Tag Archive for: shots fired!

Working The Graveyard Shift: Shots Fired!

The call came in as “Shots fired. Several people injured.”

The news, however, was nothing new. Hell, it was Saturday night. Well, technically it was Sunday morning—2 a.m. It would be, after all, a rare occurrence if closing time at Fat Freddie’s Hip Hop Lounge passed by without some sort of fracas—cuttings, stabbings, fist-fights, shootings, or any combination thereof.

In fact, I’m the not so proud owner of a nice scar across the palm of my right hand that I received on Fat Freddie’s dance floor while taking a rather large knife from a guy who believed he was tougher than all other humans on the planet. Unfortunately for him, it was the liquor he’d consumed that placed the foolish notion in his head.

Back to the night in question. I and another deputy, Sam Steele (not his real name), were on patrol out in the county and, since closing time at Freddie’s was a part of our weekend agenda, we were already headed in that direction.

As soon as the dispatcher mentioned the name of the club. I switched on my lights and siren and stepped on the gas.

“10-4, en route,” said Sam in the typical monotone voice that’s so often heard coming from police scanners.

“I’m also en route,” I said into my mic. “Send rescue, but have them wait down the road until we send for them. It might not be safe.” A moment later the dispatcher paged EMS and fire.

A trooper who was running radar on the interstate called asking if we needed backup. I said yes and he told me that he was twenty minutes away, at best.

Freddie’s parking lot was filled with screaming and yelling people running in all directions. Looked like hundreds of angry, drunken fire ants after someone kicked over their mound. Cars nearly rammed us as they left with tires yelping against the asphalt pavement. I threaded my patrol car through the crowd and traffic, stopping near the front entrance, a set of double doors that had been freed from their hinges by the escaping crowd of panicked people.

Sam and I arrived at the same time. I from one direction and he from the opposite. The moment we stepped out of our cars we immediately heard a couple of bursts of automatic gunfire. Dirt exploded near our feet. My first thought was of my Kevlar vest lying under my bed at home. It was a hot night and I’d decided not to wear it. Dumb. Dumb. And DUMB.

Sam dove inside his car. My portable radio crackled then I heard Sam calling for backup, an almost a moot request. I saw Sam clutching his in-car mic as he began shouting “Mayday! Mayday!” Later, I learned that the gunfire sent poor Sam back to his days on the battlefield, and it was his unchecked PTSD that caused the unexpected and untimely mini breakdown. Besides, if we wanted help we’d have to wait for the lone state trooper to drive in from his ticket-writing location out on the interstate. Of course, a nearby city could send some of their officers out to help, but they were even further away. But I knew the incident would surely be over before help arrived. What “over” meant for Sam and me, I didn’t know at that point.

I ran toward the building.

With gun in hand I went up the front steps and into the building. A woman whose hairdo resembled an inverted hornets’ nest piled on top of her head, pushed past me while screeching “He gotta gun, he gotta gun! Her size too small tiger print skirt and spiked heels made for difficult running, but she deserved an “A” for effort.

The dance floor was littered with 9mm bullet casings, plastic cups, beer bottles, melting ice, crack pipes, cigarette butts, plastic baggies, and blood. Not my idea of a party.

Other than the bartenders, DJ, and a couple members of the club’s security team who emerged from a door at the side of the stage, the place was empty of people, including, the shooter. However, one of the heavily muscled bouncers identified him as Shelton Johnson, a local drug dealer. Apparently, he’d slipped outside with the stampeding herd of people exiting the building. The injured folks had also been taken away.

The unwritten rule at Freddie’s, and similar clubs, was to remove the wounded so they couldn’t talk to the police. Yet, I knew I’d soon find each of them in the hospital emergency room and they’d be easy to spot. They’re the folks at the ends of the freshly-leaked blood trails that lead from the parking lot, through the ER doors, onto the polished floor tiles, to the moaning and groaning men and women who’re dressed for a night on the dance floor. Of course, bullet wounds are also good indicators.

An hour or so after arriving at Fat Freddie’s, Sam and I located Johnson driving through one of the neighborhoods he claimed as his territory. After a brief pursuit he stopped his car and fired a short burst of bullets in our direction. He dropped the gun, a fully automatic Uzi and, as they do, he ran.

The foot pursuit was a short one, two blocks or so, and I caught him and had him cuffed just before Sam reached us. He and I helped the little darling to his feet and led him back to my car.

For all the chaos and injuries he’d caused, the judge sentenced Mr. Johnson to one year in jail with eight months suspended. Two days after his release he drove by my house and fired a single shot through our bedroom window.

And people wonder why I don’t give out my personal information. Geez …

* This is a true story. The names of the players and business have been changed to protect the innocent … me.

 

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Don’t Call A Plumber If You Don’t Want Your Leak Fixed

Don't call a plumber

Have you ever called a plumber to fix a leaky water pipe in your kitchen, and when he arrived you told him not to use his tools and training to repair the problem?

Well, consider the person who did just that, telling the plumber who responded to her call for help, “I know it’s probably the worst leak you’ve ever seen. Dangerous, actually. But,” she continued with a few batts of her  mail-order eyelashes. “Can’t you just talk to my pipe? I’m sure it’ll simply fix itself if you talk nicely to it.”

Meanwhile, both she and the plumber were soaked to the gills. The steadily rising water filled the house until it finally burst through the front door. Torrents of roiling and boiling whitewater rushed down the front steps like the falls on Flat Rock Pond. Kids used metal garbage can lids as kayaks in the lawn lake. The woman’s dog somehow managed to climb onto the roof and her goldfish were jumping like dolphins in the wake trailing the trash can tops. It was outright chaos, and it all happened within a blink of an eye.

“No, ma’am,” said the plumber. “Talkin’ ain’t gonna git it done this time. I’ve already been here three times this weekend—”

“But, I love my pipes,” she said. “They’re good pipes. Please try talking to them. Just once more …”

Her tears dropped into the knee-deep pond that swirled and twirled and bubbled around her legs like a Bermuda Triangle whirlpool. The once tiny leak was then gushing like a geyser that would shame Old Faithful.

But the master of cold on the right, hot on the left, and the yucky stuff don’t run uphill, knew there’s no other way. They’d both drown if he didn’t do something. So he reached into his tool bag and came out with “Big Red,” the best 24-inch pipe wrench Sears and Roebuck had ever sold on clearance. He swallowed hard once and then turned to face the trouble.

This is what he was trained to do and he reacted without fear or hesitation. A quick side-step, a firm grasp on the valve with his left hand, a lightning fast strike with the wrench, and it was over. The chaos ceased and his adrenaline level subsided. He took a deep breath. Then …

“MY BABY!” shouted the woman. “You hurt my baby!”

Sound silly? Well, hold on a second. Police officers face similar circumstances nearly every day of their lives. People who are in danger at the hand of loved ones call 911 begging for help. They fear physical harm and/or death. They’re scared for their family members.

Sometimes they’re so distraught you can almost smell the fright over the phone lines. But, when the boys and girls in blue come sliding to a stop in the driveway, with lights winking and blinking and sirens squalling and wailing, well, this is what they often encounter, starting with the initial call for help.

“911, do you have an emergency?”

“Help me! Little Johnny has a gun and he’s been pointing it me and Jimmy Billy. Twern’t loaded at first but now it is and he done lost his what little sense he had. He ain’t taken his crazy medicine in pert’near a week. I’m skeert for our lives. And Maw ain’t here to talk to him.”

“I’m sending someone right away.”

“Good. We’s all locked in the bathroom now, ’cause that little bastard’s a shootin’ up the place. He’s teched in the haid, I tell you. Gets it from my wife’s side of the family. They’s all one seed short of makin’ a whole watermelon.”

BANG! BANG!

“Thar he goes agin. Please hurry!”

“Sir, stay on the line. Officers are on their way.”

“Yes, ma’am. Got nothin’ else to do but duck.”

Three officers arrive and they’re met by Little Petey Paul who’s made his way outside and is standing in the gravel driveway holding his father’s old revolver.

Keep in mind, though, that the Little Petey Pauls of the world never seem to be small in stature. They’re typically 6’2″, 235, foaming at the mouth, with both eyes are spinning like tops. And, of course, they’re shirtless, barefoot, and highly UN-medicated.

As always, this is the time when dear old Maw comes driving up in family pickup truck, a 4×4 with a gun rack in the rear window and a sticker on the bumper that reads, DRIVER CARRIES NO CASH, JUST A BULLET FOR YOUR ASS!

The family matriarch jumps out of the truck and tosses the remainder of her non-filtered cigarette into a pile of empty beer cans beside the plywood cutout of granny bending over in the flower garden. One officer goes to meet her, keeping her out of harm’s way.

Other officers draw their weapons and order the human anvil to drop his handgun. Instead, the human stump points the .357 at the officers. He grinning like the possum the family had for supper the night before. The lead officer starts talking.

“Please put down the gun, son. We just want to help you. Everything’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

“Don’t you hurt my baby boy!” Maw screams” He’s a good boy. Just talk to him.”

Little Petey Paul licks the barrel of the pistol, then holds it against his head. Spittle dribbles down his chin. He’s crying. His teeth clench together like the jaws of a vise.

Maw tries to push her way past the officer. “Assholes. Let me go. That’s my baby. Just talk to him. Put those guns away! You’re gonna hurt my precious little boy!”

Little Petey Paul quickly points the gun at Maw. “You bitch. Wouldn’t gimme no money for beer. I’m gonna kill you dead right here and now!”

The gun goes off.

Two shots.

BANG! BANG!

The officers have no choice. Each of them fired a couple of rounds. A second later, Little Petey Paul lies dead in the dirt and gravel with four small bullet holes marking his flesh. The officers each feel that sudden drop of adrenaline followed by the sinking, sickening, gut-wrenching sensation that comes with taking the life of another human. The second-guessing begins immediately. Their lives are forever changed, and not for the better. Possibly ruined.

“My little baby! Why didn’t you just talk to him. You didn’t have to kill him!” Maw screams, and then begins punching, kicking, and clawing at the officer’s face. The rest of the clan pours out of the house—Pa, Andy, Sandy, Randy, Candy, Tandy, Mandy, Handy, Pandy, and Earl, Jr. They’re screaming and struggling with the officers. Back up arrives to help quell the escalating disturbance.

“All you had to do is talk to the boy,” Pa says. “Maw knowed how to handle him. Talk to ’em is all you had to do … He’s such a good boy.”

I guess the point to ponder here is, well, don’t call a plumber if you don’t want your leak fixed.

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Shift Change: The Calm Before Calamity

1140 Hours – September 18, 2020

“Slow night?”

“Pretty much,” Sergeant Collins said, as he leaned to the passenger seat to retrieve his hat and what was probably once a full thermos of coffee. “Same old crap over on Elm Street—”

“They at it, again?” said Sergeant Martin, the oncoming shift supervisor. “What’s that, the third time this week?”

“Fourth, actually. He finally put her in the hospital this time, though. Broken arm, probably a fractured cheek, and a concussion.”

“Let me guess. He didn’t mean it and she said it was an accident,” said Martin as he poked his fingers between the rear seat and seat back, a bad practice that he really should stop. Used needles and other nasty things can wreak havoc on bare flesh. But, all was well, this time. A quick look under the seat and he was done. No hidden contraband left behind by any of the bad guys arrested on the previous shift.

“Everything okay?”

“Clean, as always,” Martin said, moving to the driver’s seat to begin the routine—checking the lights, radio, siren, shotgun, and a quick calibration of the radar unit.

“The usuals were out and about in “The Bottom.” Lots of traffic down there too. I stopped a few cars as they were leaving. They make it so easy—running stop signs, speeding, throwing bottles at my police car as they pass by. You know how they are.”

“Find anything good?”

“No, if they were holding, I didn’t see it,” said Collins. He stood beside the patrol car holding his hat and a half-empty gear bag in his right hand, waiting patiently for Martin to finish the mandatory pre-shift vehicle and equipment inspection.

“There was a new guy hanging out with the drug runners on Reynolds Street,” Collins said. “Never seen him before. Tall, really dark skin, long braids, and a gold star on one of his front teeth. I stopped and talked to him. Most of the guys scattered, but he never flinched. Smart mouth on him too. Had an accent that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Sounded a little like that old guy who works at the motor pool. He’s Haitian, right? Anyway, the guy said he was Popcorn Bajolière’s cousin from New York. Claimed his name was Reggie Jackson. He also claimed he lost his ID last week.”

“Think he’s the guy bringing the stuff in?”

“Could be.”

“I’ll head down there in a few minutes to keep the pressure on,” said Martin. “Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

“Maybe so,” Collins said. “Well, if you’re all set, I’m going inside to finish writing up my reports and go over a few notes. I’ve got court in the morning. You?”

“No, but I do have to be at the range at ten for qualifying.”

“Man, is it that time of the year already?”

“Yep. They haven’t let you know when you’ve got to shoot?” Martin asked.

“Not yet, but I’m sure it’ll be on one of my days off, as always.”

“Administration doesn’t know any other way. They want us married to the department.”

“I guess,” Collins said, giving his old friend a pat on the arm, a habit he’d never been able to break. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night. Stay safe out there.”

“Always.”

0001 Hours – September 19, 2020

“All south-side units. Shots fired in The Bottom at the corner of Reynolds and Parker. One suspect down, possibly wounded. Caller reports several men fighting in the street. She believes there are numerous guns involved. I heard four shots fired while the caller was on the line. Rescue has been dispatched.”

“10-4,” said Sergeant Martin. “I’m en route. Have the ambulance hold back a few blocks until we have a chance to see what we’ve got. Send a couple of backup units. Going to The Bottom is never a good thing.”

“10-4, 1234.”

0002 Hours – September 19, 2020

“All south-side units. Shots-fired call at Sunset Acres, the mobile home park near the old railroad depot. Caller is advising that it’s her husband and he’s standing in the front yard, totally nude except for a pair of sweat socks, firing his shotgun at passing cars. She states the husband has been off his meds for two days. The caller’s address is 312 Tall Pine Lane. Residence is a white trailer with satellite dish in the front yard. A black Ford pickup truck is parked in the driveway. Suspect is a white male, approximately six-two, reddish-brown hair, and nude.”

“10-4,” said Martin. “See if someone from Precinct Four can take that one for us until we clear from The Bottom. We’re still sorting out this mess. Call out SWAT. We’re gonna need them.”

“Dispatch to 1245, 1263. 1267. Copy?”

“10-4. 1245 and 63 are thirty seconds from the trailer park. I hear gunfire already. I think we’re going to need some additional assistance with this one. Sounds like a war zone down there. Dispatch, ask county and state police if they can spare anyone.”

“67 is en route. ETA five minutes.”

“10-4.”

0348 Hours – September 19, 2020

“Thanks for coming back to help out,” said Martin.

“No problem. You’d have done the same,” said Collins. “Besides, I hate paperwork. And, ten minutes earlier and it could’ve been me instead of you taking that shotgun blast.” Collins reached over to pat Martin’s arm. “The doc says you should be fine in a few weeks, though. Maybe even back to work in a couple of months. Depends on the rehab.”

“Well, this is one way to avoid going to the range on my day off.”

Collins’ lips split in a slight smile. “I think I’d rather spend a few hours at the range than five minutes in this place.”

“Honestly, me too,” said Martin. “Me, too.”

1400 Hours – September 22, 2020

Sergeant Collins sat in the second row, holding his hat in his trembling hands. He was listening, but not hearing the words the chaplain spoke to a standing-room-only congregation. Officers had come from as far away as California to pay their respects.

Collins used his sleeve to wipe a lone tear from his right cheek.

Ten minutes earlier and it could’ve been him.

Cue the bagpipes.

Officer Martin. End of Watch – September 19, 2020

The tale above is fictional, of course. However, the story is based on the reality faced by law enforcement officers every time they sign on for duty.

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