So there I was…


It had been a relatively quiet night, the weather being cold and all. Weather seems
to affect people’s behavior much more than things like full moons, football games,
etc.  I was just beginning to think that I might actually get off on time, when I was
dispatched as a cover officer to a motor vehicle theft.


This is the kind of motor vehicle theft that annoys the living crap out of me ­
vehicle was left running, unlocked, and unattended to warm up.  Someone drove off
with the car.  Ok folks, let’s get this straight:  Even in a nice neighborhood
someone is going to steal your car if you do that.  Street urchins prowl some of the
nicer neighborhoods looking for victims as stupid as that.  This happened in the
ghetto where I work….that car didn’t have a chance.


It annoys me to no end when people do that because all they’re doing is creating
grief for themselves and paperwork for me.  Seriously, what did you THINK was going
to happen, moron?


So anyway, the primary officer was supposed to go contact the so-called victim (are
you really a victim if you shoot yourself in the foot?) and do most of the paper.  I
was supposed to check the area for the car.  It was described as a white Isuzu
Trooper, unknown license plate (really folks, don’t you know your own license plate
number?  If not, learn it).


I was driving down Academy Blvd. and there wasn’t much other traffic moving. I caught
  glimpse of a white SUV going the other way, and turned around to follow it.  I
  couldn’t read the make or model, so I aired the license plate to my dispatcher.
  Wouldn’t you know it, the computer system was working unusually slow, so I just
  kept following and following for what seemed like forever.  Eventually, though, she
  said, “That’s a Jeep, probably not your car.”  Doh.


So I turned around and started heading back down Academy.  Wouldn’t you know it,
right about the same place I saw the first white SUV, another one passed me and I
turned around to follow it.  I aired the license plate again, and also mentioned the
fact that I could read, “Isuzu Trooper” on the back. What luck.


After a few minutes the dispatcher came back with, “That looks like it’s going to be
it.”  The registered owner’s name was the same as the victim’s, you see, so even
though it wasn’t in NCIC as a stolen car, we knew it had to be the right one (the
officer who was going to put it into NCIC hadn’t even arrived yet).


Well, I’m not about to pull over a stolen car all by myself if I can avoid it.
People who steal cars don’t want to go to jail on a felony, and they are very likely
to shoot it out with the cops, especially if there are more bad guys than good guys.
I thought I could see two people inside, but that was later proven wrong.  The high
seat backs mislead me, and it turned out there was only one.


Anyway, thinking there were two inside, I just continued to follow without lighting
the car up.  It turned down Galley Road, and I just stayed behind airing our location
and direction of travel.  I was waiting for other officers to link up with me and
then we’d all light it up at once.  Not only do we have more firepower trained on the
bad guys, it also reduces the tendency for dirtbags to lead you on a high speed
chase.


Unfortunately, the driver knew the jig was up and pulled into an apartment complex
parking lot.  I aired the location, stated I was initiating a felony stop, and asked
for cover “Code 3.”  I lit the car up, and the driver pulled into a parking space.
This left the stolen car at a ninety degree angle to my cruiser, with a clear
unobstructed path from the driver’s door to me ­ no cover whatsoever in the event we
started shooting it out.  To my right was a fence, and there were no parked cars to
use as cover to my left.  My arse was out hanging in the breeze, and there was no way
to maneuver the car into a better location.  I was trapped.


I recalled studying the shooting in which one of our officers, Mark Dabling, was
killed back in 1982, and this was the exact same scenario.  Over and over my mind
kept saying, “MARK DABLING, MARK DABLING, MARK DABLING!”


So, I applied what I learned studying small unit tactics in the army (that’s what my
reputation was for), and did the “hey diddle diddle, everyone up the middle” tactic ­
I charged.  I’ve never been one to use that tactic as my first choice, but in this
instance it was either that or leave my arse out there as a target.  Gun out, I just
charged the driver’s door, yanked it open, and stuck my muzzle into the driver’s ear
­ not literally, I just like saying that.  I like to keep just enough distance that
the suspect can’t reach up and grab my gun.


That’s when I discovered there was only one person in the car, rather than two.  I
recognized her, too.  Yeah, I said “HER.”  The old notion of only men being criminals
is long since gone, but most of the public doesn’t want to believe it yet.  Just two
weeks ago we busted up an armed robbery ring consisting of four women.  Anyway, my
suspect is a known street urchin crack whore.  I’m not saying “crack whore” just to
be mean, that’s what she really is.  She lives on the street selling her body to pay
for the next fix.


So I played it safe because women are carrying guns these days, too, and held her
there at gunpoint until the cavalry arrived.  I told her, “Keep your hands on the
steering wheel or I’ll splatter the windshield with your brain!”  That did exactly
what I wanted it to ­ scared her into submission. The cavalry arrived, she was
cuffed, and dragged off to the Grey Bar Bed and Breakfast.


Upon searching her purse, I found a bunch of pills I couldn’t identify. These were
not in a prescription bottle, so I was pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to have them.
I can recognize by sight any street drug ­ cocaine, crack, meth, heroine, marijuana,
etc., but this was something else.  I sent it off to the lab, and yesterday got the
results back:  Morphine, a Schedule II controlled substance (same as meth or
cocaine).  So guess what?  Tonight I’m going to deliver new charging documents to the
jail on another felony crime.


I guess she just got tired of walking.  Well, doom on you, dirtbag.