I will try to tell this story as accurately and detailed as I can. This happened in 1988. I aged about 10 years overnight as a result of this incident and is one of the big reasons why the excitement of patrol duty faded. Here goes:
On the weekends, I worked a shift that split the evening shift and the night shift. 7pm-3:30am. It ensured that, in what was our busiest time, there was always two officers on duty during peak hours. I loved working that shift and generally would stay over and ride in the car of the night shift officer, Carl Butler. Now Carl was a huge man, about 6'6" and close to 300 lbs. He also had a head as large as a watermelon, but it was in proportion to his size. His hands were the size of dinner plates. They needed to be as he carried a Smith and Wesson 25-5 .45 Long Colt with a 6" barrel. He used to make fun of the fact that I preferred semi-automatics, as he told me, "A revolver never jams". As big as he was made him an imposing figure to criminals but a comforting figure to those he worked with. Just his sheer size would often be enough to defuse a bad situation. He worked nights for well over 20 years and absolutely loved it. He did have some annoying traits and habits. He smoke AC Grenadier cigars and they absolutely reeked as did his car. And, he would fart in the police car and lock the windows so that they could not be rolled down, laughing like hell the whole time as you were gagging. These, as well as drowning himself in Old Spice cologne really had to be experienced if you rode with him. But, he was one helluva good officer and turned out to be a great friend.
It was late in the summer of 1988. I was working in the little town in western Jefferson County called Graysville. It was a really small, country community of about 1500 people. It was also one of the most segregated cities in Alabama. The white people and the black people lived in totally different communities and they never, and I mean never, ventured out of them except to go the grocey store, post office, or leave the city. The city is cut in half by US Hwy 78. It, at the time, was the quickest way to get to Memphis from Birmingham and was always busy. Now, on the weekends, all we had to do was cruise Hwy 78 and we would be bound to either run into a DUI, an accident, or some kind of criminal activity that was taking place at the little convenience stores that were on it. Bad thing was, that almost every weekend, we had a fatal car accident along this highway.
The county west of Jefferson along Hwy 78 was Walker County. And it was a dry county meaning that no alcohol could be sold within the county limits. It was a haven for some of the most gap toothed red necks you have ever seen. Every sterotypical red neck that has been portrayed on TV was probably based on a Walker county red neck. At one time, 20/20 did a story about Walker County. The story was about where was the cheapest place that you could have a person murdered. The answer was Walker County, Alabama. The people that lived there were actually proud of that story. As a matter of fact, a few years ago, there was a man cutting grass on a riding lawn mower in Walker County. ([url]http://articles.latimes.com/1999/jul/29/news/mn-60726[/url]) Someone had placed a bomb on the friggin lawn mower, which exploded, killing him and his dog. They also tried to get his wife by placing an explosive in the front wheel well of her Ford Expedition. When she went to get it serviced for a front end noise, the service tech discovered it. It had failed to explode. No one was ever arrested for that. And they had a lot of murders that went unsolved. This is just one of many.[url]http://www.charleyproject.org/cases/l/lawson_carrie.html[/url]
If you google Walker County Alabama or Jasper Alabama, you will know the area that I am talking about. So, all the Walker County red necks that wanted to party with alcohol would drive to Birmingham to go to the night clubs and bars there. After they were shit-faced drunk, they would then drive back home to Walker County. And that is the reason we had so many fatalities on that 10 mile stretch of road between Graysville and Walker County. So, I was working this shift one Saturday night. For some reason, it had been fairly quiet all night. At around 2:30am I went to the station to start my nightly reports. We had to report nightly on stuff like, "how many miles driven per shift", "what type calls we answered", "weather conditions", and any prisoners that we had placed into custody. So, I was sitting at my desk filling out my reports, thinking my shift was just about done. Carl was sitting in the dispatchers office smoking one of those damn cigars, stinking the whole damn office up. At around 3:00am we got a call to assist the State Troopers. They had received a call that a drunk driver had gotten on Hwy 78 going the wrong way in the west bound lane. They were about 25 miles away and since we were only about 10 miles away, they asked us if we could head up the highway and try to stop the drunk driver.
Now, I was a junior officer at this time with only 2 years so I had the worst car. It was a 1973 Ford LTD. It looked just like one of those old LTD's on those movies that you had to watch in school with titles like "Blood on the Highway", even down to the red and blue "bubble" lights that were on top. But, it had the biggest engine. We had a mechanic that had put a 460 cu inch motor in it when it turned 300k on the original motor. He also set it up with Holley carbeurators. It was a turd of a car, but it was fast as hell. (In a straight line) Carl was driving a 1986 Crown Victoria that the department had only had for a short time. So. off we went, Carl in his nice police car and me in the turd mobile.
The area that the wreck happened at was known as Lynns Crossing at the crest of a fairly long hill. It really is just a bump in the road on the way to Memphis. You cannot see what is on the other side until you are right on top. Because of that, neither driver had a chance to avoid the other car. This was in the same area the guy in the truck that I told y'all about in "The Most Heinous Vomit ever" wrecked at. We got to the scene about thirty seconds after the incident happened. What happened was the drunk driver, driving a 1976 Malibu had hit a car head-on, a 1977-78 Buick Station wagon. Inside the station wagon was a family, 6 kids and two adults. The carnage was absolutely mind-blowing. It literally took your breath away. I have never scene such devastation inflicted on humans. Anyway, the drunk driver was dead. He had hit them so hard his entire body was forced under his steering wheel and he had bones jutting from his legs, and his back from the force of the collision. There was no helping him. We tried to see if he was alive but his body was kinda like a bag filled with lumpy jelly. He must have broken most of the bones in his upper torso when he hit the steering wheel. When we tried to move him, it was like trying to pick up a big water balloon. I think only his skin was holding him together. He had empty beer cans scattered all over his car and we estimated that he hit the Buick at about 70 mph. The Buick, we estimated, was travelling at about 60mph.
We then turned our attention to the other vehicle. The glare of the spotlights and the smoke from the destroyed vehicles made the scene nightmarish, almost like an explosive had been in one of the cars. Some of the children's bodies were literally torn into pieces. Most of it was just unrecognizable. It was hard to tell what they were and that they were human. None of them were wearing seatbelts as most people back in that time did not. The effect of the two cars colliding at those speeds was horrific and for me, unforgettable. I remember, the driver was absolutely destroyed. She had hit the steering wheel with such force that internal organs had been forced out from within her body. There were bits and pieces of her hanging all over the inside of the car. We could tell it was a person, but only later were we able to call the body "her". I can tell you, I was shaking and had tears running down my face. Anyway , there were two or three still moving and moaning, that were sitting in other seats in the car. I recall, there were three front seat passengers, all dead at the scene. There were three second row passenger with two dead and one alive, but we didn't know that yet. There were two people in the back row, one of them was dead and the other was still, somehow alive. Now, when the Buick was hit the front seat raised up, shearing the bolts that hold it to the floor.
During that small amount of time, one of the mid row passengers, that had been holding a 6 month old child in their lap, lost the child from his grasp and the child went under the front row seat. As the front row seat slammed back down, it pinned the 6 month old underneath it and it's passengers, literally crushing the child. When we found the child it was still alive, not crying at all, but struggling mightily to breathe. It struggled for a few minutes as the EMT's tried to keep him alive, but he lost the battle and died before being able to be loaded for transport. You could tell, even through all the blood, that he would have been a handsome young man one day. He, even then, was a beautiful baby boy. That was the first and only time I had ever seen Carl Butler cry. But he stood there watching as the paramedics and EMT's were scurrying around and he cried. He cried hard and long. I know he tried not to cry, but couldn't stop. I think he was embarrassed, as police officers aren't supposed to cry. The thinking at the time was that we were supposed to maintain a straight face and demeanor regardless of circumstances. Me being new, and not having been exposed to death this close and personal, well, I couldn't help but cry. I was surrounded by death and I cried. But, I was not embarrassed. Carl later asked me not to tell anyone that he cried. I told him that he appeared "human" and no one could fault him for that.
After that, I never saw him show emotion while on scene again. I, on the other hand, had nightmares for years after this one. I have goosebumps on my arms right now. Ambulances had taken a couple of the children to the local hospital but they were all dead or died on the way. A six year old boy, that we thought was going to live was taken to the local hospital, which was not far away. As Doctors were working on him in the parking lot of the hospital, internal matter started hemorrhaging from his mouth and brain matter was leaking from his ears. I felt totally helpless as I am sure the Doctors did as well. They pushed him aside and placed a sheet over him and started working on the only survivor, a 32 year old lady that had been sitting in the third row with the driver's son. She survived, probably because she was asleep and the force of the collision was buffered from the second row seat. Anyway, she was all messed up with broken arms and legs, and she had blood all over her. But it was from the little boy that had been sitting with her in the back, not her own. She did survive.
The cars were destroyed, but unlike in the movies wherein the slightest wreck makes them either explode or catch on fire, they did neither. It was hard to make out what type cars they were though. The force of the impact made identification really hard. We found out from the survivor, the 32 year old, that they were coming back from Birmingham, after going to see wrestling matches, then they went to an all night roller rink and the kids roller-skated until about 2:30am. The 32 year old was a cousin that had went along to help watch the other kids. That was what they were doing on the road at that hour. The drunk driver had left a county line strip club called, "Wesleys Booby Trap" to head back to his home. His blood alcohol level was determined later to have been about .28%. Out of nine people in the two vehicles, 8 of them died that night and I aged about 10 years overnight. I still remember the names. Their last name was Morgan. The 6 month old boy under the front seat, his name was Cody. They were the family of a man that we knew as police officers. He was the Deputy DA of Walker County. I won't state his first name just in case someone reads this and decides to get pissy about it. Anyway, he had just separated from his wife, (the driver of the Buick), to run off with some little drug addled, crack whore, dancer (from the club I mentioned earlier, "Wesleys Booby Trap").
He later committed suicide by shooting himself in the head, because he was convinced that God had punished him for leaving his family and cheating on his wife. He left a note saying words to that effect. After this, my zeal for patrol work diminished. I stayed in for a couple of years longer, but really, I got tired of seeing carnage every weekend on that damn highway. I eventually ended up transferring to another city where I ended up volunteering for narcotics duty. But those early days of working wrecks just showed me what drunk driving can do. The havoc it can create and the death it leaves in it's wake. Even today, I rarely drink alcohol of any type.
My views on dogs, life, mountainbiking, and whatever else I want to talk about.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
A day in the life of a Car Salesman
I worked at the largest Ford dealer in the Southeast. Long-Lewis Ford. We sold 500-600 retail units a month, 1100 fleet units and about 200 heavy trucks back in the day. We had 43 salespeople at the time and boy, did we have some characters. We had this lady named Muriel Farley, a dingy little woman but what she did not have in brains she made up for in enthusiasm.
One day she caught a customer, a black guy, driving a brand new 350z. It even had the dealer tags still on it. He told her that he had just bought it but did not like it. He wanted a Mustang GT and was going to trade the 350z for it. Well, Muriel got really excited and saw dollar signs in her eyes. She just knew that she had a deal. So, after about an hour of negotiating with this guy, she closed him and thought she was something else. Anyway, as they are waiting on a Finance office to open, the police come in and tell her that the guy had stolen the car from the Nissan store about a mile from us. They arrest him and take him to jail and she tells everyone how she just knew something wasn't right. I told her, "Yeah, right. That is why you went all the way through the process. You know you did not know
"...
Anyway, the day continues on and at about 5pm, the same guy comes back in, looks up Muriel and tells her that he knows he stole the 350z but he really did want to buy the Mustang. Seems as if he got bailed out fairly quickly. Anyway, the managers came over and ran the guy off and told him they did not want his business. You should have seen Muriel's face when the guy came back in. She almost shit herself
One day she caught a customer, a black guy, driving a brand new 350z. It even had the dealer tags still on it. He told her that he had just bought it but did not like it. He wanted a Mustang GT and was going to trade the 350z for it. Well, Muriel got really excited and saw dollar signs in her eyes. She just knew that she had a deal. So, after about an hour of negotiating with this guy, she closed him and thought she was something else. Anyway, as they are waiting on a Finance office to open, the police come in and tell her that the guy had stolen the car from the Nissan store about a mile from us. They arrest him and take him to jail and she tells everyone how she just knew something wasn't right. I told her, "Yeah, right. That is why you went all the way through the process. You know you did not know
"...Anyway, the day continues on and at about 5pm, the same guy comes back in, looks up Muriel and tells her that he knows he stole the 350z but he really did want to buy the Mustang. Seems as if he got bailed out fairly quickly. Anyway, the managers came over and ran the guy off and told him they did not want his business. You should have seen Muriel's face when the guy came back in. She almost shit herself
A Police Story
I had to work the 2pm-10:30pm one Sunday back in 1987. It was a hot August day and when I got to the Police Station, the morning shift guy, Bill Eady, was coming in from his shift. Now Bill had always worked the day shift and aside from picking up mail for the City, he hardly ever saw any action. While were were talking about how things were, we got a call.
Some anonymous caller told us to go to Microwave Tower Road (It had the repeater tower on it at the top of a hill) They did not tell us what we would find. Bill took off with me right behind him. You could tell he was a little excited to be going on a call. This was in Graysville, AL, the little country town that I told you all about last time. Anyway, we get to the end of Microwave Tower Road and a car, if I remember correctly, it was a Chevy Corsica, is sitting there with a dark haired girl in the front seat. As we approached the car we could see that she had been shot right in the side of the head with a small calibre gun.(Later determined a suicide with a .25 Raven auto) She had a tiny hole in her right temple with just a little dried blood running down the side of her head.
Now, it is August, 100 degrees and she has been in the car a couple of days, since, we determine, the previous Friday. Her lips had turned black and her eyeballs were glazed over and had crinkled with that stare of the dead. Anyway, Bill in his enthusiasm rips the door open just as I was saying, "DON'T". Well the smell hits him full force and he literally turned green. Then he ran to the side of the road and vomited his head off. I really tried not to laugh but he had laughed at me when I hurled my nuts. I knew that it was going to smell and was conveniently on the other side of the car and did not get the full blast effect in the face that he got. But, the whiff I did get was nauseating but not hurl inducing to me. Come to find out, she was depressed over a guy, and had substance abuse problems and she thought that killing herself was the easy way out. I can tell you that it never is.
Some anonymous caller told us to go to Microwave Tower Road (It had the repeater tower on it at the top of a hill) They did not tell us what we would find. Bill took off with me right behind him. You could tell he was a little excited to be going on a call. This was in Graysville, AL, the little country town that I told you all about last time. Anyway, we get to the end of Microwave Tower Road and a car, if I remember correctly, it was a Chevy Corsica, is sitting there with a dark haired girl in the front seat. As we approached the car we could see that she had been shot right in the side of the head with a small calibre gun.(Later determined a suicide with a .25 Raven auto) She had a tiny hole in her right temple with just a little dried blood running down the side of her head.
Now, it is August, 100 degrees and she has been in the car a couple of days, since, we determine, the previous Friday. Her lips had turned black and her eyeballs were glazed over and had crinkled with that stare of the dead. Anyway, Bill in his enthusiasm rips the door open just as I was saying, "DON'T". Well the smell hits him full force and he literally turned green. Then he ran to the side of the road and vomited his head off. I really tried not to laugh but he had laughed at me when I hurled my nuts. I knew that it was going to smell and was conveniently on the other side of the car and did not get the full blast effect in the face that he got. But, the whiff I did get was nauseating but not hurl inducing to me. Come to find out, she was depressed over a guy, and had substance abuse problems and she thought that killing herself was the easy way out. I can tell you that it never is.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Death of a Soldier
This is an idea I had for a short story. The original was a lot longer and I put it on a website called "Short Scary Tales"
Death of a Soldier
"Damn, It's hot!". That was the first words out of Cpl Edwards mouth as he regained consciousness. The IED had caught them by surprise. They were supposed to be on a "hearts and mind" mission in a secure area about 10 clicks north of Baghdad. Instead, they were now caught in the sights of insurgents, hell bent on killing the "Crusaders". There were only three vehicles in the convoy and none of them were heavily armored, as they were not supposed to draw enemy fire. But, this is Iraq. A hot, miserable place where the sand is so invasive, it gets into everything. Just walking tends to rub your thighs raw from the grit. And insurgents that want to gain entrance to Heaven, lurk everywhere.
Edwards sat up and tried to regain his senses. He checked himself to see if he had been hurt. Aside from some shrapnel wounds in his left arm, which did not appear to be that bad, he was alright. The vehicle he was riding in was destroyed. A smoking heap of camouflaged metal burning into nothing. Bullets were flying everywhere. The screams of the dead and dying from both sides filled the air. He tried to assess the situation. Needed to know how many casualties they had taken. Needed to find out if they had reinforcements in the area. But, the vehicle's radio was destroyed and the little handhelds they had were worthless in these type situations as they only could be heard by others close by.
He raised his head above the sand berm that he had fallen next to, to take cover. He could see his buddies being "hammered" from all sides. They had started with 10 troops and all he could see, still okay were three. He yelled to them, "Get down, take cover", And they, hearing his voice, made their way to take cover alongside him, running and dodging bullets. At that moment, an RPG, fired from an insurgent from a rooftop, took out the rest of his buddies, their screams drowning in the din of the gunfire and explosions.
Suddenly he was all alone. Edwards still had his M16 although he had hardly any ammo. He knew he could not stand against the terrible rain of death coming at him. The insurgents circled his position, talking in a language that he had not even tried to learn. They shot at him from all sides, blowing sand into his face and deafening him. From the rooftop an insurgent shot him. "BAM" right in the side, knocking the breath out of him. As the pain of the shot washed over him, and the shock and adrenaline coursed through him, he had the fleeting thoughts and memories of home, his Mom and Dad admonishing him for enlisting, his girlfriend, promising to be faithful, and strangely enough, his dog, Rex, running towards him as he got off the bus after school. As death closed it's cold grip on his life, he suddenly heard a booming voice. He thought it must be GOD. But, when he heard what it said, he knew the truth. "JIMMY, I TOLD YOU TO PUT THOSE TOY SOLDIERS UP AND GO TO BED. NOW, YOUNG MAN!!" In Edwards final moments he saw a giant hand, like a child's hand, reach down from Heaven.
Death of a Soldier
"Damn, It's hot!". That was the first words out of Cpl Edwards mouth as he regained consciousness. The IED had caught them by surprise. They were supposed to be on a "hearts and mind" mission in a secure area about 10 clicks north of Baghdad. Instead, they were now caught in the sights of insurgents, hell bent on killing the "Crusaders". There were only three vehicles in the convoy and none of them were heavily armored, as they were not supposed to draw enemy fire. But, this is Iraq. A hot, miserable place where the sand is so invasive, it gets into everything. Just walking tends to rub your thighs raw from the grit. And insurgents that want to gain entrance to Heaven, lurk everywhere.
Edwards sat up and tried to regain his senses. He checked himself to see if he had been hurt. Aside from some shrapnel wounds in his left arm, which did not appear to be that bad, he was alright. The vehicle he was riding in was destroyed. A smoking heap of camouflaged metal burning into nothing. Bullets were flying everywhere. The screams of the dead and dying from both sides filled the air. He tried to assess the situation. Needed to know how many casualties they had taken. Needed to find out if they had reinforcements in the area. But, the vehicle's radio was destroyed and the little handhelds they had were worthless in these type situations as they only could be heard by others close by.
He raised his head above the sand berm that he had fallen next to, to take cover. He could see his buddies being "hammered" from all sides. They had started with 10 troops and all he could see, still okay were three. He yelled to them, "Get down, take cover", And they, hearing his voice, made their way to take cover alongside him, running and dodging bullets. At that moment, an RPG, fired from an insurgent from a rooftop, took out the rest of his buddies, their screams drowning in the din of the gunfire and explosions.
Suddenly he was all alone. Edwards still had his M16 although he had hardly any ammo. He knew he could not stand against the terrible rain of death coming at him. The insurgents circled his position, talking in a language that he had not even tried to learn. They shot at him from all sides, blowing sand into his face and deafening him. From the rooftop an insurgent shot him. "BAM" right in the side, knocking the breath out of him. As the pain of the shot washed over him, and the shock and adrenaline coursed through him, he had the fleeting thoughts and memories of home, his Mom and Dad admonishing him for enlisting, his girlfriend, promising to be faithful, and strangely enough, his dog, Rex, running towards him as he got off the bus after school. As death closed it's cold grip on his life, he suddenly heard a booming voice. He thought it must be GOD. But, when he heard what it said, he knew the truth. "JIMMY, I TOLD YOU TO PUT THOSE TOY SOLDIERS UP AND GO TO BED. NOW, YOUNG MAN!!" In Edwards final moments he saw a giant hand, like a child's hand, reach down from Heaven.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Granpa Eddie
I am Eddie Jones. I used to be a US Marine. I also was a narcotics Police Officer. Then, I got in the car business. I rose to the title of General Sales Manager at the third largest Suzuki automobile store in America. Right now, I am unemployed and have been since March 6, 2009. On that day, 5th3rd Bank pulled the floor-plan of our dealership and we had to shut our doors.
It has been hard being unemployed. Not knowing day to day if your utilities are going to be cut-off. Having to provide for a family of five without a job. But, fortunately, we have been lucky and I honestly feel as though God has been helping us through this difficult time. I have had an interim job since unemployment at a local Buick-Pontiac-GMC dealer, but the manager was threatened by my presence and terminated me after three weeks. Well, that was his loss. Right now, my old Suzuki dealer is still working to re-open at which time I will be re-hired and life can start again.
I am a Grandfather of two boys, Riley and Cale. They are beautiful little boys. I haven't been able to see Riley because of custody issues between my son and Riley's mom. I certainly hope that those issues get resolved because I miss him. Cale, however, is all over the internet. He is a beautiful little baby. He lives in Georgia with my oldest son, Chris and his wife Stephanie.
I like bicycles. I ride all the time. I have three mountain bikes and one road/touring bike. The mountain bikes are an Independent Fabrications 29er Single Speed, a Titus Moto-lite, and a Specialized Enduro. My road/touring bike is a Surly Cross Check. I am a little obsessed by biking. Even though I am about 260 lbs., I am the most in shape fat boy you are likely to ever see. I lost a lot of weight riding bikes. In 1999 I weighed over 400 lbs.
My wife is from the Phillipines and we have been married almost 28 years. I have a daughter that is 22 years old and have custody of a niece that is 14 years old. We have 4 dogs, Lexi, CoC0, Taterbug, and Spot. They are treated as if they were little kids.
If you are ever in Alabama, look me up for a ride
I am the Admin of a little website
I am the Admin of a politically oriented mountain bike website. Actually, we are the outcast members of a political forum on another website. We started www.f88me.com after being banned and ostracized from our little corner of the intra-webz on the original website. Since starting f88me in March 2008, it has been through it's growing pains. We have gained members, we have lost members. Right now we are moving in a healthy direction and have a solid core of members that contribute daily to the banter and discussion. They are some of the most knowledgeable bike people I know. And they are also some of the most opinionated, hard-headed, turds I know. But, I think of each one of them as friends and would do anything within my power for them all. Sometimes, I don't think they realize what f88me means to me. They are some of the more intelligent people that are surfing the internet. They are some of the funniest, friendliest, and outrageous people you will ever get to know. Come join us for a ride or just to talk. I promise, you will like it.
The most heinous vomit ever
The most heinous vomit ever
I was working by myself one Sunday night. 10:00pm to 6:30am. Pretty uneventful. No calls all night. Went back to the Police station and bull-shitted with the dispatcher. About daybreak, we got a call of a single vehicle accident off of Hwy 78 by a place called Lynn's Crossing. A 1977 Ford Pickup went off the side of the road, right before a bridge and turned upside down on it's roof. Being as it was summertime, kudzu was everywhere. The truck slid upside down through the kudzu, all the way down to the bottom of a ravine and ended up lying, still on it's roof, across railroad tracks.
Well, the driver was still in the truck hanging upside down strapped in by his lap seat belt. It was obvious that he was dead. He was a really big guy, and post mortem lividity had set in. I remember the EMT's got him out of the truck. He was wearing blue jean shorts and a white tee-shirt. His legs and lower stomach were fish-belly white, while his upper body and face were brilliant purple from the lividity. Anyway, he had blood and body fluids running out all over, mucous, urine and fecal matter were all over him.
Now, keep in mind that he was at the bottom of a kudzu covered ravine, probably 200 ft deep. The EMT's put him on a backboard and started trying to get him to the top where the Meat Wagon (Coroners Wagon) was. God, it was so hot that morning. I remember the sweat running down my forehead as I was directing traffic around the accident. Anyway, they would pull him up the side of the ravine 10 ft, slip on the kudzu and drop down 5 ft. It took them a really long time. As I said, this guy was huge. They finally got him to the top where a gurney was awaiting, put him on it and then took him away.
Now, they have to get the truck off the train tracks before a train came through. One wrecker got on one side of the bridge and another wrecker got on the other side of the bridge. The used cables on opposite ends of the truck and started pulling. It was slow work as they had to pull at about the same speed or the truck would slip and start to slide back down again. Finally they got it to the top, still on it's roof. One truck used a cable and flipped it over on 4 wheels.
Now, we had no idea who this guy was and one of the jobs of a policeman at a wreck scene like this is to inventory the contents of the vehicle and try to establish identity. Now, on those 70's model pickups, the Vin# was on the drivers side under the windshield, about where they are today. But, it had a piece of paper jammed over it and I could not make out what the number was. So, I opened the door, stuck my head in and was attempting to move the paper when I felt something like rain sprinkles dropping onto the back of my neck and head. I turned to look up to see what it was and caught a mouthful (not really a mouthful but it tasted like it, really just a few drops) of the body fluids that were on the roof. I remember it was a brownish, viscuous, bile type, congealed, fluid. It came raining down on my head and face. God, I just felt a little bile rise up when I remembered that. Anyway, I tasted it and immediately power vomited. I am saying that I vomited so hard I thought my balls were going to come through my nostrils. I threw up in the truck, all over my uniform, on my shoes, then ran to the side of the road and threw up until I could not throw up anymore. Around this time, we had an idea of what AIDS was and carried that jellied alcohol hand cleaner with us. I literally drank a bottle of that shit to get that taste out of my mouth. Never before or since have I been as sick as that. I threw up until my gut hurt. God, it was so bad. Smelling death is nothing compared to tasting death. You know, I never did finish inventorying and establishing that guys identity. The day shift guy did that. I think I was nauseated for days after.
I had to tell this one.....Next time I will tell a funny one
Well, the driver was still in the truck hanging upside down strapped in by his lap seat belt. It was obvious that he was dead. He was a really big guy, and post mortem lividity had set in. I remember the EMT's got him out of the truck. He was wearing blue jean shorts and a white tee-shirt. His legs and lower stomach were fish-belly white, while his upper body and face were brilliant purple from the lividity. Anyway, he had blood and body fluids running out all over, mucous, urine and fecal matter were all over him.
Now, keep in mind that he was at the bottom of a kudzu covered ravine, probably 200 ft deep. The EMT's put him on a backboard and started trying to get him to the top where the Meat Wagon (Coroners Wagon) was. God, it was so hot that morning. I remember the sweat running down my forehead as I was directing traffic around the accident. Anyway, they would pull him up the side of the ravine 10 ft, slip on the kudzu and drop down 5 ft. It took them a really long time. As I said, this guy was huge. They finally got him to the top where a gurney was awaiting, put him on it and then took him away.
Now, they have to get the truck off the train tracks before a train came through. One wrecker got on one side of the bridge and another wrecker got on the other side of the bridge. The used cables on opposite ends of the truck and started pulling. It was slow work as they had to pull at about the same speed or the truck would slip and start to slide back down again. Finally they got it to the top, still on it's roof. One truck used a cable and flipped it over on 4 wheels.
Now, we had no idea who this guy was and one of the jobs of a policeman at a wreck scene like this is to inventory the contents of the vehicle and try to establish identity. Now, on those 70's model pickups, the Vin# was on the drivers side under the windshield, about where they are today. But, it had a piece of paper jammed over it and I could not make out what the number was. So, I opened the door, stuck my head in and was attempting to move the paper when I felt something like rain sprinkles dropping onto the back of my neck and head. I turned to look up to see what it was and caught a mouthful (not really a mouthful but it tasted like it, really just a few drops) of the body fluids that were on the roof. I remember it was a brownish, viscuous, bile type, congealed, fluid. It came raining down on my head and face. God, I just felt a little bile rise up when I remembered that. Anyway, I tasted it and immediately power vomited. I am saying that I vomited so hard I thought my balls were going to come through my nostrils. I threw up in the truck, all over my uniform, on my shoes, then ran to the side of the road and threw up until I could not throw up anymore. Around this time, we had an idea of what AIDS was and carried that jellied alcohol hand cleaner with us. I literally drank a bottle of that shit to get that taste out of my mouth. Never before or since have I been as sick as that. I threw up until my gut hurt. God, it was so bad. Smelling death is nothing compared to tasting death. You know, I never did finish inventorying and establishing that guys identity. The day shift guy did that. I think I was nauseated for days after.
I had to tell this one.....Next time I will tell a funny one
__________________
"Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave, safely in a well preserved body, but rather to slide in sideways, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, wasted beyond redemption, with a shot of Stranahans in one hand and a joint in the other screaming "HOLY SHIT, what a ride!"
Only two defining forces have ever offered to die for you,
Jesus Christ and the American GI. One died for your soul, the other for your freedom.
"Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave, safely in a well preserved body, but rather to slide in sideways, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, wasted beyond redemption, with a shot of Stranahans in one hand and a joint in the other screaming "HOLY SHIT, what a ride!"
Only two defining forces have ever offered to die for you,
Jesus Christ and the American GI. One died for your soul, the other for your freedom.
An Old Police Story
Working my first murder
I started out in the Graysville Police Department. A little community of about 1500-2000 people in western Jefferson County. We had one major highway that ran through the town. US Highway 78, which runs from Birmingham to Memphis. We were about ten miles from a "dry" county (Walker) and had a lot of DUI's and wrecks because of the people that lived in Walker County coming to Jefferson to buy their booze, then heading back up Hwy78 to their homes. So, on the weekend, we were fairly busy with that type crime and more traffic fatalities than I care to remember. However, generally, there was very little crime in the city limits.
I have to tell you a little about Graysville. It was a mining community in the beginning, then the mines started getting shut down and played out. People went from making $100k a year to $0 in a short time. But, they were just country people trying to eke out a living. One thing about it is that it had to be the most segregated community I have ever seen. Black people lived in Alden and Redwine communities and white people live in the downtown area and in the Portercrest area. The people never ventured into the other area's.
I was 23 years old and thought that I could make a difference. I quickly learned that police work really isn't about making a big difference. It is about making small differences everyday. It can go from dead boredom to sheer terror in a split second. I carried at the time, a Colt Gold Cup National Match SA .45 ACP. It was my pride and joy. It had been throated, polished and accurized to fire the "flying ashtray", a 200 grain CCI-Speer Hollowpoint that flew at an honest 1000 fps. And I practiced with it constantly. (At the time I shot in IPSC type pistol competitions and was deadly with that gun).
Because of the segregation of Graysville, our Chief Of Police decided that we needed to hire a black officer as Graysville had never had one. So, he hired a pretty good guy, Curtis Carter from Bessemer, AL. Now, Curtis had just gotten out of the academy and was full of piss and vinegar and quite excited to be hired.
I worked a 7pm-3:30am split shift on the weekends. Curtis worked 2pm-10:30pm and then the night guy, Carl Butler worked 10pm-6:30am. I kinda overlapped both of their shifts so that on a busy day we could have two officers on duty. All other nights, it was just one on duty. But, again, small town and hardly any crime that one could not handle. If we got into trouble, we called our neighbor city, Adamsville, which was bigger and bordered us.
One week we kept getting calls from a woman, Cynthia Dowdell. She lived in the Redwine community with her boyfriend, Carl Tartt. It never failed, every night they would get drunk, Carl would beat the shit out of her, and Cynthia would call us afterwards. This was before it was mandatory to arrest in domestic violence cases. Cynthia would always decline to press charges against Carl. We would leave and they would be okay for a day or two.
Let me describe Cynthia a little for you. This may sound racist, but I assure you this is what she looked like. She was cross-eyed and talked really "ghetto". She sounded just like a modernized version of the way that black people were portrayed in the movies long ago. She had a hairstyle that, I swear to God, looked like "Buckwheat" could have styled it. They were dirty and filthy and lived in a "shotgun" house. (A shotgun house, for those that don't know is a house that you could shoot a shotgun through the front door and hit someone in every room of the house)
Carl was your basic, sterotypical black, country drunk with bloodshot eyes, nappy hair (uncombed) and he talked worse than Cynthia. Sometimes Curtis would have to translate, and even he had a hard time understanding, especially if they were drunk. Both smelled like day old piss and beer. Their house was over run with roaches. Really, a sad situation, but that was what they had to deal with.
Anyway, it was a Saturday night, about 9:30pm. I had been working for a couple of hours, Curtis was getting off in an hour and Carl had just shown up to start his shift at 10pm. Now, Carl was about 6'6" and 270lbs, always smoked cheap cigars (Grenadiers) and slathered on Old Spice cologne. He carried a Smith & Wesson .45 Long Colt Model 25-2 (I think that is the correct model number) with a 6" barrel. He was feared by all of the kids in town, and by all of the black people. He never did anything in public to show any partiality and was not prejudiced in public. (In private was a different story) He was just a big man with a huge head. But, he was a damn good police officer and that city was fortunate to have him. Back to the story, we got a call about 9:30pm. It was Cynthia. She said, "I need somebody to come up here, Carl is sick, he is real sick". Our dispatcher, Charles Coleman gave us the call. Curtis said he would take it and off he went. About 10 minutes later Curtis calls on the radio, breathless and excited, requesting assistance and we could hear screaming in the background. He also requested paramedics to the scene. Soooooo, off me and Carl went to Carl and Cynthia's house.
When we got to the house, Cynthia was running around screaming incoherently. Carl's brother was in the house along with some other people. And Carl, he was laying on the floor with a big ass black policeman (Curtis) giving him chest compressions. They had him hooked up to a machine to measure heartbeat. He had a hole slightly off center in his chest. Every time that Curtis would compress his chest, blood would arc right up into Curtis' face and you could tell the only thing making the machine register a heartbeat was Curtis compressing his chest. This continued on until Carl bled out. His blood was all over the floor. Now, I had knelt down to assist Curtis but had on new shoes. I did not want to get blood on my new shoes and looked like an idiot trying to keep my feet out of the blood, but still assist Curtis. The paramedics were laughing their asses off at me. We called the coroner and had to stay with the body until he got there. While waiting, roaches started walking through the blood and there were hundreds feasting on it by time the coroner got there. Curtis, covered in blood was a hilarious sight. He was so excited as he had never seen a dead body before. This was before we protected ourselves from AIDS so the blood did not bother him (we really did not know what AIDS was).
The coroner (Jay Glass) got there and made arrangements to transport the body. We started questioning Cynthia as to what happened. This is her story. "I was peeling taters and Carl went to the frigidaire to get him some wine. There wudn't any so he blamed me and came back and started whupping my ass. I was tired of it so I poked him in the chest with my knife". The knife she had was a serrated edge steak knife. It made a very small wound, but she stabbed him right in the heart with it. It always amazed me that when we started to transport the body, the blood on the floor was almost gone. I don't know if the roaches had eaten all of it or if the wood floor had soaked it up. A mystery to this day. Anyway, we had to photograph the body at the hospital and arrest Cynthia. We charged her with murder, but aside from that first night, she spent no jail time. Seems as if no one cared enough about Carl to pursue her and make sure she went to prison. I think she got off with just probation.
I'll get better at this....but there you go. The first installment
I have to tell you a little about Graysville. It was a mining community in the beginning, then the mines started getting shut down and played out. People went from making $100k a year to $0 in a short time. But, they were just country people trying to eke out a living. One thing about it is that it had to be the most segregated community I have ever seen. Black people lived in Alden and Redwine communities and white people live in the downtown area and in the Portercrest area. The people never ventured into the other area's.
I was 23 years old and thought that I could make a difference. I quickly learned that police work really isn't about making a big difference. It is about making small differences everyday. It can go from dead boredom to sheer terror in a split second. I carried at the time, a Colt Gold Cup National Match SA .45 ACP. It was my pride and joy. It had been throated, polished and accurized to fire the "flying ashtray", a 200 grain CCI-Speer Hollowpoint that flew at an honest 1000 fps. And I practiced with it constantly. (At the time I shot in IPSC type pistol competitions and was deadly with that gun).
Because of the segregation of Graysville, our Chief Of Police decided that we needed to hire a black officer as Graysville had never had one. So, he hired a pretty good guy, Curtis Carter from Bessemer, AL. Now, Curtis had just gotten out of the academy and was full of piss and vinegar and quite excited to be hired.
I worked a 7pm-3:30am split shift on the weekends. Curtis worked 2pm-10:30pm and then the night guy, Carl Butler worked 10pm-6:30am. I kinda overlapped both of their shifts so that on a busy day we could have two officers on duty. All other nights, it was just one on duty. But, again, small town and hardly any crime that one could not handle. If we got into trouble, we called our neighbor city, Adamsville, which was bigger and bordered us.
One week we kept getting calls from a woman, Cynthia Dowdell. She lived in the Redwine community with her boyfriend, Carl Tartt. It never failed, every night they would get drunk, Carl would beat the shit out of her, and Cynthia would call us afterwards. This was before it was mandatory to arrest in domestic violence cases. Cynthia would always decline to press charges against Carl. We would leave and they would be okay for a day or two.
Let me describe Cynthia a little for you. This may sound racist, but I assure you this is what she looked like. She was cross-eyed and talked really "ghetto". She sounded just like a modernized version of the way that black people were portrayed in the movies long ago. She had a hairstyle that, I swear to God, looked like "Buckwheat" could have styled it. They were dirty and filthy and lived in a "shotgun" house. (A shotgun house, for those that don't know is a house that you could shoot a shotgun through the front door and hit someone in every room of the house)
Carl was your basic, sterotypical black, country drunk with bloodshot eyes, nappy hair (uncombed) and he talked worse than Cynthia. Sometimes Curtis would have to translate, and even he had a hard time understanding, especially if they were drunk. Both smelled like day old piss and beer. Their house was over run with roaches. Really, a sad situation, but that was what they had to deal with.
Anyway, it was a Saturday night, about 9:30pm. I had been working for a couple of hours, Curtis was getting off in an hour and Carl had just shown up to start his shift at 10pm. Now, Carl was about 6'6" and 270lbs, always smoked cheap cigars (Grenadiers) and slathered on Old Spice cologne. He carried a Smith & Wesson .45 Long Colt Model 25-2 (I think that is the correct model number) with a 6" barrel. He was feared by all of the kids in town, and by all of the black people. He never did anything in public to show any partiality and was not prejudiced in public. (In private was a different story) He was just a big man with a huge head. But, he was a damn good police officer and that city was fortunate to have him. Back to the story, we got a call about 9:30pm. It was Cynthia. She said, "I need somebody to come up here, Carl is sick, he is real sick". Our dispatcher, Charles Coleman gave us the call. Curtis said he would take it and off he went. About 10 minutes later Curtis calls on the radio, breathless and excited, requesting assistance and we could hear screaming in the background. He also requested paramedics to the scene. Soooooo, off me and Carl went to Carl and Cynthia's house.
When we got to the house, Cynthia was running around screaming incoherently. Carl's brother was in the house along with some other people. And Carl, he was laying on the floor with a big ass black policeman (Curtis) giving him chest compressions. They had him hooked up to a machine to measure heartbeat. He had a hole slightly off center in his chest. Every time that Curtis would compress his chest, blood would arc right up into Curtis' face and you could tell the only thing making the machine register a heartbeat was Curtis compressing his chest. This continued on until Carl bled out. His blood was all over the floor. Now, I had knelt down to assist Curtis but had on new shoes. I did not want to get blood on my new shoes and looked like an idiot trying to keep my feet out of the blood, but still assist Curtis. The paramedics were laughing their asses off at me. We called the coroner and had to stay with the body until he got there. While waiting, roaches started walking through the blood and there were hundreds feasting on it by time the coroner got there. Curtis, covered in blood was a hilarious sight. He was so excited as he had never seen a dead body before. This was before we protected ourselves from AIDS so the blood did not bother him (we really did not know what AIDS was).
The coroner (Jay Glass) got there and made arrangements to transport the body. We started questioning Cynthia as to what happened. This is her story. "I was peeling taters and Carl went to the frigidaire to get him some wine. There wudn't any so he blamed me and came back and started whupping my ass. I was tired of it so I poked him in the chest with my knife". The knife she had was a serrated edge steak knife. It made a very small wound, but she stabbed him right in the heart with it. It always amazed me that when we started to transport the body, the blood on the floor was almost gone. I don't know if the roaches had eaten all of it or if the wood floor had soaked it up. A mystery to this day. Anyway, we had to photograph the body at the hospital and arrest Cynthia. We charged her with murder, but aside from that first night, she spent no jail time. Seems as if no one cared enough about Carl to pursue her and make sure she went to prison. I think she got off with just probation.
I'll get better at this....but there you go. The first installment
__________________
"Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave, safely in a well preserved body, but rather to slide in sideways, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, wasted beyond redemption, with a shot of Stranahans in one hand and a joint in the other screaming "HOLY SHIT, what a ride!"
Only two defining forces have ever offered to die for you,
Jesus Christ and the American GI. One died for your soul, the other for your freedom.
"Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave, safely in a well preserved body, but rather to slide in sideways, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, wasted beyond redemption, with a shot of Stranahans in one hand and a joint in the other screaming "HOLY SHIT, what a ride!"
Only two defining forces have ever offered to die for you,
Jesus Christ and the American GI. One died for your soul, the other for your freedom.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)