By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD
On the TV news recently, I watched as several black and whites along with some officers on foot attempted to herd escaped cattle in the middle of the night. While they played cowboy, I sighed thinking I had never had a call like that.
I never chased a wayward horse, mule, donkey or even an old milk cow. I never went in pursuit of a sheep, goat, or even a fat old pig.
I did however remember two interesting animal calls.
“3-A-15, See the woman; unknown trouble.” Oh boy, let’s pause here for a second. When a person calls the police, the phone is usually answered by a sworn officer (depending on the size of the department) who attempts to determine the nature of the problem and whether to dispatch a car.
If the call comes out as “unknown trouble,” it means a trained officer was unable to determine the problem. Cops hate these calls. It could be anything from a cockroach in the bathtub to “I think there is an atomic bomb in my attic.”
The caller was at the curb when we arrived. The middle-aged housewife bounding up and down, crying and so worked-up she had the hiccups. We tried to calm her down and convince her she was safe and to tell us what the problem was. She gestured toward the house and finally said, “Snake.”
“OK, where?” I ask.
“Kitchen under the fridge.”
“How big?”
She holds her hands approximately 20-24 inches apart.
I asked, “What kind?”
Her answer was an annoyed look and a shrug.
We all know Southern Calif is a desert and all I can envision is RATTLESNAKE. I am also aware that I never met a snake that I liked. I have no desire to cultivate a relationship with one now and do not intend to change my mind.
The house was a small WWII duplex—the kind that seem to be everywhere. She tells us the back door is unlocked so my partner and I decided to surround the critter, Frank in the back door to the kitchen. I went through the living room. Batons at the ready we entered the kitchen and there he was coiled in front of the refrigerator.
Copperhead? Cotton Mouth? Mamba? Rattler? or could it be a Fer de Lance?
NO
It is 10 inches of ferocious garter snake. The housewife provided a shoe box and after a short struggle, he was subdued.
She refused to look so there was no discussion regards length. We released him with a stern warning at a nearby vacant lot.
Another chapter in the “Naked City” (sorry about that)
Another time:
“3-A-15 Choking Baby, FD (fire department) enroute, code three.” We were only a few minutes off and were there quickly. Front door was open, and we heard wailing from the rear.
In the back yard we see a woman trying to support the weight of a large dog who when attempting to jump to freedom, snagged his choke chain on the fence, and hanged himself. He appeared lifeless and the woman was unable to lift him high enough to get him down.
As we lay him on the lawn the FD arrives. Frank alerted them, and they brought a portable oxygen bottle.
In a few minutes they had revived him. Everybody congratulated everybody, too emotional to speak.
It is my understanding the F.D. now carries small animal sized masks.
Oh, and the dog’s name was “Baby.”
Another part of suspension of disbelief involves the premise of my first novel. By Force or Fear’s protagonist is a female detective being stalked by a cunning judge. Her superiors don’t believe her when she reports him. In this day of #MeToo, I seriously doubt any responsible administrator would discount the report. But it could happen, right? That’s suspension of disbelief.
Within the hour we joined the sergeant on the roof of a nearby two-story building.
By Gloria Casale
About Gloria Casale
Parker Center was many things to many people but revered by those Chief Parker commanded. Standing alone at 150 N. Los Angeles Street, the building occupied the entire block with an imposing position in Civic Center.
During its life the building saw the likes of the Manson Family, the Night Stalker, the Hillside Strangler, Skid Row/Central Slasher, Lonely Hearts Killer, Mickey Cohen, O.J., the Onion Field Killers, the Remorseful Rapist, Robert Blake, the killers of Robert Kennedy and Sal Mineo, and so many, many more.
In the most recent published tale, A Cold Death, the ghost of a young girl seeks Tempe’s help.
A Cold Death
October 1, 2017 will always be remembered as 
The murderer killed himself. The shooting stopped, and the sun eventually rose that Sunday morning. All anyone could see were the remnants of the carnage that covered an extremely large crime scene; the likes of which few law enforcement officers had ever seen.
In this first book of the series, Dumpster Dying, Toby tries out schemes with local criminals—informant to drug traffickers, gofer for a kidnapper and clean-up man to a killer. He gets caught and tossed off the police force. While waiting for his trial, Toby moves to a shack in the swamps and grows a beard but continues his messy habit of chewing. His white beard takes on the color and odor of tobacco. Toby had become even more pathetic, yet I found it impossible to toss him out of my next book. I decided he was too wonderful (as in horrifyingly fascinating) a character to dump, so I put him to use as a police informant, earning his way out of a jail sentence by helping Detective Lewis track down the killer of a barbeque cook-off contestant. Grilled, Chilled and Killed might have offered Toby redemption if he accomplished what he was assigned. Instead he almost destroyed Lewis’ case by tampering with evidence and, to make money on the side, participating in a kidnapping scheme arranged by an international criminal. Toby may have gone big time, but his abilities hadn’t, and he faltered in both of these endeavors, his downfall helped by the story’s protagonist who was aided by a feral pig. End of Toby? No, not yet. It was time for a third dose of bad boy Toby.
did not because, although he is a bad boy, he has staying power in terms of being a character readers seem to love to revile. Like me, I think readers feel a bit sorry for Toby. Rehabilitation is always an option.
In many of my books, I’ve let other “bad darlings” sail off to foreign ports or fly off to an uncertain fate in South America. What’s wonderful about not killing them is that I can bring them back for another dose of their badness and perhaps a final measure of justice at the hands of one of my sassy country gals.
Here then are two completely unconnected events in the life and times of Ed Meckle.
I have tried to be as circumspect as possible with what follows out of respect for any female readers.
By Judy Alter
About Judy Alter