Category: More Street Stories

Guest posts from Keith Bettinger and other street veterans. Also, miscellaneous but important things in the cop world–training, forensics, stress management, etc.

More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

First Night The Last Night?

Post author By Thonie Hevron
Post date August 7, 2013
No Comments on First Night The Last Night?

By Gerry Goldshine

I was living the dream. That’s what I was thinking as I checked my appearance in the locker room mirror before heading into the briefing room. I was a Sonoma County Deputy Sheriff fresh from the academy and it was my first night on Swing Shift in the field-training program. I checked my badge for any smudges to its highly polished surface. I had spit shined my boots to a gloss that would have passed the most meticulous military inspection. There wasn’t a speck of lint on my uniform. My hair was freshly trimmed. I was ready! Still, like most any rookie on their very first night, I had a stomach full of butterflies.

My Field Training Officer (Deputy Jim) and I were assigned to patrol the Roseland area, which, at that time, was one of the busiest beats in the county. As I recall, it had been an unusually quiet night with hardly any calls. Then, around 2230 hours -11:30 PM for you civilians types – we happened to pass by the “Generic Dive Tavern” on Santa Rosa Avenue and noticed at least a dozen motorcycles parked out in front.

Now these weren’t your usual Harley Davidson, Honda, Kawasaki or similar type of street bikes. These were choppers and not the fancy-schmancy kind you see on shows like “American Chopper”. Deputy Jim decided it was the ideal time to show me how to make bar checks, so we pulled into the parking lot. I’m sure he passed along some enlightening words of wisdom before we went inside but the specifics escape me after all these years.

As we walked inside, I suddenly had this mental image of an old Western, where the town Marshal walks into the saloon and everything, including the music would suddenly go silent. Then all eyes would be on the Marshal. Sadly, the half dozen or so patrons seated at the bar all quite deliberately ignored our presence while the jukebox music played on uninterrupted. So much for that old Western cliché.

Looking around, I quickly focused my attention on the group of bikers clustered around the bar’s pool tables. I’m sure my pulse rate must have jumped from “Gee, I’m so happy I’m a deputy” to “Holy shit, what the hell am I doing here?” So, what about them that rattled my cage?

Hells Angels Logo

Well, they were not your run of the mill, generic grungy biker types; no siree! This was my introduction to the notorious “Hell’s Angels”. They were all “flying colors”, which means they were wearing those cute little black leather vests with their infamous club logo prominently displayed on the back. Most wore a variety of “merit badges” signifying their various “achievements” within the Hell’s Angels organization. Seated around the tables watching with rapt attention were a couple of the obligatory skanky looking “biker mamas”. Like the rest of the patrons, the biker group also ignored our presence.

I followed Deputy Jim to the bar where he chatted briefly with the bartender who told us that everything was just peachy keen. As far as we could tell, everything appeared to be copasetic, so after a few minutes, we left.

Back in our car, Deputy Jim asked me if I noticed anything unusual inside the bar besides the fact that the bikers were flying colors. I thought a moment and replied that it seemed to me that everyone seemed to be making too obvious of an effort to ignore our being there. He nodded his head and then asked what I thought that meant. He smiled when I said that we probably interrupted the beginnings of some unpleasantness more than likely caused by the Hell’s Angels. I figured that valuing their own well-being, no one wanted bring whatever was going on to our attention.

Then, I asked him if I was right in suspecting those bikers were probably carrying enough weaponry to outfit my old infantry rifle platoon.

His disquieting reply was, “Yep.” I was immediately sorry that I had asked.

He added, “Want to bet we’ll be called back there before we go off duty? I think we’ll hang out on the Avenue for a bit.”

We headed south until we reached the far end of our beat. Deputy Jim filled me in on the local chapter of the Hell’s Angels. He told me that they generally tried to keep a low profile in Sonoma County so as not to draw undue attention to their drug trafficking. That was not to say they weren’t above creating havoc and random violence when it suited them.

It wasn’t more than thirty minutes later when the alert tones sounded out on the radio.

“10-Frank-14 (our call sign) and any available units. 415 fight, possible 594 (vandalism) in progress inside the Generic Dive Tavern at 1234 Santa Rosa Avenue. Anonymous Reporting Party (RP) states that 10 to 15 Hells Angels are tearing the place apart. Unknown if any weapons. No further information.”

Deputy Jim acknowledged dispatch and took off, rolling “Code-3”, hitting at least Warp Factor Five. I don’t remember if we discussed tactics or anything else about what I was supposed to do when we got there. The one thing I clearly remember thinking at that moment was, “Well, it’s my first night and now I’m gonna die.” Then, because this how my mind works, some of the lyrics from a sixties anti-war song popped into my head:

And it’s five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain’t no time to wonder why
Whoopee! We’re all gonna die. *

I felt it best not to share these thoughts with my FTO.

We pulled into the tavern’s parking lot, along with another unit, probably not much more than five minutes after the call went out. It was eerily deserted; not a car, motorcycle or person was in sight. There were shards of glass and smashed beer bottles all around the front of the building. I saw a broken chair lying by the door. Surprisingly, all the lights were off, both those inside and the ones outside. The door was locked. No one responded to our banging on it or Deputy Jim’s “Sheriff’s Department” announcement. After a few minutes, he advised dispatch that we were “Code-4” (situation under control) and canceled any other units that were responding. We checked around the parking lot and building just to make sure there weren’t any injured patrons or bodies lying about. As we found nothing, Deputy Jim requested Dispatch to call the bar. Moments later, we could hear the phone ringing inside and it went unanswered. Dispatch then advised us that called the listed emergency contact number and had spoken with the owner who said that no one had been hurt and he didn’t want to file a report.

By then, Sgt. Mac arrived and after Deputy Jim explained the situation, he told us that since we had nothing to show anyone had been hurt, we should call it a night. He would have Dayshift check the bar when it opened the following day. All I remember was that no one turned up seriously injured or seriously dead.

This was the first of innumerable bar checks that I would make during my career. At the time, I couldn’t say if I was relieved that we didn’t have to tangle with a dozen or more Hell’s Angels or disappointed that my first night had such an anticlimactic ending to it. Looking back, older and wiser after having been in plenty of raucous and nasty bar fights since then, I think that first one worked out just fine.

____________

Tags bar fight, field training officer, Harley Davidson, Hells Angels, Roseland, Santa Rosa Avenue, Sonoma County Deputy Sheriff

More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

Aw, Crap!

By Gerry Goldshine

Prussian Field Marshal Helmuth von Moltke the Elder is to have said that, “…no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.” People are adaptive, innovative and unpredictable. As police officers, we train to expect the unexpected but at the same time it is human nature to rely on patterns of behavior. We think it likely that when we turn on our patrol car’s emergency lights to make a traffic stop, the driver is going to pull over and most do just that. When we hand a driver our pen to sign the citation, we anticipate they will comply rather that subject themselves to arrest. As an officer gains field experience, they develop skill in reading body language, watching facial expressions and listening to vocal inflections using them cues for when a person isn’t going along with “the plan”. However, even the most veteran officer can find there are times when they have done everything right and yet still be wrong.

I was helping another officer search a house for a woman, well known to us, who had a no-bail warrant for her arrest. In past encounters with her, usually involving public intoxication or possession of minor amounts of drugs, she had always been cooperative. After about thirty minutes, we found her in one of the bedrooms hidden beneath a four-foot high pile of dirty laundry. I offered to take her to the station and book her, because the other officer had a mountain of reports to complete. As I walked the

Woman in Handcuffs photo courtesy of newsone.com — Woman in Handcuffs
photo courtesy of newsone.com

woman out to my patrol car, I kept one hand firmly gripped around the links of the handcuffs she wore behind her back. We chatted amicably about her situation; she talked about having difficulty getting into a rehab program. When we got to my car, I did another pat down search for any weapons and finding none, I opened the back door for her get inside. Standing next to the rear of the door, I let go of the cuffs and raised my other arm so that I could shield the top of her head from hitting the door frame, as I had done on countless other arrests. She had just about planted her derriere on the seat when she suddenly sprang back up. She was just small and flexible enough to duck under my arm and take off running with her arms still handcuffed behind her back.

Staring at her in disbelief, the first thought that went through my mind was, “Aw crap!” At the same time, I wondered how in the hell a 40 year-old man, in reasonably good shape but with two bad knees and wearing a cumbersome ballistic vest plus least 10 pounds of police gear, was going to catch this lithe twenty-something year old woman, sprinting as though she had just left the chocks at the Olympics. I took off after her, letting dispatch know that I was in foot pursuit in between gasps for breath. I rounded a corner just in time to see her execute a perfect “Fosbury Flop” into the back of a passing Chevy El Camino pickup. Fortunately, at least for me, the driver saw what was happening in his side mirror and immediately slammed on the brakes. I caught up before she was able to get completely out of the pickup bed, that task made difficult because her hands were still handcuffed behind her back. She apologized profusely for being “stupid” all the way back to my patrol car, while I tried to raise my oxygen levels back to some semblance of normalcy as nonchalantly as possible. I knew that I was in store for not only considerable ribbing from my fellow officers but more than likely, an ass-chewing from my bosses as well.

No sooner had I arrived at the station then I received the expected call, over the station’s public address system, to report to the sergeant’s office after I finished booking the prisoner. His first question to me was a simple, “Well?” I told him what had happened and after he digested it for a bit, he suggested we go out to my car so that he could better visualize what had happened. Along the way, the Lieutenant joined us and almost immediately began yelling at me about losing control of my prisoner. My sergeant cut in and explained the situation and we went going to see what I could do to prevent it from reoccurring. That seemed to mollify the Lieutenant for the moment.

I showed them how I got her into the back seat and the way in which she had made her escape. The Lieutenant proceeded to put me through a variety of different stances in front of the open door, most far removed from common practice and many more out of the realm of practicality. When it became apparent there was no simplistic solution, the Lieutenant glared at me and warned, “Don’t let this happen again or I’ll be writing you a reprimand!” With those sage words of wisdom, the Lieutenant stormed off back to the Watch Commander’s office.

My sergeant offered a more insightful analysis. He told me that while a larger person more than likely would not have gotten past me, perhaps my past experience with the woman caused me to anticipate one set of behaviors, missing the body language cues signaling a new set, namely that she was going to bolt. Then, with a slight grin, he added, “…but sometimes, despite our best efforts, shit happens.”

To coin another saying, “The best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.”

Tags ballistic vest, booking, Chevy El Camino, Fosbury Flop, patrol car, police gear, weapons

Motorcycle pursuit

This will get your heart pumping. Watch this video from the helmet cam of a motor officer in pursuit.

Motorcycle pursuit

More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

Man Down

By Gerry Goldshine

Very early in my police career, one of my training officers hammered home a crucial aspect of officer safety. When an encounter devolves into a physical altercation and fists are flying, it is essential to remember there is always at least one gun available to the attacker and that’s my own gun. This is one of the primary reasons that when an officer becomes embroiled in a fight, as Hal so eloquently stated it in one of his recent stories, “we don’t fight fair—we fight to win as fast as possible.” There is no greater mortal fear than having a suspect gain control of your weapon. When that happens, the outcome is usually fatal to one or both parties involved and perhaps others as well. This is why an officer treats every fight as being for all the marbles.

One fall evening, dispatch sent me to check a report of a man down in front of Petaluma Valley Hospital. When I got there, I found a young man, who appeared to be in his early twenties, lying on the grass right by the hospital’s sign. He had no obvious injuries that I could see and though he seemed conscious, he was unresponsive to any external stimulus. I didn’t smell any odor that would indicate he was drunk, so that left some type of medical, mental or pharmaceutical issue. As the saying goes, “The lights were on but nobody was home.” I requested an ambulance to have the paramedics evaluate him.

Once they got there and checked the young man, they radioed the Emergency Room to consult with the on-duty physician. Since it was unclear what was causing his condition, we loaded him into the ambulance. All these years later, I can’t recall precisely why, but I locked up my patrol car and rode in back of the ambulance while it covered the short distance to the back of the hospital, where the ER entrance was located. As safety protocol dictated, the paramedics restrained him to the gurney with its safety belts. No sooner had the back doors to the ambulance closed and we got underway than the kid began trashing about and let loose a series of inhuman shrieks. I had seen this sort of reaction in people with severe head trauma but there wasn’t a mark on him.

Suddenly, he did a great impression of King Kong, ripping free one of the gurney straps from its anchor point. I immediately suspected he might be on PCP, a very nasty drug that hyper stimulates you, often instilling unbridled aggression and super-natural strength. In seconds, he freed his other arm and began swinging wild punches at us while trying to free his legs from the other straps. Much of what happened in those next few moments is still a bit of a blur. I vaguely recall hearing the driver call for more police units. I remember being alarmed at the number of things in the ambulance he could use as weapons. I was about to find that was the least of my worries.

My adrenaline spiked after when a well-placed kick connected, bouncing me off one of the equipment cabinets. An instant later, he was tugging on my Beretta, trying to pull it out from the holster. Words cannot convey to you what I felt at that moment. In a flash, everything appeared to be moving in slow motion. I was experiencing time compression, a phenomenon that frequently occurs in such critical incidents. I realized that not only was my life in danger but so were those of both paramedics; I was responsible for their safety. As my mind raced to formulate a strategy, instinct and training took over. I yelled a warning that he was trying to pull my gun from my holster. The driver slammed on the brakes thinking that would be helpful. All it did was add to the chaos. The ensuing tangle of bodies eliminated any chance of reaching my back-up gun in my ankle holster.

Thankfully, I was wearing a state of the art safety holster, designed to prevent someone from pulling my pistol out, particularly from the front, which was exactly what he was trying to do. That bought me time. I don’t recall making the conscious decision to do so but I put all of my 140 pounds of brawn behind a punch that I delivered to the left side of his jaw. It was the first time I had ever punched someone in the face and it stunned him just enough that he released his grip on my gun. All three of us piled on top of him and held him down on the gurney. About then, the back doors opened and two more officers jumped inside. The five of us quickly trussed him up better than any Thanksgiving turkey, using every strap we could find.

He was still shrieking and violently thrashing about when we delivered him to the ER a few minutes later. The doctor put him in a darkened, quiet room, still strapped to the gurney. Reducing all external stimuli was the recommended way to treat someone reacting violently to PCP. I honestly don’t recall what happened to him after that.

Fortunately, I had a hell of a good Sergeant that night. He had me park my car at the hospital and then drove us to Denny’s. I had a very bad case of motor mouth – I couldn’t stop talking and my hands shook seeming to move about of their own volition. It took a while for all that adrenaline to bleed off. I was also lucky in that I was about to go on my days off. With that in mind, my Sergeant told me to write up my report of the incident and then go home; he would take care of everything else. Three days later, I was back on the job.

So yes, when cops fight, the Marquis of Queensbury rules go out the window. Absent a Taser, the most effective and safest tactic to neutralize a physically combative suspect is pretty much along the lines of General Schwarzkopf’s strategy in the first Gulf War; use overwhelming numerical superiority to make the opponent realize his position is untenable and more importantly, unwinnable.

Tags drunk, ER, fight, General Schwarzkopf, gun, Hal, Marquis of Queensbury, PCP, Petaluma Valley Hospital, taser

More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

Robot B-9 Calling

By Gerry Goldshine

At one time or another, nearly everyone has had the experience of hearing that little voice in the back of their head warning them to be cautious in a potentially hazardous situation. Whether you call it intuition, premonition, déjà vu or ESP, many call it superstitious nonsense. Early in my law enforcement career, I had several veteran officers tell me never to ignore that little voice; more often than not, it was right. Having never experienced such a phenomenon, I dutifully tucked that guidance away with all the other useful tidbits of advice I had been acquiring.

Then, one Friday evening, Dispatch sent me to assist Officer Peggy near Cattleman’s Restaurant at the north end of town. She had stopped a pickup truck and the driver appeared to be intoxicated. When I arrived, she was administering a field sobriety test to a portly Hispanic man. Looking on from the passenger side of the truck was another Hispanic man, wearing a white cowboy hat. Our shift supervisor, Sgt. Jim, had arrived ahead of me and because he spoke fluent Spanish, was helping Officer Peggy by translating. I kept a watchful eye on the passenger as it became quickly apparent to us that the driver was extremely intoxicated. Finally, Sgt. Jim told the driver in Spanish, “Usted es arrestado por conducir ebrio.” When Officer Peggy went to handcuff him, the “fun” began.

In his drunken state, the driver’s machismo kicked in and no woman was going to arrest him. He was quite a bit taller than Officer Peggy but when he tried to pull away from her and resist, she scaled him like a veteran lumberjack climbing a giant Sequoia. In a flash, she brought him down to the ground with such consummate skill, I was tempted to yell, “Timber!” As Sergeant Jim and Officer Peggy fought and struggled to get the driver handcuffed, my natural inclination was to jump right in the fray and help.

That was, until I saw the passenger starting to ease out of the truck. I don’t know if it was the look in his eyes, the slow deliberate way he moved as he pushed the door open or that I couldn’t see both of his hands that abruptly put me on edge. The image of the “Lost In Space” robot suddenly formed in my mind, with him waving its arms, crying, “Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!” The hairs actually stood up on the back of my neck as Robot B-9 shouted a warning, “Watch the passenger!”

The vicious fight going on to my right faded from my attention as I focused in on the passenger’s intent. I pointed at him with my left index finger while my right tightly gripped the butt of my pistol. Using my best public safety Spanish, I ordered him to stay inside the truck and to put his hands on his head where I could see them; “Sentarse en el vehículo! Ponga sus manos en la cabeza. No se mueva o disparo!” At first, he seemed disinclined to abide that polite entreaty and ease out of the truck. Then his eyes widened when he saw my brand new Beretta 92 pointed right at his center of mass. He correctly deduced it would be better if he stayed in the truck. That still did not dissuade him from bending forward, making what police officers everywhere know as “furtive movements”. As if, I needed more to heighten my suspicions. When Sgt. Jim saw me pointing my pistol at the passenger in the car, he quickly requested some additional help.

Shortly after the additional officers arrived and joined the clash, they managed to take the misogynistic driver into custody. Then, exercising caution, Sgt. Jim and I ordered the passenger out at gunpoint. When he stumbled and did a face-plant, it was clear he was “muy borracho”, just as his friend had been. Finally, I searched the inside of the pick-up. Under the passenger’s seat, I found a .25 caliber semi-automatic pistol. The magazine was fully loaded, there was a round chambered and the hammer was cocked back, ready to fire. Naturally, we charged the passenger for possession of a loaded concealed weapon in a vehicle and the driver for allowing a loaded weapon in the passenger area of his truck.

So, was it supernatural prescience that triggered my imaginary Robot B-9 to shout his warnings? That would make for a good story, but no, it wasn’t. By that point in my career, I had participated in hundreds of DWI arrests; rarely did the driver become physically violent and resist arrest. If they did, it was because of issues beyond the DWI, such as having a suspended license, outstanding warrants, commission of another more serious crime or something in the car that they did not want found by law enforcement. Because of the driver’s combativeness, I reacted with greater suspicion. For a passenger to get out of the vehicle without one of us telling them, usually meant that they were either going to get involved in the altercation, were themselves wanted for a crime or warrants and were going to run or also had something in the vehicle they didn’t want us to find. The result was further cause for heightened awareness. That he moved with a deliberation that belied mere intoxication was yet more reason to be wary. Finally, I couldn’t see both of his hands and if there is one cardinal rule of officer safety it is “hands, hands and hands”.

I don’t think it was intuition but situational awareness that was the result of continuing training and experience, that had me ready to act. We were faced with two “danger zones”; Officer Peggy and Sgt. Jim were addressing one. My job was to address the other. While we could never prove that the passenger actually was holding the gun in his hand when he tried to get out of that pick-up truck, the fact remains, there was a pistol right under his seat, loaded and ready to go for a reason.

Over the ensuing years, there were other occasions when “Robot B-9” caught my attention and I never ignored him; “he” was always right.

Traffic Officer Gerry Goldshine aka T-36 Petaluma Police Department mid-1980's — Traffic Officer Gerry Goldshine
aka T-36
Petaluma Police Department mid-1980’s

Gerry was born in Providence, Rhode Island but raised in Southern California. Upon graduating from California State University, Los Angeles, Gerry enlisted in the Army and was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant. After leaving active duty in 1979, he worked for Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office. From 1980 until his retirement in 1996, he was a patrol officer, traffic officer, and a trainer at Petaluma Police Department. Gerry is married, has a daughter and lives in Sonoma County, California. Gerry is a regular contributor to Just the Facts, Ma’am. Check in weekly or so to see his newest posts.

Tags borracho, DWI, ESP, intuition, premonition, Sequoia

More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

10-33 Silent Alarm

By Gerry Goldshine

Conducting a building search under the best of circumstances is a trying, tedious job. The places inside a house where the average human being can find to hide boggles the mind. Unlike what you see on television, a thorough search is far more involved that pointing your gun inside a room and shouting “Clear!” when you don’t see anything. Every closet and every cupboard have to be checked. You have to make sure the attic, under beds and even the drum of the clothes dryer are clear because I’ve found people in all those places. Piles of dirty clothes? Toss them because I found a warrant suspect hiding at the bottom of one. Despite all the complications that come with searching a residence, when clearing a large business establishment properly, the problems multiply exponentially and it can become downright tedious, taking up precious time and manpower.

This particular night, I was assigned to back-up another officer on a silent burglary alarm call at the Local Generic Tire Warehouse. When we got there, the first thing we noticed was an open side door. Great! Now for sure, we are committed to a search. As there were no other units available to help, it was just Officer Mike, me and hundreds, if not thousands, of tires. We strategized about how we were going to conduct the search and as the open door was on the opposite side of the building from the office, we decided to keep things as simple as possible. We would each take one side of the building and work our way back to the office. If anything was moved or disturbed we would then start checking each neat stack of tires. If there was concrete evidence of a break-in, we would back out and wait for more help.

Guns drawn, we asked dispatch to clear all radio traffic and made a quiet tactical entry into the darkened building. We were immediately confronted with row upon row of industrial warehouse shelving units, each piled high with tires of every imaginable size. Naturally, the light switches were located by the office so flashlights were our only source of illumination. Yes, it was creepy. Tires rearing up from the darkness, seemingly all the way to the ceiling, everywhere you looked.

We began working our way laboriously in the direction of the office and were about two thirds of the way to it when we suddenly started hearing some strange clanking noises coming from that vicinity. Now we had to settle on whether to back out, secure the building as best we could and wait for additional units to help or continue the search. Officer Mike being the senior and more experienced officer decided we’d reassess the situation when we reached the last row of shelves and could see the office.

Ten or so minutes later, we were at the last row of shelves and I could see the source of all the noise we were hearing; it was coming from one of those large, ceiling mounted industrial heaters.

Just as we both were starting to feel foolish, from behind a six-foot tall stack of tires by the office door, I caught sight of something moving! I let Officer Mike know via my portable radio but he couldn’t see anything from his position.

At high alert once again, we stealthily advanced, each covering the other, using other stacks of tires to conceal our presence. I could feel a rivulet of sweat trickle down my chest, behind the confines of my body armor, from heat being thrown out by the device overhead coupled with the adrenaline surging through me. The closer we got, the tighter I gripped my revolver. Closer still now, we realized that there was no way to confront whatever was behind that pile of tires without exposing ourselves. So I got down on my belly, dirtying up my spotless uniform and inched my way around the final stack of tires and finally saw our suspect.

There, swaying in the exhaust of the overhead heater, was The Michelin Man; a five-foot high cardboard cutout.

To this very day, I am oh so glad that I resisted the impulse to yell, “Freeze, asshole! Petaluma Police!”

Traffic Officer Gerry Goldshine circa 1985

Gerry was born in Providence, Rhode Island but raised in Southern California.

Upon graduating from California State University, Los Angeles, Gerry enlisted in

the Army and was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant. After leaving active duty

in 1979, he worked for Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office. From 1980 until his retirement

in 1996, he was a patrol officer, traffic officer, and a trainer at Petaluma Police Department.

Gerry is married, has a daughter and lives in Sonoma County, California.

Gerry is a regular contributor to Just the Facts, Ma’am. Check in weekly or so to see his newest posts.

Tags burglary alarm, Michelin Man, revolver

More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

It’s The Little Things

By Gerry Goldshine

I just ran across this in a recent Associated Press story on the tragic stabbing death of an eight year old girl in Calaveras County, California, “Sheriff’s officials say investigators collected fingerprints and what they believe is DNA from the home.” You’re now looking at the screen going, “Yeah, so?”

Well, first of all, crime scene investigators do NOT collect DNA. They collect hair, semen, blood and other type of physiological evidence from which a DNA profile may be extracted. The same applies to items such as cigarette butts, beer bottles, linen and the like. The DNA technician processes such evidence to extract a biologic sample from which a unique DNA profile is built. This profile can then be compared to a database to look for a matching suspect. DNA profiles can also be used to rule out possible suspect.

So this is about semantics, right? No, it’s about accuracy. One of the most valuable lessons I came away from the Army with was that “the little things” matter. Failure to pay attention to small details ultimately leads to larger systemic failures. As a traffic accident reconstructionist, I knew that major case, involving multiple vehicles and multiple victims, could hinge on a something as insubstantial as how the little coil of wire inside a single light bulb may have looked. Get that detail wrong and perhaps a vehicular manslaughter case collapses and a guilty person escapes justice.

The minutiae matter in establishing your veracity as a writer regardless of the genre. Give Captain Kirk a light saber instead of a phaser and regardless of how compelling your story happens to be, you’ve lost most of your readers. In the DNA situation, I start wondering what else the reporter doesn’t understand about police work, crime scenes and evidence collection. From that point it doesn’t become that much of a stretch to call into question the accuracy of the entire story.

With the wealth of information instantly available today because of the Internet, such lapses are inexcusable. As a writer, you have the same responsibility as I did as a traffic investigator to get the all the particulars correct, be they large or small.

Gerry was born in Providence, Rhode Island but raised in Southern California.

Upon graduating from California State University, Los Angeles, Gerry enlisted in

the Army and was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant. After leaving active duty

in 1979, he worked for Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office. From 1980 until his retirement

in 1996, he was a patrol officer, traffic officer, and a trainer at Petaluma Police Department.

Gerry is married, has a daughter and lives in Sonoma County, California.

Gerry is a regular contributor to Just the Facts, Ma’am. Check in weekly or so to see his newest posts.

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Tags accident reconstructionist, Calaveras County, DNA, sheriff, Traffic

San Rafael robbery circa 1976

Post author By Thonie Hevron
Post date May 12, 2013
No Comments on San Rafael robbery circa 1976

Photos by the best action photographer, Steve Moreno. “I carried my camera all the time. The is the Pharmacy Robbery on D street around 1976? And the last one is from the Flatiron Building Fire about the same time or a little earlier. Woody would take me for rides in the police car, one time I saw this kid running and I told Woody to pull out his gun and shoot him before he got away. My uncle said, “I can’t do that, he didn’t do anything.” I said he’s running so he did something. Never a call on it so Woody was right and I would have shot em just for being late for a date or something. However, he might have rather been shot then to face the date he was late for. Notice I broke the lines to get the money shot of the arrest. Without that it wouldn’t be complete?”

Tags robbery, San Rafael PD, Steve Moreno, Woody Hoke

Petaluma K-9 Rico

Petaluma PD K-9 Rico photo by Petaluma 360 — Petaluma PD K-9 Rico
photo by Petaluma 360

PETALUMA K–9 RICO SERIOUSLY INJURED IN TRAINING MISHAP

by Lt. Matt Stapleton, Petaluma PD

As many of you may have read in the newspaper, our award winning K9 Rico was seriously injured in a training accident on April 15^th. Officer Mike Page was leading Rico in a search exercise during a training day in Petaluma that was attended by dog teams throughout the region. Rico fell from a second story landing and suffered serious neck injuries. Officer Page rushed Rico to the emergency vet hospital and the following days were touch-and-go for Rico as he endured a variety of tests and scans to identify what was damaged. Rico ended up requiring surgery and, while his future as a protection dog is probably over; his recovery is impressing the doctors to the extent that they have questioned whether he may return as a drug detection dog. We are currently monitoring his progress very closely and his potential return to service is yet to be determined.

One of the most remarkable aspects of this horrible situation was the outpouring of support that the Petaluma Police Department has received from our community. Well over 15,000 dollars poured in during the week following the announcement. Several members of TEAM 4908 (current and alumni members of PPD) also contributed toward Rico’s treatment. The treatment was originally estimated by doctors to be in the neighborhood of at least 13,000 dollars and our community has covered it.

Rico and handler Mike Page have contributed substantially to our organization throughout the course of their past 7 years of service as a team. Rico has brought in hundreds of thousands of dollars in asset seizure money, assisted in numerous suspect apprehensions and has brought joy to citizens during his public presentations. We wish Rico the best in his recovery and we are very appreciative of everyone’s support.

PETALUMA POLICE K9 RICO click below for the news article

http://www.petaluma360.com/article/20130425/community/130429783

Tags K-9, k9, Petaluma PD, Rico, TEAM 4908

More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

And We’re Off And Running, part 3

Post author By Thonie Hevron
Post date May 9, 2013
No Comments on And We’re Off And Running, part 3

And We’re Off And Running

part 3 of 3

By Gerry Goldshine

Sharing a chuckle that comes from regularly working with someone under often trying conditions, I could feel some of my accumulated stress bleed off. Then Officer Andy and K-9 Rocky came up behind Sgt Dave. Petaluma Police had recently reinstated their Canine program; Rocky, a German Shepherd, was still relatively new and had yet been faced with the necessity to bring someone down outside of training.

Before we could strategize any further, the “Yutz” upped the ante on us by getting out of his car and standing next to it. Nothing quite irritates the hell out of a bunch of adrenaline fueled cops more than someone who just doesn’t want to go along with the program in a high risk situation. If the sound of multiple officers yelling at him in both Spanish and English didn’t catch his attention, one would have thought the distinctive sounds of multiple shot-gun actions being worked and the frenzied barking of Rocky would have. It didn’t.

Sgt. Dave told Officer Andy that he and Rocky now had the helm. Officer Andy shouted out that if the suspect didn’t comply with our instructions, he was going to release Rocky or words to that effect. By then, Rocky was very well caught up in the spirit of things and barking in what should have been an menacing manner to any sensible person, sober or not. An officer, who spoke Spanish, repeated Officer Andy’s commands.

No doubt more than one or two of us went slack-jawed when the suspect at last responded by dancing some type of jig in the street next to his car. This alone would have been the height of absurdity had not the suspect finished his little boogie by extending the middle fingers of both hands and held them defiantly aloft for all of us to see.

Succumbing perhaps to the influence of the Simpson’s C. Montgomery Burns, Sergeant Dave simply told Officer Andy, “Release the hound…” Well, at least that’s how I recall it.

Rocky, was off like Rin Tin Tin, eager like any other police rookie to finally put all his hard training to use for the first time. Before our would-be M. C. Hammer could rescind his crude digital display, Rocky leapt and grabbed Twinkle Toes’ right forearm in his jaws. The dog’s forward momentum carried him and the suspect to the ground. Half of us rushed the driver while the others took a most cooperative but rather inebriated passenger into custody. Just like that, the incident was over; it was almost textbook perfect in set-up and execution. The only injury was the bite from Rocky.

Sergeant Dave assigned someone from the Graveyard shift to take the suspect, who was quite clearly drunk, to the local hospital for treatment and a blood alcohol test. The passenger, equally smashed, was arrested and charged with public intoxication.

As everyone started leaving the scene, I saw amongst the assemblage, several units from the California Highway Patrol, a unit from the Sonoma County Sheriff and coming south on Stony Point Road, from his blocking position a half mile ahead of me was a unit from Rohnert Park Department of Public Safety. Quite the team effort. I looked at my watch and shook my head in dismay as I began filling out the CHP Form 180 to have the suspect’s car towed from the scene. It was well after end of watch and I had several hours of report writing ahead of me. “Go get him”, indeed!

Gerry is a regular contributor to Just the Facts, Ma’am. Check in weekly or so to see his newest posts.

Tags CHP, graveyard shift, pursuit, Rocky, Rohnert Park Department of Public Safety

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PETALUMA K–9 RICO SERIOUSLY INJURED IN TRAINING MISHAP

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And We’re Off And Running

part 3 of 3

By Gerry Goldshine

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