Homicide - Hussey: "Denny"

Today, Detective Hussey shares yet another of his "interesting" experiences in his early years as a police officer.

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Carlisle Dennis Phillips, Denny to his friends and enemies alike, is another subject of legend and lore at the Lakeland Police Department. Denny is from a small town in western New York State called Lime Lake. It's residents affectionately refer to it as "Slime Lake". Why all the nicknames? They just happen to be part of the story.

Denny married a very nice Polish girl from his hometown and shortly thereafter moved to Lakeland, Florida where he joined the police department. After about a year, Denny and Laurie were both a little homesick, so Denny quit his job and they moved back to Slime Lake.

It didn't last too long. Denny realized he didn't belong in New York anymore. In the fall of 1987 he and his expectant bride moved back to Florida, this time for good.

In 1988 Denny was rehired at the Lakeland Police Department. It was during this time that I met Denny and we became partners and fast friends.

Denny was a marathon drinker, hard-charging party animal, and damn good poker player—we hit it off immediately. Soon we were working the Northside and making memories and legends of our own.
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One hot July night, we spotted a tall, thin character walking fast in front of a 7-11 store. The guy was sweating profusely and seemed really nervous. He was about 6'2" and weighed probably 140 lbs. His toothpick legs stuck out of his gym shorts and looked like two pieces of dental floss blowing in the wind. He wore ragged sneakers and bounced from one foot to the other, like he was getting ready to run—"rabbit"—as we used to call it.

We got out of the car and approached the stick man. "What are you doing"? I asked.

"Nothin'," he replied, shifting his weight from one foot then the other then back. "I gotta go." He almost yelled it.

"You ain't goin' nowhere till we tell ya' to," Denny told him, moving to his left in case the guy did run.

"But I gotta' go!"

"Just stand still and shut up," Denny said again.

"Twenty-nine P," I said to the dispatcher, then read the suspect's name from my notepad.

"Hey man, I gotta' go," he said, whining one more time.

"This guy is fucking stupid, I said.

"For the last time—" Denny didn't get to finish. The man spread his legs shoulder length apart and without saying another word, from somewhere inside those baggy shorts, began to excrete green feces, which ran in several rivulets down those bony legs and into his sneakers.

"Told ya' I had to go," the embarrassed man said softly.

"Oh shit," Denny said.

"Yeah, literally," I said. "Let's get the hell out of here before this guy comes back wanted and we have to take him to jail."

"No shit", Denny replied as we scrambled for the police car, laughing all the way.

"Would you quit saying that?"