ON POLICE SHOOTINGS

Nov 26, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

On Police Shootings

Over the last several weeks, two people, one on Facebook and one on Twitter, questioned me about the recent shootings by police officers, of unarmed civilians. Both of these individuals were white males.

I wrote off the guy on Facebook as a crank, wanting nothing more than to vent his self-perceived anger and put someone from the police community in the hot seat. Unfortunately, he made a fool of himself by quoting many one-sided, unsubstantiated, and out-of-proportion statistics made by people with nothing more on their agendas than to foster unrest and anti-police sentiments within the communities surrounding the shootings and elsewhere. He was nothing more than an angry youth with no legitimate purpose other than to create hard feelings between white and black people.

The second person was a little older, but less willing to listen to any answers to his questions. He began by “following” me on Twitter. When I thanked him for the “follow,” a few minutes later, he wrote, “Hi @waynezurl. As a retired NYPD officer, (I never worked for the police department of the City of New York, nor have I ever represented myself as a former employee of NYPD. Refer to my biography at http://waynezurlbooks.net/abouttheauthor/. I’m retired from the police department of Suffolk County, NY.) can you help me understand why police are breaking the law so often these days? What can we do?”

To which I wondered, ‘How often is so often?’ Perhaps this guy has an agenda? To which I said several things. 1, “This needs much more than 140 characters (the Twitter limit per message) to discuss.” 2, “Don’t confuse guilty cops with cops who have been accused of something. Wait for a conviction.” 3, “For better cops you need the BEST of training. To recruit the best cops you need good salaries and benefits.”

Then he said, “Please don’t pander about me being “confused” @waynezurl. I asked you an honest question.”
My responses in 140 characters or less:
“No pandering. Cops are tried in the media when a shooting occurs. They are entitled to the same rights as any person.”
“IAB [Internal Affairs Bureau] investigators and the FBI are the checks & balances in these incidents. Wait for the results of an investigation.”
“Remember how Al Sharpton fabricated the Tawana Brawley fiasco?” [And made rape accusations against two police officers, an assistant district attorney, and three others who were totally innocent of any wrongdoing. This was substantiated when Ms. Brawley admitted she lied and perpetuated her lie at the suggestion of the Reverend Sharpton and her legal advisors.]
Then Mr. Twitter’s use of English slips to sub-standard.
“You won’t answer questions about the KNOWN police about that we are seeing daily @waynezurl. Are throwing other issues out to distract us?”

And:
Citizens are terrified of abuse and #StreetExecutions like #EricGarner

“Where are the “good cops” when the BAD COPS commit crime after crime, yet go unreported and/or unpunished.”

“What about after we catch the bad ones. Where are the good ones that speaks against the evil?”

“Our Cops [are] r filled w/ [with] Psychopaths. Their GUNS [are] r used 4 CRIME[.]”

I chose not to grace those rantings with an answer. Instead, I remembered a quote from Edward Gibbon. “I never make the mistake of arguing with people for whose opinions I have no respect.”

These are my thoughts on police shootings and other alleged police wrong doing:

This second person posted a two part photo on Twitter. One half showed a facsimile of a police shield spattered in blood. Instead of the usual lettering shown on police badges this one said: ‘Officer Darren Wilson belongs in prison.’ The other side of the composite showed what I have heard is a photo of Michael Brown, the black man shot to death by Officer Wilson, at age 12. (Brown was 18 when he died.) Draw your own conclusion if Mr. Twitter intended this to be inflammatory.

Apparently there are two parallel investigations being conducted to learn what actually happened to precipitate this shooting in Ferguson, Missouri, one by local internal affairs investigators and the other by the FBI.

To assume Officer Wilson is guilty prior to the results of these investigations and any formal charges or lack of charges would be premature and unintelligent. The opposite would not be tolerated if a civilian shot and killed a police officer.

Some conjecture on my part:

I have no doubt that regardless of what happens in the coming days, Darren Wilson’s life has been immeasurably changed by killing Michael Brown.

If the IAB investigators determine that he was justified in using deadly force, he will not be charged criminally in a Missouri court. If the investigators have reasonable cause to believe Wilson was not justified, he can be charged criminally—anywhere from a homicide stemming from criminal negligence to intentional murder.

Michael Brown did not need to be armed for Officer Wilson to use deadly force to prevent or terminate the imminent use of force against him (Wilson) if Wilson reasonably believed that Brown intended to and was capable of causing him (Wilson) serious physical injury. If we can believe the press, Michael Brown was six-foot-four inches tall and weighed three-hundred pounds. Wilson was not close to Brown’s size. There was a press statement that Wilson claimed Brown had attempted to forcibly take his service weapon from him. Forensic evidence seems to corroborate that a serious struggle took place in Wilson’s patrol car. Only Wilson can comment on his state of mind while he and Michael Brown were struggling. Perhaps Wilson feared for his life and reasonably believed that if Michael Brown took his pistol, he (Wilson) would be in danger of being killed or seriously injured.

The FBI investigation is being conducted to determine of Wilson is guilty of a violation of Brown’s civil rights, specifically, to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. If charges are brought against Wilson for this violation of federal law, he would be tried in federal court.

Regardless of what happens as a result of the state and federal investigations, Wilson may be sued in civil court by the Brown family for wrongfully causing the death of Michael Brown. Whether that death was wrongful would be determined by a different burden of proof than that used in criminal court. To be convicted of a crime, the prosecution must prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt. In civil court, the plaintiff needs only to prove “wrongful” by a fair preponderance (51%) of the evidence.

To use the term execution (the word of Mr. Twitter) in this case or in most, if not all, cases of police shootings is absurd and meant to do nothing more than inflame the emotions of a target audience. How many people (civilians) will admit they truly believe that when the average police officer “turns out” after roll call or leaves his/her relief point to begin a tour of duty, they do so with the intent to execute or assassinate an unarmed civilian? That thought is also patently absurd.

The laws governing the justified use of physical force or deadly physical force are quite specific and taught to every certified police officer in the United States. These laws are complicated. First, you must identify who is justified in using the force, a civilian or a police officer. Then you must determine when, during the course of certain observed illegal activity, the force which might be used to prevent or terminate unlawful aggressive force is against the person potentially using the lawful force or against a third person, or to effect an arrest for specific violent crimes, and the force is necessary.

I used to teach the defense of justification for basic police recruit classes, in-service training, and for supervision schools and allowed three hours to adequately cover the subject. The above paragraph doesn’t quite break the surface. I completed that block of instruction with an additional three hours devoted to the remaining defenses and affirmative defensives: Renunciation, entrapment, duress, infancy, and mental disease or defect. Three hours to cover one, three hours to cover five. Understanding justification is complicated and important.

An understanding of the key words is essential. Necessary and reasonable. Would a reasonable person believe it was necessary to use deadly force? A police officer is not enjoined to retreat, but in most states (not all) a civilian must retreat if he/she can do so safely before using deadly force. At no time may deadly force be used to prevent or terminate a crime against property. No matter how angry you get, you can’t snuff a teenager for stealing your hub caps. Many gun owners are totally ignorant of the laws governing the defense of justification in the use of deadly force.

Might Darren Wilson have reasonably believed that three-hundred pound Michael Brown (who may have been struggling to get Officer Wilson’s pistol) could have caused him serious physical injury? I might, but I don’t yet have enough substantiated information to draw an educated conclusion.

Moving elsewhere, was the highway patrol officer who beat a fifty-five year old woman as he held her on the ground justified in his use of physical force? He may have been initially justified, if he reasonably believed that she might injure him or she was resisting arrest, but once she lay on the ground covering her head, offering no resistance, he should not have continued to punch her. It would have been appropriate to handcuff her, but the law of justification does not extend to use physical force as a punishment for resisting arrest. These actions were filmed by his dashboard camera. Under those circumstances, this officer was no longer justified and was remiss. Unfortunately, the media did not, in this case, nor do they routinely follow up on reporting the disposition of administrative or criminal charges levied on a police officer who violated the law and educate the sometimes outraged public to show that the system works. I submit that this is because the sensationalism has passed and ratings are more important than truth to the media.

Mr. Twitter pooh-poohed my suggestion of high quality training as a method of bolstering the discipline of all police officers. His understanding of discipline seems sadly lacking. Training is the cornerstone of any and all discipline. Those lacking proper training can’t be expected to perform properly. Ignorance of good procedure can lead to tragedy. Does the cop who finds him/herself in a serious physical confrontation know under which circumstances he/she is justified to use deadly force? They should. If we don’t train them adequately those officers are not the only ones responsible for inappropriate reactions.

Mr. Twitter also expressed outrage that all the “good cops” out there are not being proactive to weed out the “bad apples.” How does he know this? He is privy to nothing more than what he reads in the news—which may or may not be accurate or complete.

Unfortunately, his suggestion requires a perfect world. Individual doctors do not crusade to weed out bad doctors. The American Medical Association is supposed to act as a regulatory body to “police” its own. Individual lawyers do not crusade to weed our bad lawyers. The American Bar Association is supposed to act as a regulatory body to “police” its own. I would suggest that anyone interested check statistics and find the ratio of cops to doctors to lawyers and which profession feels the more severe punishment for transgressions of their relative laws or regulations.

Police officers have enough legitimate police business crowded into their day. To proactively seek out other officers violating the law is not logistically feasible. And it is unfair to assume that officers witnessing violations of law by co-workers will fail to report those crimes to their supervisors or will intentionally cover up the incident.

Internal affairs investigators aren’t hated by the rank and file police officers for nothing. They are effective within their system. “Bad cops” (or more probably cops who have made mistakes in judgment) do not go unpunished. But the average citizen is not privy to all the internal, administrative disciplinary hearings and findings.

Is Mr. Twitter and every other person of the male gender expected to actively go out and seek those males who rape and commit domestic assaults against women? This is only one reason why we have professional police departments. Each person can only answer for themselves. If I police myself, I exhibit the discipline considered socially acceptable. If everyone did that, there would be fewer crimes against whomever.

It only took me ten minutes to learn that the outraged Mr. Twitter worked in the elderly care industry…in the administration of an assisted living facility. I wonder how proactive he is in weeding out the “bad” employees who neglect or abuse the elderly put into their care or his care. This is acknowledged as an extremely serious problem in the country today. Is Mr. Twitter leading an elite group of administrators tirelessly seeking out wrong-doers within their industry? Has Mr. Twitter and his colleagues formed their own “rat squad?” Or as in many establishments, does he sweep these incidents of abuse under his carpet so his facility does not gain a reputation for resident abuse? Bad reputations lead to fewer customers and less profit.

It’s easy to “Monday-morning-quarterback” PO Darren Wilson or any cop who shoots an armed or unarmed civilian. I have more than twenty years of police experience and wouldn’t dare to suggest that I know exactly what Darren Wilson felt during his confrontation with Michael Brown. If he is judged to be unjustified, was his action a mistake of the head or the heart? What was his culpability? You’ve got four to pick from: Intentionally, knowingly, reckless, or with criminal negligence.

But maybe he was justified and guilty of nothing. I doubt that many people in Ferguson, Missouri will settle for anything less than severe charges and maximum punishment—whether Darren Wilson is guilty or not. If the internal investigation and/or the FBI investigation vindicate Darren Wilson, agitators like Al Sharpton will scream, “cover-up” and never allow the chips to honestly fall where they may. Unfortunately, there will never be a simple or adequate solution because of guys like Mr. Twitter and the boy on Facebook who are too impatient to wait for the official ruling and who will never settle for less than blood. Truth is meaningless, their anger must be satisfied.

If a black civilian using a handgun, legally owned or not, shot and killed Michael Brown, there would be no question but that person should get their due process. Initial “eyewitness” or media quotes would not be taken as gospel and everyone would wait until a jury convicted or acquitted the subject before condemning the system, if that condemnation happened at all. But when a police officer, black or white, male or female, is responsible for shooting an unarmed youth, they are assumed to be guilty BEFORE even an indictment, much less a trial verdict. If the grand jury fails to indict, many community leaders condemn the grand jury system or claim a cover-up. No one ever assumes that the officer may have been justified in using deadly physical force because these vocal individuals understand NOTHING of the laws that govern its use.

Eyewitnesses often provide immediate testimony which the media and anti-police critics sensationalize and spread as being the absolute truth. In fact, eyewitness statements are notoriously inaccurate. Later, when subjected to serious and pointed questioning, these eyewitnesses admit that “they heard the shot, but didn’t actually see the shot fired and assumed…” “Other people said the victim raised his hands. I didn’t actually see that, but I assumed…” Or they have trouble agreeing on whether the shooter was five-foot-six or six-foot-five. Eyewitness statements are NOTHING more than one piece to a complicated puzzle handed to investigators. Those statements must be corroborated by physical evidence and plausibility.

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2 MORE OUTTAKES FROM A NEW PROSPECT

Mar 16, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

These two scenes were deleted from A NEW PROSPECT because my “Book Doctor” thought a first time novel shouldn’t shift from the prevalent first person POV to a third person narration. But he said they were very well written. So, for any fans of the 1st Sam Jenkins full-length novel, here are a couple of outtakes:

Sunday July 23, 2006

U.S. Congressman Jimmy Dillworth sat in the living room of his Washington D.C. townhouse on a warm Sunday afternoon, reading a copy of the Knoxville News-Sentinel, one already several days old. He liked to keep abreast of current events back in his congressional district of East Tennessee. After finishing an article projecting the chances of the U.T. football team in the upcoming season, Jimmy stopped reading, folded the paper and took off his glasses. He needed to think about a few things.

In less than two weeks he would close up his D.C. shop for the August break. He was looking forward to this vacation. Too many Iraq War debates, too much for a good Republican to do: support the President and the party and still make public decisions that would please a disgruntled constituency. He hoped the weather back home in the Smokies would not be as warm as in Washington, both literally and figuratively.

A telephone rang in another part of the house. Moments later, his wife walked into the living room holding the cordless receiver. She told him Minas Tipton was calling from their home town of Maryville and handed him the phone.

“Jimmy? Minas Tipton. You doin’ all right today?”

“Hello, Judge,” The congressman said, affording the older gentleman the courtesy of using his former title. “How’s everything back in Blount County?”

“Well, son, it’s a local matter I’m callin’ about, an important matter, important indeed. I’m afraid I’ll need a favor from you, Jimmy. Can you handle that?”

“Of course I can, sir. I’m sure you know what I’d be capable of doing, so tell me what you need.”

“Now, I know you keep up with the news from down here, son. You heard that my daughter’s husband was murdered yesterday?”

Dillworth thought, how did my staff miss that one? “Cecil was murdered? No, I hadn’t heard. I’m a little behind with my newspapers right now. I’m terribly sorry, Minas. Please give Miss Pearl and her children my condolences. Do the police know who killed him?”

“That’s what I’m callin’ you about, Jimmy, the murder investigation. That’s what I need in the way of a favor.”

Dillworth began to see the favor as nothing more than a phone call or two to get the cops on the stick. “Are you unhappy with the local investigation so far?”

“Let me explain this to you and bear with me now, cause I need to start at the beginnin’, the very beginnin’. The murder happened in Prospect, you know where that is.”

“Of course.”

“The former police chief, the one who got himself jammed up, Buck Webbster—useless windbag—he’s no longer there. The new chief, feller name o’ Jenkins, an ex-New York hot shot, he’s takin’ charge of the investigation. Now, Jimmy, I don’t know this Jenkins from a hole in the wall. Supposedly a good cop, but I have no idea if I can trust him. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

Jimmy Dillworth said, “Perhaps.” In reality, he had no idea what Minas Tipton was leading up to.

“Jimmy, my late son-in-law was a decadent, no account son-of-a-bitch. You know that. He lived a life any good Christian would be ashamed of. He treated my daughter with no respect. You understand?”

Dillworth said, “I’m not sure I do,” and began to fear what Tipton might tell him.

“Honestly, Jimmy, I’m not overly concerned about findin’ Cecil’s killer.”

That statement shocked Dillworth more than a little.

“Actually, son, I’m glad the bastard’s finally dead. And you’d think his demise would end Pearl’s problems, wouldn’t ya?”

Dillworth took a brief moment to consider the worst he might hear from the old man. But Minas Tipton wasn’t looking for an answer to his last question.

“But I am very concerned that word of the way Cecil lived his goddamned life may become public knowledge, Jimmy. If this Jenkins finds the killer and learns that Cecil’s drinkin’ and perversions were motives for the crime, my daughter and her children and grandchildren will be the laughin’ stock of the county.”

Jimmy breathed an audible sigh and said, “I’m sure that would be terribly embarrassing for Pearl if what you say happens in open court. I’m sorry for her, I truly am. What I don’t see, is how I can help you.” Dillworth knew more than half of Blount County already recognized Cecil Lovejoy as an oversexed, nasty old reprobate.

“Stick with me, now, Jimmy. This man Jenkins has opted to investigate this himself,” Tipton said. “He didn’t want county detectives and didn’t want the state TBI boys. Must be a cocky Yankee who thinks he’s a better cop than we got right here. If Jenkins finds the killer, and from what I’ve heard about him—back when they were interviewin’ people for that chief’s job—he probably will, Pearl will indeed be embarrassed to death.”

“Yes, sir, I understand.” Then he asked a leading question. “Do you have any idea who killed Cecil?”

Tipton must have sensed Dillworth’s apprehension and answered curtly. “I do not. My big concern is not only for Pearl’s reputation, but for her well-bein’.”

“Has she been unhealthy?”

“She’s not been well for a long time, Jimmy, a very long time indeed. Somethin’ like this could have serious effects on her. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Let me bottom line it for you, Jimmy. I need you to exercise a little pressure for me. Make a few calls. Jenkins had the option to ask for help with the investigation—from people who we know and can trust, so to speak. He didn’t do that. Now, I need you to convince the Mayor of Prospect, Ronnie Shields, you know him?”

“I’ve met him.”

“Convince this Shields that he should turn the responsibility for this case over to the TBI—for the good of the investigation, in the interest of justice, whatever the hell you want to call it. You know, bigger agency, more resources, a better chance to find the killer. He’s the damn mayor. He can override Jenkins.”

Tipton paused for a breath. His voice had sounded strained and Dillworth wondered how the judge would handle the long-term stress of the situation.

“In reality, Jimmy, I want the state agents—the people on our side—to be damn sure that word of Cecil’s perversions never become public knowledge. I don’t care how they do it. God forgive me, but I would prefer they never found the killer. That person should get a medal for ridding me and the world of the likes of Cecil Lovejoy. Can you make that happen, Jimmy?” Tipton never gave the congressman a chance to respond. “You’re a smart boy. You’ll know just what you have to do and who you need to get to. I believe, for old time’s sake you owe me that much, don’t you, son?”

Jimmy Dillworth hesitated in answering. It was one of those times, one of those requests that he feared. But it was something that went with the territory. For many years, since he was a young attorney back in Blount County, he had been under the wing of Judge Minas Tipton. In reality, he owed the judge for the political position he now occupied. The retired judge still had more de facto power than anyone else he knew in Tennessee. Jimmy liked his job as congressman and he wanted to get reelected.

“Judge, I’ll do everything in my power to preserve your daughter’s dignity. I appreciate you trusting me to handle this for you. It’s still early. I’ll get on the phone right away and take care of this for you.” He emphasized the last two words. “Then I’ll call you back.”

“Jimmy, you’re a good friend. I will not forget this. No, indeed, I will not forget. Thank you, thank you very much. God bless you, Jimmy.”

Monday July 24, 2006

The day after Judge Minas Tipton worked his magic on Congressman Jimmy Dillworth, Dooley Barlow, the director of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation sat at his desk staring out the window at the parking lot below. It was early on a Monday morning and he had yet to look at the morning newspaper. He thought about the phone call received on Sunday evening and said to himself, “This shit’s gonna blow up in my face.”

Barlow was a former Tennessee state trooper. He served as a sergeant for less than two years when the director’s job at TBI opened up. It was almost as if Dooley ran unopposed for the position and just breezed on in. For years, he patrolled the highways of central Tennessee doing what his supervisors and the radio dispatcher told him. He wrote traffic tickets, helped stranded motorists, and handled motor vehicle accidents. The consensus was Dooley managed to be a good cop. He wrote a good report. He was a team player, caused no trouble. And his father was a very popular state assemblyman—one endorsed by all the police unions and associations. There was another consensus, one thought by some of the people in power, but not made public, that Dooley wasn’t a crusader for truth and justice. He knew what side of his bread had the butter and as far as a detective—well, he’d never set the world on fire. Dooley knew all that, too.

Two TBI agents, one man in his mid-fifties and the other in his late-forties, walked in and took seats in front of their director’s desk. These men worked directly for the boss, no others in their chain of command. Both had been agents for a long time. They were officially known as senior investigators. Years ago they would have been referred to as a “flying squad”. Today some of their co-workers simply called them, “Dooley’s goon squad”. They did what their boss wanted and needed. They enjoyed the diversity of the work, the autonomy, and the inevitable overtime.

“Boys,” Dooley Barlow said, “I got a phone call yesterday . . . ”

The director went on to explain the situation in Blount County and how they would assume responsibility for the Lovejoy murder case. One of the agents made a few notes. He would call Prospect P.D. and ask to have all the reports faxed to them at TBI headquarters.

“I don’t need to tell y’all how much we need to keep this investigation just between the three of us,” Barlow said.

The agents nodded.

“I do need to impress upon y’all that a conviction here isn’t the prime motivator. We’re not gonna be violatin’ any laws either. What we’re gonna do, is be sure the reputations of some important, and I emphasize the word important, people do not get ruined needlessly. We need to give the appearance of a good effort—do what needs to be done. Y’all are both good, smart boys. Y’all know what I mean? Work it out and make it work.” Dooley smiled at them. “Unnerstand?”

They nodded again. One cracked a brief smile.

“Thank ya, boys. Call me if y’all need anythin’, and keep me informed.”

After the senior agents left, Dooley thought back to his comment, “Work it out and make it work.” He loved to say that. He couldn’t remember where he had originally heard it, but he just loved to use it. He thought it gave him a military sound. Dooley had never been in the service but he respected those who had been or were still serving. He even had a recruiter’s sticker, “Army of One”, on the bumper of his unmarked TBI sedan. He thought perhaps people would infer that he was a veteran.

Dooley Barlow picked up his phone and called the person with whom he spoke on Sunday, the one who had given him the assignment in Prospect. He told that person he was taking care of the situation and all would be well. Dooley wished he could believe his own rhetoric.

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RECYCLING UNUSED SCENES FROM A BOOK

Mar 15, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

Shake and Bake and Double-O Buckshot
By Wayne Zurl
This story is fabricated from an outtake which originally appeared in the award winning Sam Jenkins novel, A NEW PROSPECT. The scene was deleted prior to publication. It’s based on an actual incident which took place in New York in 1975.

At ten past five, Stanley Rose and I walked back into Prospect PD. We found Bettye Lambert sitting at her desk reading the latest Jesse Stone novel. Her blonde hair shined like a lighthouse in the mist.

I felt contented with a job well done. Stanley, the pessimist, complained all the way back from the psych ward at Blount Memorial Hospital.

“Hey,” I said to Bettye, “what are you still doing here?”

“Hey, yourself, Sammy. I’m wanted to be sure you guys were okay.”

“As Ralph Kramden said to Alice, ‘Baby, you’re the greatest.’ Thanks for waiting. We’re fine and everything went off without a hitch. The little guy who took a hostage is in a straight jacket waiting to get candled by a county shrink.”

“I’m glad,” she said, and smiled. “When I heard you tell the dispatcher you were leaving the hospital, I made a fresh pot of coffee. Want to tell me what happened?”

“Sure, and I’d love a coffee. You don’t have to get home?”

“I have to hear what happened.”

“I hope our fearless chief appreciates you,” Stan said. “Cause I was going to leave his ass at the hospital.”

Stanley dropped his 235 pounds into one of the guest chairs in front of my desk. His ebony complexion contrasted sharply with his khaki uniform shirt.

“Do I detect a note of disfavor in your voice, Sergeant Rose?” I asked.

“It’s hard enough supervising the cops here,” Stan said. “You’re gonna give me an ulcer.”

“Sam, darlin’, what have you done now?” Bettye shook her head and looked lovelier than any other desk sergeant on the planet.

“Betts, you should have seen it. Junior was pinned down behind his car. We pulled up in a hail of bullets.”

Stanley interrupted. “Anyone mind if I interject a note of reality?”

Bettye looked back at me as she poured three cups of coffee.

“Go ahead, Stanley,” I said. “I just wanted to see if she’d believe me.” I resigned myself to the truth. “You tell the story.”

Stan chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I must have snoozed through that hail of bullets. But I remember seeing Junior talking to the hostage taker through the front door. But after our ace negotiator here,” he poked his thumb at me, “talked to that Mexican in pigeon Spanish for a few minutes, the guy let his stepdaughter go.”

“You see,” I said. “He’s so judgmental. I get results.”

“After he got the results we wanted,” Stanley said, “our impatient police chief waited a whole five minutes before kicking the door in.”

I shrugged. “It wasn’t really necessary to prolong things.”

“Here ya go, boss.” Bettye handed me a cup of black coffee. “And, Stanley, here’s yours, light and sweet.”

“After he kicked the door in and we entered the trailer with our guns drawn, we found the little guy hiding under the kitchen sink,” Stan said.” He was holding a cheap steak knife for protection, but he could have had a gun.”

“The wife and the stepdaughter said he had a knife. No one knew anything about a gun and we searched the place carefully. You’re so conservative.”

“Well, I’m glad everyone is safe.” Bettye said.

“They’re all not so easy,” I said.

“No, they’re not,” Stan added.

“I remember a barricaded subject incident years ago that was anything but easy. I came close to killing a cop,” I said.

“Lord have mercy,” Bettye said. “What happened?”

I looked at Stanley. “You up for a war story?”

“Sure. The coffee’s hot and I’ll be here until midnight.”

“You two remember Shake and Bake?” I asked.

“Yeah, the stuff you put on chicken,” Stan said. “I was only a kid when they ran those commercials on TV. They still make that stuff?”

Bettye shrugged. I didn’t know either.

“Sometime back in the mid-70s when I worked a sector car in New York,” I said. “We got assigned to assist the adjoining car. ‘Man with a gun,’ the dispatcher said.
‘Possible hostage situation.’”

I raised my eyebrows. It’s the kind of call every cop hates.

“It was August—ninety or better and humid. More humidity than East Tennessee ever feels.”

I thought about the typical New York late summer weather and shook my head.

“There’s nothing like Long Island humidity, except maybe Southeast Asia.”

Stanley smiled. He’d been to the Philippines during his time in the Air Force.

“We had no A/C in the cars back then. I used a thermometer once to check—a-hundred-and-twenty-degrees around our legs. Summers were as hot as hell.”

Stanley slumped down in his chair and stretched out his long legs. Bettye took a careful sip of coffee.

“Before that call we were having a typical lousy day, one job right after another, with no time to write them up or even grab a quick lunch. Then we got the call. Cars from all the surrounding sectors pulled up near the house. As soon as everyone arrived, a road sergeant and the lieutenant deployed us around the place. I carried a shotgun in our car, so my partner and I took a spot right outside the front door. Everyone else spread around to form a perimeter.”

I blew across the top of my cup to cool the steaming coffee.

“The L.T. used a bull horn to contact the guy inside, who shouted a few words out the front window each time he heard a question. This mutt sounded whacked out—in love or more probably in lust with his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.”

Bettye shook her head. Stan listened patiently.

“After everything was over and the dicks questioned the girl, we learned that the mother had already gone to work and during breakfast that morning stepdaddy told the kid he wanted to make love to her. But she told him he was crazy and wanted no part of the guy. Later, he came home from work around the time she got back from school and it became obvious he wasn’t a man capable of handling rejection. At gunpoint, he told her if she wouldn’t have him, he had no choice but to kill her and then kill himself.”

“And I once thought LA had a monopoly on head cases,” Stan, the former Los Angeles cop said.

I continued. “But as Robert Burns said about those best laid plans, the girl kicked him in the groin and ran for the front door. Jerko took a shot at her with his Winchester 30-30 and hit her in the ass on her way out.”

Bettye winced and Stanley said, “Ouch!”

“That girl was some gutsy kid. Even with a bullet hole in her cheek, she crawled behind a neighbor’s parked car and started screaming her head off. The neighbors called 9-1-1.”

I took a sip of coffee and could visualize the area where I used to work clearly.

“The first sector car pulled up and one of those cops dragged the girl to safety while his partner called for an ambulance and assistance. Those were all small sectors—crowded neighborhoods with little stores scattered here and there. Four cars and two supervisors arrived in no time.

At 5:00 p.m., Bettye switched over the phones and radio to the 9-1-1 center, but left our base station turned on. In the lobby, the radio crackled and the county dispatcher sent a Rockford PD car on a first aid case and one of our units to verify the recovery of a bicycle reported stolen days earlier. When the chatter ended, I continued my story.

“I believe the boss almost talked that crazy bastard into coming out when everything went silent. It seemed like five minutes went by with no action. Maybe it was less.”

I paused myself, trying to create a dramatic effect.

“Then we heard a shot. I didn’t know if the subject shot himself or took a shot at one of the cops.”

I shifted in my seat, pulled out the bottom desk drawer, and set my foot on it.

“The lieutenant screamed through the bull horn trying to get the shooter to answer. Our sergeant came over and lay down next to me. ‘You’ve got the apple on this one, Sam,’ he said. ‘If this asshole opens the door and doesn’t have his hands up, do what you gotta do.’”

Stanley turned on his Ebonics act. “Nice to put y’all in a po-sition like dat.”

I nodded. “Yeah. He was all heart. I lay there, next to a large bush, only thirty feet from the front door. My partner lay next to me, his revolver pointed at the house. My first two rounds were magnum double-O buck. The next two were slugs. At that range there was no question of the man surviving. I was ready. If he pointed a gun at us and wanted to do a Butch Cassidy, he’d be dead—no question in my mind.”

At that point we all took sips from our coffee cups.

“Five minutes more went by and we heard communication from most of the cops. Only one man didn’t answer the radio. That made me uneasy. Another cop, positioned closest to his assigned spot, low crawled there and couldn’t find him.

“The lieutenant called over the bullhorn again asking for the subject to talk to him. Nothing but silence all around. Another few moments and the front door started opening. I clicked off the safety, put the bead front sight at about lower mid-door, and put a little pressure on the trigger. Both my eyes were open looking down the barrel of that 870 Remington. I had already stopped my breathing.”

Stan drew his legs back and straightened in his chair. Bettye sat forward holding her cup tightly in her lap.

“Then the door opened a little more. I saw a blue shirt and a PD patch. I screamed. My partner screamed, ‘Don’t fire. Don’t fire!’ Then other cops picked up the chant. No one relaxed, but no one started shooting either.”

Stan blew out a silent breath. Bettye shook her head. My audience looked spellbound. Maybe I should enter one of those Appalachian storytelling contests.

“What happened was, the cop posted at the side door got antsy waiting for something to go down and decided to enter the house without telling anyone.”

“Bad move.” Stan said.

“About as bad as it gets,” Bettye said.

“Yep. That’s what everyone thought.”

Without giving me a chance to resume the story, Bettye asked, “What happened?”

“Inside, Officer Impatience found the subject sitting in a chair with a Model 94 Winchester in his mouth and the top half of his head splattered around the upper half of the kitchen.”

Stan shook his head.

Bettye said, “Oh, Lord have mercy.”

“After that cop cleared the doorway, we ran in to check the scene. What a mess. The house had no air conditioning, so with that temperature, fifteen minutes of fresh blood and brains on the floors and walls and ceiling, stunk to high heaven. I looked at that deranged bastard lying on the floor. My partner backed out, afraid to be sick from the stink. Two other cops came in with handkerchiefs over their noses and checked the rooms for other people or bodies—there were none. The sergeant patted my shoulder and gestured for me to get out. We’d leave it for the detectives and the M.E.”

Neither Bettye nor Stan commented.

“Outside,” I said, “I saw the L.T. reaming out the cop who went through the house. No question in my mind, that guy wanted a Bravery Medal. But he was lucky to get away with an ass-chewing. If we didn’t wear those big red shoulder patches, something easy for me to see, a blast of double-O buckshot would have ruined his whole day.”

I sipped more coffee. The temperature tasted just right.

“What about the Shake and Bake?” Bettye asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I got home a little late that night. For an hour, on the drive east, I swore I could smell the blood from that hot kitchen. You know how you smell a dry floater long after the body’s gone? I always wondered if those smells stuck to the nasal hairs.”

Stan nodded, he knew. Bettye said nothing.

“Well, Kate already had dinner ready. She made chicken that night. Chicken with the new and improved, barbeque flavor Shake and Bake. It had the same sweet smell of the spilled blood in that kitchen. I lost my appetite—she understood. Funny how some things trigger memories.”

Bettye and Stanley nodded, but still offered no comment. Some people know when it’s a time to just listen.

THE END

A NEW PROSPECT Copyright 2010, Wayne Zurl
www.waynezurlbooks.net

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PERFECT IS BORING

Feb 4, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

When I began writing police mysteries I said to myself, “Aha! This is fiction, not a documentary. I have the opportunity to make everything come out perfectly.”

I thought it would be cool to chronicle my old cases and correct any mistakes or ask the questions that never came to mind or make the clever comments I only thought of the day after. It looked like an “if only” moment—a chance for perfection.

Then it rained on my parade. The precipitation came in the form of a middle-aged man with lots of experience in publishing and some pretty good ideas. The retired editor turned book-doctor who I hired to assist me during the formative stages of A NEW PROSPECT said, “Your protagonist is perfect. He never makes a mistake. Are you nuts?”

“Huh?” I said.

“Perfect is boring,” he said. “Readers like tension. They like uncertainty. Put your character in jeopardy. Screw that perfection thing.”

“Hmm,” I replied.

I thought about the concept and remembered reading other mysteries. How many times had I said, “Jeez, a good cop would never do that?” I’d grit my teeth and wait for the ax to fall.

One of my favorite fictional cops, James Lee Burke’s Cajun detective, Dave Robicheaux, ALWAYS did something I knew a guy with his experience would NEVER do.

I’d tremble and say, “Oh, Dave, you know better.”

Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe knew he should never enter a spooky building alone. But he never used back-up. He never told anyone where he was going. He created the perfect opportunity for a hood to catch him snooping and hit him over the head.

It was a commonality throughout fiction. Writers knew perfect characters were boring. Characters who took risks (sometimes stupid risks) created tension. They invited conflict. And tension and conflict sold books.

I’ve experienced enough tension in my life to have had a liquor bill equal to the gross national product of a small banana republic. So, I’d rather read about a slick detective who does everything right. I’d look at that story as a description of an art form.

But that little voice inside my head would say, “Too bad, Wayne, you’re one of a VERY small minority of readers.”

Readers like tension. They love to grimace when their favorite characters foul up and put themselves into a situation which requires fancy footwork to get out from under the catastrophe.

Remember James Bond when Ian Fleming’s books were more famous than the movies? International thugs captured Bond so many times he qualified for frequent hostage points.

How about TV’s Jim Rockford? He never worked with a partner who watched his back. And Stephen J. Cannell arranged for him to be clubbed on the head so many times, his skull could have been called Land of a Thousand Concussions.

But we loved it . . . and them.

So, what’s the moral of my story? It’s simple. When we create a protagonist, we must build in a few flaws. Does he or she drink a little too much when they shouldn’t? Does getting buzzed at the wrong time make them miss a crucial clue or forget to duck when the bad guy swings a tire iron? Do they have an uncontrollable big mouth and always say the wrong thing to people with serious political clout? Do they trust the wrong person at the wrong time?

There are oodles of possibilities. All we have to do is dream up one or more to fit our protagonist’s personality and stick with it in numerous variations. Create that tension. Make your readers squeeze their eyes shut in anticipation. And always give your heroes a way to slither out from under the problem they created. You’ll have the makings of a good series of books or stories.

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Old west leather gear & a Sicilian recipe that will make your ears wiggle.

Feb 2, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

When Mike Rivers invited me to his blog for an author spotlight, he also asked me for a guest post article. “Oh, jeez,” I said. “I’m terrible at thinking up topics for guest essays.”

But Mike is a great host. He wouldn’t leave his visitor to hang out there floundering. “How about an interesting fact about you most people don’t know—something not in your bio?”

Originally, I thought about mentioning that for almost twenty-five years I’ve been creating reproduction pre-1900 old-west leather gear (holsters, gun belts, spur straps, etc.) for cowboy action shooters and reenactors. But after some consideration, I figured only a handful of western writers would care and I moved to something more mainstream.

Have any published authors recently not spent a day taking hours out of their lives promoting their books on Facebook, Twitter, or some other electronic media venue? What does a writer lack most? Time? What does a writer need most? Alcoholic beverages? Just kidding. Or am I? No—we need sustenance to carry us to the next day. In the words of one of those cowboy reenactors I deal with, “We need good grub, podna.”

One of the things I liked most working as a cop in New York were organized crime cases. That was back in the 1970s and without casting aspersions on any one ethnic group, these cases often took us to Italian neighborhoods—and to Italian restaurants.

I’ve often said, “If I had to live on only one type of food, it would be Mediterranean.” So, for all those overworked authors, strapped for time and in need of good grub, here’s a Sicilian recipe I got from one of my “clients” mothers. I call it Little Joe’s Momma’s Pasta and Vegetables. It’s quick and easy and if you must, everything can come from a can off the supermarket shelf. Figure twenty minutes preparation plus pasta cooking time. Please excuse the non-traditional way I present recipes.

1 humongous red onion (I’m talkin’ at least softball size) coarsely chopped. ¼” slices are okay. Then chop

1 green pepper, chopped same as the onion.

2 four (4) ounce cans of mushroom stems and pieces. Drain, then use a paper towel to squeeze out the liquid.

Fresh garlic. I use three (3) BIG cloves. You know how much garlic you like. Mince.

½ cup (or more) black olives, sliced.

Fresh basil. At least a dozen large leaves, coarsely chopped. (If you grow your own basil, freeze dry some and save to use in the winter. It’s almost as good as fresh.)

Sauté the onions and peppers in 1 tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil. When they soften a bit, add the mushrooms and olives. Cover the pan because the mushrooms tend to splatter and pop. After five (5) minutes, add the garlic and sauté another 2-3 minutes. When the vegetables look done (but not too soft) add the basil and a jar of your favorite pasta sauce. (Hint: pick one with less sodium and you’ll taste the vegetables more.) Add a little crushed red pepper flakes if you want spice, and salt to your taste, not Francesco Rinaldi’s.

For two people, 3 or 4 ounces of farfalle makes two reasonable portions of pasta. For those not familiar with the I-tralian language, farfalle is also known as bow ties.

Serve the concoction topped with grated Pecorino-Romano cheese and a bottle of Sicilian Nero D’Avola or the easier to find Tuscan Sanvgiovese. Time to mangiamo.

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My Theory on Suspension of Disbelief

Feb 2, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

It’s simple. Get the little details right and you can stretch the big issues.

Most readers of police mysteries are pretty savvy when it comes to technicalities. Run into an active-duty or retired cop and you have a real critic on your hands.

So, on what must we focus our attention? I used the word above: Technicalities—physical and procedural technicalities. And there can be many. Here are a few possibilities to open up the thought process.

If you’re writing about an established police department, know a lot about them. When you describe an officer, be accurate. Don’t say, “The New York state trooper took off his service cap and ran a hand through his sandy hair,” when New York troopers wear wide brim Stetsons.

Find out what the badges look like in the department your story revolves around. Then you can accurately say, “[New York] Detective Sam Jenkins showed the witness his gold shield.” In San Francisco they use gold stars. LAPD have large two-tone ovals.

Many mystery fans know their firearms. If you don’t, find a technical advisor to help you. Many years ago, I read all of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels. A glaring mistake Fleming made remains with me today. In one story, he gave Bond a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Centennial revolver with a five inch barrel. Ian’s problem: The gun was never made with a five inch barrel.

In UP COUNTRY, Nelson DeMille’s second novel featuring Army Criminal Investigator, Paul Brenner, DeMille mentions the South Vietnamese flag being yellow, red, and green. The flag was actually yellow with four red stripes. He confused the flag colors with the Vietnamese campaign ribbon issued to all US troops serving there during the war.
He also spoke of a local beer he called Ba-Ba-Ba. Vietnam vets howled over that one. A French beer brewed in the Republic of Vietnam, 33, was called Bamiba by American GIs—a corruption of ba mui ba, Vietnamese for thirty-three, certainly not Ba-Ba-Ba, as in black sheep. Shame on Nelson’s fact checker.

I know you get the idea relative to physical technicalities. Now we have procedural standards. Here are a few examples:

Contrary to popular belief on TV and in Hollywood, crime scene investigators or evidence technicians do not assume responsibility for investigating the felony scenes they process. They assist the squad detectives—provide them with the scientific forensic information they find. It would be logistically impossible for CSIs to deal with the highly technical services available today and do the gumshoe work. It’s been decades since detectives have had to do their own photography and dust for prints much less all the other scientific work.

Regardless of what we see on most of the Law & Order reruns, cops don’t arrest felons, drop them into a district attorney’s lap, and then get sent out to establish a concrete reason to justify the arrest and seek an indictment. Good cops MUST have the proper level of proof BEFORE saying, “You’re under arrest, humpo.”

My favorite television ADA, Jack McCoy, often possessed only “Reasonable Suspicion” when he told Ed Green and Lenny Briscoe, “Pick him up.” In the real world they were often one bottle short of a six pack. The Laws of Arrest say you must have “Probable Cause to Believe” prior to snapping the cuffs on a defendant.

The same applies to search warrants. Cops can’t blithely send their comrade to a judge looking for a warrant to toss a thug’s apartment. Just as in the Laws of Arrest, we’re encumbered by that pesky US Constitution. In this case, the 4th Amendment, which states: Only upon probable cause shall a warrant be granted to search a person or premises [for the item(s) thought to be on the person or in the place to be searched.] Practically speaking, that probable cause business (sometimes called reasonable cause to believe) can put a crimp in a detective’s forward motion. But the talent needed to establish the necessary PCTB is what separates Andy Sipowitz from Barney Fife.

I look at this issue just as I looked at the things the police officers I supervised had to consider back in the 1970s. I told them, “Keep your hair cut, and your leather gear shiny. That stuff will keep the boss happy so when you do something questionable, he won’t remember you as the non-conformist with the sloppy appearance.”

If we, as writers, get the little things correct, and our readers don’t lose focus on the story while bitching about messed up technicalities, they’ll cut us some slack with the big issues that fall under the usual purview of suspension of disbelief.

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