tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23141196811739493042024-03-21T13:21:16.815-05:00Fingerprints - Crime Flash Non-FictionAn online journal of flash non-fiction...with crime on its mind.Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-63356224635573809622013-03-28T07:38:00.003-05:002013-03-28T07:38:57.961-05:00"Another Day at the Short Stop" - Leroy B. Vaughn
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I met Don Winslow in 1975 about the time I first started
hanging out at the Short Stop bar, near an area of Los Angeles that used to be
called Chavez Ravine, before the L.A. Dodgers came to town.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>The Short Stop was
and may still be in Echo Park, part of the L.A.P.D. Rampart Division. The
Rampart Division became well known to television viewers when Jack Webb
produced his show, <i>Adam 12</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the same Short Stop bar that Joseph Wambaugh, one of
the best known writers of books about real police work was known to frequent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
L.A.P.D. old timers will tell you that Joseph Wambaugh spent
countless hours sitting at one of the tiny tables in the Short Stop sipping
beer, and taking notes while he listened to the other cops from the Rampart
Division tell their stories.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I was not an L.A.P.D.
Officer, but I was a peace officer with another agency and a former military
policeman, so I was accepted at the Short Stop. I knew and worked with Darrell
Jansen, after he retired from the L.A.P.D.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Darrell never told me, but I heard it from Don Winslow and a
few other people that knew Darrell that he was the cop that Joseph Wambaugh
modeled his fictional lead character Bumper Morgan after, in his book, <i>The
Blue Knight</i>, in 1973.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do know that Darrell Jansen was one of the original Metro
cops in Los Angeles. He was the one that was walking a foot beat alone one
night in the early '60s, when a Folsom prison escapee came up on him from
behind and ordered Darrell to hand him his gun, without turning around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The escapee got the gun all right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Darrell had a hideaway gun in his inside coat
pocket and he was able to slip it out and shoot through his jacket, killing the
crook without turning around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was about one year later that Darrell Jansen became a
legend in the Rampart Division. There was a series of liquor store robberies in
his beat and Jansen and his partner were ordered to stake out a liquor store in
plain clothes that had been hit several times.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The brass figured that it was just a matter of time before
the store was robbed again and Jansen positioned himself on top of the beer
coolers with a 12 gauge pump shotgun, watching the front door, while his
partner waited in the store room with a shotgun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jansen spotted the bad guys before they hit the front door
of the liquor store. Two robbers armed with sawed off shotguns wearing Bugs
Bunny masks came in yelling, “This is a stick-up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jansen’s partner told everyone at the Short Stop the next
day that he heard Jansen yell, “That’s all folks,” just before he heard the
first round of buck shot kill the first bandit. Within seconds, the second
bandit was dead on the floor also.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don Winslow and I were standing at the bar and Don was
telling me about the sign above the bar that said, “Use a gun, go to jail.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sign was L.A.P.D.s latest effort to try to stop the rash
of robberies in the area. I asked Don if he thought anyone would be crazy
enough to try to rob the Short Stop. There was always at least 15 off-duty
cops in the joint and sometimes there was a motor officer in uniform drinking out
of a coffee cup at the bar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the bartender walked away to serve another customer, Don
pointed at him and said, “The bartender took out some clown not too long that
tried to rob the place. He came in off the street with a towel wrapped around
his hand, pointed the object at the bartender and told the bartender to give
him the money.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bartender reached under the counter, pulled out a .357
magnum and shot the punk from three feet away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After that, the saying around here changed to use a "pick
comb, go to heaven." That’s what this moron had under the towel, one of those
big afro pick combs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked at Skip the big retired Marine bartender with his
gray crew cut and the tattoo of a mean looking red woodpeckers head, smoking a
cigar on his bicep. There was no doubt in my mind that no one could get away
with robbing this bruiser.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don Winslow began to talk a lot after his third beer and I
asked him, “So why did you leave the L.A.P.D.?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He replied, “I was a real hot-dog, fresh out of the academy
and assigned to the Rampart Division. We were working the day watch and my
training officer and I went over to the Short Stop one afternoon, after we got
off work.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They drank a couple of beers and the training officer
suggested that they head down to Tijuana for the evening.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why not? Winslow thought. They were both single men and this
was the end of the workweek for them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They headed for the red light district as soon as they
crossed the border. They started out at the Chicago Club. The place was packed
with Marines and Sailors from San Diego and Camp Pendelton.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They hit another dive before deciding to go to the Blue Fox.
The Blue Fox made a lot of money selling t-shirts that said, “Eat at the Blue
Fox.” They didn’t serve food at the Blue Fox.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was strictly a skivvy bar. Some of the “dancers” that
worked there didn’t even bother to wear street clothes or a costume. They
worked the tables in bras and panties.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pimp/doorman stood at the front door inviting servicemen
to come in to see the donkey show that would be starting soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Winslow and his training officer found a seat near the stage
and watched the dancers bump and grind in their underwear, while they drank
inexpensive Mexican beer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were both getting a little tipsy from all the beer they
were pouring down, when a Chiquita approached them and offered to take them
around the world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The training officer had his eye on another entertainer and
told Winslow that he would meet him back at the table in about 15 minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They both left their beers on the little table with
instructions for the drink girl to watch the beers, as both cops were lead out
the backdoor, to the cribs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Winslow finished with the woman and was heading out of her
crib, when two street punks with knives stepped out of the shadows and demanded
his watch and wallet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Winslow wasn’t packing. Both of the cops had left their guns
in California. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed it to one of
the bandits, before reaching into his other pocket and pulling his L.A.P.D.
badge out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He flashed the badge at both punks and said, “L.A.P.D.,
you’re under arrest.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One punk laughed at him, while the other punk touched the
blade of the knife to his chest and said, “We’ll take that too,” as he took
Winslow’s badge and put it in his pocket.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day, Don Winslow was called into the Internal
Affairs office and was asked about the lost city property report that he had
filed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was terminated that afternoon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-30-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://cache.smashwire.com/bookCovers/d0a2e38af1ffbbf45e1084618f4714a2a02619e2-thumb" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://cache.smashwire.com/bookCovers/d0a2e38af1ffbbf45e1084618f4714a2a02619e2-thumb" /></a></div>
<i>Leroy B. Vaughn is a retired law enforcement officer from Southern
California. He has written several short stories, both non-fiction and fiction. He
has had stories published in 10 magazines in the U.S. and Mexico.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/223220" target="_blank">Click here to get his short novel, <i>The Free Lancers</i>, from Smashwords for free for a limited time</a>.<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two of Leroy’s <i>Fingerprints</i> crime flash stories have been
recorded on the crime podcast, CrimeCityCentral.com. To listen to these stories, click here to go to episodes <a href="http://crimecitycentral.com/crime-city-central-no-35-amy-sayre-roberts/">#35</a> and <a href="http://crimecitycentral.com/crime-city-central-no-32-libby-fischer-hellmann/">#32</a>.</div>
Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-15538470949638767792013-03-17T20:33:00.000-05:002013-03-17T20:33:09.337-05:00News: Russell Johnson Cult Story to be Adapted<i>Fingerprints</i> received this press release from Russell Johnson, who relayed the <a href="http://fingerprintsjournal.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-martial-arts-cult.html">martial arts cult story in a previous post here</a>. Please join <i>Fingerprints</i> in wishing Mr. Johnson success with this new project.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Long time Vail Valley local Russell Johnson has signed a co-author
agreement with English novelist, Matilda Wren, to write his memoirs. The
autobiography, Deceived, will detail his coerced involvement in the
notorious martial arts cult known as Chung Moo Quan. Known in the 1970s,
80’s and 90’ as a cult of greed and violence. This is a true crime
story with many twist and turns. <br />
<br />Bullied throughout childhood, a
vulnerable and confused teenager thought he had finally found the
security and protection he had been searching for in the martial arts
fraternity, however, the following eight years were to be a journey into
a darkness Russell never knew existed. Brainwashing, deception, and
fraud were only the beginning. Murder, cover-ups and physical abuse left
him fearing for his life. <br /><br />
In 1988 Russell left Chung Moo Quan and
despite numerous threats and attempts to silence him, he has spent the
last 20 years advocating just how destructive the cult is, but even with
the incarceration of cult leader John C Kim, it didn’t put a stop to
Russell constantly looking over his shoulder; even more so now Kim has
been released and is still running cults today. <br /><br />
Co-author Matilda
Wren lives in the UK and is the author of crime thriller When Ravens
Fall and her new book, Lowlands which will be released later this year.
Matilda is a Bachelor of Science, majoring in Psychology and writes
about the abnormal and anti-social behaviours of society. She wanted to
write this book with Russell because his story is harrowing yet
exceptional at the same time. It’s not about being a victim. It’s not
about being a survivor. It’s about strength, character and power. <br /><br />
The book is to be published in 2014 and is expected to be adapted to film based on the life of Russell Johnson.</blockquote>
Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-92092620416713514092013-01-02T13:16:00.000-06:002013-01-02T16:30:54.068-06:00"A Martial Arts Cult?" - Russell JohnsonEditor's note: Today's post comes courtesy of Russell Johnson. In the 1980s, Johnson became involved with a martial art called Chung Moo Quan.<br />
<br />
From <a href="http://www.rickross.com/reference/chung/chung1.html">RickRoss.com</a>:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Chung Moo Quan advertises its teachings as "Eight Martial Arts Taught as One," stemming from the "1500-year-old royal line of Chung Moo." Currently there are schools in at least six states, including five in Minnesota. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>City Pages</i> left unreturned messages at three of the Minnesota schools and got the same repeated response "We decline to be interviewed" from the other two. By Russ Johnson's estimate, there are 50-60 students at each Minnesota outlet. There is no way to make an educated guess about school revenues in Minnesota, but a 1990 news report about the ten schools in Chicago area placed revenues there at up to $1.8 million annually. </blockquote>
However, Russell says not all was what it appeared. He sent <i>Fingerprints</i> these two news pieces on what happened next. (Note that the video quality is poor.)<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Czo53PBtjEY" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/TwNQhNQ2W80" width="420"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
Here is a longer documentary about the organization:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/OwxuyHh-52A" width="420"></iframe>
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Pj7wdzClqZo" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
Johnson has posted many documents and photos from his experiences on his Facebook page <a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.195495373844802.49501.100001530212557&type=3">here</a>. (Warning: Some of them are gruesome.)<br />
<br />
Johnson is looking for a writer to help adapt his experiences with Chung Moo Quan for print and/or screen. Interested parties should contact him at his Facebook page <a href="http://www.facebook.com/russell.johnson.336">here</a>.<br />
<br />Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-75801189601489731202012-10-22T05:00:00.000-05:002012-10-22T05:00:05.811-05:00"Orange Spray-Painted Testicles" - Leroy B. Vaughn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/v/va/vancanjay/744629_self_portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/v/va/vancanjay/744629_self_portrait.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
"Home again," Corporal Walt Gleason said as he watched the Golden Gate bridge come into view from the deck of the troop transport ship. <br />
<br />
"You been away long?," the merchant marine standing next to him at the rail asked.<br />
<br />
"Four years," Gleason told him as the merchant marine lit a cigarette. <br />
<br />
"Looks like you didn't spend all that time in the Military Police in Japan," the merchant marine said as he looked at the Combat Infantry Badge on the Corporals Ike jacket.<br />
<br />
"I came in at the end of the war and got some trigger time in the battle for Okinawa," Gleason said before excusing himself. He needed to go below to pick up his gear, before the ship landed.<br />
<br />
Walt Gleason had been overseas for four years. He re-enlisted after the war for three more years and spent that time in Japan, during the occupation. He thought about staying in the Army, but things were getting hot in Korea and he just wanted to go home. He told himself that he was never leaving California again, once he got back.<br />
<br />
One month after he came home he was working as a stevedore at the Oakland docks. He wasn't fond of the heavy labor, but the pay was good, especially compared to Army pay.<br />
<br />
After a few years on the job, he broke his collarbone one day at work. He met his future wife at the hospital, while he was getting patched up. They dated for several months before he popped the question to her.<br />
<br />
It was 1955, and he decided that he needed to find a job that was less physical than working at the docks. He drove over to the Delta and took the entrance test for the Stockton Police Department.<br />
<br />
Being an ex-GI and former Military Policeman put him close to the top of the list and he went to work in the patrol division. It didn't take him long to start putting on the pounds. By the time his five-year anniversary came around he was over two hundred and fifty pounds.<br />
<br />
He applied for motorcycle duty but the Captain told him no, stating "If I put you on a motor, you'll be eating dough-nuts all day and in no time you will be over three hundred pounds. Puts too much weight on the machine and your uniform doesn't fit properly. You already look like three hundred pounds of steer manure in a two hundred pound sack."<br />
<br />
Gleason wasn't going to argue with the Captain. He told himself that if he was going to be nothing more than a harness bull, he was going to retire early on the job as he walked out of the Captain's office.<br />
<br />
Both Gleason and his wife liked to drink and they were both hitting the bottle fairly hard by the time Gleason was assigned to the night shift. Being a nurse, it wasn't difficult for his wife to transfer to the night shift either. They didn't want any children, so they had plenty of time to spend together, usually drinking.<br />
<br />
He had never been a very good police officer and now he was getting worse. Other officers considered him insufferable and didn't want to work around him. Most of his shift was spent orbiting the district in the patrol car, missing calls and waiting to go home. He was in the habit of getting at least one hour of sleep on duty every night.<br />
<br />
Most officers would never consider taking a nap in the patrol car, unless they had a partner that would stay awake. He was able to work alone because no one wanted to work with Gleason, as every officer that knew him considered him to be useless.<br />
<br />
He carried a little .25 auto pistol in an empty handcuff case and would place the pistol under his left arm when he got ready for his nap. It never occurred to him that he might shoot himself accidentally one night while the little gun was under his flabby arm and his hand was always on the pistol, but safety was not an issue to him. He needed his naps.<br />
<br />
At dinner one night, Gleason and his wife were watching the late news on their day off. The newscaster reported on a Viet Nam war protest in nearby Oakland. The year was 1968 and Gleason told his wife, "I'd like to kill a commie for you, mommy." <br />
<br />
She replied, "You are so sweet Walt. Now eat your pork chop."<br />
<br />
Two days later, Gleason was heading back to the station after a long night in the field. It was early in the morning as he rounded a corner and spotted a teenage boy spray painting a block wall with orange paint.<br />
<br />
Normally he would have figured out a way to avoid the boy, but this little turd had written "STOP THE WAR" in big block letters on the wall. The kid was not a real criminal because he didn't even try to run when the fat cop yelled for him to drop the paint and put his hands on his head.<br />
<br />
No one at the station could tell you when Gleason had last made an arrest or written a report. He got out of his car, looked at the boy and said, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"<br />
<br />
The sixteen year old boy knew better than to try to answer the big brute, so he kept his mouth shut. Gleason said, "Well, we can do this the hard way, or we can do this the easy way."<br />
<br />
When he asked the kid, "How do you want to do this?" the kid asked him what was the easy way. Gleason told him to drop his jeans and underwear and stand still.<br />
<br />
"Now pick up your pecker and don't move," Gleason told him as he picked up the can of spray paint and began to spray the kid's testicles with the orange paint.<br />
<br />
It didn't hurt at first and Gleason figured that the incident had been handled without any paperwork. After he left the station, he went home and fixed a highball while he waited for his wife to come home. She had been held over on her shift for two hours.<br />
<br />
When she got home, Mrs. Gleason was extremely mad. <br />
<br />
"Guess what, Mr. Harness Bull?" she said as she fixed her highball. <br />
<br />
"What?" Gleason wanted to know. <br />
<br />
"Your Lieutenant is at the hospital right now taking a statement from a sixteen year old kid with orange painted balls the size of grapefruits."<br />
<br />
"Oh, shit," was all Gleason had to say before the phone rang. <br />
<br />
Mrs. Gleason could hear every word the Lieutenant was saying from the other side of the room as Gleason took a severe ass chewing over the phone.<br />
<br />
Gleason was fired two days after the spray paint incident. The Chief told him that he was getting off lucky. The kid's parents agreed not to pursue a criminal complaint with the City attorney, or to not sue the City if the Chief agreed to terminate Gleason.<br />
<br />
Gleason was like a lost child now. He didn't know what to do with himself. There wasn't a police department in California that would hire him after that stunt. He could not sleep at night or in the daytime when his wife was at home. <br />
<br />
They had several highballs each. Mrs. Gleason needed to get some sleep before her midnight shift started. Walt tossed and turned as he lay in the bed trying to go to sleep. His wife knew that he never had any problem sleeping in his patrol car parked down by the waterfront and she got an idea.<br />
<br />
She opened the bedroom window before going out to their car and starting the engine. She left the engine running and went back into the bedroom to find Walt Gleason sound asleep as the engine purred next to the window.<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://cache.smashwire.com/bookCovers/d0a2e38af1ffbbf45e1084618f4714a2a02619e2-thumb" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://cache.smashwire.com/bookCovers/d0a2e38af1ffbbf45e1084618f4714a2a02619e2-thumb" /></a></div>
<i>Leroy B. Vaughn is a retired law enforcement officer from Southern California. He has written several short stories, true and fiction. He has had stories published in 10 magazines in the U.S. and Mexico.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/223220" target="_blank">Click here to get his short novel, <i>The Free Lancers</i>, from Smashwords for free for a limited time</a>.<br />
<br />
Image at top via <a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/744629">sxc.hu</a>.Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-59747473984072370272012-07-24T05:30:00.000-05:002012-07-24T05:30:04.179-05:00"Shoot the Machete" - Leroy B. Vaughn<i>Editor's Note: It's a privilege to once again bring you a true crime short story from Leroy B. Vaughn. His willingness to share his experiences in law enforcement impresses me every time. This one is no different. I hope it provides perspective about the life-and-death decisions officers make in difficult situations.</i><br />
<br />
<i>-Ben </i><br />
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* * * <br />
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I was lucky to be able to work with Glen Webster. He was an old timer by the time I started out in law enforcement. I met Glen in 1975, after he had retired from the California Highway Patrol (CHP).<br /><br />We worked together for two years. Glen was my supervisor and I was a security agent for the Los Angeles City School District. We were plain clothes agents. We worked evenings and mainly investigated burglaries on City Schools property. The job no longer exists. City Schools now has a uniformed police department, one of the largest in the county of Los Angeles.<br /><br />I wasn't crazy about the job, but it did put me through the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Academy, the best academy in the state at that time. After I left that job I realized that it was a good experience.<br /><br />Glen had a lot of experience. Besides being a highway patrol officer, he had spent World War II in the North Atlantic as a merchant marine. After the war, he kicked around with various jobs until 1951, when he joined the CHP.<br /><br />We would start our shift in the afternoon, taking unmarked cars into the field. At sundown, we would meet another agent in the field and park one car at a local police or sheriff's station and ride together until one or three in the morning, depending on the day of the week.<br /><br />Glen would be out in the field, and he often checked on me. I usually worked the Watts area of Los Angeles. Watts was gang territory and a dangerous place to be, if you weren't careful.<br /><br />We drove unmarked cars in those days. I drove an old light blue Plymouth and Glen used a big Chrysler sedan that did not look like a cop car. It had power windows, leather seats and air conditioning.<br /><br />Glen would call me on the radio, and I would meet him at an all-night hamburger stand in the Florence district. We would sit in the big Chrysler, and Glen would smoke cigarettes and talk about the old days.<br /><br />He had a lot of great stories, and I didn't mind the smoke too much as he talked about the 50s and 60s. I was around in those days, but as a kid. I went into the Marines in 1965.<br /><br />One night, Glen took another drag on his Lucky Strike and began to tell me about the time in 1951, when he went to the Highway Patrol Academy in Sacramento. He went to the academy with the entire Wyoming Highway Patrol. Deputy sheriffs took over for the highway patrol, and every highway patrol officer in Wyoming went to the academy in California. There were more Wyoming officers than there were officers from California in his class.<br /><br />He had been stationed in Ventura, California and had worked on closed highways while a television show was filmed in the area. The studios liked to use back roads in Ventura County, and Glen picked up extra money by working on the set of the Highway Patrol, staring Broderick Crawford. The show ran from 1955-1959.<br /><br />"You know why they always showed Broderick Crawford standing by the car door saying set up roadblocks?" Glen said. I didn't know. <br /><br />Glen said, "Because he was always tanked on the job and the director wouldn't let him drive the car."<br /><br />He finished his soda, and we talked about an incident that had occurred on our day off, to an agent on another shift. It happened in Watts, and Glen wanted his men to be careful. The agent was alone, looking for a burglar at a high school just before dark. The burglar, an ex-con, got the jump on the agent and wrestled his service revolver from him.<br /><br />The agent, against district policy, was carrying a back-up gun (something I always did) and was able to shoot the bad guy, then take him into custody.<br /><br />Glen lit another smoke and told me he did not want to shoot anyone else. But if some punk wanted a meal, Glen would at least get a sandwich.<br /><br />Before Ventura, he had been stationed in Salinas for a few years. Even today, it is not uncommon for the highway patrol to be the first on the scene of a crime in rural areas.<br /><br />It was 1953, and the day had started out quiet for Glen. He was on Highway 101 watching for speeders when he got a call. A sheriff's deputy had been dispatched to a call of a man with a machete tearing up a bar on the highway.<br /><br />Glen was real close. He told the dispatcher he would be there in five minutes, or less. He was rolling code three as he slammed on the brakes and skidded into the gravel parking lot of the bar.<br /><br />He drew his six-inch service revolver and approached the door carefully. He heard a person screaming like a maniac, and peeked his head into the bar far enough to see a bartender being held at bay by a little Filipino man holding a big machete.<br /><br />The bartender was trying to calm the man down, but the farm worker was not listening to reason. He continued to scream in a Filipino dialect that neither the bartender or Glen could understand. Glen slipped into the bar.<br /><br />The bar was empty except for the crazy man, the bartender and Glen Webster. The bartender glanced at Glen, and the little man spun around. He was about 15 feet from Glen. He turned towards Glen and began to advance on him. He held the big mean looking machete in his hand and swung it as he came closer to Glen.<br /><br />Glen was one of those cops who wanted to be a peace officer. He was going to do everything he could to get the little man to drop the machete. He asked the man several times to put the weapon down and place his hands on his head. He wasn't sure the man could understand him, but he knew that pointing a pistol at him would get his point across.<br /><br />The man screamed and Glen assumed that the man was cussing at him, but the man could or would not speak English. The man was now less than seven feet from Glen. Glen knew he had no choice. He was going to have to shoot the man to stop him, or Glen would be dead.<br /><br />Glen was a big fan of cowboy movies, and he thought that at that distance he could shoot the machete out of the man's right hand. The man started to swing the machete as he moved closer. Glen fired one round from his .38 revolver at the man's hand.<br /><br />Glen was surprised when the man went down. Glen kicked the machete out of the man's hand as he lay bleeding on the sawdust covered floor. Glen bent down to check the man as the bartender came over to look at the man on the floor. Glen looked at the bartender and told him the man was dead, having felt for a pulse on the man's carotid artery.<br /><br />"Where did you hit him? I thought you went for his hand," I told him as he lit another cigarette. "I did aim for the hand, but I was the worst shot in my class at the academy. I couldn't hit an elephant with a bazooka. There was a coroners inquest the next week, and I was told that I had shot him right through the heart."<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
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<i>Leroy B. Vaughn is a retired law enforcement officer from Southern
California. He has written several short stories, true and fiction. He
has had stories published in 10 magazines in the U.S. and Mexico.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/87077" target="_blank">Image</a><i> </i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-58371432005028237632012-07-16T05:30:00.000-05:002012-07-16T06:20:00.682-05:00"Thank You: The True Story of the Bathroom Basher" - Natasha Amadaeus<br />
<i>Editor's Note: The man known as the "Bathroom Basher" killed several women in rural Idaho in the 1960s. The murders, especially the gruesome finale, became the stuff of legend in the area. The following story has been told many times by the author's family.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYCi-9qxwWXd5N01074QbZBuD2SjsRYl7tXIqehgFzcidVw494XvfBDlXjPTFrTWD2upSPfYpqnndI-6kANbNGWM_G40tWamvS3OCCZxCpwEIc-Sfe1aCoxXyW8X1YQNYZCPYiGaGOeB0/s1600/368632_red_nightmare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYCi-9qxwWXd5N01074QbZBuD2SjsRYl7tXIqehgFzcidVw494XvfBDlXjPTFrTWD2upSPfYpqnndI-6kANbNGWM_G40tWamvS3OCCZxCpwEIc-Sfe1aCoxXyW8X1YQNYZCPYiGaGOeB0/s200/368632_red_nightmare.jpg" width="200" /></a>She laid there, blood pooling under her head, tears streaming. She was barely breathing. Slow, deep breaths, the kind they teach you in Lamaze class. He could see her eyes beginning to glaze over, and he knew she soon would be dead. He stood there, watching, that same sad glee he always felt as he watched them die. And then, she whispered two small words.<br />
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"Thank you."<br />
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The words came out softly, gently. Like a sensual Amy Winehouse lyric. Her lips stretched into a smile. Her eyes rolled back. And with that, she was gone.<br />
<br />
He stood over her. The smile stared back at him.<br />
<br />
The little tramp. The good-for-nothing whore. Bitch.<br />
<br />
He’d always had the last laugh. And now, this one with the jet black hair, fair skin and pursed red lips was mocking him.<br />
<br />
He kicked her. Kicked her and threw the toothpaste at her, the lotion, the hand soap, everything from the counter that he could, he threw at her even though he knew she was dead. He wanted desperately to bring her back and hurt her more. He kicked more and screamed obscenities; her corpse simply smiled. Rage kicked in.<br />
<br />
When police arrived, he was still there, mutilating the body, screaming and throwing bits of her across the bathroom. The toilet overflowed with her hands and feet. Her intestines bathed in the tub.<br />
<br />
It went down in the record books in Bartersville as the most grisly murder scene. The Bathroom Basher, as cops dubbed him, had been caught. But there would be no cheerleading press conference on this evening, no parading the psycho in front of local reporters before stuffing him in the backseat, no celebratory Jack and Coke at Appleby’s.<br />
<br />
Their uniforms were stained with too much blood.<br />
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The only pieces of her still intact were her lips. The officer who had to cuff the Bathroom Basher found them in his right hand. He’d ripped them from her face. The lips seemed to be smiling like the Joker in Batman, the officer wrote in the police report.<br />
<br />
Seventeen families got closure that night, knowing the man who had killed their loved ones had been found. For the Bathroom Basher, that night would be the last thing he remembered. His defense team had him cop a plea rather than go through the lengthy red tape of an insanity plea – he admitted that up until the moment that his final victim spoke, he had known exactly what he was doing and enjoyed every second of it. <br />
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She ruined it for him, and he only prayed that somehow she could still feel his utter hate.<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<i>Natasha Amadaeus has always been fascinated with true crime and pulp fiction, especially the psychology of criminals. Working for a mental health service fueled her interest. This background inspires her writing.</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/368632" target="_blank">Image</a>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-38112345149099661582012-06-14T05:00:00.000-05:002012-06-14T05:00:12.008-05:00"A Quickie" - Leroy B. Vaughn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was the summer of 1968, and Jake Pederson was on top of the world. He had been out of the Navy for one year and had a good paying job with the State of California.<br /><br />Jake had left for work early that day. He wanted to run his New Mercury Marauder on the back roads of Riverside County, since he had just finished breaking the engine in last week.<br /><br />He also planned to stop at the coffee shop in Corona, before he checked in for the swing shift at work. He had the Merc cranked up to 90 miles per hour as he flew past a woman walking down the road.<br /><br />It was unusual for anyone to be walking on a farm road at that time of the day, especially a woman in a dress. Jake slowed the big car down, turned on the radio and turned around. Maybe this woman needed help.<br /><br />He sang along with the Beach Boys, wishing they could all be California girls, as he came to a stop across from the woman. She was not as old as he expected her to be and was fairly good looking. He figured her to be in her late 20s, two or three years older than he was.<br /><br />He asked if everything was alright. She said, "Yes, thank you. I'm just going over to Norco."<br /><br />Norco was three or four miles away, and Jake wondered why a young, good-looking woman would be wearing a cotton work-type dress. He had her figured for a housekeeper, or some member of a religious cult.<br /><br />"Can I give you a ride?" he said. She accepted and waited for him to turn the big car around. She said, "Thank you, sir," as she slid into the passenger seat.<br /><br />"You don't have to sir me, I was enlisted," he said to her, before thinking how dumb that sounded.<br /><br />No one her age dressed the way this woman did, and Jake had to find out why she was wearing a dress.<br /><br />"So, are you a housekeeper?" he said.<br /><br />"How did you guess?" she told him as she smiled sweetly at him.<br /><br />They had not moved yet, and Jake asked where she wanted to go. "If you don't mind, you can drop me at the big truck stop in Norco," she instructed him. <br /><br />"No problem at all," he told her as he put the car in gear.<br /><br />They had just pulled onto the road when she grinned at him and said, "Why don't you pull into the orange trees for a few minutes, before we head for Norco."<br /><br />Jake was confused at first. Why would anybody want to go into an orange grove? The woman did not say anything. She just continued to smile a sweet little smile at Jake as she slipped her panties off and placed them on the dashboard in front of him.<br /><br />Then it hit Jake, as he looked at the old lady looking white panties that lay in front of him. She must be one of those lonely farmers' daughters he had heard so many stories about when he was in the Navy.<br /><br />He barely had time to put the gear shift in park. The farmer's daughter was riding him like a Missouri mule. It didn't last long, but it was some of the best, if not the best sex Jake had ever had. Even better than Da Nang or Okinawa.<br /><br />They didn't talk much on the short ride to the truck stop. Jake didn't ask why she wanted to go to the truck stop, but assumed that she might be a janitor there.<br /><br />Before she got out of the car, Jake asked if he could see her again. She was nice, but told him she would be going out of state soon.<br /><br />Jake drove away as the strange woman walked into the truck stop. He would have no way of knowing that she had spotted a woman about the same size as her, getting ready to go into the women's shower room.<br /><br />The woman in the house dress took the other woman's clothes as they hung on a rack, and walked out of the truck stop in a pair of blue jeans and a Western-style blouse.<br /><br />The first trucker that she asked for a ride told her that he was going to El Paso, if she wanted to ride along.<br /><br />Jake was now running a little late. He and his buddies at work always came to work at least 20 minutes early, in order to change clothes and get ready for guard mount.<br /><br />The guard at the gate looked at his identification card and opened the gate for Jake to enter the grounds of the Chino State Prison. His buddy, Frank, was already in uniform as Jake walked into the locker room.<br /><br />"Hey buddy, I was wondering if you were gonna make it today," his pal told him as Jake opened his locker. "I just met a really wild woman on the way to work," Jake explained.<br /><br />"Tell me about it after briefing. I need to see the Lieutenant before we get started. I've got some vacation time and I want to use it if I can," Frank told him as he left the locker room.<br /><br />"Nice to see you could make it today, Pederson, " the Lieutenant growled. The other officers laughed while Jake struggled with his uniform. He was still getting dressed while he walked into the squad room. Frank noticed that Jake was sweating a little more than usual.<br /><br />"All right men, settle down. Let's get started," the Lieutenant told his squad. "They had an escape from the women's prison at Frontera this morning. No one is sure about the time of the escape, but there's a good chance that this woman may be hiding in the fields near Frontera, waiting for dark to make her run for it.<br /><br />"I'm going to pass this picture around. Someone may spot her on the way home tonight. If you do, use caution. Don't try to take her yourself, call the Sheriff's office or the Highway Patrol. This innocent-looking little chickie murdered two bad dudes in a drug deal three years ago, earning her a long stay at Frontera."<br /><br />The Lieutenant passed the picture around. Frank saw a strange look on Jake's face as he stared at the photo. Jake handed the photo to the man next to him. The Lieutenant concluded the briefing after he gave the officers their assignments for the shift.<br /><br />Frank and the other officers headed for work, but Jake hung back. He need to speak to the Lieutenant.<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<i>Leroy B. Vaughn is a retired law enforcement officer from Southern
California. He has written several short stories, true and fiction. He
has had stories published in 10 magazines in the U.S. and Mexico.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/129894" target="_blank">Image via sxc.hu</a><i><br /></i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-91605913882043197842012-05-07T06:50:00.000-05:002012-05-07T06:50:53.950-05:00"The Bag" - Leroy B. Vaughn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/75/Army_Heritage_Museum_B.A.R..jpg/300px-Army_Heritage_Museum_B.A.R..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/75/Army_Heritage_Museum_B.A.R..jpg/300px-Army_Heritage_Museum_B.A.R..jpg" /></a></div>
The rookie could feel his stomach turn sour, as the watch commander called his name. This would be the second week in a row that he had been assigned to ride with the old guy, and he was hoping to get a new training officer for this week.<br />
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He had already spent one week riding with the old harness bull, and he couldn't wait until his probationary period was over. The rookie knew that he would be treated like this, until he paid his dues, which usually took about two years as a cop.<br />
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For six nights now, the new guy had walked out of the briefing room and picked up a shotgun at the armory, while Earl had gone to his old Pontiac to remove a big canvas bag from the trunk of the dented car and place the bag in the trunk of the San Jose police cruiser.<br />
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No one ever asked him what was in the bag. Earl never bothered to volunteer any information about the contents of the bag to anyone.<br />
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They left the yard, headed to their beat, and the old guy said, "You know what I like best about riding alone." <br />
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The new guy knew better, but he fell for it and asked what. <br />
<br />
Earl passed gas and stated, "You don't have to share your farts with anyone."<br />
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It was the 1970s, and San Jose, California, was not one of those cool, laid back bay area towns that the hippies had come out west to hang out in.<br />
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San Jose was a gritty, working-class city with a high crime rate. Besides the bay area working stiffs, San Jose had street gangs, outlaw motorcycle gangs and Black Panthers - to name a few of the trouble makers in the city.<br />
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Besides those denizens, "now we got this disco shit," Earl told the new guy as they watched a group of men and women in outlandish suits and dresses. They walked in front of the patrol car, at a stop light.<br />
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Contrary to the popular song of the 1960s, no one appeared to want to know the way to San Jose, except for its residents.<br />
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The rookie pretended to be interested as Earl mumbled on about his time in the Marines, during the Korean War, and about all the<br />
Chi-Coms he had sent to the promised land during the battle at the Chosin Reservoir.<br />
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The old harness bull was in good shape for a man of his age, the rookie had to admit to himself. He just needed to shave off the white, dictator-style mustache that he had worn since being promoted to Lance Corporal at the end of the war.<br />
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Before they left the station, the watch commander had advised Earl and the new guy to be careful. There was a lot of Black Panther activity in their beat.<br />
<br />
The harness bull was telling the new guy about a problem that he was having with his live-in girlfriend. He always referred to this woman as his aunt when talking about her with the other cops.<br />
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The rookie pretended again to be interested when he heard something make a zinging sound. It ripped across the roof of the squad car.<br />
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"What the hell," Earl said as he heard a second shot. He looked towards the second story of a rundown apartment building.<br />
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"Sons of bitches are shooting at us," the old timer said to the new guy as he slammed the cruiser to the curb, jumped out and crouched behind the rear passenger fender.<br />
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The rookie started to pull the shotgun from its rack, but Earl yelled, "Leave it, they're outta range." The rookie did not understand why they didn't drive out of the ambush, but he did not waste any time joining the old timer behind the rear fender. They both knew that one of the safest places in a car to be during a firefight was behind a wheel. <br />
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"Looks like two guys with hand guns," the old timer said. "Call it in." <br />
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There were no hand held radios at that time. The rookie carefully pulled the mike out through the open passenger door and called the station for back-up.<br />
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"OK," Earl told the new guy, "Cover me when I say go. Lay down some fire power while I get the bag."<br />
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"The bag," the rookie said to himself as he popped up to get a quick glance at the window. The two Black Panthers unleashed a lethal dose of fire at the squad car when they saw the rookie's hat pop up.<br />
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The harness bull slapped the rookies hat off before making his move. He gave the signal and the rookie placed six shots into the window, trying to give Earl enough time to get to the trunk and open it. The rookie was amazed. Earl had taken the keys to the car with him, before bailing out.<br />
<br />
Earl was back, next to the rookie in no time flat, as the Panthers sent another deadly fusillade into the side of the patrol car.<br />
<br />
The rookie had reloaded and was returning fire when he heard the thumping sound of a heavy-caliber automatic weapon. The harness bull knew how to handle the weapon. The rookie never took his eyes off the window until both Panthers went down.<br />
<br />
The watch commander rolled to the scene, code three with two squad cars behind him. Under his command, four officers crossed the street and approached the apartment where the shooting had come from.<br />
<br />
The rookie was reloading for the second time when the watch commander put his hand on his shoulder and said, "It's all right, Johnson, why don't you hand me your weapon."<br />
<br />
Johnson was confused, but the old timer told him that it was OK. The old timer knew that it was standard procedure to take officers' weapons after an officer-involved-shooting. He also handed his weapon over to the watch commander.<br />
<br />
"Holy shit, Earl, is this a B.A.R.? the watch commander asked as he accepted the Browning Automatic Rifle from the harness bull.<br />
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"Sure is," the old timer replied. "I lugged this baby all the way across North Korea. It's what you might call a war souvenir."<br />
<br />
"Well, Earl," the watch commander said. "There's two dead suspects upstairs, and the good news is that you have enough time with the department to retire."<br />
<br />
"I'd like to have my B.A.R. back," Earl said as the watch commander carried it to his police vehicle.<br />
<br />
"After the coroners inquest Earl," the watch commander replied.<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<i>Leroy B. Vaughn is a retired law enforcement officer from Southern
California. He has written several short stories, true and fiction. He
has had stories published in 10 magazines in the U.S. and Mexico. </i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/75/Army_Heritage_Museum_B.A.R..jpg/300px-Army_Heritage_Museum_B.A.R..jpg" target="_blank">Image from Wikipedia </a><i><br /></i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-10692094593870862942012-05-04T05:00:00.000-05:002012-05-04T05:00:06.017-05:00Interview with Les Edgerton, Author/Ex-Con<div style="color: white;">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/515cNR5J-cL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-57,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006P2NLHG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=minncrimauthb-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B006P2NLHG" target="_blank">Les Edgerton's <i>The Bitch</i></a> is one of the most arresting crime novels I've read this year (no pun intended). It chronicles ex-con Jake Bishop's attempts to avoid "The Bitch," a slang term for "habitual criminal." It's similar to the Three Strike Rule. Jake already has two strikes when a prison buddy calls him up for one last job.</div>
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The yarn itself was compelling on its own, but I suspected I was reading a story-within-a-story. Author Edgerton served time in the same prison as his Jake character. His colorful past is already well-known in the crime fiction world, but I still wanted to pick his brain. How much of the story was true?</div>
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Fortunately, the author was more than happy to do an interview. Here it is, unedited and unfiltered. Just 100% pure Edgerton. <b>Read the whole thing. His real-world answers could put fiction to shame.</b></div>
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P.S. Click here to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006P2NLHG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=minncrimauthb-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B006P2NLHG" target="_blank">buy <i>The Bitch</i> on Amazon</a>. It's available at all other fine e-retailers, too.</div>
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<i><b>BEN: It's impossible not to compare the lead character in </b></i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006P2NLHG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=minncrimauthb-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B006P2NLHG" target="_blank">The Bitch</a></b><i><b>, Jake Bishop, to yourself. You both did time in Indiana's Pendleton Correctional Facility, for example. Was </b></i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006P2NLHG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=minncrimauthb-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B006P2NLHG" target="_blank">The Bitch</a></b><i><b> catharic to write?</b></i></div>
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<b>LES:</b> First, a small correction. When I was in prison, it was “Pendleton Reformatory.” Only, it wasn’t a “reformatory,” but one of the two Indiana maximum prisons, the other one being Michigan City. The only difference between them was that cons 30 and younger were sent to Pendleton and cons older than 30 went to Michigan City. </div>
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The “correctional facility” is a recent name change and nowadays they have a juvie facility in addition to the main prison. <b>While I was there, then-President Johnson conducted a national study and concluded that Pendleton was “the single worst prison in the U.S.” </b></div>
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And, it was. There were eight riots during my stay, not including the one I walked in on when first sent up.</div>
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As to your question, Ben, writing it wasn’t much in the way of a catharsis at all. For a couple of reasons. </div>
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One, I’ve written about my experiences there in many of my previous novels and short stories, and so the “catharsis” value has pretty much been exhausted by now. </div>
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And, two, I’ve never lost a lot of sleep over my experience there. I was a criminal and going to prison is just part of the deal of being “in the life.” That “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the time” is pretty much the way it is. Just a part of the job description. <b>Criminals are pretty good at compartmentalizing things and when you’re in the joint, you’re in the “zone” and not outside, on the bricks in your mind, and when you’re out on the bricks, you don’t waste a lot of time thinking about the joint. </b></div>
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I see a new breed of criminal today on TV where these guys are crying when they get caught. What kind of punk cries?</div>
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<i><b>BEN: One of the themes throughout </b></i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006P2NLHG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=minncrimauthb-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B006P2NLHG" target="_blank">The Bitch</a></b><i><b> was having to make a bad choice in the pursuit of something better. For example, kill Person X to save Person Y, yet create a new problem with Person Z. It's almost like the game is rigged. Does this reflect your view of the world, that we're doomed to a certain fate no matter what we choose?</b></i></div>
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<b>LES:</b> Ah! So you’re asking me if I have a Calvinistic view of life—that predestination thingy! </div>
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Well, on Monday’s I think that, and on Tuesdays I don’t. On Wednesdays, I don’t care. </div>
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To be honest, on most days I don’t care. I have a different vision of morality and God and all that. Most days, I fit the definition of a nihilist quite accurately. Expediency is what gets me through life. </div>
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For instance, I don’t perform criminal activities any longer and it’s not because I had some kind of “come to Jesus” moment or some kind of epiphany. <b>I’ve just weighed the pros and cons of performing a criminal act and since I’ve been there (inside the walls), I have a clear idea of what that’s like and so far I haven’t come across a crime whose possible rewards outweigh the possible penalties. </b></div>
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If I ever do, I’m pretty sure I’m off that good citizen dais and out there doing the crime. But, it’ll have to be the perfect crime with an enormous upside. At my age, to go back to the joint is a certain death sentence and I’m not quite ready for that. Incarceration really is a good deterrent once you’ve experienced it.</div>
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<i><b>BEN: On that same note, Jake is sucked back into the world of crime despite trying to get as far from it as possible. Is this a fear you were exorcising through Jake's character?</b></i></div>
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<b>LES:</b> Not really, but I can understand Jake completely. He’s the guy I could be if I had a moral view of the universe. Except, he’s really kidding himself that he’s a moral person. </div>
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In the end, he’s as nihilistic as I am. Not trying to come across as some kind of “badass” hardened criminal type, but I really don’t feel like I have a lot of fears. I’ve done time, been homeless, been shot at, been stabbed, had just about everything you can imagine thrown at me and can never remember feeling anything at the time than the same thing—that what was happening was interesting and would make great material for my fiction. </div>
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Detached is the best way to describe my feelings at any of those times. I’ve always thought “what’s the worst that can happen” in any situation I’ve been in, and never has that “worst thing” been all that bad. </div>
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It’s the feeling I had <b>when I was in a shootout with what I thought were cops in a grade school and it’s the feeling I had when my call girl girlfriend Cat had stabbed one of my other girlfriends and was trying to eviscerate me</b>. “What’s the worst that can happen here?” </div>
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In those cases (and others) the worst was death, and hey… nobody gets out of life alive, so what’s the fuss all about? <b>It’s going to happen to all of us (death) and if you worry about it, it seems to me that you’re kind of… what’s the word?... oh, yeah… <i>stupid</i>.</b> It’s going to happen at some time, so when it does what’s awakened is a feeling of avid curiosity. What’s it going to be like?</div>
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<i><b>BEN: "The Bitch" refers to the slang term for "habitual" criminal, which others refer to as the "Three Strike Rule." Wind up in prison three times, and you're "out" for life. Advocates of these laws say they deter crime. Yet in your novel, it seems to encourage it. Jake will do anything - no matter how extreme - to avoid a third term in Pendleton. Which side of this issue do you fall on?</b></i></div>
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<b>LES:</b> These “law and order” types—politicians and the media, especially—don’t have a clue what deters crime. Or, rather, I suspect they do, but their agenda isn’t to keep people out of prison. It’s to gain votes for pols (for being seen as “tough on crime") and for viewers and readers (in the case of media.). <b>It’s sexy and it’s popular to appear to exhibit the attitude of “lock ‘em up and throw away the key.” The things they do don’t deter crime in the least.</b></div>
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<b>Here’s what deters crime. Barber school.</b> (I’m using this as an example.) When I was in Pendleton, I had a much higher degree of education than most—I’d graduated high school and spent four years in the Navy and was a radioman and cryptographer. The average educational level of my fellow inmates was about third grade. When most of these guys got out—and most do get out, which straights don’t seem to realize will happen—they have no skills to gain any kind of meaningful employment. Which means, they’ll be on the street again, with no way to gain money for a meal, for a place to crash, for any of that. So, they’ll end up doing what they know how to do. Stick up a 7-11, sell drugs, break into a place.</div>
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Well, Pendleton at that time operated under the philosophy of rehabilitation. They actually meant it. The barber school was the best “lick” in the place and inmates fought over getting in. The reason was, the training was the best in the country and as a result barber shop and hairstyle salons were waiting in line to hire us. On the bricks, a guy in a civilian barber school got to cut maybe 1-2 heads of hair a day. He went to school for seven months. In Pendleton, we cut 12-14 heads a day. For at least two years and often a lot longer. When we were released, we were just far, far better at cutting hair than anyone else. Our services were valued and highly. I had to field offers of employment from literally hundreds of places. Guys from civilian barber and beauty schools couldn’t buy a job. They took our leavings, basically.</div>
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The result was, about 82% of us stayed on the bricks. We made serious money and got married. Bought homes, joined the Rotary, had kids and coached Little League. Why? Because we had excellent jobs. I was making $500 a week in 1968, which was great money in those days and it went up from there. Legitimately.</div>
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And, as great as the barber school was, it was virtually the only program in Pendleton that had this kind of success rate. The reason was we learned a very marketable skill. The second-best lick was the machine shop. Theoretically, guys could learn to be machinists and go out and secure a good job. The problem was, the machinery they learned on was outdated by at least 50 years and so the inmate who’d gone through that program wasn’t much better off than the guy who worked in the laundry or in the chow hall. The barber school program was a huge success and showed what was possible. Very few guys who went through the barber school came back.</div>
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But then… civilian barber students started protesting that all the good jobs were going to ex-cons and support for the program went away… Lock ‘em up and throw away the key…</div>
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The thing is, <b>nothing the “authorities” do these days deters crime</b>. I can’t think of a single thing. Warehousing criminals is the worst thing to ever happen for a lot of reasons space doesn’t allow me to go into here. What’s needed is a realistic look at criminals and prisons and the wrong-minded approach pervasive in corrections today, but that’s a pipe dream. <b>Too many people making a lot of money off crime and I’m not referring to the criminals.</b></div>
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<i><b>BEN: "Prison rape" is often the punchline in a joke. </b></i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006P2NLHG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=minncrimauthb-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B006P2NLHG" target="_blank">The Bitch</a></b><i><b> takes a different approach and details the long-term psychological damage of rapes behind bars. The survivors might be prisoners, but they're still human beings. Is that a point you were trying to make?</b></i></div>
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<b>LES:</b> First of all, <b>“prison rape” doesn’t go on nearly as much as straights think it does</b>. It’s actually fairly rare. If one were to believe movies, books, and comedians, one would think it’s all that goes on in the joint. And, it doesn’t. </div>
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In fact, in my two+ years inside, among over 2,000 inmates, I was aware of maybe 5-10 such instances. There were more going on, I’m aware, but those were all I was aware of. <b>This is one of the biggest myths perpetuated. It’s not a sexual thing—it’s a power thing and most often between blacks and whites.</b> Whites don’t rape blacks as a rule, but blacks will often try to rape whites. In their minds, shows they’re in control.</div>
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I got hit on twice in two years. The first was in jail, not prison, so only one time in prison. And, that came about after I got my parole and made the mistake of talking about it. (You don’t tell anyone as there are lots of guys who can’t stand it that someone’s getting out and they’re not and they try their best to fuck up a guy’s parole.) A black guy got in my barber’s chair (a no-no—blacks don’t sit in white barber’s chairs and vice versa, unless one of them’s a punk), and told me he was going to make me his kid. </div>
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I’d made up my mind what I was going to do if that ever happened and I did exactly that. Grabbed my straight edge and went after him, trying to cut his throat. Chased him all over the barber school and then Jonesy, a black hack, caught me, ran me into the office, locked the door, and took the black inmate over to his dorm. Jonesy could have written me up—and he should have—but he didn’t, which saved my life as I would have lost my parole and I knew if I had to do the whole five years of my bit, I’d have to kill the dude who fronted me and once I did that, I’d be in there the rest of my life. So, Jonesy saved my life, in my opinion.</div>
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The guys who get hit on are guys who are all alone. In Pendleton, that meant guys from small towns who weren’t career criminals before and didn’t know anyone. I was from South Bend and had been pulling jobs for years and knew everybody from South Bend and so had all kinds of buddies who had my back as I had theirs. A good example of what happens is one day a new kid came onto our tier from a small town—Tipton—and he seemed like an all-right guy, albeit naïve, and I kind of took him under my wing. Well, a black dude started romancing him (although the kid didn’t realize what he was doing)—giving him cookies, cigarettes and all that. </div>
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I warned the kid that he needed to get away from this guy, but he was convinced the black guy was just trying to be friendly. He was. A week later, he’d turned the kid out. Big-time. Not just for himself, but he put the kid on the block. First thing he did was get a ball-peen hammer and knock out all the kid’s front teeth. (Better for blow jobs.) A week after I’d tried to warn him off, the kid was roaming the aisles on movie day, giving blow jobs to other inmates for cigarettes and green, turning them over to his new “friend.” Sad, but he was too ignorant to know when help was offered him.</div>
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But, that’s where most rapes come from. It’s just not a common deal at all. It wasn’t something most of us even think about or worry about at all. <b>Seems to happen a lot in movies and in novels written by writers who don’t have a clue.</b></div>
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All that said, I’ve got rape in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006P2NLHG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=minncrimauthb-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B006P2NLHG" target="_blank">THE BITCH</a>, don’t I! But, both took place in jail, not prison. One is far more likely to be raped in jail than in prison for several reasons. One, many guys in jail haven’t done time so all they know is from books and movies. So, they try to imitate what they think goes on, especially black guys. Not trying to come across as a racist, but it is what it is. </div>
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Second, and more important, guys in jail are hours or mere days away from being under the influence of drugs and that makes you do things and act in ways you wouldn’t when sober. Third, often guys in jail haven’t made the alliances they will in prison and so are more at risk. Jail and prison are vastly different animals.</div>
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Your original question was if I was trying to show that survivors or prison rape were still human beings. Well, not consciously. I simply assume they are (still human beings). I think a lot of straights think all criminals are rapists, child-molesters, serial killers and the like. The fact is, the vast majority of convicts are involved in crimes of property more than in crimes of person. Far more guys inside for burglarizing bars and gas stations, for stealing cars, for sticking up 7-11’s, for check-kiting, for assault on the wife who they walked in on as they were banging their best friends, than are in there for the crimes commonly portrayed on TV. </div>
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So, yeah; I think most of the guys inside are still human beings. Books, TV and movies are all engaged in sensationalizing prisons and are a long way off from any accurate portrayal. <b>That series on MSNBC is typical bullshit</b>—if a person believed that show, they’d think most inmates are pumping iron all day long or are total nut jobs. Totally unrealistic show, but <b>if they showed the boredom that prison truly is, ratings would plunge</b>.</div>
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<i><b>BEN: You're candid about your colorful past, even writing about it in your bio on your website. Why? As you point out in </b></i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006P2NLHG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=minncrimauthb-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B006P2NLHG" target="_blank">The Bitch</a></b><i><b>, people can react negatively to finding out one is an ex-con.</b></i></div>
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<b>LES:</b> For years, I did just that—kept my past secret. Then, I got tired of listening to people who usually had it all wrong. The truth is, most criminals are pretty much like your average citizen. Not that many hang out in strip clubs, have tatts, use drugs and drink like there was no tomorrow. Not that many have killed someone. Not that many have raped or been raped in the joint. </div>
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If you took the population of the average prison and set these folks down in the food court of your average mall and dressed them “normally” I doubt if anyone looking at them or listening to them would ever think they were any different than anyone else who might be in the mall. In fact, the average citizen probably talks to an excon every week and doesn’t have a clue. At one time, for instance, I could walk into just about any barbershop in Indiana and almost always someone cutting hair there would be someone I knew from Pendleton. The average lame who came in for their haircut didn’t have a clue. Well, we’re out there in your neighborhood. </div>
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Some of us are working in fast food, some are selling insurance, some are working on your car, some are taking your dry cleaning and handing you the pickup ticket, some are managing movie theaters… <b>you name it, ex-cons are doing the same jobs and living the same lives as anyone else</b>. Remember, I was a college prof (still am), was in college and elected student body president, worked as a reporter for The South Bend Tribune, sold Prudential life insurance, worked as a headhunter for an executive recruiting firm—in short, did a whole bunch of jobs that, if you believed bad novels, bad movies, and bad TV wouldn’t be the case. But it is. We’re (ex-cons) are in every segment of life on the bricks and doing virtually any job you can think of.</div>
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<i><b>BEN: Let's wrap up with a lighter question. What would be on the Les Edgerton sandwich?</b></i></div>
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<b>LES:</b> A tunafish sandwich made with the recipe of this place I used to go to in Bermuda. I’ve never tasted anything like it since. And, I don’t even like tunafish much, but this sandwich was awesome. Second choice, would be fried oysters.</div>
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Thanks for having me on, Ben. This was fun!</div>
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<br /></div>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-88730429986993452382012-04-16T05:00:00.000-05:002012-04-16T05:00:06.839-05:00"A Cop, His Dog and Some Gun Thugs " - Leroy B. Vaughn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c8/Bull_Terrier_from_1915.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c8/Bull_Terrier_from_1915.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><i>Editor's Note: This piece of flash non-fiction blew me away. Not even a brutal Mexican gang war can break the bonds of man's best friend. Thanks for sharing this incredible story, Leroy.</i><br />
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In present times, Sahuayo is a bustling city of approximately 350,000 people located in the Mexican state of Michoacan. The streets are packed with people, and traffic is non-stop from daylight until well after dark.<br />
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People stand in doorways and gossip with passing neighbors. Teenagers try to see which car stereo can shake the windows of the little block houses as they drive through the narrow streets, often going the wrong way.<br />
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This is a different Sahuayo than the one of 1949, when Everado Ochoa was a town policeman. The town had a population of about 10,000 people and was controlled by five powerful families.<br />
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Everado Ochoa had been appointed to the town patrol, as the law enforcement agency for Sahuayo was called at that time, by his uncle, Antonio Ochoa.<br />
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Antonio Ochoa was the commandant of the patrol. He had made his bones as a Cristero rebel chief during the rebellion that lasted from 1926 until 1929.<br />
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After Antonio Ochoa gained control of the town patrol, he deputized several of his relatives as patrolmen, allowing them to carry guns. They had little or no training in law enforcement, and Sahuayo was ruled with an iron fist.<br />
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As an example, Commandant Ochoa appointed his brother, Alfredo Ochoa, to assist in crime fighting in the town. Alfredo Ochoa was working as an off-duty officer at a local event, and was assigned to collect a small fee to use a public toilet. A local man did not feel that he should have to pay to use a toilet and told Alfredo the same. After a brief argument, Alfredo Ochoa shot the man dead. <br />
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After that incident, no one argued about pay toilets in Sahuayo.<br />
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The Cristero rebellion had been over for 20 years, but killers still roamed the streets of Sahuayo, bent on vendettas. By most accounts, the commandant's nephew, Everado Ochoa, was known as a decent person who was just trying to make a living in the town of Sahuayo.<br />
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At that time, Sahuayo was a rural town with narrow streets. There were more horse-drawn carts and donkeys in the town than there were cars or trucks. Everado Ochoa patrolled the streets on foot and knew everyone on his beat. He was a devoted husband and the father of a boy and a girl, both toddlers.<br />
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He looked forward to going home at the end of the day and spending time with his wife and kids, as well as his faithful dog, King. <br />
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Everado had found King when the dog was a pup. He bartered with the man selling the dog, saying that the bull terrier was the ugliest mutt he had ever seen. The man was going to charge him full price, ugly or not, until he realized that Everado was the nephew of the commandant. All of a sudden the price for King got much better.<br />
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Everado's wife didn't want a dog, especially one as ugly as this white bull terrier with the big brown spots and yellow eyes. Still, she knew Everado and King were going to be great friends.<br />
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Everado and King were soon seen all over the town, walking the narrow streets. At home, King was at Everado's feet while the patrolman relaxed in his favorite chair. At night, when Everado and his wife went to their bedroom, King followed them. He slept next to Everado's side of the bed.<br />
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One day, King was at his usual place by the front door, waiting for Everado to return from his patrol. Everado's wife was in the little kitchen, preparing something eat. Her two little children were at her side.<br />
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Everado was only a few blocks from home when a man ran up. He said someone was shooting a gun on a street a few blocks away. There were no police radios at that time in Sahuayo, and most of the citizens did not own telephones or cars. The man was sent to find the commandant. The 20-year-old patrolman headed to the scene on his own.<br />
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Everado was shot dead as soon as he arrived on the scene. <br />
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Everado's brother, Leopoldo, arrived at the scene before the commandant and his posse. He spotted two men he knew and did not like. Leopoldo shot both men, wounding but not killing them. <br />
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It turned out to be a case of mistaken identity. Neither man had anything to do with the death of his brother.<br />
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The real shooter was never found. He made his getaway during the confusion caused by Leopoldo Ochoa shooting the wrong men.<br />
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The next evening, Everado's wife sat in a corner of the house, wearing all black, as the women of the family prepared food for mourners at the wake. The men gathered on the street in front of the house and drank tequila. <br />
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Everado's casket was in the living room of the house on sawhorses. King, the bull terrier, guarded the casket from beneath it.<br />
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When the casket was moved from the house to the church for the funeral mass, King followed the horse-drawn wagon through the narrow streets of town.<br />
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After the mass, King followed the cortege to the cemetery. The mourners left after the graveside service, but not King. He stayed by his master's grave.<br />
<br />
At first, the new widow did not notice King missing. One of the brothers brought him home after finding him in the cemetery at Everado's grave.<br />
<br />
King did not sleep or eat after the death of his master. He sat at his spot near Everado's chair, as if he were waiting for the young patrolman to come home from work.<br />
<br />
Three months after the funeral, Everado's wife came out of her bedroom and found King dead near Everado's chair. King, Everado's faithful companion, was two and one-half years old.<br />
<br />
Thirty-three years after the death of Everado Ochoa, his brother, Leopoldo, died from complications after being shot several times in the knees. Unknown assailants shot him in his second-hand store in Los Angeles, California. Fifteen-hundred miles from Sahuayo.<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<i>Leroy Vaughn is a retired law enforment officer from southern California. He and his wife, Cecilia, lived in central Mexico for more than three years. This story was written after interviewing several surviving members of the Ochoa family. His short stories have been published in 10 magazines in the U.S. and Mexico. </i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-73297739881131184692012-04-09T05:00:00.001-05:002012-04-09T05:00:05.964-05:00"The Real Bruce Lee" - Leroy B. Vaughn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/d/dc/dcubillas/1354791_stone_cross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/d/dc/dcubillas/1354791_stone_cross.jpg" width="132" /></a>May 13, 2003 was a regular work day for me. I woke up early, went into the kitchen to make tea and have a bowl of cereal before I left for work.<br />
<br />
I turned on the television to listen to what passes for news in Los Angeles.<br />
<br />
The news readers were doing the usual, talking about events that had occurred in southern California in the last few hours.<br />
<br />
I was sort of listening to the news reader when I heard, "Deputy killed in Indio." It had been 22 years since I had worked in Indio. I didn't think there was much of a chance that I would know the officer that the news reader was talking about.<br />
<br />
I sat in my chair and waited for the commercial to end. The news came back on and I looked at a picture of a deputy who I had trained when he was a rookie and I was a field training officer.<br />
<br />
Bruce Lee was a good trainee and had visited me in Los Angeles in 1981, after I had screwed up by leaving the sheriff's office.<br />
<br />
I had introduced him to my new captain, who thought that I was kidding when I said, "Skipper, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Bruce Lee."<br />
<br />
The captain thought that he was going along with the joke. He replied, "Bruce Lee, I've heard of you before."<br />
<br />
The news reader went on to say that Bruce had answered a disturbing the peace call in La Quinta, near Indio. A suspect named Kevin Diablo (real name) confronted Bruce at the scene and took Bruce's baton away from him, inflicting several blows to Bruce's head and neck, causing severe trauma that killed him.<br />
<br />
The 23 year old suspect was known to have mental problems, but the news did not say if anyone told the sheriff's dispatcher that fact when they called the station.<br />
<br />
A back-up deputy arrived to find Bruce's motionless body on the ground and was confronted by Mr. Diablo, who was yielding Bruce's baton.<br />
<br />
The deputy fired his service weapon and killed the deranged man.<br />
<br />
It was a sad day for me as I drove to work, listening to the radio. Trying to find any information about Bruce Lee's murder.<br />
<br />
I would later find out that Bruce Lee had recently transferred back to Indio to work in patrol after spending time as a traffic accident investigator in a contract city not far from Indio.<br />
<br />
I was unable to attend Bruce's funeral. He was buried on his 46th birthday.<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<i>Leroy B. Vaughn is a retired law enforcement officer from Southern California. He has written several short stories, true and fiction. He has had stories published in 10 magazines in the U.S. and Mexico. </i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/1354791" target="_blank">Image courtesy of dcubilla.</a>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-41475600577602194242011-12-16T07:38:00.000-06:002011-12-16T07:38:29.784-06:00"The Criminal Did WHAT!?" - John Hansen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/t/tv/tvvoodoo/657836_forced_entry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/t/tv/tvvoodoo/657836_forced_entry.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">(The following is not my own experience, nor did I bear witness. I read about this on </span><a href="http://www.about-crime.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">www.about-crime.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> and after laughing out loud, decided to turn it into a humorous true crime story. Hope you like it!)</span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">August 2010</span></span></i></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">It is a sultry summer afternoon and a group of young boys – all of who are younger than the age of 18 – decide to spend their time robbing a house. They are your classic dimwitted gang of rebels in need of making yet another idiotic mistake. And that’s just what one of the group’s members, a young boy, did. </span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">This young criminal is looting the stranger’s attic of all old jewelry and trinkets that appear to be of value, dreaming of riches and good fortunes, when he turns to leave. But he realizes something. He locked himself in the attic. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">In his daze, he forgot to make sure he had a way out; he, instead, simply shut the door behind him. He struggles with the lock, tries kicking the door open and screams for his friends. Nothing. They can’t hear him, he assumes. </span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">So our genius criminal waits there, cursing at his own idiocy, for some time until he finally realizes he has a cell phone in his pocket. Oh, what do you know? Because his fellow unintelligent thieves could not hear him, he decides to call the one person he knows he can already rely on, the one person who will always be there for him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Who, the police? No, not the police. He calls his mother. What else would a young boy do in a crisis situation as such? Mommy picks him up hours later and although she is furious, she doesn’t turn him in. That would be the neighbors’ job days later. </span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">It is funny, amazing and all-the-more unnerving to see how entirely ignorant and dimwitted some people are. You would think that a boy of that age would at least watch TV, right? The news? A magazine? A book, even? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">But it would appear that this is not so. I mean c’mon people, if you want to rob someone’s house, wouldn’t you at least think first? Maybe check to make sure you have suitable means of escape? Apparently not.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">-30-</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><i>John Hansen is a crime author and blogger. His website is <a href="http://incessantdroningofaboredwriter.wordpress.com/">The Incessant Droning of a Bored Writer</a>.</i></span></div>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-56690563725422159212011-10-31T07:38:00.002-05:002011-10-31T07:38:17.395-05:00A True Ghost Story<div class="postbody"> <div class="xg_user_generated"> <i>In honor of the Halloween holiday, here's a true ghost story that happened to me. Have any of your own? Share them in the comments.</i><br />
<br />
<span class="fw_sanitized"><b>Sleepwalking a Thin Line</b><br />
<br />
<i>by Benjamin Sobieck</i><br />
<br />
Sleepwalking can be an unsettling byproduct of an otherwise peaceful activity. The line between dreaming and reality is thin as your eyelids. But I never knew how thin until a dream stepped into my reality.<br />
<br />
<img align="right" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/c/ca/canberkol/566447_shadow_man.jpg" />The spell of tinkering on the Internet proved too alluring late one sleepless night I was home from college. To keep from disturbing my parents, I turned out the lights and closed my bedroom door completely before firing up the computer. I never drifted off to sleep in this time, not even for a moment.<br />
<br />
A couple hours later, I clearly heard the knob on my bedroom door turn and unlatch. The door swung open exactly as if manipulated by a person. It even stopped before the knob hit the wall. <br />
<br />
My parents? I looked up. No mom. No dad. <br />
<br />
But something was standing there. The shadow of a person - a darker-than-night outline - appeared in front of the door. The apparition did not have discernible features. It looked like a human-shaped black hole. I sensed it was looking at me.<br />
<br />
Within a few seconds, it dissipated. The door remained open. Most people would have panicked. I didn't. I recognized this shadow person.<br />
<br />
But before I allowed myself to process this, I wanted to be sure one of my parents hadn't opened the door.<br />
<br />
I walked out of my room and into the hallway. My dad snored away from inside one of the bedrooms. I went to the living room where my mom dozed. The blankets curled tight around her still body. <br />
<br />
I am an only child. We had no indoor pets at the time.<br />
<br />
Maybe a sudden draft opened the door? No. I had latched the door completely. It wasn't going to just drift open. Something had to turn the knob to open the door.<br />
<br />
I went back to my room, still not frightened. In fact, I felt a sense of closure. I would never see that shadow person again. I can't explain how, but I knew that now.<br />
<br />
A bit of history.<br />
<br />
For many years prior to this incident, I was a hardcore sleepwalker. For those who haven't experienced sleepwalking, what you do in your dream is what happens in reality. For example, I once had a dream about trying to wake someone up. In reality, I was shaking my parents as they slept.<br />
<br />
Most of the time, though, the same dream played out again and again. I'd walk to my bedroom window and look out into the woods. I'd see a small black figure warbling off in the distance. The more I watched, the closer it came. Soon I would make out the shape of a person. A "shadow person," if you will. The darkness that made up this figure stuck out against the backdrop of the night.<br />
<br />
The shadow person would come out of the woods and into the lawn. It would then circle the house. Almost like it followed a path. I'd track it from window to window. <br />
<br />
Remember, I thought this was a dream. Except I really was walking from window to window.<br />
<br />
It progressed to the point where I would turn lights on to try to get a better look at it. That would wake my parents, who would try to get me to "snap out of it." When you sleepwalk, you appear normal. Almost like a high-functioning zombie. But there's a veil of sleep that keeps you from being truly conscious.<br />
<br />
Once I came out of that dream and into reality, I'd be confused. I couldn't see the shadow person anymore. I could only see one of my parents saying, "Go to bed, Ben, you've been sleepwalking again."<br />
<br />
I'd tell them about the shadow person. They'd say something more reasonable. I yielded to the likely explanation it was all a product of my sleepwalking. But the line between reality and dreaming during a sleepwalk is so thin, I couldn't help but wonder.<br />
<br />
On the night I stayed up late on the computer, the situation reversed. My "dream" turned the knob, opened the door and stared at my fully conscious reality.<br />
<br />
I still don't know what to make of all this. The past offers a possible clue, albeit a far-fetched one. The previous owner died on the property. Not of old age, but of drowning in a hot tub.<br />
<br />
Care to take a guess where that hot tub sat before it was torn down?<br />
<br />
Outside. In the yard. Near the woods. A storage shed now stands in its place. I never saw the shadow person at that storage shed, though.<br />
<br />
Years later, my wife and I lived in the basement of that house - a product of the bad economy and me needing a kidney transplant. My wife would recall a man's face looking at her through the window late at night, after I'd fallen asleep. Where? From the direction of the storage shed.<br />
<br />
Months after we moved out, I received a call from the house's security alarm company. Something had tripped the motion detector in the hallway outside my old room. No one was supposed to be home, which is why I got the call. The police conducted a search and found nothing. <br />
<br />
In the dead of night, I drove to the house and investigated for myself. I replayed the memory of that door opening. Something told me there was a connection. I found nothing. No signs of forced entry. Not a single other alarm tripped. Whatever happened took place only in that hallway.<br />
<br />
Are these events all a product of imagination and coincidence? I'll never know for sure. Ever since my brother died in the home we lived in many years prior, I've felt connected in some ways to "the other side." Perhaps this deceased owner recognized that and wanted to contact me. I have no idea.<br />
<br />
It's tempting to interpret your latter years through the lens of the paranormal if you believe something supernatural happened in your younger years. I may be fooling myself.<br />
<br />
Or maybe that doubt is fooling me. Sleepwalking is still a mysterious phenomenon. Perhaps my state of mind let me meet this shadow person on its own plane of existence. One where it's damned to a perpetual walking sleep in those woods. I wonder if this shadow person thinks it was all a dream, too.<br />
<br />
But I won't explore it any further.<br />
<br />
Ever since that night, I never sleepwalked again.<br />
<br />
-30-</span><br />
<span class="fw_sanitized"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="fw_sanitized"><em>Benjamin Sobieck is the author of the crime novel</em> <a href="http://www.tinyurl.com/cleansingeden" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Cleansing Eden</a>. <em>His website is <a href="http://www.crimefictionbook.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">CrimeFictionBook.com</a>.</em></span> </div></div>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-4801806074067714022011-06-26T23:02:00.002-05:002011-06-26T23:19:59.163-05:00Audio: Law Enforcement Officer Stakes Out Haunted Crime Scene<i>In this segment from the podcast, <a href="http://jimharold.com/jim-harolds-campfire/haunted-stakeout-campfire-72/">"Jim Harold's Campfire,"</a> a law enforcement officer stakes out a haunted crime scene. It's spooky, and I had to share it here. "Ned" tells his story at the 8:08 mark.</i><br />
<br />
<embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="audioUrl=http://www.podtrac.com/pts/redirect.mp3/traffic.libsyn.com/campfire/Haunted_Stakeout_-_Campfire_72e.mp3" src="http://www.google.com/reader/ui/3523697345-audio-player.swf" width="400" height="27" quality="best"></embed>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-16910029239319251882011-06-04T05:00:00.010-05:002011-06-04T06:48:51.029-05:00"Author Takes Ride in Police Car (In a Good Way)" - Jennifer Chase<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://api.ning.com/files/-kl1bbn4T3u-c-NJDWWM3OjOleK3KT2ICEj3DnwOzLkcWgXMOUsrB0eHRXIWbUpDVOSbmPtEVnKVrcG5X21ECn2*8DnuEsYV/policesirens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://api.ning.com/files/-kl1bbn4T3u-c-NJDWWM3OjOleK3KT2ICEj3DnwOzLkcWgXMOUsrB0eHRXIWbUpDVOSbmPtEVnKVrcG5X21ECn2*8DnuEsYV/policesirens.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>One of the most exciting and rewarding experiences that I’ve had as a crime fiction writer was the opportunity to participate in a police ride-along. I have observed patrol, K9, and detective investigative duties for various police agencies throughout the state of California.<br />
<br />
For those of you that aren’t familiar with a police ride-along, it’s a program through city and county law enforcement agencies that allow adult citizens to accompany and observe police officers out on patrol. <br />
<br />
The main purpose of a Ride-Along Program is to improve police and public relations by familiarizing citizens with the complex and unpredictable nature of police work. It can also be a great introduction to daily life on the police force and it will enlighten most participants on local crime activity. Most people who participate in the program are generally interested in becoming a law enforcement officer, concerned local citizens, students, and of course writers. It you have viewed the popular television show “Cops”, it’s quite similar to that in regard to the type of calls police handle on a daily basis. <br />
<br />
I feel that this program is important to help bridge the gap between citizens and the police. It helps to dispel the typical stereotypes that are sometimes taken as fact. I can honestly say it was a great experience for me. I felt very honored to be able talk and ride with some of our finest. My appreciation goes out to these men and women of law enforcement. They do a great job.<br />
<br />
I just have a few important points that I want to convey if you do decide to go on a police ride-along. It will ensure the best possible experience for you.<br />
<br />
1. Be professional and reserved.<br />
<br />
2. Wear appropriate clothing.<br />
<br />
3. Be respectful of your host police officer and your surrounding situations.<br />
<br />
4. Take plenty of notes.<br />
<br />
5. Bring a bottle of water and some type of energy bar just in case.<br />
<br />
6. Be observant, relax, and have a great time!<br />
<br />
The police ride-along has been an invaluable tool for me in my writing experience. It has helped me to give realism to my novels by being able to observe police procedures, listen to actual radio codes and experience all types of calls for service. <br />
<br />
If you’re interested in participating in a Ride-Along Program contact your local police agency and find out the details. Every police department varies slightly on the requirements, procedures, days available, and length of ride. <br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Jennifer Chase holds a bachelor degree in police forensics and a master's degree in criminology. In addition, she holds certifications in serial crime and criminal profiling. She is also a member of the International Association of Forensic Criminologists. She has authored three thriller novels: "Compulsion," "Dead Game" and "Silent Partner." <br />
<br />
In addition, she currently assists clients in publishing, ghostwriting, book reviews, blogs, articles, screenwriting, copywriting, editing and research. Her website is <a href="http://www.authorjenniferchase.com/">http://www.authorjenniferchase.com</a>.</i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-12626503198284175192011-05-13T12:15:00.000-05:002011-05-13T12:15:09.944-05:00Submissions SoughtHappy Friday the 13th, everyone!<br />
<br />
Just putting the word out that "Fingerprints" is on the hunt for submissions. I've received some the past few weeks that didn't work out for one reason or another. Figured I'd put the word out so it doesn't get dusty around here.<br />
<br />
I also figured it'd be tough to find a regular stream of submissions (especially in this specific niche), but that's OK. You can't make up non-fiction.<br />
<br />
So if you're looking to submit, <a href="http://fingerprintsjournal.blogspot.com/p/submissions.html">click here</a> to check out the guidelines.<br />
<br />
Thanks!<br />
<br />
-BenBenjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-74413232185154855162011-04-28T17:05:00.007-05:002012-04-07T21:04:26.048-05:00Photo: A Crime Story Told in Needle and Ink<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://ionenewsone.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/picture-71.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://ionenewsone.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/picture-71.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
"Authorities relied on a chest tattoo that depicted the murder scene to apprehend and convict a California gang member for a deadly shooting.<br />
<br />
"[Anthony] Garcia's tattoo captured the night of the shooting, from the Christmas lights outside the liquor store to the bent light post in the store's parking lot to the convalescent home called the Rivera, next door to the liquor store. The scene shows a chopper spraying bullets on a victim. Garcia's gang nickname is 'Chopper.'"<br />
<br />
(<a href="http://abcnews.go.com/US/california-gang-member-anthony-garcias-tattoo-murder-scene/story?id=13437545">Source</a>)<br />
<br />
(<a href="http://newsone.com/nation/casey-gane-mccalla/mans-crime-scene-tattoo-leads-to-murder-conviction/">Photo source</a>)Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-51095335025006323602011-04-22T00:01:00.004-05:002011-04-22T07:15:47.950-05:00"What's the Difference? True Crime vs. Crime Flash Non-Fiction" - Benjamin SobieckFriday is normally the day for new stories, but seeing as there's a break between submissions (it is Easter weekend), I figured I'd throw in some food for thought.<br />
<br />
I've received tremendous feedback after starting "Fingerprints." Readers love the stories and concept. There are plenty of great flash non-fiction 'zines out there, but none focused exclusively on crime.<br />
<br />
Hence the term "crime flash non-fiction." But aren't they really "true crime" stories? That's something readers wanted to know.<br />
<br />
Although all the stories here are true and about crime, they're not "true crime." They're "crime flash non-fiction." The difference is how each handles the narrative.<br />
<br />
The true crime genre chronicles events from a journalistic perspective. The crime event happened, then someone researched and memorialized it in various media. The narrative component is there, but it's secondary to the journalistic component.<br />
<br />
The opposite is true with crime flash non-fiction. The narrative component comes first. Because of this, it's much more personal, and written from the perspective of someone who experienced the crime event. The journalistic component is secondary.<br />
<br />
That allows crime flash non-fiction more room for creativity and catharsis. The titles can get funky ("Trap Zombie"), serious allegations can take a light-hearted bent ("Public Enemy Number One") and the criminal events don't have to be earth-shattering ("The Heart of Saturday Afternoon").<br />
<br />
That's the difference. The story matters. The ability to tell it in an engaging way matters. The way it affected the storyteller matters.<br />
<br />
With true crime, facts matter. The who, what, where, when and how take the front seat.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I love true crime. It's just not quite what "Fingerprints" is about.<br />
<br />
Be well and have a Happy Easter!Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-29156775185685895032011-04-15T00:01:00.002-05:002011-04-15T13:05:56.110-05:00"The Heart Of Saturday Afternoon" - Paul D. Brazill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/4/49/Middleton.jpg/800px-Middleton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/4/49/Middleton.jpg/800px-Middleton.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Back in the Seventies, Sir Elton John apparently considered Saturday night to be "alright for fighting" - and I bet you those platform shoes could give you a good kicking too - but what the hell did he do on a Saturday afternoon? Maybe Elton, like me, spent most of the time wandering around a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Middleton_Grange_Shopping_Centre">grey and nondescript shopping centre</a> with a couple of other waifs and strays?<br />
<br />
There were usually three of us: me, Theso (David Theasby) and Norman (Kevin Norman). Theso had a face so acne scarred that it looked like a chewed up toffee apple. Norman had a big barrel chest and long arms that reminded me of the character Monk from the Doc Savage books. Other odd sorts hung around - such as my nephews Kevin, Wayne and Lee - but we were the hardcore!<br />
<br />
The usual walk centred around record shops - including Boots The Chemist! - and would segue into a trip to Woolworth's "pick n mix" sweet section, which we called "nick" and mix. Shoplifting from department stores, in fact, was one of the main activities. Did anyone actually ever BUY a Pan Book Of Horror Stories? The only one ever to get caught was Theso, who was taken to court for stealing a packet of jelly.<br />
<br />
The shops, though, were full of the mercenary eyes of staff and busybody customers. The Laughing Gnome was a super-short Asda shelf stacker who never laughed. Mr. Barba also worked at Asda and had earned his nickname because, the moment you walked through the shop door, he would stutter "Ba-ba-ba basket over there."<br />
<br />
Our nemesis - Dr. Doom to our Fantastic, er, Three - was a beige-suited Woolworth's under-manager with a Freddie Mercury 'stash who, the moment he saw us, would escort us straight back out of the shop. At some point we found out that he was called Mr. Whiffen, which of course earned him the nickname Cuddy Wiffer - local slang for left-handed.<br />
<br />
The Battle Of Britain of our war with Cuddy was when we found his extension number and got my six year old nephew to phone and call him a c***.<br />
<br />
Halcyon days, of course.<br />
<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Spinetingler Award nominee Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England - yes, the place where they hung the monkey. He is currently on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland. </i><br />
<br />
<i>He started writing short stories at the end of 2008. Since then, his stuff has appeared in loads of classy print and electronic magazines and anthologies, such as A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Crime Factory, Dark Valentine, Needle, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers, Killers n Chillers, and Radgepacket Volumes Four and Five. He writes an irregular column for Pulp Metal Magazine and he even has a story included in the 2011 Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime. So it looks like he's getting away with something, eh?<br />
<br />
His blog, You Would Say That, Wouldn't You? is here: <a href="http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/">http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/</a></i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-43907096354735776322011-04-08T07:12:00.007-05:002011-04-13T20:50:15.593-05:00"Public Enemy Number One" - Philip Dodd<img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrzI5jV8HYU2zjK48KlJzXWn0fpMpBofPOQ5yjRLo5LoUNJEVHPCyEQQ9jSocL-TDn1K1wbx1hWqjQxl5mtzgKE4t8JQiThM3XeucbzRw3JBVcjs15-CFFqZij_UTYEvBP8GlESgBvI8/s320/shot_1302038465534.jpg" width="320" /><br />
<br />
<br />
When I moved down to London there were loads of anarchists. In Hartlepool however, where I grew up, there was just me.<br />
<br />
I formed an unholy trinity with the towns other two lefty extremists. One was in the Socialist Workers Party, the other in the Labour Party but as far to its left as it was possible to be without falling off the edge.<br />
<br />
We worked together and socialised together. It was a very intense relationship I suppose, and we'd talk long into the night. People often rubbish this sort of introspective lefty chat, but it was crucial for me. Without it I wouldn't have developed intellectually in the way I did, and neither would my character. There were of course also many comedy moments. Three earnest young men in a small town, plotting to overthrow the state. I must do it as a sitcom sometime. But that's what I love about this period really, a rich vein of idealism, punctuated by moments of farce.<br />
<br />
I found myself working at a place called Community Enterprise Trust. It was a government funded scheme for people who'd been unemployed for a while. Basically the government closed down the industry that gave people proper jobs and paid us a pittance for doing community related work. But this organisation did its best to make use of its opportunity to do some useful stuff. I provided welfare benefits advice, taught vegetarian cookery and showed people how to play basketball. Not a bad way to make a few quid.<br />
<br />
My mate Graeme (the extreme left of the labour party chap) worked there too. One day in a team meeting it was announced that we were going to get a Royal visit. Charles and Diana were going to visit in a few months time. As you can probably imagine I wasn't the biggest fan of Royalty. It was made clear to me (with an emphasis that now seems ludicrous) that I wasn't to wear a t shirt with any controversial slogans. During the meeting me and Graeme started whispering and joking about it. Then we were all asked what we thought of the visit, and did we have any ideas. I don't recall now whether it was me or him but one of us said:<br />
<br />
"I hope someone puts a bomb up their arse."<br />
<br />
It was the kind of thing we said all the time. We certainly didn't mean it as a threat, a dream maybe, but not a threat.<br />
<br />
Our team manager was an ineffectual woman called Jean. She tutted at us a bit, and that was that. Me and her had already had a few run ins, but she never really had the determination to boss me around. Her management skills (such as they were) were all gleaned from an evil little book called "The One Minute Manager". The basis of this book was that you could carry out any key decision or task within 1 minute. Including sacking people. I fucking hated that book. It stood for everything I despised.<br />
<br />
One day Jean was out of the office for the afternoon after a particularly stupid morning when she'd employed its wisdom. I was saying to everyone that we should stand up to her. There was a lot of silent resentment and someone said <i>"She'll probably look at that bloody book and do whatever it says in there".</i> It was summer and the door to our portakabin was open to get some air in. <i>"Not anymore she won't."</i> I said , picking up the book from her desk and flinging it through the door, as far as I could. It landed in a hedge on the other side of the bit of grass outside the portakabin.<br />
<br />
Strangely she never mentioned its disappearance, and no new version of the book ever turned up. Anyway, as usual I digress.<br />
<br />
A few months later the day of the Royal visit arrived. I kept a low profile, not wanting to meet the visiting parasites. It all went off rather smoothly. In the evening I found myself in the same pub as the chief exec of the organisation I worked for. Tony was a good guy. He was really committed to what he did, but he did have an ego the size of a planet. He also quite liked me. We'd sometimes chat about politics and I think he saw in me a younger version of himself. A young firebrand idealist. After a few beers he couldn't resist talking to me about the Royal visit. He asked me how I thought it had went. There was just a glimmer of a smile across his eyes. Eventually he couldn't hold it in any longer.<br />
<br />
<i>"You noticed anything weird about the last couple of days?"</i><br />
<br />
<i>"What, apart from all the Royal shit?"</i><br />
<br />
He sat back in his chair and smiled at me. <i>"You've been followed by Special Branch for the last three days."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"What?"</i> I thought he was taking the piss.<br />
<br />
<i>"I swear it. They've been following you for 3 days in case you tried to disrupt things"</i>. I looked at him incredulously. He continued, <i>"Do you remember saying something about 'putting a bomb up their arse'?"</i><br />
<br />
<i>"No, they didn't follow me because of that. Did they?"</i><br />
<br />
He laughed and bought me a pint. I went to bed that night wondering how they could have followed me around for all that time without me having even the faintest hint. Scary.<br />
<br />
The next afternoon when the local paper came through the door I wasn't looking forward to the coverage of the Royal visit. But as I flicked through the first few pages a headline caught my eye.<br />
<br />
<b>ANARCHIST ATTACK THWARTED</b><br />
<br />
They had written it up in a way which suggested that some great plan had been hatched by an "anarchist group". Group? That'll be me. Apparently there was a big plan to disrupt the event, possibly including violence, and that this threat had been efficiently dealt with by the authorities. They meant me. Public Enemy Number One.<br />
<br />
<i>Editor's Note: These are the actual pictures of that newspaper story.</i><br />
<br />
<img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLt-7ELjezWdBOkohJknY7K4sVJUTqgcu8oVZoBh_iXF8euTHKAgAA8XVAnNlaYK4jHAGUNRc95Xcd2NN_PwtRd1IQyOf1JLzmO2gslPLl43AO4AaUf4qZHRXepz73VuslwhYe4GDxOHM/s320/shot_1302038301572.jpg" width="320" /><br />
<br />
<img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7QdWiMq8xVwG7gLes8NR56v5zDHXJzIje9GnWkAaSb3AcIF96cYCBa2KhCqJd9Mho1SQnIbAAB-EdjyEmlnte1jY7QhiyZqw6VfH8YyFapqrZWxsKVZ3AXduesQveLxZeW_39NMglNzM/s320/IMAG0394.jpg" width="191" /><br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Philip writes stories, some are fact, some are fiction. His stories can be funny, or they might be sad, and are often about memory and how we are shaped. Find him at <a href="http://www.domesticatedbohemian.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">www.domesticatedbohemian.<wbr></wbr>blogspot.com</a> and on Twitter as @PhilipDodd.</i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-44313306001812297082011-04-01T00:01:00.001-05:002011-04-01T00:01:00.578-05:00"Guilty Footprints" by C.J. Edwards<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/j/ju/jumpingjoy/722897_snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/j/ju/jumpingjoy/722897_snow.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>It was January, and I was assigned as a patrol officer on East District day shift on the Indianapolis Police Department. There was eight inches of fresh snow on the ground, and I was scheduled to get off in about an hour when I was dispatched on a domestic disturbance between a female and her ex-boyfriend.<br />
<br />
Wonderful, it was just what I needed to ensure I wouldn’t get home on time.<br />
<br />
My back up and I arrived and found that the boyfriend had already left. I spoke briefly to the female. She told me her ex-boyfriend, Lamont, had been pounding on her back door but ran away when she called 911.<br />
<br />
I was relieved. Lamont was gone, his ex-girlfriend didn’t demand a report, and it was looking like I might get home on time after all.<br />
<br />
Not five minutes after leaving I was dispatched to the same house, but this time the dispatcher informed me that the ex-boyfriend was now breaking out the back window.<br />
<br />
I hurried back as quickly as the snow would allow, determined this time to catch Lamont. I knew if I didn’t he would keep harassing his ex and we would keep getting called there.<br />
<br />
When I arrived the second time, the female was on her front porch barefoot wearing a t-shirt and underwear with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders waving frantically, screaming, “He’s around back. He’s around back.”<br />
<br />
I ran around the side of the house to find an empty back yard. When I looked at the window next to the back door, I saw that it was broken, and glass was lying in footprints freshly pressed into the deep snow. They led away from the window toward the alley.<br />
<br />
While the backup officer spoke with the girlfriend, I began following Lamont’s trail.<br />
<br />
At the alley, they turned north, and I followed. Lamont had to be hiding close by. The tracks led me past three more yards stopping at a privacy fence. Many of the yards had fences separating them, but they did not completely enclose the side of the yard facing the alley. This allowed residents to park their cars in the back yard. The privacy fence where the tracks stopped was no different.<br />
<br />
As I walked around the open side of the fence, I discovered that the tracks continued toward the house.<br />
<br />
Lamont’s footprints finally ended at a door on the back porch of a home four houses away from where his ex-girlfriend lived. Walking around to the front of the house, I used my radio to call for the other officer to come and assist me. He stayed by at the back door while I knocked at the front. A female in her early twenties answered, and looked out at me with her big brown eyes opened wide. “Is Lamont here,” I asked? The girl shook her head no. I explained to her that I had followed Lamont’s footprints to her back door, and I knew he was there.<br />
<br />
She then nodded, glanced over her shoulder towards the hallway and whispered, “He’s in the closet,” and pointed to one of the back bedrooms.<br />
<br />
As I walked through the living room, I noticed soggy footprints leading toward Lamont’s hiding place. I let the other officer in the back door and together we followed the trail. In the bedroom, we stood to one side of the closet, and quickly slid the door open.<br />
<br />
Like a small child, Lamont was lying half buried in a pile of dirty clothes with his hands covering his eyes pretending not to know we were there.<br />
<br />
After dragging him out of the closet and handcuffing him, we walked him to the living room so he could put on his shoes, and then marched him out to our cars. Lamont had a warrant for theft. He stood resignedly by my car while I filled out the arrest paperwork, and called for a wagon.<br />
<br />
As he stood there, he asked me, “Man how did you find me? Did my girlfriend tell you what house to go to?”<br />
<br />
I shook my head and told him his ex had not told me because she didn’t know. I had simply followed his footprints.<br />
<br />
“Nah, she told you where I was,” Lamont said.<br />
<br />
I looked up at him, “No I followed your footprints.” <br />
<br />
Lamont kept denying that I could have followed his foot prints, and I was starting to get frustrated. I finally stepped out of my car, yelling at him, “Lamont! You see all that white stuff on the ground? It’s called snow, and when you walk in it you leave behind these things called, footprints. I followed your footprints through the snow to the house you were hiding in. That’s how I found you.”<br />
<br />
I stared at Lamont as he shook his head. “No way man. That’s impossible.”<br />
<br />
Dumbfounded, I asked, “What are you talking about? How is it impossible that I followed your footprints?<br />
<br />
He looked at me and said, “Because. I took my shoes off.”<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>C.J. Edwards has worked as a police officer for the Indianapolis Police Department since 2000, and is now currently assigned to the department's Investigations Division. He is also a student at the University of Indianapolis, where he studies English and Creative Writing. In 2010 he won the Lucy Munro Brooker prize for his poem, "A Tent Of My Own." His short story, "The Peeper," will appear in the September 2011 edition of the crime fiction webzine, "All Due Respect," at <a href="http://all-due-respect.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">all-due-respect.blogspot.com</a>.</i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-25826092604464836522011-03-29T06:21:00.001-05:002011-03-29T09:30:22.161-05:00"Heavy Begging" by Donna Moore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTaOk4ru3qEUih7V4wM__IJI8yAikua1cXjZprB9mza77hL-Mnx" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTaOk4ru3qEUih7V4wM__IJI8yAikua1cXjZprB9mza77hL-Mnx" width="200" /></a></div>I was in Glasgow city centre shopping and left in the early evening when the place was starting to empty of shoppers. To get to my bus stop, I decided to cut through a back alley. <br />
<br />
Yep. Bad idea. There was no-one around except three NEDs in flammable shell suits. <br />
<br />
Now I'd better explain NED as I think it may just be a Scottish term. It stands for "non educated delinquent," but is specifically used to describe the types that hang around causing trouble. <br />
<br />
Some Scottish politician recently said that we shouldn't use the term NED, as it is demeaning to young people. Well, it's not. Young people are great - it doesn't describe all teenagers. It describes...well...NEDs, and, quite frankly, they deserve it.<br />
<br />
The Glasgow version of the NED is a quaintly dressed specimen. He's invariably kitted out in a shell suit (generally white or various shades of blue) that rustles cheaply when he walks, and causes sparks as his legs rub together. It usually has "Lacoste" or "Fila" emblazoned on the back, front and all down the side of the legs. He wears trainers of the expensive variety, but the only exercise he does<br />
is kicking empty cans down the street. <br />
<br />
His socks are white sports socks and also have a famous brand name down the side. You can easily tell this because for some reason, the fashion this year is for<br />
shellsuit bottoms to be tucked into the socks, leaving about 4 inches of sock showing. <br />
<br />
Perched on top of this lovely ensemble is a baseball cap. Often Burbery. When the hell did Burbery start making baseball caps? And, more to the point, who told these arbiters of fashion that a blue and white nylon shell suit went like a dream with a beige, red and black checked cap? Anyway whatever baseball cap they're wearing,<br />
it too has a name emblazoned on it.<br />
<br />
Seeing a NED is like seeing one of those taxis covered in advertising. I keep expecting to see one lurching along the street carrying a sign saying "This NED sponsored by Reebok. To advertise on similar NEDs call...."<br />
<br />
Without the baseball caps their hair is short and stuck down with enough gel to float a battleship. Either that or he has a Barlinnie haircut (i.e. shaved in jail). Should you be unfortunate enough to see a NED naked, you can still recognise him without his flamboyant plumage, by the enormous gold sovereign rings. About 8 of them. <br />
<br />
The female NED is distinguished by the 18 gold necklaces round her neck (most of them saying "World's Greatest Daughter/Sister/Mum") and the ponytail poking through the back of her baseball cap (the Glasgow facelift).<br />
<br />
Anyway, back to my three specific NEDs (who were indistinguishable from the rest of their obnoxious breed so I don't need to describe them any further.) <br />
<br />
As I walked past them they fell silent and stared at me. I carried on walking and heard the ominous sound of the crackling of shell-suited thighs as they followed me. There was still no one else around. Oh dear. <br />
<br />
They surrounded me so I had to stop, and one of them said:<br />
<br />
"Gonnae gi's yer money." <br />
<br />
Several responses floated through my head:<br />
<br />
"It's 'Gonnae gi's yer money, PLEASE' young man."<br />
<br />
"Listen, I've been mugged three times - the first time I got hurt, the<br />
second time no-one got hurt and the third time the mugger got hurt, so<br />
come on punks, make my day."<br />
<br />
In the end I settled for a stern "No."<br />
<br />
"Aye ye are."<br />
<br />
"No I'm not."<br />
<br />
"Aye ye are."<br />
<br />
Scintillating though this conversation was, I tried to move off. They closed in until I thought I was going to be smothered in nylon. And the smell of cheap aftershave was making my eyes water.<br />
<br />
"Gi's yer purse."<br />
<br />
OK, I was a bit fed up now. I was wearing cheap unlabelled clothes, a pair of silver earrings and a silver watch. Tweedledee, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber were covered from head to foot - literally - in labels, and between them they were wearing enough gold sovereign rings to send a small gold mine owner into an orgasmic frenzy (by the way, it's the gold mine that's small, not the owner. I have no idea of the average size of goldmine owners).<br />
<br />
I could tell they weren't serious (as in slash my face with a razor serious). And I was more exasperated than scared, so I said the first thing that came into my head, which for some reason happened to be:<br />
<br />
"Look, I'm tired, I'm pissed off, and I couldn't find any boots that I liked, so fuck off." <br />
<br />
So they did.<br />
<br />
I wish I could say that they limped off licking their wounds from the ass whooping I gave them, using my finely honed self defence moves. Well, I <i>could</i> say that, but it wouldn't be true. <br />
<br />
Instead, they just slithered off like poorly co-ordinated lizards badly in need of a<br />
makeover.<br />
<br />
Not much of a mugging - more of a heavy begging.<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Donna Moore is the author of "Go to Helena Handbasket" - a spoof PI novel which won the Lefty Award for humourous crime fiction in 2007 - and "Old Dogs" - a caper novel set in Glasgow featuring two elderly ex-hookers (nominated for the Lefty Awards). Her short fiction has been published in various anthologies. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Moore runs the blog "Big Beat From Badsville" focusing on Scottish crime fiction at</i><br />
<i><a href="http://bigbeatfrombadsville.blogspot.com/">http://bigbeatfrombadsville.blogspot.com</a>.</i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-42400596464130904642011-03-26T18:38:00.001-05:002011-03-26T19:04:35.554-05:00"Trap Zombie" by Paul Grzegorzek<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/e/em/embepe/1017114_zombie_face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/m/e/em/embepe/1017114_zombie_face.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>This is something that happened to me while I was a PC on the Divisional Intelligence Unit in Brighton back in 2007. At the time I was in charge of vehicle crime as well as working on undercover heroin test purchase operations, but this one particular thing happened while I was off duty and perhaps a little drunker than I should have been...<br />
<br />
One particular type of vehicle crime that the division was being stung with was moped thefts. There were probably about a dozen early teen aged thieves who specialised in nicking mopeds for a laugh, and every morning I would come into work to find two or three more reported stolen across the division.<br />
<br />
It was my job to stop these thefts from happening, and it’s a very different type of policing from responding to incidents on a job by job basis, which was what I had been used to before joining the intelligence unit.<br />
<br />
Looking at the crime maps that my analyst, Amy, painstakingly put together, I realised that my house was smack bang in the middle of the hotspot area for these thefts, and after a fair bit of persuading I managed to convince one of the sergeants to let me run an operation with a trap moped, using my house as the OP.<br />
<br />
I lived in a maisonette just down from Fiveways on Ditchling Road in Brighton, so the lounge had a wonderful view of the area outside from an elevated perspective and LST had been tasked to assist in my endeavours.<br />
<br />
LST are the Local Support Team, a unit that specialises in riot duties, searches and a bit of plain clothes here and there. It was also my old unit so it was nice to be working with them again.<br />
<br />
They were all pleased with the briefing, as it was in the lounge with tea and biscuits laid on, but after that it all began to go south. We briefed at about 2300 hours, with the intention that we would have the moped outside with the plugs removed so that they wouldn’t be able to start it. We then had a plain van at fiveways and an unmarked car just down the road, so between the seven of us (as it was my house I would stay in the OP with another officer on a rotation), we had the area well covered.<br />
<br />
Initially I’d requested that the operation run from midnight until 0800 hours, as the peak times for thefts were at about 0300 – 0500, but as LST don’t work nights, I’d been lent the team from 2300 to 0400 instead. The team came complete with a sergeant, so despite the fact that it was my operation I was still outranked.<br />
<br />
So when 0200 came around and the bike hadn’t been touched, I had to give in when the sergeant called it and took his troops off to do something more productive.<br />
<br />
A couple of lads had looked at the moped just after midnight, but other than that we hadn’t had so much as a tickle, so I couldn’t really blame him.<br />
<br />
When I went into the office the next afternoon I tried to explain that the timings hadn’t been right, but I got told in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t going to happen again so I’d lost my shot at it.<br />
<br />
Grumbling, I tried to work out something else that might work, but for the life of me I couldn’t think of anything that didn’t involve chopping peoples fingers off.<br />
The weekend after this failed operation was Halloween, and as I had weekends off I actually made it to a friend’s party about fifty doors down on the other side of the road. I’d decided to go dressed as the lowlander (kilt and fencing shirt but done up as a zombie).<br />
<br />
Having spent many years doing theatrical stuff I’m actually pretty bloody good at horror makeup. I spent about forty minutes making myself look as dead as possible, complete with proper stage blood all over me and liquid latex dried and then rubbed to make it look like my skin was peeling off in places.<br />
<br />
Shoving my warrant card and my phone in my sporran, I ambled off down the road and got myself very, very drunk with my friends.<br />
<br />
I woke up at about 0400. I was still zombified and had crashed out in one of the armchairs in the front room at the party. Someone had given me something horrific to drink called Schlob 40 or similar and it had totally wiped me out.<br />
<br />
The party was pretty much reduced to drunken couples snogging in corners and people playing acoustic guitars in the back room, so I made my goodbyes and staggered back up the road, wondering how many sizes too big my head would feel when I sobered up.<br />
<br />
As I crossed the road and walked up the hill towards my house, I saw something very strange just a few doors up from where I lived, next to the bus stop.<br />
<br />
Two lads in their early teens had a for sale sign complete with post, and had one end of it in the road behind the bumper of a four wheel drive.<br />
<br />
As I got closer, one of them noticed me and nudged the other one, and they both dropped the sign and hid in the bus stop. Suddenly I realised what they were doing.<br />
Behind the 4x4 was a moped, with the post of the for sale sign wedged in the front wheel where they were trying to break the steering lock.<br />
<br />
They were still peering at me from the bus stop, but I was too far away from them to make out any features so I stumbled drunkenly (an act, suddenly I was dead sober) into someone’s front garden with my keys out so that they would think I had missed them.<br />
<br />
As soon as I was out of sight behind a bush I dialed three nines and explained what I’d seen. They promised to get a unit out to me straight away and were asking for more details when I saw one of the kids approaching, looking into gardens to see where I’d gone. I hung up and stuffed my phone back into my sporran, lurching out from behind the bush just in time to come face to face with the kiddie looking for me.<br />
<br />
“Oy, come here!” I growled.<br />
<br />
“Aaaarrgghh!” He screamed, and ran off faster than I would have thought possible.<br />
It only occurred to me afterwards that I was still made up to look like a zombie.<br />
As he ran, I saw the second lad come out from the bus stop and look down the road.<br />
<br />
Realising that he was probably about to run, I steamed out of the garden and up to the bike. He stared at me with wide eyes as I stalked him round and around the moped.<br />
<br />
“Come here, you,” I said, but he shook his head.<br />
<br />
“No fucking way, no fucking way!”<br />
<br />
“Come on, I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to talk.”<br />
<br />
“No mate, you ain’t coming anywhere near me!”<br />
<br />
We were going around in circles, him staying just far enough away that I couldn’t easily grab him, when suddenly I realised who he was.<br />
<br />
“Pullen!” I said, and hearing his surname made him stop dead.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, Jordan,” he replied as I leapt the several feet between us and grabbed his arm, throwing him to the ground and locking him into a ground pin.<br />
<br />
You might think that I was being overly harsh, but the last time I’d seen young Mr. Pullen it had taken five officers to restrain him and he’d been foaming at the mouth while he assaulted three out of the five holding him down. I wasn’t about to be subjected to the same treatment, so he was firmly but not brutally pushed face down into the road while I arrested him for attempt theft.<br />
<br />
He looked up at me and grimaced. “Uh, officer, can I ask why you’re wearing a skirt?”<br />
<br />
I looked down, having forgotten all about my choice of apparel for the evening.<br />
<br />
“Ah. It’s not a skirt, it’s a kilt. Far more manly than a skirt.”<br />
<br />
“Oh.” He thought about this for a minute then looked back up. “Is that real blood?”<br />
<br />
“No, Jordan, it’s not real blood.”<br />
<br />
“Oh. I bet this is one of them fucking trap mopeds, innit?”<br />
<br />
It took me almost a minute to stop laughing. When I finally finished he was looking really confused. “What?” He asked.<br />
<br />
“Jordan, if this was a trap moped, do you really think I’d be dressed like a fucking zombie?”<br />
<br />
Realising that I should probably update someone, I called again on three nines and spoke to an operator, explaining that I now had one in custody and that the other had made off. In the middle of the call I looked down at Jordan.<br />
<br />
“What was your mate’s name?” I didn’t expect him to tell me, but bless him he gave everything but his partner in crime’s shoe size, which I relayed to the operator.<br />
<br />
“Great, Inspector Pirrie is on the way and you’ve got another unit making.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, bum. Did I mention that I’m made up like a zombie, covered in fake blood and wearing a kilt?”<br />
<br />
The operator went silent for a minute, then “and you think you’re going to live this down, do you?”<br />
<br />
“Probably not.”<br />
<br />
As I waited for the inspector to arrive, I saw someone walking up the road towards us and freed one of my hands in case Jordan’s mate had grown some balls and decided to face down the zombie apocalypse.<br />
<br />
Instead, it turned out to be just some random bloke walking past. As he passed us, he looked over at the kilted zombie holding a small teenager face first in the road in a nasty looking arm lock and tutted, then walked on without looking back.<br />
Jordan and I shared an astonished look.<br />
<br />
“Only in Brighton,” I muttered, and Jordan nodded agreement as best he could.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later the Inspector arrived on scene and to her credit she managed to keep a straight face as I explained what happened and she cuffed Jordan. Another couple of officers turned up to assist, and I was asked if I could go the Nick and make an arrest statement, but the moment I let go of Jordan the alcohol came flooding back into my bloodstream and I could barely stand up or put two words together.<br />
<br />
I begged off and promised that I’d come in first thing in the morning and make my statement, then staggered off home to get some well deserved rest before dragging myself back in a few hours later to write it all up as best I could with the mother of all hangovers.<br />
<br />
-30-<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Paul Grzegorzek is an ex-police officer from Brighton who had an interesting and varied career before moving back into private security for a number of reasons that will eventually come out in his blog.</i><br />
<br />
<i>He’s just finished his sixth novel and is forever writing short stories and blog entries when he should be doing the second draft. More stories like this one as well as lots of other interesting (he hopes) stuff at <a href="http://diariesofamodernmadman.blogspot.com/">http://diariesofamodernmadman.blogspot.com</a>.</i>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-86877991065261426122011-03-18T16:05:00.005-05:002011-03-18T16:12:02.605-05:00Photos: Crime Scenes as Visual Art<iframe src="http://angelastrassheim.com/workpages/evidence/evidence_02.html" width="100%" height="675"></iframe><br />
<i>Click on the right or left of the photo to advance the slideshow.</i><br />
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<span id="default">"If she was allowed inside the home, [Angela] Strassheim would ask to photograph the room where the murder was committed. After making sure the room was dark and setting up her tripod, she sprayed the chemical reagent Bluestar on the walls. The bright spots that show up in her black-and-white photos are the results of the chemical revealing bloodstains that remained on the wall even after being wiped away."</span><br />
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<span id="default">(<a href="http://www.twincities.com/news/ci_17634782?source=rss&utm_source=twitterfeed&utm_medium=twitter&nclick_check=1">source</a>) </span>Benjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2314119681173949304.post-49969388061078903392011-03-18T08:20:00.001-05:002011-03-18T08:22:14.419-05:00What Kind of Submissions are You Looking For?I've been asked that question several times by people interested in submitting. Here's the rundown.<br />
<br />
"Fingerprints" is looking for the kinds of stories you've told a million times to a million people. Those crazy, messed up stories that skirt the edges of the law. Fingerprints calls it "crime flash non-fiction." You might call it, "That time we were in that gas station and this guy tried to rob the place with a Super Soaker."<br />
<br />
If you've got a story like that, write it up in 500 to 2,000 words and e-mail it to ben [dot] sobieck [at] gmail [dot] com. Make sure "Fingerprints Submission" is in the subject line. Also include a brief bio at the end of the story.<br />
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-BenBenjamin Sobieckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18343962892479384825noreply@blogger.com0