses.

The combination of noise, music, alcohol, drugs, flashing and blinking and whirling lights, and people frantically dancing like a gathering of rabid Tasmanian devils, stimulates emotions and hormones to chart-topping levels far beyond the tolerance level of the average man or woman.

Bar fights are caused by, well, anything and everything, or nothing at all. When inside a drinking establishment, people don’t need a justifiable reason to punch another person. This, my friends, is an unwritten rule. People feel free to punch, bite, scratch, kick, or whatever, as long as they do so within the four walls of a club that serves “adult” beverages. At least that’s the belief of bar-goers who take offense to whatever they deem is the offense du jour.

Bo Bo Juice

Could be that they, the bar fighters, don’t like the way you belt out the chorus to Peter Framptom’s “Show Me The Way.” You know, instead of “I want you, to show me the way,” you’ve always, for your entire life, thought Frampton was singing, “Bo Bo Juice, show me the way.” Or they don’t like the way you left eye wanders toward their significant other while the other attempts to focus on the mole in the center of their forehead. Whatever.

(80s rocker Greg Kihn once told me that, for years, he thought Frampton was saying, “Bo Bo Juice, show me the way.” True story.).

Anyway, to get to the point of this tale, nightclub fights often involve multiple people and such was the case one particularly warm Friday night (early Saturday morning) at 2 a.m.

Fight in Progress!

My partner and I were wrapping up a drug deal, a buy-bust, in a pretty bad section of town when we heard the call come in over the radio. “10-10 in progress. Billy Bad Ass’s Bar and Grill (name changed to protect the guilty). Weapons involved. Shots fired.”

Buy-Bust – a police sting-type operation where undercover officers purchase drugs from individuals and then arrest the dealers once they’ve handed over the drugs.

By the way, in our area 10-10 was a fight. In the neighboring locale 10-10 was code for “negative.” This is why agencies shy away from 10 codes.

Imagine the confusion if you were on the other end of a radio when you heard someone say, “10-10. 10-4?” Now, in plain speak, to his coworkers this officer stated, in 10-code, “There’s a fight in progress. Do you copy/yes, you understand my message, right?” However, you being an officer from an agency whose 10-code is entirely different, heard, “Negative/No. Yes.” Therefore, your hope for backup to respond would go unanswered.

I know, I’m rambling and I’m all over the place, but I see things in the telling of this event that could add tidbits to your fiction, such as the term “buy-bust, so I stop to emphasize and explain.

Okay, back to the fight. My partner and I were pretty close to the scene so we activated our emergency equipment (that’s cop speak for we turned on our blue lights and siren) and headed to the bar. When I turned the final corner and the bar came into view, I saw several small fights—two to four people here and there, and one large fight—at least thirty people in a big pile—and all were in full slug fest mode.

I pulled my unmarked car into the middle of the lot and gave a couple blasts of the siren. The piercing and unmistakable sound normally clears out a few people, especially those who are holding contraband, such as dope and illegal weapons. It also sends the probation and parole violators running like scared rabbits. In their wake are the people with outstanding warrants. Siren blasts are an easy and effective way to cull the herd.

We parked near the largest pile of fighters who looked like an army of ants, all squirming to get inside their hill at once. We tried to pull off the outside layer but didn’t have much luck because new people dove onto the pile every few seconds. So, we began to spray the entire pile with pepper spray. In fact, we let loose like we were spraying a large infestation of insects.

A nice side-to-side motion of the canisters worked well because the mound of people slowly began to dissipate. Lots of moaning and groaning, tears, and mucus. Remember, before you say our actions were overkill, there were only two of us and 30-40 of them. We had to even the odds.

When that group finally had enough we turned our attention to a smaller, but more dangerous fight that had erupted to our right, near the front door of the club. An older, biker-looking guy was waving a knife of sword-like proportion at two younger men.

My partner and I gave our cans of pepper spray a couple of good shakes to make sure all the good stuff hadn’t settled to the bottom, and headed toward biker dude.

We’d worked together for so long that our arrest techniques came naturally. I went for the knife hand (I’m still not sure how I always got stuck with this duty), and he went for the other. I quickly disarmed the guy and took control of the knife, but he was a little stronger than we’d bargained for. Actually, he was a lot stronger than we’d bargained for because, as they say, it was on! We had a real struggle on our hands. Getting cuffs on that clown was really tough.

Fortunately, like the finely-tuned arrest team that we were, we each went for our pepper spray. Unfortunately, the biker dude saw it coming and ducked. Yep, we sprayed each other squarely in the face. Now, I don’t know how many of you have ever been pepper-sprayed, but let me be the first to say it ain’t pretty.

Neither of us could see, so we just held on to our guy and slowly slid to the ground, maintaining our grip on biker-dude, and waited for backup to arrive. Of course our fellow officers gave us a really hard time. I don’t think I’ll ever live that one down.

By the way, the effects of pepper spray stop immediately if you dunk the affected body part in ice water. However, once the ice water is removed the burning starts all over again.

Help, my name is Lee. I’ve been pepper-sprayed.

I think I’ll stick to writing. It’s much safer …

December 3, 2019/by Lee Lofland

Shorts

Escape from Dementia: I Want To Go Home

Sometimes we catch calls that grab us by the gut and then pull and tug until our emotions are ripped from their roots. This was one of those calls.

I Want To Go Home

“I want to go home. I want to go home. I. Want. To. Go. Home.”

“Those are the only words she’s spoken in years, Officer.”

“The last time we saw her she was wearing a blue nightgown. She was ready for bed.”

“Yes, all the doors were locked. Well, with the exception of the front door. That’s the one visitors use. But it’s monitored.”

“Please hurry. It’s really cold out. And she’s terrified of the dark.”

“No, she hasn’t had a visitor in over a year. Even her daughter stopped coming by.”

“I suppose we’d searched for an hour or so before we called you.”

Radio crackles.

“No, sir. Nothing yet.”

“Yes, sir. The handlers and their dogs are on the way.”

Another crackle.

“It’s starting to snow.”

Twenty officers.

As many civilian volunteers.