Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on November 23, 2003.

In reponse to popular demand (OK, it was just Jeb Hoge), I shall recount the squirrel story; I have posted this before, I believe.

Yea it was many summers past, in the fall of the year, when the bearded unwashed alcoytes of the regional Drug Task force received word from a spy that our burg was graced by the presence of a man both calloused and harsh, come to traffic in meth and automatic arms. He was from the Windy City, where the local constabulary held two warrants for his arrest on charges of murder, and a burning desire to discuss the matter with him. They advised us that he was a bold and desperate gentleman who knew no restraint and had few hopes of a sucessful legal resolution to his problems, as a third person left for dead had not expired.

The spy told us that this man, call him A, was maintaining a very mobile lifestyle, and had arrived with a large quantity of meth (obtained, we believed, by violence from a dealer in San Antonio who was now missing and believed to be deceased) and a goodly quantity of Chinese-made AK-47 assault rifles which he had run across the border. A was heavily armed at all times, and making the arrest was a serious problem. It was suspected that he would not go peacefully.

Plus, the dope and guns were carefully stashed; A would not be cooperative, should he be brought in upright, so it was imperative to locate this before we grabbed him. Otherwise, the guns would fall into local hands, and we would be hunting them down one by one.

A, however, was mobile. He knew a local, and had come here to unload most of the hardware and all the dope in order to raise cash. This Contact (B) had put A in touch with the spy as a man who could locate a buyer. The spy had intro'd a member of the Task Force as a buyer, and the deal was coming into place.

However, A was highly mobile-there was no locateing his whereabouts with enough time to assemble a full entry team raid. It would have to be a mobile hit, after he disclosed the location of the stash. Worse, there was the real possibility that he would decide to aquire the payment and keep his product, as he was believed to have done in San Antonio. So the deal might go down with little or no lead time.

It was decided to use a four-man tactical team, of which your humble author was team leader. The team members would lay down in the back of a siezed pickup the dept had at the time, driven by a narc, which could tail the contact team (spy & buyer) as they met with A. Another narc was driving a City front-loader in the area, to be used as a crash/pin vehicle if needed. If things started to go sour, the pickup could pull alongside A's vehicle, and present him with the view of a row of weapon muzzles. It was decided to be the best of a unhappy situation. One of our sergeants, a private pilot, was circleing overhead in his single-engined plane for added insurance.

So, myself, Sandman, Dumplin, and Arsenal, decked out in tac gear and black BDUS, climbed into the truck. Besides sidearms and flash-bangs, I had my MP-5, Sandman had a LE-only Mini-14 (three round burst or full auto, I think), and Dumplin and Arsenal had shotguns, Mossburgs if I recall correctly, although Dumplin may have been carrying a 14" Benneli.

The truck looked as if it had been set afire and rolled down a cliff to put it out, a early 70s Chevy. It had a intact suspension and a rebuilt engine that could hit 140 without a lot of lead tme; its previous owner had trafficed in unlawful substances, and had planned to outrun the police. Sadly, he was asleep in bed when we had come through the doors. We had ended up with the title, and it was used as a narc ark.

Dumplin, Sandman, and myself laid on the bed with our heads next to the cab; Arsenal, being junior, laid crossways next to the tailgate, which was held on by bailing wire. A tarp was tossed over us to hide under in case anyone walked up on the truck.We laid it over us in the manner of a blanket.

Now, in our area pecan trees are extremely common, both wild and as cash crops. The truck had been parked under one for some time, and the bed had a drift of the nuts in it. We had raked most out, but we had been pressed for time, so as we drove around, we dug out pecans we were laying on and tossed them at Arsenal, or onto the tarp covering us.

The deal was not working out. The spy was terrified, and A was suspicious; the narc 'buyer' was cool, but A was a man on the run with little legal recourse and a healthy dose of parinoia. The three drove around for a while as they tried to work out the details. We were waiting to get the stash's location and the car someplace bystander-free so we could take him down, but the buyer could not close the deal. He had to play it real-if A suspected that he was being worked, the narc and spy were dead. Texas is a death penalty state, and proud of it-after San Antonio A would probably never make it to his home town.

A decided he wanted a hamburger as noon rolled around, so they stopped for a bite. By now the spy was nearly frantic, and the buyer was trying to hold him together and keep the deal moving forward.

Our driver parked us under a stand of trees at the edge of a Tractor Supply parking lot close to the resterant, and we waited. There was about ten pounds of pecans laying atop the tarp over us by this point.

A note should be made here. Dumplin is a large, good-natured man who has exhibited flawless courage on many ocasions, in one instance wadeing through waist-deep flood waters in a rain-filled night to rescue a bed-ridden woman while transformers arced and blew nearby. However, in the line of duty he has been attacked by animals large and small, includeing being badly bitten by a perfectly healthy bunny. On more than one occasion dogs, goats, and one deer have run past other officers to attack him. He has become convinced that anything with fur is out to do him grevious bodily harm, and has evidence to support this theroy. He likes to have me nearby, as my reputation for shooting animals, especialy dogs, while overblown, is a comfort to him.

While we were laying, a hundred feet from A, a squirrel dropped down from a low-hanging branch onto the truck's rail, attracted either by the mass of pecans on the tarp, or the prospect of ripping out Dumplin's throat, take your pick. He was a bright eyed-little bugger, bold as brass (the local tree vermin are bold raiders, encouraged by being hand-fed by the locals. We call them hugger-muggers).

Sandman, aware of Dumplin's fears, and being a maniac in general, started whispering, "C'mon, you little bastard, I'll kick yer ass.'

Dumplin': "Shut up, shut up. Darth, shoot it, its evil!"

And as I was telling Sandman to shut up, and Arsenal was reaching for something to throw at it, the squirrel jumped down onto the tarp.

Dumplin erupted onto his feet in a single smooth motion, screaming, "WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS IT?" and aiming his shotgun, loaded with 3" Magnum 00 buckshot, into the bed of the truck. Sandman and I are screaming for him to hold fire and trying to scramble out of the truck; in the process Sandman accidently catches me on the bridge of my nose with the rim of his kevlar helmet, blinding me with pain-induced tears.

The thrashing feet kicked Arsenal into the tailgate, which gives way, dumping him and the tailgate out onto the aspault.

The narc driver, thinking that A had rushed the truck or something similar, promptly dove out of the truck and raced away.

In a busy parking lot, at noon, a hundred feet from where A is eating his lunch.

When I get my vison clear, I'm looking at an awed group of civilians stareing at four black-clad, heavily-armed police officers explodeing out of a junker truck like a band of complete maniacs.

The only person who didn't notice the disturbance was A, who had his back to the window.

Never underestimate the evil power that squirrels possess.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on November 23, 2003.

Our PAC has various light-hearted contests around the major holidays; some of the favorites are the 10-9 stories (strange tales of the job), most humorous scar, uglist car markings, and the like.

I won a 28lb Butterball turkey this weekend for Best Deposition (Civil).

Below is the winning excerpt. This dep was taken as a result of a civil case for excessive use of force and police brutality based on race. The shyster was the City's. 'Guy' is the guy who filed the suit.

[shyster]: So, at this point Sergeant Darth was issueing verbal commands?

[Guy]: What?

[shyster]: Sergeant Darth was ordering you to take certain actions, in a commanding manner.

[Guy]: Yeah, he was yelling at me, real rude. He a racist M-F.

[shyster]: You understood what he was saying, is that correct?

[Guy]: Yeah, but he didn't need to yell and call me an asshole.

[shyster]: Was Sergeant Darth carrying a pistol that day?

[Guy]: Yeah, one of them big Glocks. He like to shoot black people, I could tell. I figure, he gonna kill me.

[shyster]: Where was Sergeant Darth's pistol?

[Guy]: In his holster, there.

[shyster]: Did Sergeant Darth ever draw his pistol or any other firearm?

[Guy]: Ah, no, no, the other pig had his out....the red hair guy.

[shyster]: So, what happened after Sergeant Darth shouted at you?

[Guy]: He yelled a lot...yelled bad. He all red-faced and shit.

[shyster]: And then?

[guy]: OK, so my bitch starts yellin', an I look at her. That when Darth jump in and hit me on the arm with his stick. Hit me for no reason a-tall. Hit me 'cause he a racist.

[shyster]: And this blow on your arm, did it hurt?

[Guy]: Well, yeah, later. Right then my whole arm go numb, like it dead. I figure he broke it, he hit me so hard. He had no reason.

[shyster]: Was your arm broken?

[Guy]: No, see, no, he didn't break my arm, but he tried, see, and that's wrong. Police brutal...brutality.

[shyster]: And did this blow cause any other injuries?

[Guy]; Yeah, yeah, see my arm went...sorta numb, like. Couldn't hardly feel my hand. Made me drop the axe, and it lands on my foot. Broke the big toe an' the nex', and some stiches.

[shyster]: The axe you were holding in an upraised manner?

[Guy]: Huh?

[shyster]: You were holding the axe up, the head of the axe was above your head?

[Guy]: No, the head...it was sorta here, 'bout by my ear, that high. Maybe a couple inches more.

[shyster]: Was this the same axe you had struck your brother-in-law with shortly before the police arrived?

[Guy]: Wasn't no brother nuthin, I never married that bitch, she just use my name and talk trash.

[shyster]: Was the axe you dropped the same axe you struck Name with before the police arrived?

[Guy]: Yeah...but that was self defense.

[shyster]: And you struck Name twice in the back with that axe?

[Guy]: In self defense, yeah.

[shyster]: While Name was running?

[Guy]: Well, he was movin'...see...but he was threatening me.

[shyster]: While he was running?

[Guy]: No, before...see, the bitch calls him, and he come over talking tough, bein' bad and all that. Fronting me in my house. Threatin' me. So, I got the axe...for self defense.

[shyster]: And your girlfriend then called the police?

[guy]: Yeah, she got the phone back together while her brother...while I was defendin' myself.

[shyster]: Which led to you confronting Sergeant Darth with a bloody axe in your front yard?

[Guy]: I was defendin' myself.

[shyster]: And were you holding Child, a seven year old girl in front of you?

[Guy]: No, see...she run to me 'cause she was scared, 'cause the police, they always whippen' up on black people 'round the flats.

[shyster]: Were you holding her by the hair?

[Guy]: Hell, no.

[shyster]: You didn't have a handful of her hair in your hand?

[Guy]: See...I was pattin' her on the head to make her feel better, an' when my toes got broke 'cause that racist hit me for no reason, well, I jerked, and pulled some a her hair out.

[shyster]: Did Sergeant Darth order you to drop the axe?

[Guy]: Yeah. 'cause he wanted to kick my ass.

[shyster]: Did he order you to release Child?

[Guy]: Yeah, cause he...cause he wanted to kick my ass, and she be in the way.

[shyster]: Did he tell you that you were under arrest?

[Guy]: Yeah...no, the red-hair pig do that.

[shyster]: And your opinion is that the only reason Sergeant Darth struck you is that he is biased against black people? Biased means prejudiced.

[Guy]: Yeah. And he rude, too. When we was waitin' for the ambulance he tole me, 'You got the right to remain silent. Exercise you right an shut the fuck up.'

And for that, they gave me the bird.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on November 3, 2003.

I was getting ready for bed when Mrs. Darth pointed out that Boo, the newest member of the DarthForce was going ballistic. It wasn't close enough to the house to be a noise problem, but Boo is the baby.

So, I grab a handgun and a portable spotlight and go out. The elder members of the DarthForce are eating grasshoppers, so I know its not anything big. I find Boo, and discover she has treed a possum. Now, the possum is not going to move, and it will take much of the night for Boo to figure that out, so I shoot the possum.

The possum takes a .357 Magnum behind the shoulders, breaking its spine. It drops, and promplty lands in a fork (this is in a mesquite tree, which has forks coming off of forks). It hangs there, nearly dead. Great.

I go back into the house, get a .22, a broomhandle I use when I need to poke things, (Its amazing how often you want to jab something from a safe distance), and a shovel to carry the corpse to the fenceline. Its nessessary to get the body out of reach, or the DarthForce will be playing possum toss, possum drag, and possum tug-of-war until the property is covered with possum bits.

I finish the possum off with the .22. The broomhandle is too short; I go back and get a rake. By this time the entire DarthForce has gathered around to watch and offer advice, so I have to get my wife to distract them.

The possum is wedged too tight to knock loose with the rake. The bastard did it on purpose, I am convinced.

I go back to the house, get a saw, come back, saw off the branch at the trunk (2" branch, 20' long, lots of thorny off-shoots). Then haul possum and branch to the lake and pitch 'em over the fence.

I should have just let Boo bark at the damn thing.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on October 30, 2003. This is the third and final chapter in "Tales of the Rookie", so you should read the first and second parts before this one.

Some time back I posted some threads about my tribulations with a rookie officer titled 'Tales of the Rookie'. I can't find them, but you can rest assured that finer writing has never graced this board, before or since.

Several weeks ago, a gentleman was waiting for me when I came to work. He identified himself to me as a senior member of a small-to-medium police dept in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

He asked me if I ever had met The Rookie; I immediately denied all knowledge of him, and claimed to have only been hired recently, myself.

This failed to work. The guy had spoken to the Chief, who had relucantly admitted that The Rookie (TR) had, in fact, spent about forty hours in the City's employ.

Forced to fess up, I warily admitted that I had met TR, but tried to claim only a vague memory due to a head injury.

It was of no use. He'd been a cop too long. He produced a notorized Release of Information form, which he gave to me, and I was forced to be candid.

I dug my notes out my locker, briefed him fully, and advised him not to hire TR.

That's when he dropped the bomb: this was not a background check. It seems that the agency in question had put TR on as a reserve officer about a year ago, and then hired him full-time a few months later. It was a bedroom community, and action was pretty limited. Apparently, TR had not put down his employment with my agency on his application; worse, the hiring agency had not bothered to examine his license data sheet sent by the state, and had failed to notice the prior service block.

And now they were in trouble.

As a result, I ended up being supeonaed to give a deposition against a police agency in a lawsuit.

As a result, I got to see TR in person. He was ashen, and was thinner and a lot older-looking than his years. There were lines on his face that I had not seen before.

There was arbitration. I was called in to testify.

Some months ago TR had been dispatched to what was incorrectly described as two men making catcalls at a young woman. When he arrived, he discovered that Girlfriend (gf) was attempting to leave Abusive Boyfriend (ab), with the help of her brother (sib). AB had caught up with them in a convienence store parking lot, and a disturbance had ensued. AB could not get past SIB, and was extremely upset. SIB and GF were blocked in by AB's car. It was a stand-off.

AB stormed up to TR and started shouting at him; TR wilted and backed up; AB started pressing his complaints more empathically, then shoved TR into the side of TR's car. He then ripped TR's radio mike off his epaulette.

Finally, TR gave AB his sidearm when AB demanded it.

AB pointed said firearm at sib, who was forced to stand aside. AB then dragged gf into his car and left.

TR did not radio in immediately, and failed to get AB's LP. Sib did, thankfully.

AB ran into a Highway Patrolman outside Waco eight hours later, and ended up going to the ER before going to jail. Wisely, he had left the handgun under the seat of his car.

GF sued the municipality in question. Under normal circumstances, they might have faded much of the heat, but for their error in his background check. They did manage to keep it out of the media(gf was no more eager to have her tale told than the city), and gf proved to be a lot more tolerant than many would have, accepting a reasonable settlement out of court.

I got a phone call a while ago. TR went home to the Boston area after the resolution of his fiasco. And, apparently after lengthy deliberation, took his own life.

Back when I was trying to train him, I told him, as I've told all the new guys: "Nobody cares about us, and nothing we do really matters in the long run. Do the best you can, and be content with having done that, no matter what anyone else thinks. Never let anyone else's opinion of your actions change the way you feel about yourself."

He never listened to me.

---------------------------------

I must admit, after reading the original story, I always wondered what happened to TR. I assumed that Darth not bringing it up was intentional, so I never asked.

Sad that it ended like this for him.

---------------------------------

I couldn't say, because the bastard nearly got us sued. We were in the ER on a call, when a nurse came and said there was a woman wanting to report an assault in the waiting room. I sent TR to start the paperwork while I finished up the other matter.

Turns out, the woman was about two minutes ahead of her tweaker Sig Other, who promptly resumed his assault where he left off. TR just stood there, telling the guy to get off her.

I heard the commontion and ran in, and me and the tweaker bounce around the waiting room like a couple golf balls in a dryer until back-up finally shows up. Half the time I was trying to get him under control, and the other half just trying to get him off of me. TR radioed for backup, but otherwise just stood there.

I suspended TR on the spot, and he was terminated without setting foot in a patrol car (in our agency) again.

Fortunately, the woman declined to sue (although the City had to pick up her medical bill), but it could have been ugly. Then there was a bunch of letter-passing by TR and his shyster over his termination, which petered out after a while.

By the time all that had run out, I'd forgotten to post the final chapter. Which was why I was not eager to admit having known him. 'Tell me, Sergeant, at any time during your work with TR, did you ever suggest that you were going to kill him? And, in fact, was that statement made while two of your officers restrained you from committing an act of physical violence?'

Oh, yeah. Memories.

Still, it was a shame. He was a smart, educated guy. Certainly there were other careers he coukd have undertaken.

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And as to his giving up the gun: I do not believe that it was stupidity on his part. I believe (and I ended up talking to nearly everyone involved and reading most of the reports) that it came down to the point where he had nowhere to run (backed into the car), no way for help (lost his mike), and boyfriend was about to get physical.

TR had two choices: take boyfriend out by what means nessessary (the guy was already in violation of a felony committed in TR's presence), or surrender his sidearm.

And TR simply did not have it into him to use violence. At all.

So he handed over his weapon to avoid a beating.

That's what killed him: in the end, his presence simply made a bad situation worse. The man who wanted nothing more than to help, ended up enableing a kidnaping.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on June 30, 2003.

I've heard it said that there are two sides to every story, and it is often true. This happened some time ago, but it came up again, and I though I would tell it from both sides.

1) One night on mids a patrolman checking the back doors of a medical supply building found the back door unlocked. It had been broken into in the past (which was why he was actually rattleing the doors), so it was impossible to say if the damage to the frame was new or old.

I arrived as backup, and we proceded to clear the building. Clearing a dark building is an intense experience; there is no way to know if the burglers are still inside, or are armed. It is done with weapons drawn, with careful placement and movement. Even a routine clearing is a rush, a slow, steady waltz of tension and reaction, as opposed to the mad fast race and roar of a tactical team entry and clearance.

We were working through the storage rooms, and in one, there were partitioned areas off the main room with doors, sort of like dressing room stalls. My partner, call him B, had opened his Asp baton and was unlatching the doors one by one while I covered.

Near the corner he unlatched the door and a large man in coveralls with an uplifted axe lunged out. We both opened fire, and the intruder abruptly crashed back into the stall. Then a sudden flare of flaming gas from within the shadowy confines of the stall was matched with an explosion of sheetrock to my right.

"Shotgun!" I yelled and we both returned fire at the muzzle flash. Several more flashes came in response, multiple shooters; a bank of ceiling light tubes exploxed over us, and another gout of sheetrock erupted, to my left this time.

Firing in turn, we covered each other through the door, and withdrew. I watched the front, B took the back, and the next officer to arrive got on the roof. When we had enough bodies (us and a local agency), and had obtained additional equipment and authorization, we made the usual bullhorn statements, then threw/fired in CS gas (tear gas), and moved in with more firepower (and masks), advancing behind a lead man with a ballistic shield, flash-banging every room as we cleared.

2) Ralph, the sales rep for the company that supplied oxygen tanks and various bottled gasses for the medical supply company, thought it would be a great practical joke to rig up an ax-weilding manikin with ropes inside the stall where small bottles of nitrus oxide (laughing gas), oxygen, and the like were stored, in order to scare the supply company managager, a fellow Jason fan....

The bill from the City for supplies expended came to $1600.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on April 29, 2003.

About a year or so ago, give or take, one of my units checks out with a trailer at 2am. I roll up as backup, and I immediately hear voices raised in arguement. Now, the problem is that this couple has a towed travel trailer (a trailer built for camping in, to clearify), set up in a roadside park that is acutally inside the city limits. State law prohibits camping in roadside parks, or even parking there beyond a set time (A roadside park is just a parking area off a highway, sometimes with restrooms, where motorists can stop, stretch their legs, or catch forty winks. Used to be called Rest Areas).

City ords also prohibit camper trailers being occupied on any but private land or in area zoned for it (RV parks, for instsance). Normally we don't concern ourselves with it, but this trailer was not only unattached, but the couple was putting it on jack stands. My officer had stopped by to tell them to get it off the stands and to be gone by 8am, and had immediately gotten a ration from the couple.

I arrive as the officer was now attempting to ID the couple. The couple was claiming to be Irish tourists, but we were inclined to believe they were Travelers, and thus definately not to be welcome in our burg, much less the continent. The arguement was dragging on longer than the Lebanese civil war, and I followed the husband into the trailer where he thinks his mythic passport may be lurking. At this point, we're seeing some ID or somebody's going to have a rough night of it.

The trailer was a pretty nice one, or it was before a year of pets, travel, and an absence of housecleaning skills were applied. An infant, no more than maybe a year old, is lying on a table top on some blankets; theres a couple small, un-housebroken dogs and a free-range parrot who consumed a lot of roughage over the last few weeks hanging around as well. The parrot, who is near the ceiling, starts easing to a position over me, but I flash my light on it, and it wisely backs off.

The husband is digging in a drawer while snarling at me (he keeps forgetting his accent), when a monkey of some sort comes wobbleing out of the back of the trailer. It eyes me, and then climbs up on the table next to the sleeping kid.

It pokes the kid a couple times; then out of nowhere it hauls off and slaps the kid so hard it knocks the baby into a 360 degree roll, right to the edge of the table. I grab the kid, who is screaming, before it rolls off the table, and the monkey hooks it for the back of the trailer. Dad is still digging around looking for his passport.

I yell at him that the monkey just hit his kid. He shrugs. "Its just playing." Doesn't even look up from what he's doing.

I put the kid back in the center of the table and re-arrange its blankets, pat it a couple times in a gingerly fashion, as I'm not too well versed on infants. Is stops crying readily enough, but there's a monkey-hand welt on its none-too-clean face. I wave my flashlight around to amuse it (I don't recall if it was a girl or boy).

Ten minutes pass. I move back to the door, the kid dozes off, dad is still digging around. The monkey appears out of the back, sidling towards the kid.

Darth: "Do something with that monkey before it hits your kid again."

Dad: 'Mind your bloody business.'

Back to being Irish again. I'm easing towards the monkey, who's eyeing me suspiciously as it climbs up next to the kid. We spend a few minutes like that. I tell dad he's got two more minutes and then I'm out of patience.

And then the monkey rears back to smack the kid again. The softball I picked up when it wasn't looking catches it on the back of the head and knocks it off the table. Dad is up and outraged, the monkey is screaming, and the kid is crying.

Then the monkey's up on the table whaling on the kid with both hands. I get it a solid cross-body stroke with my ASP which takes it to the floor, from where I kick it into the back of the trailer (the monkey, not the kid).

Now Dad and I are face-to-face in a yelling match, which ends with me losing what little patience I have, and arresting him (criminal neglect). Mom hears the commotion comes in as I'm cuffing Dad, ignores the screaming kid, and tries to jump on me (literally). My officer blindsides her.

The couple turn out to be Travelers, as we suspected, with warrants out of an East Coast state, I do not recall which. We got the kid, who had both fresh and old bruises over most of its body, turned over to CPS. Last I heard, nobody had tried to recover it, so it may still be in foster care (I think it was a girl, but I don't remember).

The parrot escaped in the confusion; the rest of the animals went to the shelter.

Except the monkey, which I put down and sent (the head) off for testing for rabies. Turns out, monkeys can't get rabies, but who knew?

This was the only time I spanked a monkey on duty.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on April 17, 2003.

1) Before deciding to 'crash' a pro-war rally, do a little research, especially if its a little outside your area. The knowledge that the local V V A chapter is sponsored, and made up of, a local outlaw biker club might be useful to know.

2) Drive through the area you plan to target; take a look at the sort of people at the rally. If you notice numbers of bearded, graying men wearing biker vests and VVA pins, or men and women carrying cased rifles and rabbits in pet carriers, you might want to rethink the urgency of your beliefs.

3) Scout the layout of the road network; dead end roads are not always clearly marked.

4) If, after a pass through the rally waving insulting signs and throwing balloons filled with red paint, you find yourself being chased by irritated men on paint-splattered motorcycles, use the time wisely. Mooning your pursuers might be really rad, hip, or cool, but you could better spend your time asking yourselfv why a basic S-10 pickup with six guys in the bed is able to outrun a dozen Harley-Davidson choppers whose owners lavish large amounts of time and money into their engines.

5) Know your local flora. If you find yourself approaching a dead end with bikers in pursuit, the knowledge that 10' cane grass = soft ground could be very useful.

6) If you have buried your truck in soft ground in a remote dead-end road and the bikers (on their red-spotted bikes) are closing in, do not waste your time standing in a huddle screaming at the two guys in your group who have cell phones. Telling the 911 operator that you are about to die is not going to help; nor that you are at the end of a dead-end road. Run as if your dental work depends on it. Because it does.

7) If you find yourself on the receiving end of a group of bikers who have reason to be irritated with you, curl up into a ball with your arms over your face, and scream 'I'm sorry, I'll pay for everything' for as long as you are able. Do not, under any circumstances, insult the bikers and threaten them with criminal prosecution.

8 ) Remember that different people have different experinces and outlooks, and may percieve events and circumstances in a different manner than you. They may also follow different logic paths when solving problems. Do not be surprised, for instance, to find that although the bikers may use your cell phone to call for an ambulance and police, you should also not be surprised that baggies of pot have been planted upon your person and a freshly-fired revolver has been tossed into the back of your pickup as evidence of your 'drive-by shooting'.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on March 14, 2003.

Today was a red-letter day, in that I was finally freed of a desk and am back on the street full-time (coughing and infection had robbed me of much of my voice, leaving me able to be on patrol for just a couple hours a shift before being relegated to desk duty). And my newest sword came in, a Del Tin 16th century bastard.

I was showing this treasure to my immediate supervisor and several others when the question of use was raised. A practical demostration was immediately organized, and ably showed that the weapon was in fact highly effective.

Due to his own carelessness and inability to follow instructions, a Police Explorer who was permitted to take an active role in the demonstration received a minor injury. Despite the fact that we explained repeatedly that lacerations of this sort normally bleed heavily and that if we thought he needed medical attention we would have called an ambulance, the weenie refused to see the matter in an appropriate point of view. He did, in fact, go from near-hysterical statements of the obvious (we all could see he was bleeding), to a high-pitched whining that (to me at least) was reminisant of a pre-teen female child. Finally, when advised to cease making noise or sustain another, and greater, laceration, he burst into tears. Seventeen years old, and he behaved in such a fashion; I was embarassed for him.

There was no calming him down, despite repeated exhortations, and I finally called his mother to come and get him, as he was in no emotional state to drive himself, despite the fact that he had been patched up.

When she arrived I explained her son's culpibility, and offered to father a better-looking replacement should he sicken and die from his injury, at which point said weenie became very loud and abusive. His mother was finally able to quiet him down, although he sniffled and pouted in a disgraceful manner.

His mother hauled him off, and I arranged for one of my officers to drive the weenie's car home for him.

His mother, who is a friend of mine & my wife, is a good person, and my heart goes out to her. Its hard trying to raise a kid in today's world, and tougher still when you have so little to work with, child-wise; if it wasn't for the Explorers he wouldn't have any backbone at all. We're doing our best to make a man out of him, but you can only do so much.

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So... he got nicked how? I'm wondering what this practical demonstration was.

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We hung two old flak jackets on a rolling wood target frame, and were stabbing them. The frame rolled, so the Explorer (who volunteered) stood behind the frame and braced it with his feet, with his back to a brick wall. There was 2' of space between the frame and his torso, and he was told not to touch the flak jackets. There was no way we could have over-penetrated because of the design of the target stand. All he had to do was stand there and wait his turn.

He tought it would be funny to step up and stand behind the jackets as if he was wearing them, just as I thrust. The blade penetrated about 1/4" through the jackets and nicked him. And I mean nicked, the cut was about 1" long and about 1/8th" deep at the center. It was on his nipple, though, and bled pretty good.

From the way he screamed, you would have thought he had been castrated.

This kid was always talking about being a Marine until he was old enough to be a police officer.

Now you might've screamed too if your nip got skewered too, but would you have carried on for twenty minutes?

Now I know why he wouldn't play paintball with us.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on February 26, 2003.

I have been fighting strep throat and a chest cold for days. Actually, strep throat and a chest cold have been kicking my ass for the last week.

I've missed a bunch of work (thank goodness for sick leave), cancelled my game, and spend my waking hours hunched over my wife's computer posting on various BBs, or slumped on the sofa flipping through 175 channels of crap. I've lost my voice, I can't lay down without coughing fits that strangle me, I can't sleep for the same reason. I'm freaking miserable.

This afternoon, I'm half-dozing, half-watching one of the HBO channels. The volume's low, but surround sound. There's lots of driving on it, so I miss the fact that someone has driven down my driveway.

There's snow on the ground. Its twenty-five degrees. A UPS driver looking for a house (I live in the country) ignores my ''Beware of Dog" and 'Private Drive' signs and drives two hundred yards down my driveway to my house. Apparently having the short-term memory of a goldfish, he gets out of his van.

My dogs, who have learned the hard way to investigate vehicles before rushing in (the TXU gal carries pepper spray and isn't afraid to use it), let him get halfway to the front door before breaking cover. Screaming, he crashes into my front door and tries to squeeze between the front door and the storm door, while a 110 German Shepard tries to squeeze in there with him.

The front door opens into the living room; the guy hitting the door blasts me off the sofa like a 220-volt current. 'Home invasion" I think as the doors vibrates and bangs.

I grab a Colt Phython I keep handy for just such occaions, stuff two speedloaders into the belly pocket on my sweatershirt, and jerk open the front door.

The UPS guy (who's wearing a black coat, not a UPS one, so he doesn't look like a UPS worker) is trying to keep this mass of fur and fangs from eating him, and is suddenly confronted by a wild-eyed man wearing rumpled sweats and pointing a huge (6" barrel, brushed nickle plated) revolver at him.

And does not say a word.

Because I couldn't. I confronted the guy without thinking; now I'm stuck-I can't ask him who he is or what he's doing, because all I can do is whisper, and two dogs are going ballistic five feet away.

Anger and frustration were probably showing on my face, if he every turned his gaze from the huge muzzle. We stood there for a few seconds (seemed like forever) while I tried to think of what to do, and the guy pleaded for his life (I bet he was hearing dueling banjos; after a days of being sick, I was unshaven and pretty wild-looking). Then my dogs (who are not the brightest animals to ever convert bulk dog chow into fetilizer) finally noticed me and the gun, and backed off, as they know from previous experience that gunshots hurt sensitive canine ears.

Seeing a opening, screaming, 'Don't shoot, don't shoot!" (reminded me of the Leonard Skynner song, 'gimme 3 steps'), the guy broke for his truck. Stepping forward, I saw the UPS truck, which I couldn't see before.

I went in and waited for the Sheriff's Office to show up, but they never did. Apparently the guy was glad to escape with his life.

It was, however, one of the most frustrating experiences of my life.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on February 1, 2003.

Last November I was starting my shift; after briefing I was informed that it was time for the car I normally drive to get a brake job (we replace the brakes about once a month). I decided to take it to the barn myself.

As I walked to the car, I found a dollar bill in the parking lot.

As I went across town I observed a pickup chargeing down a residential street; he was was obviously going to run the stop sign until he saw me, and managed to slide to a barely legal stop. I gave him the stare as I crossed the intersection.

He fell in behind me, and hugged my back bumper as I poked along at about 6-7mph below the limit. I stopped for a yield sign, and he sat back there and revved his engine.

Like most, our burb has a railroad connection; in our case, it cuts the city in half. Back in 1913 they built three underpasses below the rails; two have since been replaced with overpasses and filled in; one remains. It is two single (and narrow) tunnels, each with a ped walk-way that is virtally a separate tunnel. It is also, for unknown reasons, damn near an 's' curve, and is set so you turn going in and coming out. Its only redeeming quality is that access is set up so that even a drunk won't end up in the wrong tunnel. There's never been a wreck in it in living memory, other than commercial trucks ripping their roofs off on the 11' clearance.

I drove into the underpass with the truck still behind me; he had finally dropped back to a decent interval just as I had decided to stop and write him a ticket for followng too closely. I zipped into the underpass, which is lit by overhead lights, and standing in the center at the lowest point was a kid.

I had neve sen a pedestrian in the underpass before; nobody even rides a bike through it because its so steep. If I had been going the speed limit, I probably wouldn't have had much of a chance, but I was going around 23mph, which gave me a little more.

I stood on the brakes and spun the wheel, slamming into the concrete wall; I was literally standng on the brake pedal trying to over-ride the sorry-ass anti-lock brakes. The ramming bar screamed across the concrete and my right front tire blew as the fender was rammed into it, but I slid to a stop about 7-8' short of the kid, a little blond girl who was 21 months old. I ended up nearly broadside as the rear end walked around because of the slope and the 'skipping' of the anti-lock brakes.

And then the asshole in the truck hit me.

He couldn't see the kid for my patrol car and the curve; he t-boned me hard, knocking my car forward about 3' with his steel pipe full brush guard.

And then pushed me.

I looked to me right, and I saw that the rear of his truck was jumping: he still had his foot on the gas! He thought I had just wrecked, and being pissed at my slow driving, was going to use this as an excuse to bang my patrol car up a little.

My car is sliding sideways, and the kid, who's wearing nothing but a diaper and a tee-shirt (and who's blue with cold) is just standing there with her fingers in her mouth watching.

I hit the emergency brake, stood on the regular brakes; lost another foot, jammed it into reverse, popped the emergency brakes, and stood on the gas. My tires screamed and started burning rubber, but threw enough traction to start putting some serious stress on the truck's front end. He finally shut it down. There was about 4' between my back door and the kid.

I bailed out, grabbed the kid, tossed her into my driver's seat and slammed the door. I'm yelling on the radio as I round my car headng for the pickup; I have gone beyond pissed.

He shifts into reverse and punches it, backing up. Straight into a Toyota Corrola coming into the underpass.

I grab his door handle; its locked. His dog, which I hadn't noticed before, bails out of the truck bed, obviously pissed. I shoot the dog (which sounds like a howitzer in the tunnel), and holster.

He's got it in drive now, and is pulling forward. I pop his window with a pair of handcuffs, get the door open, and drag him out of the truck. I pull myself in and turn off the ignition just as it hits my patrol car. Again. I mentined the big steel pipe brush guard, right?

He lands on my back, and we roll around for a bit.

When the first respondng officer arrives, I've got him cuffed and in the back seat; thankfully, the woman in the Toyota, who has a broken nose from hitting her steering wheel, had the precense of mind to get out of her car, walk up to the turn for the underpass, and stop traffic before somebody plowed into her car.

My patrol car has two flats, and it broadside in the single-lane underpass. When I cut the ignition, I accidently bent the truck's key, so it can't be started. The Toyota was totaled.

It took over an hour to get the vehicles out.

It took us two hours to figure out where the kid was from; she had wandered away from home, and walked two city blocks before entering the underpass, wearing only a tee shirt and days-old diaper. The temp was 39 degrees.

Friday, as the last step in a complex plea bargain, the driver of the truck gave me a dollar to compensate me for the expenditure of a round of ammunition (we buy our own).

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How did the little girl get out of the house? Did her parents/guardians have a good explaination?

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The kid just wandered out of the house; it was 556' from her front door to the point I saw her. From her state of exposure we figure she had been outside for about an hour or so. When we found the house, the mother had not seen her for at least 6 hours.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on January 22, 2003.

A few years ago I was on a midnights rotation, and asleep during the day. Mrs. Darth got up at a normal hour and was in the kitchen tidying up before leaving for work. There was a opaque plastic lid in one side of the sink over the drain waiting to be washed. She moved it aside and reached for sprayer...and a small black hand reached out of the drain and pulled the lid back in place.

I was awakened by my wife running down the hall screaming "Darth! Darth! There's something in the sink with HANDS!'

That'll get your attention.

Turned out to be a Mexican brown split-tail bat, which had come down the fireplace (we have since capped it), and found a nice, dark place to spend the day (the drain).

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How did you get rid of the bat?

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I just tickled his feet (he was in head-first, naturally) until he grabbed my fingers. I lifted him out and carried him outside. He had to make do with the underside of my grill. He did appear to be pretty unhappy with the relocation.

They real small bats, and very useful, as they keep the flying bug population down. A lot of people build little shelters for them to encourage them to hang around.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on September 22, 2002. It references events that happened in an earlier story, so you probably want to read that one first.

OK, so the mother was found dead in her home over Labor Day weekend. As the duty supervisor, I felt the situation was odd, and ordered a full crime scene process. It got some serious grumbling, but it was done. The general consesus was household accident.

Then the autopsy report came in: no physical trauma.

OK, everyone said, OD or medical reaction; she was on meds for a stomache problem.

Tox came back clean, as did the blood screen.

No apparent cause of death, in a scene that is, IMO, definately odd.

There's not much to work with, and the investigation, though open, is not going anywhere.

I know there's probably a logical explanation to the whole thing, but the timing and manner is very creepy. Especially since most of her copious 'theroy files' seem to be missing, so far as we can tell.

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According to the final report, the cause of death was a condition where the electrical impluses that manage/operate the heart gradual fade and fail. I understand if treated in time, and a pacemaker installed, it is cureable. She had been complaining of not feeling well some days for the incident, and it does explain the odd positioning of the body.

She was found nude n her bathroom, lying face-up with her head near the tub and her feet near the door, lying 'at attention': hands laid neatly at her sides, ankles nearly touching. The shower was running, the tub had filled and overflowed.

If you slip or fall, you throw your arms out to balance yourself, but if an unconscious person is dragged, they end up as she was positioned. The offical reasoning is that she was going to take a shower, started feeling very faint because her heart was slowing, laid down on the floor to let it pass, and expired quietly.

It does not explain why the tub drain was closed. According to friends and family she never took baths, only showers. However, the water overflow did insure that there was exactly zero possibility of trace evidence.

Undoubtedly it was natural. The background, though, gives a bit of drama.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on September 12, 2002.

A bit of background: my burg is one of four in Texas with elected Chiefs of Police. We're civil service in our PD, so it doesn't really matter. However, our current Chief is just a super guy, the best Chief I've worked for.

Normally, we keep the local media in our corner, and things move smoothly enough. About a year ago the paper got a new female reporter, call her Dee, and assigned her to the police beat, amongst other things. For unknown reasons, Dee came to hate the Chief.

Last spring was city elections. Dee loudly backed an upstart patrolman who challenged our Chief, rallying the liberal/minority elements behind him. They conducted a door-to-door campaign, town meetings, radio programs, the whole nine yards. Other than his announcement and one interview, the Chief ignored the whole election.

The Chief drew 79% of he vote. Dee left the paper.

This morning, I pulled Dee over in a traffic stop. I hadn't even had time to say a word when I reached her car window before she blew up. She accused me of harassing her in retaliation for the failed election; she accused me of corruption, racisim (we're both white), sexual harassment, police brutality, and called me everything but kind. She was going to call the FBI, 60 minutes, and the Ashcroft himself. Finally she wound down.

After a moment of silence, I spoke. "You left your purse on the roof of your car. It fell off two blocks ago; I picked it up. Here." I handed her the purse. "Have a nice day."

The look on her face was, simply, amazing. Yep. Its a wonderful thing to do a good deed and cause someone to make a complete ass of themselves, all in one fell swoop.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This thread was originally posted on September 9, 2002. In this thread, Darth gave 3 scenarios, and asked us what we, as civilians, would do as police officers in the situation. I won't include replies, but only his posts.

For the last year or so I've been our agencies' Race Relations Officer and Use of Force Officer; in those positions I was responsible for investigating and evaluateing all use of force, and any complaints, internal or external, regarding racial bias. Recently, our only female officer was removed from the position of Equal Opportunity Officer, and it was decided to wrap all three positions and a couple other 'feel-good' jobs into the extra duty assignment of Human Relations Officer. I have been designated HRO. As such I've been studying a lot of material on a wide range of subjects.

Professional ethics is one area I'm now responsible for. One circular I've gotten from DJ (who, under Ashcroft, have suddenly decided to go back to manageing the police instead of shooting up 'extremists ala Waco) suggests polling ethics not only amongst officers, but amongst civilians as well. I have decided to implement this via BBs I frequent, as the most efficent means to obtain feedback. Below are four situational questions. Please answer as best you can.

1) You are a police officer. You respond to a 911 call. At that address, you speak with a nine year old boy, who explains that for the last three years he has been regularly molested by a male friend of his mother's. Recently, the ped has been making arrangements to 'transfer' the boy to another local ped (fixed-range peds, both). The child tells a completely convincing story. From your experience, you feel he is telling the truth. He is, however, utterly devastated, and will not likely hold up in court under cross-exam due to his emotional state. His mother is not only indifferent to the situation, but leaves the room to call the ped during the interview. The ped shows up before you leave, obviously agitated. You know that between the ped and the mother, the kid will recant; Child Protective Services will not respond directly, merely asking the mother to bring the kid in on Monday (it is Friday afternoon).
The ped confronts you, obvious upset, demanding to know what the child said. You know this case will go nowhere. You also realize that with a careful choice of words, none profane, unlawful, or accusatory, you could up the ped's stress to the pount where he would likely take a swing at you. Assault upon a public servant is a felony, and would effectively remove the ped from the kid's life. Do you walk away, file the report, and forget about the kid; or do you provoke the ped? Why?

2) You are a police officer. You respond as security to a social worker assigned to child protective services. She is removing a battered child from a home. You know the worker to be dedicated, motivated, and reliable, three traits uncommon in her dept. During the removal, the abuser (father) confronts the worker. He berates the worker, then spits in her face. The worker (unlawfully) punches the abuser square in the face, decking him. You pull her away, but she kicks him in the groin as you do so.
The worker's actions were unlawful. She will be terminated from her position if charged and indicted. The abuser, a convicted felon who beat his child half to death, wants to file charges. Do you arrest the worker? Do you complete the job at hand and write a report on the assault suggesting that you did not actually see the violence take place (glanced away, heard the blow)? Do you arrest the abuser and suggest in your report that the worker acted in self defense because of a perceived 'threatening gesture'? Explain your reaction. Complete non-action is not an option.

3) You are a police supervisor, patrol division. A local auto dealership, free of charge, has been assisting your PD by allowing narc and surveilance officers to borrow trade-in cars, trucks, and vans for police operations for a week or so at a time. These vehicles (which have 'clean' licence plates) are perfect for undercover operations. The dealership asks nothing in return.
Recently, the dealership has had to dig up their fuel tank and replace it. While their pumps are out of service their mechanics are driving new cars to a station two blocks away to fuel up cars for test drives. They are not putting paper tags on the vehicles when they do so. This is a violation of the state motor vehicle code; however, it is one not normally enforced by municipal agencies, only state police on the highways. A new officer begins writing the mechanics citations for the violation ($60 per shot). This greatly upsets the dealership, who continues to loan the PD cars anyway. One a side note, the cars being refueled are covered by fleet insurance.
The officer's actions are legal, if unusual. Do you advise him to stop writing the tickets? Do you suggest he issue warning tickets (no fine)? Do you ignore the matter? Why?

Thanks!

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These were real-life incidents-all from my personal experience. Using real-life situations is recommended by the training literature. I narrowed the possible actions because lacking a foundation in Texas law & basic police procedure, it was more important to get your general ethical 'feel' rather than nuts&bolts remedies.

#1: This one occurred in one of my previous agencies. The initial call was in my district, but another officer took the call as I was busy on something else; I showed up as the ped did. The officer who handled it had been through the Academy with me, class prez, in fact. He chose not to provoke the ped. We had, as do most police agencies, no authority to remove the child.
CPS did nothing. The boy committed suicide four days before his tenth birthday. The ped is now in prison, but he molested two other boys before we had another chance to stop him. The officer, my friend, left LE a few years later. We still communicate. He has asked me a hundred times if I would have handled that case differently. I always lie. That case wasn't the reason he got out, but it was a foundation stone. It cost him dearly.

What would I do, had I been the responding officer? Provoke the ped. Without hesitation. The child's safety is the only thing that mattered. I kept a copy of the kid's suicide note. I read it now and then, to remind myself of the price to be paid if we fail.

#2: This one was my call. What I did was pull the father aside, shut him up, and explained his choices: he could press charges, and I would arrest the worker. And then I would make a personal career out of fucking over his world. Or he could take his ass-whipping like a man and go about his business. He chose the latter.
I then took the worker aside, and told her that the first one was on me, but that the second was on her. I told her to take some vacation, get some stress counseling, and come back. She agreed. Its been several years, and there's been no problem.

My motivation for my actions was this: this woman saw abused, molested, and abandoned children every work day for ten years. She lost control once; ten years of dedication should count for something, and certainly the children of the next ten years needed someone looking out for them. If it happened again, I would have seen to it that the first incident would have come to light (I did document it in an internal memo), but I felt that she was owed a second chance. My Chief, when appraised of the situation, agreed.

#3: This was my situation. As his supervisor, I was pissed that the best investment of his time my rookie could find was pulling over brand new cars for an offence so obscure that it took me twenty minutes to find it in the Motor Vehicle Code. If he wanted to devote extensive time to traffic enforcement, he should have been stopping for seatbelts, speeding, running stop signs, or other safety-based violations, not trival registration violations that were not in fact a violation of the spirit of the law. It made me seriously question his common sense and the quality of his FTO instruction (I inherited him). Since the dealership never raised the issue with the department, I never spoke with them. I don't know if they started tagging the cars for refueling or not, and could care less. I wish that our crime level was so low that whether the dealership cars were properly tagged could be an important issue, but when we're getting eaten alive by car burglers, I want my officers aggressively hunting thieves, not cheesy revenue-generation.

I appreciate the input.

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on August 11, 2002.

Below the story, you'll find additional discussion from the IPR forum, including a few questions that get answered by Darth Tang.

Some background. Several years ago, when I was still a patrolman, an eight year old boy was found dead in an undeveloped area ofout three acres that separates sub-divisions; it is a common & popular playground for area kids. He had cut across it walking home for supper one summer day, and been killed by a single .22 LR round to the temple area.

I, then a patrolman, was one of the first officers on the scene; it did not take long for us to determine that several teens had been shooting a .22 rifle in the back yard of a nearby home. We found where several rounds had penetrated the fence, and determined with fine cord the probable lines of fire. We located the teens, and determined that they were shooting at the same time period when the child was killed. The autopsy showed the boy had been killed by a low-velocity .22 LR round which penetrated his skull. The round was too badly damaged to match to a weapon, but it was the same brand as the type used by the teens, and passing through the target and fence would explain the reduction in velocity. The relationship of the body to the direction of fire was not perfect, but allowing for deflection caused by passing through the fence, was reasonable.

After a full and careful examination of the investigation, the child's dead was ruled an accident. The teens doing the shooting received probation, and the case was closed.

Except that the mother simply would not let it go. She hired a lawyer to get copies of the autopsy report and case file, and has been driving us nuts ever since. First she accused the teens of deliberate murder, but extensive interviewing, and the fact of the ballistics derailed that one.

Then she found on the Net that low-velocity .22 LR is the preferred cartridge of the knowlegable professional killer, and decided that her son must have seen some sort of drug deal go down, and had a 'hit' put on him.

When she found out the PD uses low-velocity .22 LR to put down varmits and sick animals, and accused the PD of murdering him to hide some aspect of corruption.

For the last eighteen months or so she has been quiet, and we hoped that she had finally come to terms with the fact that her son died as a result of a tragic mishap.

Then, on Friday, she marches into the PD with yet another plot: it turns out a woman was attacked, and raped at gunpoint in her home about six months after the shooting. Her live-in boyfriend came home unexpectedly, and the attacker fled, losing his handgun in the process. The attack was not reported (most aren't). The location of the attack was a couple hundred yards from where the boy died. The weapon abandoned by the attacker was a .22 revelover, which the victim had buried in her back yard. Thus, a new theroy was born: the rapist had been spotting stalking his targets by her son, who confronted the scoundrel and was shot down.

The Chief assigned me to deal with this, possibly in retaliation for some transgression of mine; I grabbed the duty detective and afrter the appropirate paperwork was ontained, recovered the revolver. A cursory examination of the weapon revealed it to be a (very rusty) old H&R half-frame double-action, probably manufactured in the late 40s early 50s, chambered for .22 Short.

We sent it off to a lab just for the record, and Monday I'm going to have to sit down with her and tell her that theroy number whatever is shot down.

WTF can you say to somebody like her? Get a life? Get another kid? Move? Her husband left her (in no small part because of the obsession), and she has no other kids and as far as I can see, no life. In a made-for TV movie she'd uncover the key clue that brings everything together just in time for a dramatic court battle and closing credits. In real life, her kid caught a stray round. The end.

If only she could accept that.

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If he stopped to pick a flower at some point on that walk he'd still be alive. Most people don't understand how close they come to dying daily. The point is that if you are going to kill someone with a .22 there are few places you can hit them to do it and the temple is one of them. To her it must lend crediability to the belief that he son was the victim of some kind of execution. As Truman said, shes looking for meaning behind her child's death and there is no clear cause for her to champion. Shes needs to find a more productive way to channel her greif. Did she ever get a chance to talk to the boys who were shooting the rifle?

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Well, its over for now. I explained to her that the revolver could not chamber the type of round that killed her kid, even though it is the 'same' caliber. I even had a .22 LR and .22 Short to show her.

She pointed out that by cutting down the case, you could load a .22 LR into a .22 Short revolver, and the resultant reduction in powder charge would make the round subsonic/low velocity.

I pointed out that there are no commercially avalible tools for re-setting .22 rimfires, and given their design, cutting down the cartridge & reseating it would be a very delicate matter for several reasons.

She pointed out that it could be accomplished by persons with sufficent funds.

I pointed out that it would be far cheaper to just buy a .22 LR handgun.

With a bright, brittle smile, she pointed out that that was what was clever about the whole plan: you could shoot someone with this revolver and the altered rounds, and the autopsy would indicate a long-case .22. She also pointed out that almost no revolvers had been produced in .22 Short in the last twenty years. What were the odds of such a handgun showing up?

Pretty good, I replied; H&R, and Iver & Johnson weapons were bulk-produced both under their own names and as Sears Roebuck and Western Auto brands, many in .22 includeing .22 Short. Being rugged, simple weapons, they are common. I pointed out that I own several I&J weapons, and we have a half-dozen of either brand in our evidence locker.

She spent several minutes with a diagram showing how her rapist theroy tied in with drug smuggleing.

In the end, I advised her that the PD was satisfied that there was no connection between the recovered weapon and her son's death. The case will remain closed.

She left rather upset. I had a chaplain waiting in the lobby in the hopes that he could help, but she brushed him off.

As to the other stuff, the kid was walking, not running; the bullet caught him closer to the ear than the temple.

As a point of fact, .22 LR kills more people each year in the USA than any other caliber. It is the preferred caliber of Mossad.

And both she and her husband met with the boys, the husband several times. Again, she does not believe they are responsible, although at times she felt they were a diversion or decoy alibi.