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Sheriffs: Cops, or Not? – Understanding Sheriff’s Offices in America

Many of us had our first real look at a sheriff’s office back in 1960 when Sheriff Andy Taylor and his fearless deputy, Barney Fife, patrolled the roads around Mayberry, North Carolina.

Television took us inside the Mayberry jail, the courthouse, Andy’s home, and even allowed us to ride along in the county patrol car. And for many people, Andy Taylor’s Sheriff’s Office became the standard, the template against which all real-world law enforcement would be measured, even if they didn’t realize it.

The things Andy did, well, that’s what a sheriff was supposed to do: fight crime, run the jail, serve the people of the community, spend quality time with family and friends—Aunt Bee, Barney, Opie, Floyd, Gomer, and Miss Ellie and later, Helen—and pickin’ and grinnin’ with the Darlings while Charlene belted out the lyrics to her signature song, There Is a Time. Simply a wholesome lifestyle of work and play, of moral clarity and small-town justice dispensed with a smile and maybe a slice of Aunt Bee’s Nesselrode pie.

But that’s the television depiction of a county sheriff’s life, rendered in black and white, with a laugh track and commercial breaks. Real sheriffin’, however, is a bit different, grittier, more complex, weighted down with bureaucracy and budget constraints and the kind of human darkness that wouldn’t have made it past the 1960s television network censors.

So let’s take a brief look at a real-life sheriff and her or his office to see how things differ from that fictional agency where jail cell #1 was empty most of the time, and the occupant of #2 was usually Otis sleeping off another snootful of moonshine.

One Sheriff Per Office—Understanding the Basics

First, like Andy, a sheriff is only one person, a single elected official who’s in charge of the day-to-day operations of their office. This is crucial to understand. In most jurisdictions, the sheriff is elected by popular vote, which means they answer directly to the people, not to city councils, county supervisors, mayors, or state bureaucrats. It’s a uniquely American institution, this elected lawman, with roots stretching back to medieval England and the shire reeve who collected taxes and kept the king’s peace.

Because there is only a single sheriff for each jurisdiction, it is in error to call or address the other employees of the agency as “sheriffs.” This is a common mistake, one I hear all the time, and it’s worth correcting, especially for crime writers aiming for touches of realism, because precision in language reflects understanding of the system itself.

“A couple of sheriffs came to my house to deliver a jury summons. A waste of tax money, ’cause one coulda’ done it.”

“Look, here comes four sheriff’s cars. Bet they’s headin’ straight to Junior, Jr.’s house to bust up the still he runs in the woods behind that stinkin’ hog pen of his.”

“Two sheriffs went next door and arrested Jimmy Buck for bustin’ onery ol’ Larry John, Jr.’s head with a rusty claw hammer. Should’ve gave him a medal for doin’ it, instead of arrestin’ him, if you ask me.”

“There’s three sheriffs over yonder, eating donuts and drinking coffee at Delirious Daisy’s Donut Diner.”

All wrong. Every one of them.

So, to reinforce this critical point: there’s only one sheriff per office. One elected official wearing that gold sheriff’s badge and the brass insignia boldly spelling out “SHERIFF” on their shirt collar and carrying that full weight of responsibility that comes with the job. And since the sheriff has many duties, more than any single person could possibly handle alone, they need help to fulfill those obligations.

Consequently, the sheriff appoints deputies to assist with the workload. They carry the sheriff’s authority but serve at the elected sheriff’s pleasure, meaning most can be hired or fired without the civil service protections enjoyed by the majority of municipal police officers.

These are deputy sheriffs, or simply deputies. They often wear brown over tan uniforms with silver badges and silver “DEPUTY” collar insignias. You’ll see them on patrol, serving warrants, working the jail, transporting prisoners, providing courthouse security, and handling all the daily calls that come in—the domestic disturbances, burglaries, assaults, traffic accidents, and property crimes that make up the standard bread and butter of law enforcement.

The sheriff certainly has the authority to work cases, and could strap on a sidearm and go out on patrol or kick down a door on a drug warrant, but more often than not, they spend their days managing budgets, participating in various meetings, dealing with personnel issues, and navigating the political waters that come with being an elected official whose job depends on convincing voters they deserve another term.

Therefore, the drivers of those marked “sheriff’s” cars and others who work at a sheriff’s office are typically deputy sheriffs, not the actual sheriff. Unless, of course, the boss, the actual sheriff, happens to be driving one of the marked units, which does happen from time to time, particularly in smaller counties where the elected official still likes to get out from behind the desk and work the roads.

A Sheriff’s Authority

There are 3,081 sheriffs in the United States, typically elected constitutional officers who answer directly to the voters. This is a crucial distinction. While police chiefs serve at the pleasure of those who appointed them, subject to the political winds and administrative whims of municipal government, sheriffs hold their authority by popular mandate. They’re elected to serve, typically for four-year terms, though some states require six years, others three, and a handful only two. It’s democracy in its rawest form: if the people don’t like how you’re running things, they vote you out on election day.

In many areas, the sheriff is the highest-ranking law enforcement officer in the county, wielding authority that extends across every incorporated town, every unincorporated community, every stretch of county road and country lane within their jurisdiction. This jurisdictional reach is broader than that of municipal police, who are generally confined to city limits.

A duly sworn sheriff’s deputy can make an arrest anywhere in the county, whether it’s in a city, town, or village, even those with police departments, or in the one-stoplight towns thirty-three miles away at the far southwest corner of the district. Those crossroads towns are sometimes just out of radio range, where backup practically needs a full tank of fuel for the trip. It’s important to note that solo deputies should have the ability to talk their way out of a jam, especially when it’s them against a gaggle of combative folks who enjoy throwing a punch or two at the face of a cop. And yes, those incidents are to be expected, and they do occur. It’s all part of being a deputy sheriff.

Duties and Responsibilities of a Sheriff

The responsibilities of a sheriff’s office are as varied as the landscape itself, ranging from mundane bureaucratic tasks to the grimly essential work of maintaining order and protecting the innocent.

Consider what a sheriff might be responsible for on any given day:

Executing and returning process—serving all civil papers, from divorce decrees to eviction notices to lien notifications. Every piece of legal paper that requires hand delivery is dispensed by a deputy, who must then return proof of service to the clerk of court. It’s tedious work, often thankless, but it’s the machinery that keeps the justice system grinding forward.

Attending and protecting all court proceedings. Courtroom security falls to the sheriff’s office, which means deputies standing post during trials, maintaining order when tempers flare, and ensuring that witnesses, jurors, and judges can go about their business without fear of violence or intimidation.

Preserving order at public polling places is a duty as old as democracy itself, ensuring that citizens can cast their votes without harassment or interference.

Publishing announcements regarding the sale of foreclosed property and conducting the public auctions that follow. There’s something particularly stark about watching a sheriff auction off someone’s home on the courthouse steps, the American dream reduced to line items and a gavel coming down with the finality of a judge’s sentence. But it’s a part of a sheriff’s duty that must be done.

Serving eviction notices and, when necessary, forcibly removing tenants and their property from homes or businesses. I’ve known sheriffs who use jail inmates, supervised by deputies, to haul belongings from houses out to the street—furniture and family photos and a lifetime of accumulated property and debris piled on the curb like garbage while a family stands watching, their faces sometimes hollow with the knowledge that they’ve got nowhere to go.

Serving as coroner. In California, for example, some sheriffs also serve as coroners of their counties, which means they’re responsible for investigating deaths, determining cause and manner, and maintaining the dignity of the deceased even when that dignity has been stolen by violence or neglect or the simple cruelty of circumstance. Since sheriffs are typically not medical doctors, they employ forensic pathologists and their staff to perform autopsies and necessary testing.

Maintaining the county or city jail and transporting prisoners to and from court appearances, then on to state prison after sentencing. Running a jail is a massive undertaking—feeding inmates, providing medical care, preventing suicides and assaults, managing the constant flow of bodies in and out. In some counties, the jail is the sheriff’s primary responsibility, consuming the bulk of the budget and staffing.

Law enforcement—in many areas, if not most, the sheriff is responsible for patrol, criminal investigations, and all the other functions we typically associate with police work. Some towns don’t have police departments, but nearly all jurisdictions must have a sheriff’s office. The exceptions are Alaska, which has no county governments; Connecticut, which replaced sheriffs with a State Marshal System; and Hawaii, where Deputy Sheriffs serve in the Sheriff Division of the Department of Public Safety, but there are no elected sheriffs.

The Spectrum of Sheriff’s Offices—Cops, or Not?

The scope and scale of sheriff’s offices vary greatly across the nation, from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, the largest in the world, employing a staff of nearly 18,000—a force greater than the combined populations of Wyoming’s Sublette and Johnson Counties—to the other end of the spectrum, a small rural office where a lone sheriff and maybe three or four deputies cover hundreds of square miles of territory, responding to calls that might be nearly an hour’s drive from the office. Sometimes a single deputy patrols an entire county alone, so they’d better be danged sure of what they’re doing before they step out of that patrol car.

But not all sheriff’s offices perform typical law enforcement duties. In some jurisdictions, the role is primarily administrative and judicial rather than investigative and enforcement-oriented.

The State of Delaware provides a clear example of a sheriff’s office that operates without on-the-street crime-fighting or crime-solving. The Philadelphia Sheriff’s Office is a second model of a sheriff’s office whose functions are primarily administrative and judicial.

Delaware Sheriff’s Offices

The state is small, consisting of only three counties, each with an elected sheriff—Scott T. Phillips in New Castle County, Robert T. Lee in Sussex County, and Norman R. Barlow in Kent County. These sheriffs and their deputies have no typical arrest authority or other standard police powers. State law simply doesn’t permit it.

They can take someone into custody and transport them only when specifically ordered by a judge or a commissioner of Superior Court, but they’re not out there making traffic stops, investigating crimes, or kicking in doors to serve search warrants. Their responsibilities are limited mainly to serving legal notices, such as subpoenas, levies, and summons, and conducting sheriff’s sales for non-payment of taxes and mortgage foreclosures.

Patrol and criminal investigations in Delaware are handled by the Delaware State Police, who perform the functions sheriffs handle in most other jurisdictions.

Philadelphia Sheriff’s Office

Like Delaware sheriffs and their deputies, the Philadelphia sheriff, Rochelle Bilal, and her deputies are not authorized to conduct patrol or criminal investigations, nor do they direct or oversee municipal policing.

Philadelphia sheriffs’ deputies are not the law enforcement officers that locals typically see out and about in the community, arresting criminals, conducting traffic stops, and investigating crimes. They’re not involved in high-speed vehicle chases, homicide investigations, SWAT raids, or suiting up in riot gear. They don’t walk beats, handcuff burglary and robbery suspects, collect evidence at crime scenes, or conduct DUI stops.

Instead of typical law enforcement functions, the 428 employees of Sheriff Bilal’s office conduct the majority of their business inside courtrooms, providing security, delivering court papers, conducting court-ordered evictions, or assisting the sheriff with sales of foreclosed and tax-delinquent properties. They also execute court orders and serve bench warrants issued by the courts, such as a capias for failing to appear for court hearings or trials.

It’s essential work, the machinery that keeps the judicial system functioning, but it’s a different model entirely from what most Americans think of when they picture a sheriff whose office is the primary law enforcement agency in the county.

This is true of several sheriff’s offices across the United States, and the reason is the way local laws are structured. Each jurisdiction shapes its law enforcement agencies according to its own constitution, statutes, and, sometimes, even historical traditions.

Philadelphia Municipal Policing

In Philadelphia, municipal policing—patrol, criminal investigations, and the rest—is the responsibility of the Philadelphia Police Department, headed by Philadelphia Police Commissioner Kevin J. Bethel, not the Philadelphia Sheriff’s Office.

Additionally, the Pennsylvania State Police have statewide jurisdiction, including within Philadelphia proper. Patrol troopers assigned to Troop K in the Philadelphia area provide patrol and criminal investigation services in conjunction with the Philadelphia Police Department. They’re also responsible for regulating traffic and enforcing traffic laws, responding to and investigating crime scenes, and maintaining public order and security, the typical law enforcement duties most people associate with police work.

Goochland County Sheriff’s Office, Goochland, Virginia—Sheriff Steven N. Creasey

Sheriff Creasey began his career with the Goochland County Sheriff’s Office over 28 years ago, starting as a dispatcher. He was first elected sheriff in 2019.

The Goochland County Sheriff’s Office is the primary law enforcement agency in the county. It’s a full-service office with jurisdiction over all of Goochland County and its numerous communities.

The sheriff and his deputies provide public safety and law enforcement services, including maintaining a 911 call center, conducting community outreach and education, providing 24-hour patrol, responding to criminal complaints, conducting criminal investigations, enforcing traffic laws, and more. In addition, they are responsible for court security, prisoner movement, and the enforcement of court orders.

The Goochland County Sheriff’s Office is the type of agency most folks think of when picturing a sheriff’s office.

Understanding the Variations

Understanding these variations between agencies is crucial to understanding American law enforcement. There’s no single template, no universal sheriff’s office that looks and operates the same from county to county or state to state. Each jurisdiction designs the functions of its sheriff’s office to meet local needs, local laws, and local expectations.

What remains constant is this: one sheriff, elected by the people, carrying the weight of that office and the trust of those who put them there, supported by deputies who do the daily work of keeping the peace, serving the courts, and maintaining that thin line between order and chaos that defines civilized society.

So, the next time you see a patrol car rolling past with “Sheriff” emblazoned on the side, remember: unless the boss is behind the wheel, that’s a deputy doing the work. And somewhere, probably buried in paperwork or meeting with county commissioners or dealing with a jail overcrowding crisis, is the sheriff carrying the responsibility for it all, carrying a tradition that stretches back to medieval England and those first shire reeves who kept the king’s peace and collected his taxes and tried to maintain some semblance of order.

And, at the end of the day, after all the door-kicking, handcuffing, court-protecting, and prisoner-watching, hopefully there’s time for Nesselrode pie, and enough leftover energy to pick and sing a chorus or two of There Is a Time, or Salty Dog.

The above list of sheriff’s responsibilities is not all-inclusive. Sheriffs and deputies are responsible for numerous duties and assignments in addition to those listed here.

Is It Sheriff’s Office or Sheriff’s Department? What’s the Difference?

Black’s Law Dictionary defines the terms as:

DEPARTMENT: “One of the major divisions of the executive branch of the government … generally, a branch or division of governmental administration.”

OFFICE: “A right, and correspondent duty, to exercise public trust as an office. A public charge of employment … the most frequent occasions to use the word arise with reference to a duty and power conferred on an individual by the government, and when this is the connection, public office is a usual and more discriminating expression … in the constitutional sense, the term implies an authority to exercise some portion of the sovereign power either in making, executing, or administering the laws.”

A Sheriff’s Office is not a “department” of county government. The functions and operation of an Office of Sheriff are entirely and solely the responsibility of the elected Sheriff. The Sheriff is a statutory/constitutional officer who has exclusive powers and authority under state law and/or state constitution. Therefore, a sheriff’s powers are not subject to the directives and orders of a local county government, whereas the heads of county departments are subordinate to the local administration because each department is a division of county government.

National Sheriffs’ Association

The National Sheriffs’ Association (NSA) officially came into being when the organization filed Articles of Incorporation in 1940. However, over 50 years earlier, in 1888, a group of sheriffs in Minnesota and surrounding states joined together to form the Inter-State Sheriffs’ Association. The NSA today is the result of the early group.

The NSA is involved in and provides resources, various programs, training classes, and courses to support and assist sheriffs, deputies, and others in law enforcement and criminal justice.

As of February 15, 2023, NSA has 13,628 active members.

I am one of those members and have been for many years.

Office of Sheriff – Its Historical Roots

“In England, the sheriff came into existence around the 9th century. This makes the sheriff the oldest continuing, non-military, law enforcement entity in history.

In early England, the land was divided into geographic areas between a few individual kings—these geographic areas were called shires. Within each shire there was an individual called a reeve, which meant guardian. This individual was originally selected by the serfs to be their informal social and governmental leader. The kings observed how influential this individual was within the serf community and soon incorporated that position into the governmental structure. The reeve soon became the King’s appointed representative to protect the King’s interest and act as mediator with people of his particular shire. Through time and usage, the words shire and reeve came together to be shire-reeve, guardian of the shire, and eventually the word sheriff, as we know it today.” – National Sheriffs’ Association

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Dead Women Sometimes Cry in the Rain, And Baby Socks

If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times—Never start a story with the weather.

Even Elmore Leonard kicked off his “Don’t-do-it” list with a rule about using atmospheric conditions to open a story.

  1. Never open a book with the weather.
  2. Avoid prologues.
  3. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.
  4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said.”
  5. Keep your exclamation points under control!
  6. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”
  7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
  8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
  9. Same for places and things.
  10. Leave out the parts readers tend to skip.

Now, with that said and with an absolute clear understanding of the rules—NO Weather!—let’s get on with the show, today’s true story. It’s a real-life account that’s mixed with a bit of excitement and emotional ups and downs. It’s also a rule breaker that begins, of course, with the weather.

In this instance, though, the climate plays a significant role as a character just like the humans in the story. Oh, and for good measure, I’ve also tossed in the phrase that is a definite no-go for starting a tale. I think you’ll recognize it. So here goes.

It was a dark and stormy night in our county. Rain lashed against my windshield in sheets driven horizontally by huffs and puffs of wind that played a violent to-and-fro game of tug of war with the red oaks, sweet gums, and loblolly pines flanking the country road. A large patch of overgrown kudzu engulfing an old tobacco barn and surrounding vegetation wriggled and shimmied like the flock of hoochie-coochie dancers that traveled with the carnival that passed through the area every couple of years.

It was a sideways kind of rain that TV weather reporters often battle during live coverage of the massive, roiling, churning hurricanes, storms with names like Esmerelda, Horatio, or Clyde. Their on-camera backdrops are airborne lawn chairs and garbage cans, toppling trees, and waves crashing onto houses, far from where a shoreline once existed, mere hours before the broadcasts.

Yes, it was that kind of storm, and I was out in the thick of it, patrolling county roads and checking on businesses and homes, watching for looters, and suspicious oddities, such as broken windows and open doors, and frightened farm animals who’d escaped custody. Additionally, I was on the lookout for storm-related troubles, such as downed power and telephone lines, toppled trees blocking roadways, flooding, and the unfortunate folks who’d been traveling far too fast for the conditions, landing themselves in a ditch mired to the axles and undercarriage in roadside muck.

A few hours into my shift, I’d ventured into a section of the county where houses were a couple of miles apart, and where our car radio transmission capability was spotty at best, meaning an unheard call for help could result in a hospital stay, or your body lying on a slab in the morgue with an ID tag tied neatly to your big toe. It was so deep in the middle of nowhere that even on clear nights, the moon had difficulty finding the place. The spooky factor in that area was a ten on the weird scale, and on this night, my gut was telling me that something bad was going to happen or had already happened.

Just after passing what appeared to be a dirt path to my right, I rounded a sharp leftward curve, and my headlights reflected off something metallic and shiny deep into the woods. It seemed out of place, so I decided to investigate.

I backed up to the narrow “path” and turned into what was nothing more than two sloppy-wet parallel ruts carved by automobile tires, likely the tires of a farmer’s vehicle or utility company trucks.

As I inched forward in the slurry, thorny brush scraped along the sides of my car, sounding like fingernails on a chalkboard. Tree branches thumped the rooftop lightbar. Others slapped against the windshield like long, gnarled skeletal fingers giving the glass a series of high-fives.

Just a few yards down the trail, my rear tires began to spin and slip, so I gave the accelerator a shove. The extra power sent globs of goo spewing rearward.

The trek was touch-and-go for a while, with the front end of the car sliding from one side of the path to the other, forcing me to whirl the steering wheel in opposite directions to maintain some sort of straight line of travel. I knew I couldn’t let off the gas, or there I’d sit.

A moment or two later, though, I was through the sloshy goop and on the way toward the source of the reflection, which I soon discovered was a car parked approximately twenty yards off the dirt road in a clear-cut section along a power line, next to a river. I stopped several feet from the vehicle, enough to allow a retreat in case of an ambush. I used my spotlight to examine the car and to sweep the powerful beam across the surrounding area. I also turned on my side alley lights and the bright takedown lights on the front of the lightbar.

The place was nearly as well-lit as a high school football field on Friday night.

There was no sign of anything or anyone, but you never know what danger lies beyond the light’s reach. Again, it was dark and stormy, making it one of those scenarios where the hairs on the back of your neck and arms immediately leap to attention. But I had to forget the woods for the time being and focus on the immediate danger—the car.

I rotated the spotlight and aimed the beam back to the vehicle until I’d zeroed in on the driver’s side. To add to the skin-crawling, heart-pounding, horror movie ambiance, the door was open. However, from my angle, I could see only the outside of the door, leaving the other side and the car’s interior a mystery.

So, despite the downpour, thunder, lightning, and those hyper-vigilant hairs (the cop’s sixth sense was in complete overdrive), I had to get out to investigate. So, I did. Before taking the first step, though, I again scanned the area carefully, this time using my Maglite, the old metal kind, making sure a killer wasn’t waiting in the brush to ambush me to make their escape.

After being as certain as possible that the area was clear, I cautiously moved forward. At the same time, the winds drilled raindrops into my face and against my lemon-yellow vinyl raincoat, the one I usually kept in the trunk of my patrol car just for times like this one. The fury of those gumdrop-sized blobs of water was like that of small stones striking at a pace equal to the rat-a-tat-tatty rounds fired from a Chicago typewriter.

The plastic rain protector I’d placed over my hat worked well at keeping it dry. Still, the rain hitting the covering felt and sounded like hundreds of tiny mallets hammering all at once, as if an all-xylophone symphony decided to perform a complex syncopated piece on the top of my head. At a time when I truly needed the ability to hear a single pin drop, well, it simply wasn’t happening. So, xylophoned, machine-gunned, and gum-dropped from all sides, I slogged onward.

It was a fight to walk headfirst into swirling, stinging winds that tugged and pulled and pushed against my raincoat, sending its tails fluttering and flapping, exposing my brown over tan deputy sheriff uniform. The heavy winter material was not waterproof. Not even close.

The ground surrounding the car was a thick, gooey slop. With each step, my once-shiny brown shoes collected gobs of dense, soggy soil until the weight of my feet felt like a couple of bowling balls.

After making my way around the door, what I saw was shocking, even for a seasoned cop. The body of a young woman lay half-in and half-out of the car, with the outside portion being soaked by the deluge of water falling from the dark sky. Strands of her long hair reached the ground, where they dipped into a puddle, undulating with the back-and-forth motion of the wind-driven water.

Raindrops battered her open eyes, filling the corners until tiny rivers poured down her cheeks, spilling into the muck below.

I couldn’t tell for sure if she was alive or not, but instinct, experience, and the obvious clearly said, “Not.”

These, during a dark and stormy night, were the abysmal conditions in which I met the crying dead woman.

It was one-on-one—me and the victim.

I know, this sounds like a bit of overwriting when describing the setting; however, I wanted you to experience it as I did, and believe me, the feeling that night was, well, over the top. You should know and see in your minds that raindrops the size of gumdrops pelted the victim’s face, gathering and pooling at the corners of her eyes, eventually spilling out across her cheeks like tiny rivers that followed the contours of her flesh until they poured from her in miniature waterfalls.

You should know this because …

She Was a Dead Woman Crying in the Rain

Driver’s door,

Open.

Bottom half in,

Top half out.

 

Lifeless hand,

Resting in mud,

Palm up.

Face aimed at the sky.

 

Rain falling,

Mouth open.

Dollar-store shoes,

Half-socks.

 

Youngest daughter—the seven-year-old,

Called them baby socks.

Her mother’s favorite,

Hers too.

 

Hair,

Mingled with muck,

And water,

Sticks and leaves.

 

Power lines,

Overhead.

Crackling,

Buzzing.

 

Flashlight,

Bright.

Showcasing

Dull, gray eyes.

 

Alone,

And dead.

A life,

Gone.

 

Three rounds.

One to the head,

Two to the torso.

Kill shots, all.

 

Five empty casings,

In the mud.

Pistol.

Not a revolver.

 

Wine bottle.

Beer cans.

Empty.

Scotch.

 

“No, we don’t drink. Neither did she. Except on special occasions. Yep, it must have been something or somebody really special for her to drink that stuff.”

“Was there a somebody special?”

Eyes cast downward.

Blushes all around.

 

“Well … she did stay after Wednesday night preaching a few times. But they were meetings strictly about church business. After all, he is the Pastor. A good man.”

More blushing.

A stammer, or two.

A good man.

 

The rain comes harder,

Pouring across her cheeks.

Meandering

Through her dark curls.

 

Droplets hammer hard

Against her open eyes.

Pouring into tiny rivers,

Filling the puddles below.

 

She doesn’t blink.

Can’t.

She’s a dead woman crying,

In the rain.

 

Tire tracks.

A second car.

Footprints.

Two sets.

 

One walking.

Casually?

A sly, stealthy approach?

The other, long strides.

 

Running, possibly.

Zigzagging toward the woods.

Bullet lodged in a spruce pine.

One round left to find.

 

Cold water inside my collar, down my back.

Shivering.

Cloth snagged on jagged tree branch.

Plaid shirt.

 

Blood?

Still visible,

in the rain?

The missing fifth round?

 

Maglite never fails, even in torrential rain.

Cop’s best friend.

A shoe in the underbrush.

Attached to a man.

 

Dead.

Bullet in the back.

The fifth round.

Coming together, nicely.

 

Church meetings.

Pastor.

Two lovers.

A special wine for a special occasion …

 

A good man.

Sure he is.

Police car,

Parks at curb.

 

Morning sunshine.

Tiny face,

Peering from window.

Waiting for Mama.

Scent of frying bacon in the air.

Door swings open.

Worried husband.

“No, she didn’t come home after church. Called friends and family. Nobody knows.”

 

Husband, devastated.

Children crying.

“Yes, I have news. 

And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

 

Tire tracks match.

Pistol found.

Pastor,

Hangs his head in shame.

 

Special occasion.

To profess love.

But …

Another man.

 

A second lover.

Anger.

Jealousy.

Revenge.

 

Handcuffs.

Click, click.

Murder’s the charge.

No bond.

 

Single, unique plant seed,

Stuck to the brake pedal.

The single bit of evidence,

That tied him to the scene.

 

Got him.

Prison.

Life.

No parole.

 

A “good man”, a preacher, left the little girl’s mama to cry in the rain, wearing baby socks.

 

Today, decades later, raindrops squiggle and worm their way down the panes of my office windows.

And, as it often happens on rainy days,

I think of the crying dead woman.

Of her kids,

Her loving husband,

And,

Of course,

Baby socks.

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In the Midnight Hour: A Cup of Joe, Maggots, Memories, and Run-On Sentences

Working the first 240 minutes of the graveyard shift, when the crazies and criminals come out to play, and when many normal and sane folks allow alcohol and drugs to take over the part of the mind that controls mean and nasty, is a timeframe that generates many a tale told by crusty old retired cops who sometimes gather at pancake houses to share breakfasts with their remaining former brothers and sisters in blue. The ones still alive and who care enough to talk about the good old days, that is.

Like weekend fishermen sometimes share tales about the big ones that got away, these antecedent cops gather at favorite greasy spoon breakfast diners to tell, retell, and compare “just-like-it-was-yesterday” stories using excitement-induced run-on sentences to detail events of the heart-pounding times when bullets zinged and pinged off the pavement around them as they rushed to capture wanted criminals who’d popped off those rounds before disappearing into abandoned warehouses or alleyways during nights as black as ink with air so still they could hear their own blood zipping its way through the convoluted paths of veins and arteries as nervous hearts worked in overdrive mode to keep up with the amount of adrenaline racing through their bodies as they searched for the hidden bad guys who’d as just soon kill a cop as they would eat a ham sandwich.

Yeah, those kinds of jittery and sometimes PTSD-infused run-on comments about remarkable accomplishments and incredible feats of top-coppery are the sort of stories that take center stage while the sounds of sizzling bacon and spattering sausage patties provide the soundtrack to the morning gatherings.

As the scent of warm toast wafts through the air, the men and women who’d instantly shed twenty-five pounds when they handed over their bulky gun belts on the day they’d received their “Retired” badges, fawningly speak of the days before semi-automatics and Kevlar vests and of car radios that weren’t capable of sending or receiving signals out in the distant areas of the county, leaving the solo officers on their own to handle whatever came their way.

The old-timers compare scars—the raised marks on the hands, arms, and faces they’d earned when arresting the tough guys who loved to use razor-sharp blades to slash at cops. Occasionally, one of the balding and wrinkled retired patrol cops shows off a zig-zagged raised area on the cheek, a disfigurement due to being on the receiving end of a downward-plunge of an ice pick or screwdriver.

It was early morning, 2 a.m., according to the portly ex-officer whose once rock-steady hands trembled unmercifully these days, when he and the other members of the entry team stood on the non-moonlit side of a house deep in the heart of the worst area in town. While waiting for the signal to kick the door,  he listened to the distant soulful moan of train whistle and the clicking and ticking of windblown dried and crunchy fall leaves as they tumbled and danced their way across cracked pavement. It was cool out, but beads of fear-sweat the size of baby garden peas wormed their way down his spine, slipping through that void between the waistband and the hot flesh at the small of the back. He felt his badge pulse out and in ever so slightly with each thump of his nervous, worked-up heart.

Others recalled the animals that shared the night shifts with them—the skinny three-legged dogs and wiry cats with matted fur, washboard ribs, and gangly crooked tails and jagged fight-damaged ears. Raccoons with eyes that burn yellow or red when met with the bright beam of the car-mounted spotlight. Possums that hiss and bare pointy teeth when cornered.

There was the old wino, the guy who wore nine layers of clothing, a filthy watchman’s cap and toeless boots, a homeless man who reeked of body odor so horrific that jailers hosed him down before fingerprinting him. He’s the guy who often had maggots wriggling around inside his ratty underwear, and whose BVD’s were rarely removed before using the bathroom. A waste of time, he’d said. Why bother? Yes, they’d all seen and smelled the funk when they’d arrested him and others like him for breaking into cars, shoplifting bottles of booze, or stealing cheap aftershave to drink because it contained alcohol.

A turn onto main street after checking the alley between the hardware store and the Five and Dime revealed storm drains at the curbs spewing wispy tendrils of sewer steam that combined with hot city sweat before melting into a dark sky spattered with thousands of pinpoint lights.

Stoplights as far as the eye could see, all winking and blinking in an ill-timed discord of reds and yellows and greens.

The street sweeper who passed by, holding up a single finger as a sleepy acknowledgment that he, too, was out there in the night making ends meet the best way he knew how.

Drug dealers and prostitutes faded into darkened storefronts as patrol cars slowly rolled past.

Yes, one last refill, please. No cream. No sugar. Just like the thick jailhouse coffee that kept their motors running back in the day. Then it’d be time to take the spouse’s car in for an oil change, or to stop by the market for bread and milk and eggs. One had a doctor’s appointment. The ticker’d been acting up a bit lately.

Back to the stories, though. There’s always time for one or two more before the full breakfast crowd began to drift in, the folks wanting over-easy eggs, cheese omlets, piles of crispy bacon and pieces of country ham, stacks of steaming pancakes and waffles topped with fresh berries and whipped cream and elderberry or maple syrup.

A pair of young troopers enter, remove their campaign hats, and take a seat at the counter. The server slides cermaic mug of coffee in front of each. Their radios crackle and a dispatchers’ voice cut through the air in a monotone voice that could’ve just as easily come from robot in a sci-fi film.

They all remember and nod. And they stop to think. Each of them.

It was just last night when they’d each slipped on the uniform and badge and gun and shiny shoes. A pen in the shirt pocket and a slapjack in the right rear pants pocket.

Sirens and red lights.

Wife beaters. Robbers, Rapists.

Murderers.

Their war-wounds.

The missing bit of earlobe. The punk was, of course, a biter.

The loss of vision in the left eye. A 2×4 to the head, a blow delivered by a beefy, tatted-up redneck who didn’t want to see his brother carted off to jail.

The lifetime limp. A drunk driver who swerved right while the officer helped an elderly man change a tire.

The disfigured hand and scar tissue. Rescuing a little girl from the burning car.

Closing their eyes and seeing the face of the dead guy floating in the river, the one whose eyes became a tasty snack for turtles and fish.

The decapitated head at the side of the railroad tracks. Headphones prevented him from hearing the train approaching from the rear. They were found dangling from a thin tree branch along with a clump of hair still attached to a small bit of flesh and shattered skull.

The teen with the knife-punctured carotid artery that spurted long arcing jets of bright red blood onto the hands and arms and faces and clothes of responding officers as they tried to save the fatally wounded youth.

The punches, the bruises, the kicks.

The foot chase between the houses.

The struggles.

The guns.

The shots.

The coroner.

The nights.

The long, lonely nights.

The nightmares.

And then morning comes and it’s time to do it all again.

It’s all they have left.

Memories.

That, and those broken lives and bodies.

And a cup of joe.

Black, no sugar.

Just like the good old days.

 

/by