ICE … It’s Cool and We Need It!

My grandfather drove an ice truck back in the day. In fact, I still have the tongs he used to muscle around massive 300-pound blocks of the frozen stuff. In his day, ice was made using a salt-brine process inside an “ice plant.”

The ice-making room was a vast expanse that contained a huge in-floor tank of the briny liquid in which large metal cans containing fresh water were submerged. Each tank was fitted with a wooden lid with a small opening where a pencil-size rubber air tube was inserted.

As the water began to cool, air was blown into the water-filled can. Doing so kept the water in motion, a process that allowed most of the air bubbles to rise and escape. This is what made sparkling, clear ice. Ice containing air bubbles is cloudy and unappealing. And, of course, not solid through and through.

Each metal can was fashioned with inverted creases that, when the ice block was completely frozen, those indentions formed the “score lines” that divided the ice into specific sizes. After approximately three days, the ice was ready to “pull.”

Using overhead hoists, workers attached chains to the metal cans and “pulled” them one by one from the brine tank. Then they’d dump the frozen block from the can and using their tongs, manhandled the four-feet by two-feet by one-foot hunks of frozen water into a freezer for storage until delivery time.

Many ice plant workers had their favorite tongs and kept them as their own, much like medical examiners, carpenters, electricians, and writers have their favorite work implements.

My grandfather’s ice tongs

The ice man, the person who carried ice to neighborhood homes, loaded enough 300-pound blocks to satisfy the needs of his customers. Typically, in those days, homeowners placed a card in the window indicating how many pounds of ice they wanted to get them through until the next delivery day. The iceman would then use an ice pick to chop off the desired amount (remember the 25, 50, 75, or 100-pound blocks I mentioned above).

Once the ice man whacked off a chunk of the correct size, using tongs to grasp the cold and slippery block, he’d carry the ice to the house where he’d place it inside the icebox. Most homes in those days, especially the homes of the middle to lower income families, did not have electric refrigerators. Instead, food was kept cool inside an icebox.

The ice man was a favorite of neighborhood children who’d often beg him for a sliver or small chunk of ice. This, in that day, was a treat on hot summer days.

Today, ice is made differently, of course, and wooden iceboxes are a thing of the past, as are the mule-pulled ice wagon and/or ice trucks. However, we still depend heavily on ice to cool our drinks on summer days. It’s a must for ice skaters and dancers. Polar bears and penguins adore it. Skiers enjoy the frozen wet stuff, and plenty of people in New England earn a nice living pushing it from roadways and sidewalks.

So, for the life of me, I just can’t understand why so many people want to get rid of it. Hardly a day goes by, if ever, without seeing a headline somewhere about some politician who wants to abolish ice.

I just don’t get it, because I like my drinks cold and I like the way those little hunks of frozen water bring back fond memories of spending time with my grandfather in the ice house.

We. Need. Ice.

My grandfather’s ice pick. Printed on its sides are the company name and a telephone number to call for 24-hour emergency ice service

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Two Drunks and a Writer Enter a Bar … and More Eye-Rollers

 

  1. Being a writer is like being a politician. You get to make up @#$! and your fans love it.
  2. Being a writer is like being a plumber. Somewhere around the middle of the job you find yourself elbow deep in @#$!
  3. Writers are like prostitutes. They do it for money but the income arrives in small amounts at random times.
  4. Agents are like pimps without the purple suede leisure suits and feathers in their hats. Oh, wait …
  5. A good book is like a side effect of “the little blue pill.” It keeps you up all night.
  6. Sitting at a keyboard while clacking away at random characters is something an illiterate chimp can do. Much of today’s media is proof that chimps are better at it.

    Wandering Eyes

  7. Spellcheck is great, except when it isn’t.
  8. A great book is a like a fine statue. Their creators started with an idea and then carved away everything that didn’t help tell the story.
  9. Writers are like cops. They like coffee and whiskey and telling tall tales … and whiskey.
  10. A bad story is like a snow skier. They’re both start at out on a slow upward climb toward the summit. Then it’s all downhill from there until they reach the end, which is totally uneventful.
  11. The words of a good book remain forever. The words of a politician remain only until the next big donation comes along.
  12. If real-life bad guys would simply take the time to read a mystery book they’d know the good guys always win in the end.
  13. Good books are like the bed in a by-the-hour motel. Lots of action between the covers.
  14. Great ideas make great books, except when they don’t.
  15. Social media can be like a disease. No punch line. It truly can be like a disease.
  16. The bravest men and women in the world today are currently sitting at home, ranting and raving away on Facebook, telling people just how brave they are. Then they get up and go to their day jobs, greeting customers at Weirdmart, or selling fries at Booger Joe’s Burger Emporium.
  17. Lone literary agents at writers conferences are like the innocent fawns that tiptoe through the forest—they both know the attack could come at moment. This is why experienced agents travel in packs.
  18. A firefighter and a police officer enter a bar at a mystery writers conference. They’ll know better next time.

Finally …

Two drunks and a writer enter a bar during a writers conference. Three drunks come out.

*Have you got a zinger you’d like to share? If so, please do. (no foul language, racism, cop-bashing, politics, etc., please.).

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A Peek Into Cops’ “Oops” Windows

Police Officers are the brave men and women who’s duty is to protect us and to round up the evil folks who commit dastardly crimes against society. They’re enforcers of the law. They run into danger, leaping mud puddles and discarded fast food wrappers along the way. They dodge kids on tricycles and those licking popsicles.

Officers often work during the nighttime among feeding feral animals and smelly winos. Their nerve are cords of steel and their hearts and minds are filled to the brim with compassion.

They train and train and they train, and they’re given all the tools needed to fulfill their duties with the utmost expertise.

Unfortunately, though, cops are human and we all know that humans subject to making mistakes. Cops are no exception. Here, see for yourselves.

Oops!

Serving search warrants and entering homes and businesses to search for killers, robbers, and thieves is risky to say the least.

Before “going in,” though, there’s often a ton of necessary preparation—surveillance, paperwork, briefings, etc, not to mention the hours of training and practice that goes hand-in-hand with being a finely-honed, well-oiled member of police department’s special team. After all, the goal is to make a swift and safe entry, collect evidence, and to bring out the bad guys with no one getting hurt, including the crooks.

But, after all those grueling hours of aforementioned training, often in harsh conditions, repeating the same tactics over and over again until they come as naturally as taking a breath, well, things still happen while executing warrants. Such as …

Knock on Wood

We’ve all seen the TV cops, the officers knocking and announcing their presence and purpose. Bam! Bam! Bam! “Police! Search warrant!” Then the door-kicking starts (battering ram, actually) until the jambs and locks give way. Officers are then able to storm the house like ants on a dropped lollipop.

That’s how it’s supposed to go, right? But then there’s this …

Officers kick and kick and kick, and pound and pound and pound, trying to get inside a crack house. But the door won’t budge. They’re frantic that evidence is being destroyed with each passing second, so one cop decides to break a window when he suddenly hears a voice calling out from inside the home. “Use the door knob, dumbass. It’s unlocked.”

Lookin’ Through the Window

It’s mid July and a baby is trapped inside a locked car. The motor’s running and the mother is hysterical. She accidentally hit the lock on the driver’s door as she was getting out. “Please hurry! My baby’s so scared, and it’s really hot inside. Hurry!”

The responding officer peeks through the glass of the driver’s side window and sees that all four doors are securely locked, so he uses a Slim Jim to try and pop open the latches. But it just doesn’t seem to work this time and he curses those “newfangled” electric locks and all the wiring that becomes tangled around his cardoor-unlocking device. Precious minutes tick by as the temperature climbs past 90. The baby seems to be okay and the ambulance and fire crews are on the way. Another five minutes of jabbing the metal tool inside the door panel passes before a fire truck finally pulls up. Whew! They’ll have the right equipment to get the kid out safely.

The fire captain hops out of the truck and walks up to the car. He steps around to the passenger door and calmly reaches inside through the OPEN window. Then he gently scoops up the cooing baby and hands her to her sobbing mother.

The Old “Mattress as a Shield” Trick: Please Help Me I’m Falling

The prison Emergency Response Team has been called to extricate a suicidal inmate from his cell. The prisoner is extremely violent and he’s well known for hurting staff members. He’s also built like a bulldozer and is as strong as twenty men.

The team assembles at the cell door waiting for the command to go in. The lead officer, typically the largest of the group, is in charge of a cot-size prison mattress. His assignment is to hold the mattress in front of his body, vertically. The idea is to rush the guy and pin him to the rear cell wall with the padded shield. Doing so allows the team to easily restrain the guy. No problem. They’ve used the tactic several times before with great success. Never had an injury, either. When everyone is ready, someone begins the countdown. One. Two. Three. Go!

The door opens and the 6’4, 250 pound ox of a man, the officer who’s wielding the mattress makes his move. The only job for which he’s responsible, to be a human battering ram. However, he steps on the bottom corner of the mattress and tumbles inside the cell. The rest of the team fall on top of him while the inmate looks on. He slowly begins to laugh and then starts to chuckle uncontrollably as the team scrambles to get to their feet. The prisoner, of course, is laughing so hard he has tears streaming down his cheeks.

Slim Jim

Before the introduction of electronic locks, it was a simple matter of slipping a Slim Jim between the window glass and rubber weather strip, feel around until the tool hit the “lock rod,” and wiggle it around a tiny bit until the lock knob popped up.

Screen Shot 2016-11-14 at 9.19.23 AM

So presto, bingo, all was well and the happy citizen went about their daily routine.

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Slim Jim

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Notches used for “hooking” the lock rod and other mechanisms

After electronic locks replaced the simple, manual ones, things changed. No longer was unlocking a car door an easy task. In fact, it was quite the opposite and many officers, especially the old-timers, found themselves jabbing Slim Jims inside car doors while pushing and pulling and pumping the darn things in and up an down motion that brings to mind a frazzled grandma in the kitchen using a hand-mashing implement to frantically and wildly smash the heck out of a pot full of potatoes.

Parstamp1

Grandma pounded out a week’s worth of frustrations using one of these things while preparing Sunday lunch.

Sometimes during a particularly violent Slim-Jimming session, the device became entangled in the nests of wiring, rods, gadgets, and connections inside the door. When this occurred it sometimes was impossible to remove the “Jim” without damaging an entire network of electrical, well, car stuff.

Therefore, it was not all that unusual for an officer to leave the device protruding from the door of a high-end vehicle while the owner called a professional for help. Then off they’d drive (the car owner), heading to the dealership with long, flat piece of metal flapping in the breeze.

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The 38th Parallel, President Kennedy, My Uncle, SpongeBob, and … Rice!

The 38th parallel, where perhaps 1 million soldiers faced each other across an area boobytrapped with over a million land mines, was the line drawn in the sand during the Korean War. Cross it and a soldier could quickly die in a hail of bullets.

My uncle, Pete, was there in the 1950s, stationed just across the 38th parallel. And during his entire 26-year career in the U.S. Army, the time he served in Korea was possibly one of the worst times of his life. More on this in a moment.

Now, after turning 82 just last month, my uncle is in a Philadelphia hospital where doctors recently performed emergency surgery on his already weak heart. When I left the hospital last Thursday, well, things looked pretty grim. He hadn’t been awake since surgery the previous Monday, and his vital signs were diminishing, along with the function of his kidneys which were heading into a slow downward spiral.

Denene and I traveled back to Philadelphia last Saturday morning, just two days after the doctors’ pessimistic opinions regarding recovery, we found him sitting up in bed chatting with a neurologist. No ventilator, no more blood transfusions, no mechanically-forced inflation of his lungs, etc.

He was fully conscious and alert, and extremely hungry. So the nurse ordered him a solid and nutritious lunch.

His kidney functions were back to nearly normal. Heart rate and blood pressure were absolutely fine. Although, he was was experiencing a bit of numbness along his right side, possibly caused by compression of fluid on a nerve in the neck. Other than that, though, he was doing well, considering.

Actually, he was feeling well enough to be frantically searching the TV for his favorite show, SpongeBob (Don’t ask me). SpongeBob, golf, Jeopardy, and The Wheel of Fortune. Those are his “can’t miss” programs.

After having no luck with the TV our conversation turned to the days “back when,” and the topic of Korea came up. He told us about standing guard at night, hearing the enemy soldiers just across “the line” yelling, firing their weapons, and banging on things, an effort to prevent sleep for our soldiers. Then, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, groups of them charged across the line, firing their rifles and pistols in short bursts aimed at the U.S. soldiers. Then they’d run back from where they came. This occurred night after night after night.

He told of having very little to eat except rice. Rice, rice, rice, and more rice. After he left Korea he swore he’d never touch rice again. Just the thought of it turns his stomach.

He recalled nights when soldiers were forced to burn drums of alcohol to keep warm during -60 degree temperatures. They’d remain huddled around those barrels, moving away only to start the tanks every thirty minutes to prevent the grease in the gun turrets from freezing solid. If that happened the tanks would only fire once since the frozen grease would prevent recoil of the tanks’ gun barrels.

He told war tales that would curl the toughest and straightest of toes. Then he switched to stories about other assignments around the world, from different bases where he was stationed throughout his career. His favorites were in Germany and a long term serving at the Pentagon in Washington D.C.

Back then, he said, D.C. was a fun city and his job at the Pentagon was quite rewarding.

On January 20, 1961, Uncle Pete was one of the sixteen thousand U.S. soldiers who marched along Pennsylvania Avenue in President John F. Kennedy’s inaugural parade. It was a proud moment for him when he passed the reviewing stand, seeing out of the corner of his eye, President Kennedy; First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy; the President’s parents Rose Kennedy and Joseph P. Kennedy Sr.; Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson; and Lady Bird Johnson and other dignitaries. He also received an invitation to the president’s inaugural ball. This was a high point in my uncle’s life.

But there were times when things in Washington weren’t so rosy.

In November of 1963, Uncle Pete again marched as a soldier along D.C. streets for President Kennedy. This time, though, the march was for President Kennedy’s funeral procession after he was assassinated.

My uncle has seen and done a lot in his day. He’s been “there” when times were tough, and he’s been practically on top of the world.  He’s a fighter. Always has been.

Today, Uncle Pete is receiving physical therapy to help him walk again, and to help regain the use of the muscles on his his right side. He’s very weak but his spirits are high and he grows stronger each day. He thanks you for your prayers and well-wishes, as do I.

*Remember, I said my uncle’s appetite is back and he’s now allowed solid food and that the nurse ordered him a nice hot lunch? Guess what they brought him … turkey, and a steaming mound of RICE!

Needless to say, he sent it back untouched.

 

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A Quiz: I Worked Hard For the Money … Maybe

It was many years ago when I worked in Virginia’s state prison system, back before I began my career as a certified law enforcement officer. I’ve done a lot of unpleasant things in my day, to make ends meet, but working in the prison was truly one of the worst.

When I say to make ends meet I’m speaking about being a single dad raising a daughter while earning little more than peanuts. At my first state job my salary was $6240. per year. When I moved up the ladder a bit the pay moved up to $6700. Then it grew to a whopping $8320. Then I transferred to a maximum security prison, one that housed the worst of the worst inmates., those that other prisons didn’t want. My  pay increased to a little above $12,000 annually.

So, for less than six bucks an hour I had to pay for housing costs, car payment, food, clothing, phone bill, heat, school costs, and the health insurance premium and retirement were deducted from the salary. Therefore, as everyone knows, paying the bills and supporting a child is tough. Those of you who’ve done so as a single parent, as I was, know how difficult and extremely challenging it is simply to hold your head above water.

When I spoke about unpleasant things I’d done I was speaking of the part-time jobs I held to supplement my income. I continued working part-time jobs for my entire law enforcement career. The pay as a police officer in the early days, unfortunately, was not great.

A Twist in this Tale

Oh, there’s a twist to this story. One of these part-time jobs is not true. The rest are fact.

You’ve all read my blog and social media posts over the years. Many of you have met me and had conversations with me. So let’s see how you fare at picking out a falsehood. Of course, all could be true or they could all be false. I’m just sayin’.

Here’s a list of those jobs … maybe.

I once held a part-time job as …

  1. An electrician for a county government. I rewired part of a jail where I worked as a deputy sheriff. I also rewired parts of a courthouse where I testified in many felony cases. The head cook at the jail made and served delicious liver and onions.
  2. A maintenance person for two hotels, performing jobs such as painting, plumbing, etc. I once saw rocker Joan Jett sunbathing by the pool.
  3. A woodworker for a casket company, where I repaired high-end wooden caskets. The job even once required me to travel to Miami to repair a $30,000 casket, one that had been damaged during transit. On the way down, I drove a pickup truck carrying six additional wooden caskets.
  4. A bricklayer’s helper working on a 300-foot-tall chimney. The bricklayers were relining it and my job was to haul the bricks up by rope and then feed them down inside the chimney using a second rope. I don’t like heights, by the way.
  5. A lead bouncer in a hip-hop/rap-type nightclub. At the time, I was bench pressing just under 400 lbs. and had earned two black belts. There was a stabbing on my first night there. The club is where I first heard TLC’s hit song Waterfalls, written by Lisa “Left Eye” Lopez. I still like the song. I don’t like rap or hip-hop music. I don’t like opera either.
  6. A housepainter working on a crew with six professional painters. I was assigned to most of the grunt work—painting shutters, closets, and ceilings. All by brush. No spraying or rollers allowed in those days.
  7. As a laborer for a concrete company. My job was to use a wheelbarrow to roll in load after load of wet, fresh concrete to the men working inside an open courtyard between buildings at a retirement home.
  8. I worked as a desk clerk at a hotel owned by a Chinese couple who spoke very little English. They offered me $5,000 if I’d marry one of their cousins so she could become a U.S. citizen. I did not.
  9. I worked as a part-time estimator for a major steel company, where I sat at a drafting table figuring the amounts of steel and correct pieces needed to construct large commercial buildings. I even calculated the numbers and sizes of individual nuts, bolts, and washers.
  10. While working night shift as a cop, I taught business math and drafting at a high school during the day for an entire school year. I was offered a full-time job teaching but I felt that police work was far safer, so I declined the offer. One year was all I could take.
  11. Each weekend, three of us, all deputy sheriffs, installed roofs—tearing off old shingles and replacing them with new ones after repairing damaged plywood, etc. Then we loaded the old worn-out shingles onto pickup trucks, by hand, and then hauled them to a county dump where we emptied the trucks. Again, all by hand. I did this every weekend, for a long time. It was backbreaking work but it kept a roof over my head.

Bonus – I taught beginning, intermediate, and advanced guitar at a college. Later in life I became the student and was taught intricate lessons by a guitarist who’d played in bands that opened for The Who and Lynyrd Skynyrd, and many more. He’d played with legendary guitarist Joe Satriani and even replaced Satriani as lead guitarist in the popular 80s group, The Greg Kihn Band.

So there you go. Is one of the above not true? Are all of them false? Just one lie? Or, are each of them absolutely factual?

Here are a couple of tunes to enjoy while you decide.

The Greg Kihn Band

Joe Satriani

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Disguises: Evasion and Impersonation

When writing about criminals it is sometime necessary for your fictional bad guys to, for a variety of reasons, conceal their identities. And they do so by wearing disguises, which could be anything from shielding the eyes by pulling a hat brim low over the eyebrows, to wearing elaborate makeup and a wig. These methods are extremely effective when found within the covers of a novel because you make it so. But could it be that easy to trick someone in real life? Do simple disguises work?

Well, obviously they don’t work as well when someone is familiar with the person who’s trying to conceal their identity. But when you’re not familiar with the person who’s attempting to disguise themselves, well, a simple change of hair style or color may be all that’s needed to fool someone, including trained observers, such as police officers.

When writing, keep in mind that people, even untrained observers, tend to look deeper than a friend or close acquaintance’s hair color or style than they would at someone they don’t know. Friends know the facial features of other friends—the lines  and shapes of the eyes, noses and mouths. They know the fine details, the features that can’t be readily or easily altered without major surgery. The same with family. They know those details almost as well as their own.

Strangers, on the other hand, see an overall picture of us. They’re not focusing on the crinkled lines and grooves around our eyes, or even the spattering of freckles on Sally Sue’s earlobes. At least not at first glance. Therefore, it’s easier to fool a stranger such as the character who entered the scene on page 47 of your latest book.

Two methods used by criminals to conceal their identities are impersonation and evasive disguises.

An impersonation disguise is trying to look like someone else, such as the jewel thief who dresses up in the clothing of Poirot’s sidekick, Hastings, to allow him to slip off the ship without being readily detected by police.

An evasive disguise is one that’s used to not look like yourself. A perfect example of this is the undercover police officer who wears clothing to better fit with the target group, change hairstyles (grow it long or shave the head), grow or shave facial hair, etc. Such as the transformation I made when working a longterm undercover narcotics assignment.

Me, working undercover narcotics.

Dig and Cover!

To take your character a step further. Let’s have him alter his looks while at the same time evading a professional tracker. Yes, the bad guy in your book, Squirt Jenkins, is running, and he’s running hard to prevent being captured by the hero of your book, Brute Studly.

So what should Jenkins, and others, do as part of a getaway plan? Well, for starters they must avoid leaving telltale signs that he’s been where he’s been, such as:

  • Don’t leave behind waste—gum, gum wrappers, soda cups, and the scraps of paper that tend to fall out of pockets when you’re digging for that single M&M that you dang well know fell from the bag a week ago when you tore the tiny sack with your car keys.
  • Do not do things in the woods that should be done in the privacy of a bathroom stall at Jimbo’s Truck Stop and Flower-A-Ranging Emporium. No human waste in the forest! If you absolutely must go, use a stick or rock or the heel of a shoe to “dig and cover.”
  • A famous tracker once said (I heard this a police training event) something to the effect of, “Don’t leave honey wells,” or honeypots, or honey-somethings. I don’t remember which. But it had something to do with honey. Anyway, what he was referring to was leaving a ton of evidence behind when making your way through areas where such evidence is really seen. These places are fields and yards filled with tall grasses and weeds, snow covered areas, sandy beaches, mud, etc. If you must walk in the snow, do so only when fresh snow is falling so that your tracks are covered. Hide your tracks!
  • Take care to not overturn leaves and pine needles and rocks and limbs. Don’t scrape bark from trees. And whatever you do, as creepy as they are, don’t break spiderwebs, leaving the sticky trails flopping in the breeze. To an experienced tracker, these things are like flashing neon arrows.
  • Don’t smoke, don’t eat smelly foods, don’t wear perfumes and colognes, and keep your body stink to a level that’s below that of Farmer Brown’s pigs. It would be a shame to go to the trouble of devising the perfect disguise, an oak tree, only to be discovered because you smell like a funky pile of high-schoolers’ dirty gym socks.
  • Stay low to the ground, especially at night. It’s a dead giveaway when you pass in front of a full moon while walking along a mountain ridge. Plus, it’s spooky.

To sum up, disguises work, especially evasion disguises. They’re the most effective.

 

 

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Today’s Hero: Jim Nugent, a Brilliant and Compassionate Detective

I’ve met a lot of truly good patrol cops in my day—hard-working, honest men and women who truly care about their communities, the people they serve, their families, and their fellow officers.

And, I’ve met and worked with a lot of truly good detectives who possessed the same fine human qualities.

But there are some cops who rise above the rest. Not due to high stats and the numbers of ribbons and medals worn on the fronts of their Class-A uniform shirts. Not because they wrote the most traffic tickets or served the most arrest warrants. No, the superstars of the business are the men and women who go above and beyond those who go above and beyond. They do just a bit more. They put others before their own needs.

As a police detective, I believed in the greater good. That everyone should have a voice, no matter their backgrounds, situations in life, or their own self-inflicted stupidity. People should have a fair shake is what I thought, and still do. In addition, I believed that the victims of violent crimes deserved to have a detective who was working on their behalf to solve the crime so that justice would prevail.

I’ve investigated a few murders in my day, more than I’d care to count, or to recall. When solving those crimes I tried to look at the case from the viewpoints of the victims. To put myself in their shoes, hoping that by placing myself as closely in those positions as possible, it would provide clues that would could’ve otherwise gone unseen. It works. Not all of the time, but some.

It was nearly eleven years ago when I crossed paths with one of the most brilliant police detectives I’d ever encountered. He was sharp, smart, methodical, relentless (the latter being how he earned the nickname, “Bulldog”). He dressed nicely—shirts and pants neatly pressed, shoes shined to perfection, not a hair out of place, and his ties always matched the outfit du jour.

When he entered a room there was no doubt that he’d assumed charge. He was tough, but tender. Gritty, but compassionate. He was the textbook example of “Command Presence.”

He spoke softly and always to the point, especially when discussing a case. He was passionate when it came to crime-solving and about the victims of those crimes.

When I first met him—we were two of several panelists at a seminar—he’d been in the police business a long time, and he’d put away some of society’s worst. He’d solved more murder cases than many detectives work in a lifetime. He was a cop from “back in the day.” Crusty and tough. He’d seen it all. The murders in and around his city were some of the most bizarre I’d ever seen or heard of.

Jim Nugent was this detective’s name and he’d followed in the footsteps of family members. Jim began and ended his decades-long law enforcement career in Hamilton, Ohio, a city not far from Cincinnati.

Before pinning on a badge to serve his city, Jim first worked in a paper mill alongside an uncle who told him stories about his grandfather back when he, too, was a Hamilton police officer back in the 20s, 30s, and 40s, a time when Hamilton was called Little Chicago. The city earned the moniker because Chicago gangsters came to Hamilton to hide out when things grew too “hot” for them in the Windy City. Of course, with the gangsters came organized crime, prostitution, gambling, and illegal liquor. Serious illegal business.

Charles Nugent, Jim’s grandfather, was a small city cop tasked with keeping peace in a jurisdiction where gun-toting gangsters roamed the streets and hung out in bars and taverns down by the river. Charles Nugent started as a patrolman and was promoted to the detective position on December 16, 1922.

Like Jim, Charles Nugent never met a man too big to handle. And handle the bad guys he did.

Charles Nugent’s detective’s badge

Jim was only four years old when his grandfather passed away. His father refused to talk to his kids about their grandfather’s days as a police officer. He was afraid that if they knew the history they might live in fear of retaliation from people the elder Nugent had encountered, or angry family members of the people he’d killed while in the line of duty. And there were more than a couple in each category, including the man who decided to gun down the detective while inside a local bar. His attempt was not successful and his name was added to the list of those killed by the lawman.

So, as I said earlier, Jim relied on information from his uncle and from locals, such as an elderly man who’d been beaten and robbed. During an interview with Detective Jim Nugent, the man recognized Jim’s last name and proceeded to tell him of yet another bad guy who tried to shoot his grandfather—another name to the list of the unsuccessful.

I fondly recall sitting in a conference room interviewing Jim Nugent who was, at the time, retired as a police detective, but was then working as an investigator in the county prosecutor’s office.

Me, on the left, chatting with Investigator Jim Nugent

The purpose of our interview was for me to obtain information for a true crime tale I was writing about the murder and dismemberment of a young mother of a small child. Jim had been the lead detective on the case.

Even though the crime was resolved and the killer serving time in state prison, Jim was still extremely passionate about the case. His compassion for the victim is what struck me the most. It was obvious that he’d immersed himself in the murdered woman’s life. To him, she was like a family member, which was extremely important to him since the woman’s family members were basically absent and weren’t around to speak in her behalf, or to help with the arrangements that come with a sudden death. Jim’s heart ached for the deceased young woman. I soon found myself in the same situation. The young woman’s story was extremely compelling and I, too, began to feel as if I knew her. She, even though I’d never met her, felt like a family member.

Tragically and ironically, Jim had a stepdaughter who was a victim of a violent crime. So, remarkably, Detective Nugent worked on this case while dealing with an ongoing personal tragedy within his own family. And here’s where the “Bulldog” rose to the occasion. His situation made him all the more determined to solve the murder of the young mother.

The victim had close friends, but was some distance away so they knew little about her life in “Little Chicago.”

Jim located a suspect, but with little or no physical evidence, he chose to hound the man, day after day until a crack eventually broke in his armor. The man confessed to Detective Nugent and he led the investigator to the woman’s remains. Finally, there was a bit of closure. The dead woman had a voice, by way of Detective Nugent.

At the close of the case, when the victim’s remains were buried in a small secluded section of a local cemetery, Jim Nugent visited her grave site where he placed flowers atop the freshly turned dirt. He continued to do so every month until he was unable to continue. He didn’t want her to be alone.

I was in Hamilton one day, a day when Jim planned to visit the grave. I accompanied him and looked on as he placed a small bundle of brightly-colored flowers next to a small concrete marker bearing her name. Like Detective Nugent, not wanting the dead woman to “be alone” and not remembered, the murderer’s mother purchased the stone and had it placed at the site of the victim’s remains.

Detective Nugent knelt for a moment, silent, with his head down. When he looked up his brown eyes were rimmed in pink. Moisture pooled at each of the bottom lids.

When Jim sent messages to me he always wrote in CAPS. Even with something as simple as an email, Jim was in charge. But I knew that behind the Bulldog exterior was a kind, generous, and extremely compassionate man. A brilliant investigator and a wonderful human being.

Sadly, Jim passed away a few days ago, on January 13, 2019. It’s taken me this long to find these words.

Never have I encountered a detective who fought more for victims of violent crime than did Jim Nugent. He was determined to be the voice for those who no longer had the opportunity to tell their stories.

 

Jim Nugent’s Detective’s badge

 

One of the last emails I received from Jim ended this way. Notice Jim’s “all caps” style of writing.

“LEE. I NEVER GOT TO KNOW OR TALK TO MY GRANDFATHER AS I WAS ONLY FOUR YEARS OLD WHEN HIS PASSED AWAY.  I SURE WISH HE WAS WITH US AS I GOT OLDER SO I COULD HAVE TALKED WITH HIM ABOUT HIS HISTORY. LOOKING FORWARD TO YOUR BOOK SO I CAN PUT IT WITH MY VIDEO OF THE CASE.

THANK YOU.”

Investigator James A. Nugent
Butler County Prosecutors office

 

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Weapons of Mass Ear-itation

If we’re to believe novels and old movies and even some television news reports, spying and gathering information by way of torture go together much like peanut butter and jelly, French fries and ketchup, and bacon and eggs. And, well, bacon and anything.

Torture, according to Merriam Webster is: the infliction of intense pain (as from burning, crushing, or wounding) to punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure.

The CIA softens the sound of the word “torture” by calling it “enhanced interrogation.” But no matter the words, interrogation techniques that include sleep deprivation, slapping, subjection to cold, simulated drowning (“waterboarding”), electrical shocks, and/or otherwise beating the snot out of someone to learn some sort of information is plain old torture.

Making use of hot lights and rubber hoses and trips to the soundproof basement to obtain confessions is nothing new. In fact, police have been accused of it for as long as, well, forever. Unfortunately, there is some truth mingled in the mix, such as back in the early 1980s when three Chicago police officers arrested Darrell Cannon in connection with a murder case.

The officers drove Cannon to a remote area to “convince” him to confess. Cannon, according to court records, said that when he refused to say what the police wanted him to say,  the officers forced the barrel of a shotgun into his mouth and repeatedly pulled the trigger. When that didn’t worked they used a cattle prod to shock his genitals. He finally gave in.

Homan Square – a ‘black site’ run by Chicago Police that’s used to interrogate people out of view of law enforcement’s regular chain of command?

I’m old enough to remember having “cattle prods” as part of a sheriff’s office’s arsenal of weapons. They were kept in the armory for use during riots or should we be called upon to assist with large prison disturbances at one of the nearby institutions. A couple of the crusty old-timers carried them in the trunks of their cars, and I’d heard tales of their use on suspects who wouldn’t climb into the back seat of a patrol car fast enough. They chuckled as they told tales of shocking the you know what out of a drunk homeless man or zapping a smart-ass punk who enjoyed taking swings at cops.

When I worked at a maximum security prison, there was a row of cattle prods lined up on shelf inside the armory, alongside rifles, shotguns, teargas guns, helmets, and the like.

Cuba

History tells us that the Russians, Chinese, Germans, and the good old U.S. of A. are all masters of the pain game. However, it is Cuba, an island roughly the size of Pennsylvania, that sits where the Caribbean Sea, Gulf of Mexico and Atlantic Ocean join, that perhaps tops the spy/torture chart.

Yes, U.S. officials believed that Cuban masterminds had cleverly devised the most diabolical, devious and most horrific pain-inducer known to man. It is unrivaled, to say the least. And it is invisible.

In 2016, the first attack caught embassy staff by surprise. After all, how does one defend against something that can’t be seen as it advances toward its target at the speed of sound?

Staff members began reported neurological symptoms, along with concussion-like indications. Signs pointed toward head injuries, yet there were none. Not a single knock on the noggin had been recorded.

Next came reports of diplomats experiencing sounds they described as buzzing noises (like bees inside their heads), the sounds of metal grinding against metal, horrible, piercing squeals, and/or a persistent humming. And there was that weird and maddening and “ear-itating” feeling we sometimes get while inside a moving car with the windows partially rolled down—the  pressure-induced vibrating/air “baffling” that sort of hurts our ears when it occurs.

Canada and the U.S. became understandably alarmed. They thought it was possible that Cuba had lunched some sort of sonic attack and withdrew had of their Embassy staff, and they expelled Cuban diplomats in retaliation.

It was a big deal with lots of chest thumping and finger-pointing.

Fortunately, two biologists, while doing things biologists do, decided to listen to a recording of the mysterious Cuban sounds. We’ll dang if they didn’t discover, instantly, that the entire near-war, mass hysteria incident was nothing more than a bunch of local crickets belting out tunes to attract new mates. Special songs that other crickets found to induce love and sex appeal were sickening and ear-splitting to nearby people.

So yeah, two biologists single-handedly prevented what could have been the “Cuban Crooning Cricket Crisis.”

* The Indies short-tailed cricket is found around the Caribbean. Over-reacting, non-trusting and suspicious humans are found worldwide.

 

 

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Topping the Bizzarro Meter: Toe-Sucking and Button-Licking

Sylvia and Dave Dungan of Salinas, California, did a smart thing when they installed surveillance cameras around their home. After all, they sometimes leave their children at home, locked inside and protected by a security system. The cameras are a part of the electronic fortification.

A few days ago, while the adult Dungans were out for the evening, their home surveillance camera alerted them to unusual activity, specifically at the front door of their house.

After seeing that their kids were safe they reviewed the security footage and, as they say, video doesn’t lie. There for all the world to see was an intruder, a man named Roberto Daniel Arroyo who, for three solid hours was filmed licking the front doorbell, practically nonstop.

At the conclusion of his doorbell tongue-lashing, Arroyo was featured on camera relieving himself in the front yard and then he stole an extension cord, but dropped the electrical wire in a neighbor’s yard as he made his lickety-split getaway.

Now, Arroyo’s case is weird, yes, but his doorbell love-fest doesn’t come close to topping the Bizzarro-Meter. Ask any cop and they’ll spend hours telling you about the “time when,” or “that other time.” Still, I believe that winner-winner-chicken-dinner of 2018 goes to … well, read it for yourself. But please allow me to first set the stage.

So close your eyes and picture this (and have a puke bucket on standby).

Chicago. It’s March and it’s cold and it’s cloudy and there’s fog and there’s a bit of light snow falling. Again, it’s Chicago.

As the snow flies … On a cold and gray Chicago mornin’ ~ Elvis

Officers pick up a man for a misdemeanor offense and dutifully carted him to jail.

Okay, the sentence above, the one about officers carrying a man to jail, is the single normal thing that occurred in this entire story. So buckle-up, this gets ugly (and gross).

During booking, the arrested man began to speak of suicide, that he wanted to die.
Therefore, officials had no choice but to transport the suicidal offender to an area hospital for evaluation. By the way, this sort of thing happens quite a bit, arrested offenders faking illnesses of various types to stall going to lockup.

Officer Carlyle Calhoun, 46, a 10-year-veteran of the police department, and another officer were tasked with taking the prisoner to see a doctor/professional.

Once at the hospital, the medical staff had the prisoner change from his clothing into a hospital gown. The officers handcuffed the man to the bed—one wrist and one foot.

Calhoun’s partner decides he’s hungry so he goes out to forage for food, leaving his partner to stand watch over the prisoner. Now alone with the shackled man, Calhoun begins to make small talk about the guy’s charges and offering relationship advice and something about pressure points. Then he, the 10-year veteran police officer who was in full uniform wearing a badge and gun, suddenly began sucking on the prisoner’s bare toes while massaging his feet.

Next, and as quick as a flash, Calhoun reached up, grabbed the man’s (well, you know), and used his cell phone to snap a photo of the “item in hand.” The astonished prisoner asked the officer to stop. To further his goal of cease and desist, the prisoner requested to use the restroom. He’d hoped the move would throw the officer off course. Well …

Officer #2 and a Belly Full of Cafeteria Food

Officer #2, with belly full of hospital cafeteria delicacies, returned to the room and Calhoun then escorted the prisoner down the hallway to the restroom. Once inside, Calhoun dropped to his knees and performed a sex act on the prisoner who, by the way, was still protesting the sexual assaults.

Calhoun returned his prisoner to the hospital room where he quietly told the man he’d contact him on Facebook in a few days. Then Calhoun and his partner left the hospital.

Meanwhile, the prisoner, and now sexual assault victim, reported the incident. Medical personnel collected the appropriate physical evidence (They administered a sexual assault evidence kit). Later, prosecutors said a saliva swab taken from Calhoun matched the DNA found on the victim.

Chicago PD’s Internal Affairs Division  found the photos of the victim’s “you know what” on Calhoun’s cell phone.

Carlyle Calhoun was arrested and ordered held on a $200,000 bond. He was formally charged with aggravated criminal sexual assault and official misconduct.

FYI – the eyes in the photo below belong to Carlyle Calhoun. The prisoner/victim will probably never forget them as they looked up at him while Calhoun’s mouth was busy with other duties.

Chicago Police Department photo – Carlyle “The Toe-Sucker” Calhoun

Let’s examine one last sickening aspect of the scenario that took place at the hospital. Keep in mind that the victim of Calhoun’s assaults had just been arrested and had not had a shower prior to all of this “activity.” No shower. No soap. Just hot, sweaty prisoner feet … and …

Yeah, yuck.

/by

Hip Replacement: The Ins and Outs of It

Hip replacement surgery, for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing it, is basically a breeze. The worst part of it all came by way of the nurse who shaved the surgical site. She, and I’m being more than kind, was a sadistic, man-hating demon who enjoys inflicting as much pain as possible in a very short period of time.

She tore open a package containing a razor and then came at me with two glowing eyes and a flickering forked tongue, while reciting some sort of Charles-Mansonish incantation.

When the razor hit the flesh, dry, by the way, it felt as if she’d begun to peel away my skin one layer at  time. I asked her to slow down a bit but my tearful pleas only seemed to fuel her fire.

She was relentless, and evil. She was the the love-child of the Grinch and Freddy Kruger with a side order of Dahmer. The woman has issues.

She, while standing there with razor in hand, told me to remove all of my clothing, leaving nothing but a smile or frown. That choice was mine to make. But everything else had to go.

The surgeon entered my room and signed my left hip. He wished me luck, an odd thing to say since the extent of my luck was in his hands.

Nurses popped in and out and each were as sweet as a slice of Grandma’s homemade apple pie. The “Shaving Demon” should take lessons from them.

The post-surgery doctor popped in to, again, wish me luck and to tell me that I was in extremely capable hands. I already know this because we’d done our homework. My surgeon’s track record is excellent. Besides, I really like the guy. His personality is top-notch and he doesn’t pull any punches.

The anesthesiologist spent a bit of time with me and he, like the others, quickly learned my odd and quirky sense of humor. We spent several minutes cracking jokes while he adjusted dials, knobs, and switches on something that looked like the Wayback Machine from the Rocky and Bullwinkle TV show. His one-liners had the flavor of Phoef Sutton’s dialog from the TV show Cheers, a series Phoef wrote.

And then it was time …

Three nurses approached the side of my bed and asked me to sit up with my legs dangling over the side. The nurse in the middle pulled me close, placing the top of my head just above her cleavage. The other two wrapped their arms around me and held me tightly. More nurses stood ready, as backup, I suppose, in the event that I went all Tasmanian Devil. I surmised, being the savvy detective I am, that what was about to take place was not going to be a high point in my life.

The anethesiologist held up a gilded box containing a sword needle that Indiana Jones would’ve given his very life to obtain. To me, it looked to be approximately nine feet in length with a spearhead large enough to bring down a T-Rex.

The nurses, all at once, grabbed and pulled me close in a death embrace. And that’s when the needle punctured the flesh at my lower spine. This injection was to deaden my bottom half to the point of feeling nothing from the waist down.

With all of the pagentry, I was expecting some horrific and unbearable pain. Pain that not even Superman could endure. But no, it was nothing more than the usual stick.

Two hours later I opened my eyes and it was over. My former hip was gone. Out. Done. Garbage. In its place is a manmade steampunkish device that promises to be a welcome addition to my body.

The best part of it all is that the pain was gone. That horrible pain I’d experienced for well over a year …. was no more.

So, how do I feel about health care in Delaware? Well, finding a primary care physician was an impossibility. There’s a real shortage of doctors in this area and the closest appointment I could find was in the summer of 2019. I’d started the search in the fall of 2018. So I tried making an appointment with a nurse practitioner at the University of Delaware. She saw me two days later and my surgery was scheduled asap.

I couldn’t be more pleased with the care I’ve received from the surgery team and from the medical folks at the University of Delaware. In fact, I begin physical therapy tomorrow … at the University of Delaware’s state of the art facility.

So, for now, my cane, Virgil, is getting a bit of rest until the day comes when he’s once again needed. His stand in, Little Johnny “Walker” (Jack Black’s first cousin) will help to get me from place to place.

 

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