New Year’s Eve: I was one of eight uniformed Metro officers who along with a sergeant was assigned to Hollywood and Vine. I have never been good at estimating crowd size. I just know we are packed solid on all four corners.
The crowd was
in various stages of drunkenness but generally well behaved. It consisted
mostly of people who by now were probably tired of standing, wondering why they
are here, asking themselves when they are going to start having fun but most of
all, where’s then nearest rest room? Needed soon.
In the
center of the intersection was a man hole cover. Custom and tradition said, to
stand upon said manhole cover exactly at midnight would mean what?
It was sort
of a “king of the hill” thing.
Vehicular
traffic had been moving at a snail’s pace but was now shut down and diverted
off the boulevard.
On his bull
horn, the sergeant tells the crowd that it is 11:55 and they can have the
intersection for 10 minutes.
The crowd
who had been standing numbly on the sidewalk is now in the street thinking the
same thoughts as before. But for a few this may very well be the most exciting
or daring thing they have ever done in their lives.
Some can
probably see their obituary: “The deceased Mr. Beanie Watros, in addition to
his 40 year service as assistant manager at the Widget Factory, was somewhat of
a local legend having on one occasion actually stood in the center of
Hollywood and Vine at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve until rudely
pushed to the curb by a large police officer with a stick.”
The sergeant
begins the countdown……one minute………30 seconds……..10-9-8…….
Hollywood and Vine in the daytime.
Now the
attempt to “take” the manhole begins.
There are
always 8 or 10 ready to do battle.
Now, we have
two types of fighters—those who fight like 12-year-old girls (sorry ladies) and
those who learned from watching silent movies where everyone “swung
roundhouse punches arms fully extended.” If they connected, everyone went
down.
Miss and
they went down.
At 12:05 the
sergeant’s whistle tells us to take the street back. We commandeer the “standing”
drunks to move the “down” drunks to the sidewalk.
“But officer,
I don’t even know this guy.”
“Neither do I
friend. Now put him over there.”
The crowd is
now back where they started wondering, “what just happened?”
“Did I have
fun or what?”
They mill
about for a bit until someone comes up with the best suggestion of the night.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Not to long after we are released so we can drive to Pasadena and work the Rose Parade for the princely sum of $25.00.
Somewhere throughout the land there are probably a handful of
old men who can claim the title connected to this Hollywood icon.
On the east coast in New York City every New Year’s Eve since
1907 the ball has dropped in Times Square. People come from great
distances to be there and be part of the action.
3000 miles to the west however, we have the holy grail of
locations—Hollywood and Vine. Famous the world around. If Hal had a dollar for
every time he drove through this intersection he would have more money than Bill
Gates.
I think I can say without contradiction that Hollywood
has more strange, unusual, weird and bizarre characters than any
place else in the city. If that is not enough thousands more are imported for New
Year’s Eve.
Hollywood and Vine circa 1952
Without having specific instructions, the new comers and maybe
some locals too, are largely engaged as follows:
They are required to drink tremendous amounts of alcohol (mostly
beer), to wander aimlessly in small groups or herds, to argue at the tops of
their lungs with anyone and everyone, to challenge all comers to fight, “You
want a piece of me buddy, come on.”
And then either lose interest or forget what they were doing,
usually throwing up on anyone within range or themselves, and last but not
least to fall down and sometimes fall asleep.
The following is true, so help me. I once saw one of our coppers walking while pulling on a piece of rope, holding on to the rope were 4 or 5 real, real drunks. He said with a straight face that he was taking them to get coffee and if they didn’t have the rope, they would fall down.
There are no elves, nor grinches, no Jacob Marley and no Tiny Tim.This is the tale of one minor incident in the city on any given day.
The Call Box
I was a sergeant working Wilshire Division detectives and with three others were the “Christmas crew.” My hope for a quiet day to work on reports evaporated when a patrol officer called in a “DB” (dead body) call at the far west end of the division, the high rent area.
Homes were well-tended and pricey. I was met by the uniformand the neighbor who is a “Spring Byington” look-alike, both in looks andmannerisms. “Spring” came over to wish Merry Christmas to her friend Abigail. Receiving no answer, she went home and called. Alarmed when there was no reply, she phoned the police.
The uniform had no trouble gaining entry and found Abigail deceased.
Dressed in pajamas, quilted robe, and slippers she was seated in an overstuffed arm chair facing the tree. The remnants of a cocktail sat ona low table to her left.
From all outward appearances she died the night before. After deciding cause of death to be “natural” and thinking that was a pretty good wayof checking out, I released the uniform and turned my attention to “Spring.”
I covered Abigail’s face with a blanket and asked “Spring” about next of kin. She confirmed her friend like herself was in her 80’s and a long-time widow.
Spring Byington in Kentucky Jones 1965
Three grown children, a daughter, Ellen, living in Arizona who she spoke to by phone on a weekly basis, and two sons both estranged, whom Abigail never discussed, names unknown.
Kitchen “wall phones” were popular then and usually had a corkboard or message receptacle adjacent. Abigail did not disappoint. In one corner of the board was “E” with an Arizona number. Directly below was “T” and “D”who I hoped were the sons. Neither E nor T answered nor did a machine.
D answered, “Merry Christmas, this is Dick.” Now the crappy part. Anyone who has ever made a death notification can verify there is just no easy way. I couldn’t blurt out, “Merry Christmas, mom’s dead.” So, in my most diplomatic fashion, I gave him the news as gently as possible.
Now, this is a man who, by his later admission, had not spoken to nor made any inquiry regards his mother’s health or well-being for many years. He completely went to pieces. He was an hour away and would be enroute.
“Spring,” bless her heart, had without prompting nor asking has made a pot of coffee. We sat with our coffee sharing the silence, I finally asked about Abigail’s doctor.
“Spring” had driven her friend to the cardiologist on several occasions. He was on Wilshire and although she could not remember his name it started with “W.”
Abigail came through again when the board yielded Dr W. Department policy stated if a doctor who had seen the deceased within the last thirty days (I think) and was willing to attest to cause of death, he could sign the death certificate. Otherwise it became a coroner’s case.
Dr W’s service stated Dr G was covering for him. I asked Dr G’s
service for a call back a.s.a.p. Ten minutes later, Dr G confirmed his
association with Dr W, knew Abigail and was sure Dr W would sign off.
Thank you.
“Spring” left and when Dick arrived, he cried openly and told me of his regrets. It was awkward and there was nothing I could really say. I was finally able to calm him down enough to call a mortuary. I then walked next door responding to “Spring’s” invitation and enjoyed a very good breakfast.
The names Abigail, Ellen, T and D along with the doctors’ are invented for this story as it was long ago.
When someone mentions the 1950’s we tend to think of a more innocent time, a peaceful and happier period.
Take 1957 for example: Ike was president, The Bridge on the River Kwai won the Academy Awards best picture, the Milwaukee Braves won their first ever World Series, beating the N.Y. Yankees 4 games to 3. The Super Bowl was ten years in the future, the Russians gave us Sputnik, the National Guard enforced school integration in Little Rock, Gunsmoke was number one on TV with Danny Thomas second. Five of the top ten were westerns. Nobody had ever heard of Viet Nam.
And 128 law enforcement officers died in the line of duty. 13or 10% were in California.
This the story of two of them.
The city of El Segundo is south and west of LA. A beach community approximately 5.46 square miles, today about 17,000 residents. The name Segundo is Spanish for second as the city is home to the second Standard Oil Refinery Tank farm.
On a hot summer night, Monday July 22 at 1:30 A.M., El Segundo Patrol Officers Richard Phillips, 28, with 2 years’ service and Milton Curtis, 25, 2 months out of the academy stopped a 1949 Ford for running a red light at Sepulveda and Rosecrans.
Phillips exited the police vehicle while Curtis remained seated. At that time a second patrol unit, Officers Charles Porter and James Gilbert slowed to observe. Phillips gave the “ok” signal and they moved on.
A few moments later the motorist produced a 9 shot Harrington and Richardson .22 revolver and shot each officer three times.
Harrington & Richardson
Curtis died instantly. Phillips, considered the best shot on the department, though mortally wounded, emptied his 6-shot revolver at the fleeing vehicle. He put out a help call bringing Porter and Gilbert first to the scene.
Phillips was transported to a local hospital where he succumbed to his wounds as police units from surrounding communities responded and hundreds of officers took up the search.
The unoccupied car was found four blocks away. One item of note was that three of Phillips’ rounds struck the vehicle but only two were found, leading detectives to believe the missing round struck the suspect.
El Segundo PD Officer Richard Phillips EOW July 22, 1957
Off-duty sheriff’s deputies from Firestone Station arrived and set up a perimeter. The search continued throughout the night and the day intothe next night. He was gone.
El Segundo PD Officer Milton Curtis EOW July 22, 1957
What Phillips and Curtis had no way of knowing was that an hour or so prior to the stop the shooter had approached two teen aged couples in the “Lovers Lane” area in the small neighboring community of Hawthorne. Brandishing a revolver, he robbed the group, forced them to strip, bound them with adhesive tape and raped one of the girls, before stealing their ‘49Ford.
What Phillips and Curtis had no way of knowing was that an hour or so prior to the stop the shooter had approached two teen aged couples in the “Lovers Lane” area in the small neighboring community of Hawthorne. Brandishing a revolver, he robbed the group, forced them to strip, bound them with adhesive tape and raped one of the girls, before stealing their ‘49Ford.
They later provided descriptions to profile the shooter indicating he had spent a lot of time with them, was very polite and had a southern accent.
The El Segundo traffic stop was only a short time after the robbery/rape and the victims had not yet freed themselves. The traffic stop turned out to be anything but routine.
Two partial prints (both left thumb) were obtained from the Ford, however this was 1957 and unless they had something to compare them to, they had nothing. L.A. Sheriff’s Homicide took over and the agency with an excellent reputation for closing cases began what was to become a decades long search.
THE HUNT
Many, many interviews, suspects printed, interrogated and released. They chased tips, leads and hunches, all to no avail. Finally, it went “cold” but they did not quit. You do not walk away from this.
In those days’ DNA stood for “does not apply.” Fingerprint searches were done by hand; there were no computers. And still they carried on.
FBI fingerprint analysis
THE FIRST BREAK
In September 1960, just a little over three years after the murders, a resident of 33rd Street in neighboring Manhattan Beach found a rusted .22 revolver in his backyard along with a woman’s watch. In poor condition when tested for ballistics, the gun could only be listed as consistent with the murder weapon. The find was about one mile from where the Ford was located. It was assumed the suspect threw them as he ran. The watches (a search turned up number two) were identified as belonging to the robbery victims.
Now, finally, the detectives had a physical piece of evidence. Something tangible, something to look at, something to hold and better yet something with a serial number.
The Harrington & Richardson model gun had been purchased at a Sears store in Shreveport, Louisiana in June, one month beforethe shooting. The clerk Billy Gene Clark, who was 18 at the time of the sale, was found and interviewed. He remembered the transaction and stated the buyer wanted the cheapest model available $29.95 for “protection.” He liked the composite drawing (from the robbery victims) and provided the paperwork wherein the buyer had signed as G.D. WILSON. Checking other business in the area they found a GEORGE D. WILSON had spent the night at the YMCA. The handwriting looked similar to the Sears receipt.
Over the next few years detectives found and cleared every George D. Wilson in the United States.
What looked like a closer was now just another tempting clue gone cold.
Throughout the 1960’s, 70’s, 80’s and 90’s a succession of detectives plodded on, following leads, tips and just plain hunches. Nothing. During this period over 1000 people were fingerprinted and eliminated and in excess of 2100 “looked at” and cleared.
In the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks the FBI revised their fingerprint data base to include thousands of prints from various departments of unsolved crimes, however the base went only to 1980. Not 1957.
THE END GAME
In September 2002 (45 years after the shooting), LASO Homicide Detectives Kevin Lowe and Dan Macelderry who were then responsible for the file took a call from a woman who had overheard a man bragging he was the shooter. His prints were obtained, and he was eliminated. As they were reviewing the file they decided to have the partial prints digitally enhanced using technology not previously available. The prints were then entered into the FBI data base and within minutes—they had a hit!
I can only imagine what those detectives felt at that moment.
In 1956, Gerald Mason age 22, had been arrested and printed for burglary charges in Columbia, South Carolina. Released in 1957, he hitchhiked to California. The gun purchase in Louisiana and the southern accent described by the robbery/rape victims now made sense.
The prints were a gift from heaven, but the detectives knew the D.A.would want more. Over the next four months samples of his handwriting were obtained and proved a match. His 1956 mug shot was ID by the victims, the second radio car (Porter and Gilbert) who drove by just before the shooting and the clerk at Sears.
They built their case slowly and meticulously and in late January 2003, Mason was placed under surveillance for a full week. On January 30, 2003, a phalanx of officers descended on Mr. Mason and his worst nightmare became reality.
When he fled the scene of the shooting, he made his way home to South Carolina where he lived a quiet life never coming to the attention of the authorities. Not so much as a parking ticket. He became a successful businessman owning a string of gas stations before his retirement. He was living the good life, husband, father, grandfather, respected member of the community. Now his home was filled with police officers and when El Segundo was mentioned, he stated, “You are here for that?”
His back still bore the scar of Phillips bullet which had marked him for ID so many years ago.
When confronted about the rape/robbery he stated he was drunk and did not want to remember it. He admitted the shooting, “I had to get thembefore they got me.”
Mason’s friends and relatives were convinced the police had the wrong man. Don’t we always?
He pleaded guilty to two counts of murder on March 24, less than two months after his arrest. He was sentenced to two consecutive life terms, to be served in a South Carolina Prison as part of the plea deal.
He died on January 22, 2017, 4 days before his 83rd birthday.
In 1957 I was a brand-new officer working a radio car and learning how to be a policeman. I carried the wanted notice for the killer until it fell apart.
Over the years I sometimes wondered when and how it would besolved. A fluke and some luck, no doubt. How about both? A five and dime burglary puts his prints on file. A loud mouth in California boasts of being the shooter which brings out the file which updates the prints which gets the hit. Life can be capricious as we know.
This column/blog is written for several different reasons. For those of you too young to remember this, those who knew some but not all and to make sure we don’t forget.
This is also dedicated to those brave men and women who wear or have worn the badge while doing a thankless task for a sometimes unknowing and uncaring public.
Those who have never, helped, or bled or cried for a stranger do not have the faintest clue what it is like to be a police officer.
I observed an altercation last week in the seafood department at Safeway. The argument was over freshness. An irate and intoxicated customer threw a large chunk of Atlantic Salmon at the seafood manager and hit him in the face. A bloody nose was the result.
Being a retired law enforcement officer, I stepped in and made a citizen’s arrest. I told the customer he was being arrested for Assault with a Dead Weapon.
When the police arrived, they complimented me on my creativity, but just charged the man with Battery and Drunk in Public.
Jim Hasse’s Bio: I had a 28-year law enforcement career. I worked as a deputy sheriff and a detective in Madison County, Illinois, early in my career, but served as a U. S. Postal Inspector for 20 years, retiring in 1998. The short answer is: Jim Hasse, retired U. S. Postal Inspector from Walnut Creek, CA.
Not in costume or with satchels to Trick or Treat at 10 o’clock in the morning, the first uniformed officer rang our doorbell. We saw him on the porch through the dining room window. A younger, leaner uniformed officer stood in an “at ease” but ready position down three steps six feet behind the first officer on the walkway with his right thumb tucked in his uniform pants pocket just below his holstered weapon.
My husband, Danny, opened the front door. With a smile and a strong but friendly voice, he said, “What brings this show of force to my door?”
“We’re looking for Shannon,” the first officer said with a soft smile, his right arm bent at the elbow and the heel of his right hand casually resting on the butt of his holstered gun.
In Danny’s usual way, he didn’t offer what he knew about Shannon, the former tenant who’d lived in this house we’d recently rented.
“What crime did she commit?” His habit of answering a question with a question wasn’t muted by police officers at his door.
“We got a call from her family in Oregon.”
“This is a lot of manpower for a welfare check. I was a police officer for thirty-eight years. Good deployment of personnel, though,” Danny said as he looked beyond the front yard to the third uniformed officer on the sidewalk. There were no police cars in sight.
“Oh, you’re from L.A.?” a fairly obvious question given that Danny was wearing his blue LA Dodger cap. “What department?”
“LAPD for twenty-seven years, then the L.A.D.A.’s office for another eleven. You probably know my son; he’s a Deputy D.A. here.” They exchanged names and laughs. The third officer from the front sidewalk moved up onto the front yard to hear the light-hearted conversation about attorneys and prosecutors. The officer with the sergeant stripes, the most experienced officer on the scene, appeared from a place of cover between our two parked cars in the driveway.
“You know why they bury attorneys eight feet down instead of six?” the first officer asked. “Because deep down they have a good heart.” They all laughed.
The young officer closest to the first officer casually rested his forearm on his holstered gun. Clearly, they weren’t going to need to deploy tactical force.
In my full-length robe and uncombed hair, I made myself more visible to the officer at the door, still behind Danny as he took up most of the space at the wide-open doorway. “We just moved in last week,” I said. Danny stepped aside slightly. “Shannon lived here before us. She told our landlady she was moving to Oregon where she’d bought property.”
“That fits what we know,” said the first officer. “We got a call from her family in Oregon that she never arrived.
“She also had a business here in town,” Danny said.
“We checked there too,” but offered no further information.
“I’d be happy to give you our landlady’s name and number,” I said. “She might have a phone number or email address, but I know she didn’t leave a forwarding address because we’re still getting her mail.”
“Thanks. That could be helpful,” the officer said.
While I stepped away to write down our landlady’s information, the two officers facing each other at the door continued their police banter. Danny, the confident, retired, equally strong dog had sniffed the butt of the confident, younger, seemingly capable first officer who’d gingerly sniffed Danny’s butt. The two watchdogs meant each other no harm and their tails wagged as they shook hands.
I handed the officer my note and said, “I hope she’s okay.” I didn’t step too far into the doorway. No need for the whole neighborhood to know I was still in my robe at ten in the morning.
“Thanks for the information,” he said.
Everyone said, “Have a nice day.”
After he closed the door, Danny said, “They’re looking for Shannon for something else.”
“What makes you think so?” I often accuse him of being cynical. Sometimes a bad driver is just a bad driver and not trying to piss him off; but, sometimes his suspicious nature is warranted. His career experience and wisdom have served him well.
“First, there’s no way they send a sergeant, and three officers to do a welfare check and park half a block away. The sergeant between our cars, the third officer a distance from the house on the sidewalk, another uniform behind the guy at the door—that’s pretty tactical deployment for a missing person. It was more in line with looking for a violent offender.”
“I heard the guy on the sidewalk say it was a training day when you said this is a lot of manpower.”
“I was going to tell the training officer he was standing too close to the door,” Danny said with his typical wide grin.
“What do you think? She left town with too much debt?”
“By the way she left this house and yard in such a mess, it’s hard to believe she could run a business. Looked to me like she left pretty quickly. I’m guessing check fraud or grand theft. Maybe a warrant. Even the neighbors said her tweaker boyfriend had brought her down. I don’t know why the police are looking for her, but I have a feeling she doesn’t want to be found. No forwarding address. Didn’t arrive where she said she was going. Family in Oregon looking for her. If the boyfriend is looking for her, that’s where he’d look too. Who knows?”
“They sure didn’t offer any information,” I said.
“I don’t usually tell people I’m a retired cop, but I thought they’d offer a little quid pro quo.”
“They definitely stayed tight-lipped,” I said.
“Did you hear what they said when the neighbor across the street asked what was going on when they were leaving?”
“No, but I’ll bet he was a little disturbed by his new neighbors bringing the police to his neighborhood,” I said. “What’d the police say?”
“One of the officers answered, ‘Somebody stole a baby stroller.’”
“Do they teach that in the police academy, how to never give a straight answer and redirect the conversation?”
Danny chuckled and said, “You tell ‘em what they want to hear. Don’t leave ‘em scared. They don’t need to know the truth. They might try to help and get themselves hurt.”
“I’d like to have known the truth,” I said.
“Need-to-know basis, Sweetheart…”
—————————————————————————————————————–
Belinda Riehl
Associate Editor 2018 Redwood Writers anthology Redemption–Stories from the Edge; author of “Security at the Inn,” a fictional story told in 2020 after surviving the 2017 Sonoma County Wildfires included in Redemption; author of “Lighter Load,” a 100-word poem about the loss of her beloved dog in RW 2018 poetry anthology Phoenix–Out of Silence, and then…; author of “Wallet Karma,” a true story published in Sonoma Seniors Today, January 2018 issue, http://www.councilonaging.com/news-events/sonoma-seniors-today/; author of “Speak in Ink,” a poem published in online magazine Medium.com, https://medium.com/indian-thoughts/speak-in-ink-29152214a785#.e1e6i9q4j; winner of Redwood Writers 2015 Pullet Surprise for exceptional volunteer service to Sonoma County writers.
Please visit my blog: https://belindariehl.wordpress.com/ to read Occasional Musings by this writer.
Have you ever heard something that is so far-fetched, so unbelievable, that it makes you think, “Yeah sure, I’ll believe it when I see it.” Or when other common expressions of skepticism pop into your head like, “When Hell freezes over,” and, “No way … You are joking, right?”
Police officers are some of the biggest practical jokesters of any profession. Likely, their penchant for “punking,” or pulling pranks and being able to laugh, is a psychological means of coping with the negative things they encounter in their jobs on a daily basis. Whatever the case may be, following is a compilation of humorous accounts about air cops; police officers who fly helicopter patrol over their jurisdictions.
As a former helicopter pilot/instructor with the Los Angeles Police Department’s Air Support Division, I feel comfortable now in sharing some of these anecdotes. I’m guessing the statute of limitations for “Wasting Taxpayers Money” has passed. However, just in case I’m wrong, the names of participants will be either fictionalized or purposely omitted.
Also, rather than calling these stories “accounts,” possibly the term “legends” would be more applicable since some of them cannot be verified as actually happening. So, take a literary ride-along with some of the best police pilots in the world.
~~~
Tag … You’re It
Whenever there is a “slow night” for street patrol officers, the correlating effect for air support pilots and observers is usually the same. Also, because California law requires bars to close at 2:00 a.m., it can get very dreary for the few hours before the freeways become “alive” with morning commuters. During this dull time, it’s not whereas a helicopter can just stop flying and wait for something to happen like street cops can do in a black-and-white patrol vehicle.
Most police helicopter pilots fashion themselves as dashing fighter pilots (i.e., flamboyant jet-jockeys in flight suits that attract the opposite sex). Rather than just boring “lazy circles” in the sky with nothing exciting to respond to on the ground, a form of non-lethal aerial combat … “dog fighting” … became a favorite pastime of LA’s pilots assigned to morning watch.
The helicopter from the San Fernando Valley would sneak over the Hollywood hills and come up behind the other aircraft assigned to patrol the Greater LA Basin and metropolitan area. The Valley helicopter would get behind and above the LA ‘copter. Then a flip of the landing light switch by the pilot would illuminate the cockpit of the aircraft in front. The pilot behind would then key the radio and say, “Tag, you’re it”!
Quickly then, the pilot of the trailing Valley aircraft would turn-off the aircraft’s red-green navigation lights and the rotating beacon to become completely blacked-out. Diving and turning, zooming between and hiding behind high-rise skyscrapers in downtown LA, the Valley pilot attempted to avoid being seen by the crew of the LA ‘copter. If and when found, the LA aircraft would then try to maneuver behind the fleeing aircraft and get a “bead” on it. Once in “attack position,” a flip of the landing light switch, and “Tag, you’re it” once again came over the air-to-air radio frequency. Then the roles of both aircraft would reverse, and the chase was on again.
Sure, there was some minor FAA violations with the lights, but the “hard deck” never went below 500 feet AGL (Above Ground Level). No buildings, vehicles, or people were ever in danger. However, it didn’t take long for the Morning Watch sergeant back at the heliport in Glendale monitoring the coded radio comm to figure out that Air 70 and Air 80 were up to some shenanigans. Who knows, but maybe this was the impetus for the aerial sequence from the movie that came out a few years later, “Blue Thunder”, starring Roy Scheider.
What can I say … the original Maverick and Iceman of “Top Gun.”
~~ Post-Flight De-Briefing:
According to Wikipedia, “When pigs fly” is an adynaton, a way of saying that something will never happen. The phrase is often used for humorous effect, to scoff at over-ambition. There are numerous variations on the theme; when an individual with a reputation for failure finally succeeds, onlookers may sarcastically claim to see a flying pig. (‘Hey look! A flying pig!’) Other variations on the phrase include “And pigs will fly,” this one in retort to an outlandish statement.” These are just a few of the stories that have been circulated around LAPD’s Air Support Division for over a half-century. Through personal first-hand knowledge, some are partially true, some are fiction, most are hard to believe, but all are good for a laugh. These “pig tales” [sic] have become folklore taken from the actions or imaginations of those who carry a gun on their hip, and wear a badge and silver wings on their chest.
~~
Bio of Ron Corbin, PhD
Military
• U.S Army (1965-1969)
• CW2 Helicopter Pilot/Instructor Pilot
• 2 Tours in Vietnam as Combat Pilot Law Enforcement & Private Security
• Las Vegas Metropolitan PD – Academy Training Manager (ret’d)
• LAPD – Policeman & Air Support Command Pilot/CFI Command Pilot/CFI (ret’d)
• Body Guard for Prince of Qatar (1984 LA Summer Olympics)
• Director of Security; Manufacturing Company
Education
• AA (physical education)
• BA (child development)
• MS (elementary education)
• PhD (security administration)
~~~~~~~~ After military service, Ron joined LAPD in 1971 with the ambition of becoming one of their helicopter pilots. He achieved this goal in 1974, working his way up from Command Pilot status to an Instructor Pilot. In 1976, he was involved in a training crash that killed his student pilot and left Ron with 2nd and 3rd degree burns over 70% of his body. He was given a disability pension in 1977. During many months and years of hospitalization, post incident surgeries and physical rehabilitation, he finished his education earning a BA, MS, and PhD. He rebuilt his life around new careers, including being a school teacher and principal. However, law enforcement and security was still his primary love. Unable to do police work, he pursued various jobs in private security and training in personal safety, including being a body guard, director of security, consultant and trainer for security forces at DOE nuclear facilities. He moved to Las Vegas in 1993 and joined LVMPD. On behalf of the Department, he served as a CPTED (Crime Prevention Through Environmental Design) expert consultant to various public and private entities in Las Vegas. He retired in 2011 after several years as the Police Academy Training Manager. Ron has won sixteen awards for his writing skills fromthe Public Safety Writers Association. He has been married to his HS sweetheart for over 52 years, and has three children and seven grandchildren.
By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD
She was probably mid to late 40’s, tall and almost gaunt as very wealthy women are required to be. Her features said she had once been quite beautiful and was still extremely attractive.
The mouth, though, was hard and judgmental. Perfectly coiffed and dressed for a night out she stood to one side in the kitchen of her Bel Aire home as I spoke to her husband. It was almost 1:00 am and I was bone-tired from the double shift.
Eight hours earlier, I had stood in his den while he recounted his concerns regarding his missing daughter, Chloe.
We were there at the direction of the Chief of Police who had taken a call from Mr. Big that afternoon. I was preparing to leave work for home when the captain called me and one of my teams into his office.
Asking us if we knew who Mr. Big was? Obviously yes, a very recognizable name and face and a very powerful man. It seems his daughter, Chloe had not been home to her beach-front apartment for almost a week. She shared it with two roommates while they attended the local junior college.
As this was the early 70’s, the Golden Age of Terrorism and people tended to see bomb throwers under every bush.
Inasmuch as I was assigned to the Organized Crime Intelligence Division, terrorists, anarchists and the like were not our priority. Why do I mention this? Because Mr. Big went right to the top when he wanted police intervention. Maybe to stir the pot, he told the chief he thought his daughter might have fallen under the influence of a “revolutionary” and run off with him.
Okay, so why were we here? Well whenever the brass needed something done outside normal channels or “off the books,” we got the job. As a matter of fact, some people didn’t even know we existed.
I also failed to mention Chloe was 18 years old, legally an adult and emancipated from her parents. The hook then was the fact she had “possibly” been abducted by this ne’er do well and needed our assistance.
Yeah, right.
Our instructions were to find her, take no action except if required, urge her to call home and then brief her father, the captain, and chief.
This blog however is not about how we found her but find her we did—living in a garage in San Pedro with a 30 something-year-old ex-con member of the Weathermen, a militant offshoot of the then defunct Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), both radical groups.
Maybe dad knew his daughter better than I had assumed.
This is however about Mrs. Big’s reaction to the news we delivered that early morning in their kitchen over coffee. We were all standing, and I had just finished briefing her husband. Before he could reply, she stated, and I paraphrase, “This is not my world.” A short pause and again, “This is not my world.” Her eyes were focused for middle distance and she looked toward the back door.
“This sort of thing has no place in my world. I cannot and will not acknowledge the existence of such people. Those actions and behavior are a complete contradiction to my lifestyle and have no place in it. I refuse to believe in such people and circumstances. I will hear no more. You have no further business here.”
We said good night and took our leave.
I made no reply that night and even now so long removed, I am not sure I have the words or expertise to counter her complete and absolute denial of reality.
Ask most street cops what they consider the most valuable; the most important part of their professional life, if forced to; the last he/she would consider giving up.
I feel the answer would be their partner.
Partner defined: “One associated with another, especially in business or action.”
“Associate or colleague” OK so far.
“Either of two persons who dance together” (define dance)
“One of two or more persons who play together in a game against an opposing side” and “sharing risks and profits” Yes and yes
You should pick your partner with the same care as you pick your mate because you are going to be as close to and spend as much time with them as you do with the person you married. Choose wisely.
Start with the obvious—you need someone who you can get along with; who will be there when your life depends on it. Someone dependable, someone who will not lose it when the “fit hits the shan.” Trust me it will, and that’s a hell of a time to discover you picked wrong.
Choose someone with a mindset such as yours yet different enough so you complement each other. He/she sees what you might miss and vice-versa. Someone in whom you can see and appreciate the good qualities and ignore the unimportant bad ones; someone you feel comfortable and communicate easily with.
“On the right, by the alley.”
“Got it.”
Someone who knows what you are likely to do in a particular situation; who can understand and also convey a message with a shrug, nod, grimace or some other gesture you hadn’t even thought of.
Your Huntley to, his/her Brinkley (dating myself here); during a stop and on your feet taking and maintaining a good position. Moving sometimes as though choreographed. His/her Rogers to your Astaire (yet again).
And when it’s “come and get it time,” and the world is spinning out of control, his Butch to your Sundance.
As the saying goes, “someone who runs TOWARD the sound of gunfire.”
Consider the following:
You begin your tour by seating yourself side by side with your partner in a visibly marked vehicle. You are going to spend the next eight plus hours together directed by the radio to solve various problems.
When free from the radio you are on the “prowl” and “looking for trouble.” Let me repeat that: looking for trouble.
Does this sound like the sort of job description where you drive to the labor pool and pick someone from the crowd? I think not.
You hope to find out before it becomes critical that you have chosen to right person, since by then it will be too late.
They say you are lucky or rich if you have one truly good friend in your lifetime. I would think then that if the same could be said of partners. I am truly blessed.
Ward Fitzgerald and Hal Brasher, both WWII vets, taught me “the game.” Both were my kindly old “uncles.”
Frank Isbell and I were the “proverbial identical twins separated at birth,” who found each other, while Richard L. Sullivan “Sully” and I were truly soul mates.
I will lie for you, I will bleed for you, I will take a bullet for you and I will die for you.
I was a uniformed police officer assigned to night watch patrol with my regular partner Frank Isbell. It was barely dusk, and we just turned onto a quiet residential street when we hear a call, “Ambulance, injured child.”
The address was in the next block and was a child-care facility in one of the old homes in the area. We were close and decided to respond.
The turn-of-the-century house set back from the street had a fenced in front yard littered with toys, tricycles, and a play house. At the top of the front porch stairs stood a young woman holding what appeared to be an unconscious child, 3-4 years of age.
The woman has been crying and was on the edge of hysteria. Frank took the child while I calmed her down. The young boy has what appears to be an excessive amount of dried blood coming from both ears which has run down both side of his face before drying. She told me she found him “unconscious” on the floor of the closet with the “blood” and was unable to rouse him.
At this point Frank, who sometimes has a flair for the dramatic, states, “I have a diagnosis. It’s not blood. It’s chocolate.”
It seems our young friend found a stash of soft chocolate candy. So, hiding himself in the closet he stuffed as much as he could in his mouth. When he could hold no more, (boys being boys) he then stuffed both ears full of chocolate. Having overdosed, he fell asleep at which time chocolate did what chocolate does, it melted and ran down his face and when dry gave the appearance of dried blood.
The ambulance crew was able to wake him up, clean his ears and then treated the woman with smelling salts.
A few moments later while waiting at the stop sign we looked at each other and burst out laughing.
~~~
Another time, still working with Frank, it was late night and traffic was almost nonexistent. We were stopped waiting to turn onto a major street when a lone vehicle filled with screaming party-goers slowly passed in front of us knocking over traffic cones one after another. We were in a major construction area and there were cones everywhere to guide traffic through a maze of detours. We swung in behind him and with our lights off, follow him for a least a block or about 50-60 cones.
When I lit him up, he was so startled he did a 90 degrees right turn and hit the curb.
He was cold sober, embarrassed and apologetic. I assured him we knew that he meant no harm. As a matter of fact, I offered, “I am sure you were just about to park your car and pick up and replace all the cones. Correct? And we are going to stay here and help you by making sure the line is perfectly straight.”
He thanked us for not arresting him and sending him to prison. One of us just “may have” mentioned the newly invented, “TRAFFIC CONE HIGHWAY DISRUPTION ACT.”
Lesson learned.
They say baseball is a game of statistics or numbers. In a way, so is police work. How far did you drive, how many calls, tickets, stops, time consumed for each and on and on?
Known as recap, the ear candy and traffic cone incidents would not have credited us with any meaningful stats. So, even though not part of the numbers game we did what we were sent out there to do. Since most police activity is nonconfrontational we were protecting and serving.
They say character is what you do when no one is watching……..
Not in costume or with satchels to Trick or Treat at 10 o’clock in the morning, the first uniformed officer rang our doorbell. We saw him on the porch through the dining room window. A younger, leaner uniformed officer stood in an “at ease” but ready position down three steps six feet behind the first officer on the walkway with his right thumb tucked in his uniform pants pocket just below his holstered weapon.
“LAPD for twenty-seven years, then the L.A.D.A.’s office for another eleven. You probably know my son; he’s a Deputy D.A. here.” They exchanged names and laughs. The third officer from the front sidewalk moved up onto the front yard to hear the light-hearted conversation about attorneys and prosecutors. The officer with the sergeant stripes, the most experienced officer on the scene, appeared from a place of cover between our two parked cars in the driveway.
By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD
By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD