Homicide Hussey and the Haunted House

Happy Halloween, all. Since I'm on the road, I thought I'd share one of Homicide Hussey's previous posts -- his encounter with the paranormal. I originally ran it in two posts, so it's longer than my usual posts. Hope you enjoy. (And don't forget my first giveaway deadline is tomorrow!)

Here, Detective Hussey is training a new rookie partner, Vlad. They're finishing dinner when they get a call...

“I’ve got a suspicious incident call at the Carpenter’s Home on North. 98. Meet with the security guard who heard noises upstairs.”

Vlad responded, “Fifty-one from Florida and the Boulevard.”

In training new recruits, I always try to encourage them to formulate a plan in their minds. To visualize what they might find when they get to the call. I then caution them not to get tunnel vision. In other words, to develop several scenarios in their minds just in case.

This call, for instance, could be a burglar, a prowler, kids playing where they don’t belong, or just the wind blowing against a loose shutter. It would be our job to investigate, search and locate the source of the noise, or to determine if the security guard was a little stir crazy.

When we arrived, I might have voted for the latter. Twenty-year-old security officer Luther Parton was about 5’3” tall and weighed about a hundred pounds.

His black leather belt was cinched so tightly around his waist, with the uniform shirt and trousers two sizes too large, that he looked like a tube of toothpaste, squeezed in the middle. Luther wore those black rimmed “Buddy Holly” glasses with real thick lenses. He seemed a little breathless when he ran up to the cruiser.

“I heard someone upstairs” he panted. “Then I was going up to take a look, my flashlight just quit.”

“What did you hear?” I asked.

“It sounded like voices,” the kid said. “Third floor of A wing.”

“Any other ways into this place?” my partner asked.

“No, they’re all locked and barred, just the front door, I checked them myself.”

When we entered the lobby area of the building I could see that at one time this was a grand architectural work of art. The exposed beams and huge wooden doors gave it an almost medieval look. “When's the last time the upstairs were checked?” I asked.

"This morning by the day shift,” the guard answered. “What’re you guys carryin' there?” He pointed to the gun on my right side.

“It’s a model 64 Smith, 38 special,” I replied matter-of-factly.

“Ever shoot anybody?”

Jesus I knew that question was coming. It was always easier to say no.

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

I let the rookie go up the stairs first, because I didn’t think we would find any bad guys and he needed the experience of searching buildings. This one would give him plenty. The interior of the building was 180,000 square feet. We checked the first floor together, tediously looking into every room. Opening the room doors first, then looking cautiously into the bathrooms and closets. The electricity was off in the building, and thus the air conditioner was off. All the windows had been boarded up. The hot, stagnant air inside the building made it difficult to breathe. Vlad and I began to sweat profusely.

The Gratification of Connectivity

Thanks to Marie for giving us some ways to overcome the procrastination bug.


When I started this blog, it was simply because I'd sold a short story to The Wild Rose Press, and they encouraged their authors to have a blog. I was relatively clueless about what I had to talk about, but since talking is never much of a problem for me, I figured I'd give it a shot, and chat about things I found interesting, and if they related to writing, so much the better. I didn't consider it a "writing" site, and didn't try to come up with a clever name. I figured it would be more like a chat over coffee, the way we moms did it when our kids were in pre-school. So it's just "Terry's Place" even if that might not have marketing potential. I don't feel like changing it now.

I learned some of the basics, such as how to include pictures, and with help from the support forums, how to split my posts so readers could scan the beginnings of a week's worth of posts on a single page. (Admittedly that script is still a challenge from time to time, but it works reasonably well for most readers).

What's in a Number?

Are you Triskaidekaphobic? Or just Paraskevidekatriaphobic?

The first refers to a fear of the number 13. It's common enough, which is why hotels often don't have a 13th floor (but of course they do, it's simply labeled 14), and some airlines don't have a 13th row. This isn't a universal fear, however.

In Italy, 17 is supposed to be an unlucky number. Tetraphobia, fear of the number 4 — (phonetically similar to 'death') in Korea, China, and Japan, as well as in many East-Asian and some Southeast-Asian countries, it's not uncommon for buildings (including offices, apartments, hotels) to lack floors with the number 4, and Finnish mobile phone manufacturer Nokia's 1xxx-9xxx series of mobile phones does not include any model numbers beginning with a 4. In Taiwan, tetraphobia is so common that there are no 4's or x4's for hospitals.

The second is more specific, a fear of Friday the 13th. If that's your fear, maybe you're hiding inside today (which explains why statistically, there are fewer accidents on a Friday the 13th – people aren't going out). It's been estimated that there's an $800 to $900 MILLION loss in business on a Friday the 13th.

Keep Reading...

Some interesting articles about Friday the 13th from NPR:

Friday the 13th: The Fear that Will Not Die

Who's Afraid of Friday the 13th?


I'm not particularly superstitious. I've never done anything differently on a Friday the 13th. In Walt Kelly's Pogo strip, there was a Friday the 13th every month. It just didn't always fall on a Friday. But in Romanian, Greek and Hispanic cultures, Tuesday the 13th is considered unlucky.

I don't avoid black cats, and if a ladder is blocking the sidewalk, I'll walk under it rather than risk stepping into the street.


The dryer saga: On Monday, I called the service company to tell them the parts they ordered had come in. They set up an appointment window of 8 AM to noon on Wednesday. When noon came and went, I called, because the previous time, the serviceman had called me to say he was running late. Ooops. "Sorry, we have no record of your appointment. We can reschedule for tomorrow." Why is it when the company screws up, the consumer gets screwed. What if I'd had to take a day off work to be home? As it was, I did have to juggle my schedule, not once, but twice. And then the best their supervisor could do was "request" that I be the first call of the day.

With luck, everything is fixed now. I haven't tested it yet – and maybe, since it's Friday the 13th, I'd be better off waiting a day.

After the dryer guy did his thing, I went downtown and met with Detective Hussey and ran my "would this be how a cop should handle this?" scenarios past him over lunch. Since he said I had the procedures right, and that my dialogue sounded appropriately "cop", I won't have to rewrite those scenes. I also learned a new term: "Protective Sweep." Gordon, my cop, did one; I just didn't know it had a name. And where else can you have lunch and get to listen to one side of a phone conversation where someone says, "Don't worry about it. Just tell them you dug the hole and you discovered the bones."

Detective Hussey's been busy, but he did say he'd be willing to answer questions. No promises as to how many he can handle at a time, or how long it'll take to get back with answers, but if you've read his case files and want to know more, shoot me an email (address in my sidebar) and I'll get them to him. Put Hussey Question in the subject line. And if you haven't read his case files, you've missed a treat. You can enter Homicide – Hussey in the search box. I ran them every Friday starting back in January.

So, for me, today is business as usual. I'm editing. Hubby is meeting with a tree trimmer to check into manicuring our oasis. We've got all the Realtor presentations laid out on the kitchen table, and we'll have to decide who gets our contract. Given their presentations, it's likely to be closing our eyes and drawing a name out of a hat. Or maybe throwing darts would be more cathartic.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

Homicide - Hussey: Just Funny Stuff

(Note: I switched to the 'new and improved' editing feature at blogger. Please accept my apologies if things don't work right at first. This post is the first one I've tried.)

This week, Detective Hussey chats with us about a cop's sense of humor.

Some things are just funny. Humor is something relative. In a cop’s world, everything gets distorted, including his sense of humor. Things that would have made him ill or repulsed him when he was younger, are sources of hilarity as he becomes a seasoned veteran. If you don’t find the following passages particularly humorous, I'm sorry. Trust me, after several years on the job, you would be roaring with laughter.

I was driving an unmarked car once, when I observed in front of me, a car which had obviously been struck in the rear by another vehicle. The trunk was pushed up and to the right. The trunk lock had been broken, but the collision had welded the trunk door in place, with a 10 inch gap between the door sill and the trunk lid. The taillight fixtures were covered with red transparent tape in order to comply with the law.


The gouges and creases in the metal had begun to rust, which meant that the accident occurred some time in the past, and the owner was in no hurry to repair it. On the mangled bumper of this bucket of bolts, was a fluorescent orange bumper sticker which had the words, “THIS VEHICLE HAS BEEN INVOLVED IN OVER 20,000 FATAL REAR END COLLISIONS”.

Pretty funny I thought, and chuckled to myself. This was not to be the end of the joke. As the traffic began to move, we made it around a corner and the traffic light changed from green to yellow. A white, Isuzu Rodeo stopped abruptly in traffic. The war wagon with the bumper sticker was unable to make the stop, and plowed into the rear of the white SUV.

“Oh my God.” I laughed out loud, “Twenty-thousand and one!”

Keep Reading...

A good friend of mine, Dewey Pollock, whom you met in an earlier chapter, was on patrol one dreary, rainy morning, when he happened upon a parked car with its windows open. The car was parked behind the old fire training tower, on the shore of Lake Parker, with its lights on. It was not unusual to find boys and girls parked in cars in this area late at night for the purposes of watching the “submarine races”. For someone to be here in the daylight, with windows open, was something different. It looked almost like the driver had run off the dirt road.

Perhaps a heart-attack, Dewey thought. He stopped the patrol car behind the suspect vehicle, and positioning his police hat with the rain cover on his head, he got out and walked toward the car. As Dewey got closer, he could hear rock and roll music playing softly inside the car. As he carefully approached, one hand on his gun, he noticed motion, then was able to view the entire interior of the car. He could see then that there was a couple inside, a man on top of a woman. The two were having sexual intercourse.

Officer Pollack yelled into the car, “Hey, sorry to bother you, but you’ve left your lights on.”

The man looked over his shoulder, and without stopping his up and down motion, said calmly, “Don’t worry officer, I’ve got a DIE HARD.”

Dewey thought for a moment, then returned to his car. “Guess he does at that."

***

Cops are called upon to do a variety of jobs during their careers. You may find yourself having to defend your life or the life of a fellow officer or a citizen previously unknown to you. It may require you to take that person’s life, or to sacrifice your own.

Most of the time though, the tasks are less lethal and more skill oriented. You may be called to get a snake out of a garage, or a cat out of a tree. You may have to administer CPR or first aid to dying person, or to deliver a baby in the back seat of a patrol car or taxi cab. You may need to make decisions regarding the welfare of children and small animals.

You have to have limited knowledge in nearly every field because sooner or later, you will be called upon to discuss some subject you know little or nothing about. You’ll have to be able to BS your way through it. Cops are expected to be the experts on everything from pre-marital sex to comparative religion, from chemical warfare to baby care. You may even be called upon from time to time to “unofficially” dabble in areas of civil law, which are generally restricted to persons who have doctoral degrees in Jurisprudence.

One such case, and I know now that there have been many, took place at the Dakota Apartments one cold winter night just before New Years. I was the backup officer on a family disturbance call. Officer Herb Koffler arrived just ahead of me. As we approached the door to the apartment, we could hear a heated verbal argument going on inside. Herb leaned toward the door for a moment and listened before using his Kell light to rap on the door. The yelling and screaming ceased, and the door opened just a crack.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Herb asked.

“Me and my ol’ lady havin’ a argument,” the little bald man replied.

“Bout what?” Herb inquired, pushing his hat back on his head. “Like I really give a shit,” he said under his breath.

“I’m tired a livin’ like dis here,” the old man replied.

“Me too,” the woman added.

“Why don’t you two get divorced?" I asked

Herb shot me look, like “Dumb ass rookie.”

“We can’t afford no lawyer.” The old gentleman lowered his eyes.

“Lawyer? You don’t need a lawyer. I’ll divorce you right now.” Herb smiled. The two older folks looked suspiciously at the officer.

“How you do dat?” the man asked.

“Easy. Do both of you want to get divorced?"

They nodded emphatically to the affirmative.

“Well then," he said. “Place both of your right hands on my badge.”

The man and woman complied.

“Repeat after me,” Herb said, lowering his voice in a reverent manner. “I do hereby divorce you, in the name of the Father, the son and the Holy Ghost.”

The astounded couple repeated the concocted vows.

“Congratulations,” Herb yelled loud enough to male me jump. “You’re divorced, now get the hell out of here.”

The old man began laughing and jumping with glee as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He grabbed a pillowcase and stopped here and there, picking up clothes and putting them into the makeshift suitcase. “Finally, I done wit’ you bitch,” he said.

“Well I’m done wit yo’ black ass too”, the woman said.

“Thanks officers.” The man grinned shaking both of our hands vigorously on his way out the front door.

“Okay, lock your door and have a good one,” Herb said to the lady.

“Sho will,” she said happily.

As we walked back to the car I asked the veteran officer if he had ever done that before.

“Sure, lots of times, marriages too. Exorcisms, séances, and last rights. We do it all. Protect and serve is a broad-band statement.”

I thought about how happy the couple was. It wasn’t like they had any property or child custody disputes, so why make the attorneys and the courts rich? We had provided another valuable service at a government rate.

Homicide - Hussey: Sex and the Badge - Part 2

This is the second part of Detective Hussey's chapter. Part one is here, if you haven't read it. Actually, it's there even if you have read it. And, once again, no pictures. I'm sure you'll understand.

As the years went by, there would be more and more instances involving deviants. There was the guy who got his penis stuck in the intake line of the swimming pool at the Holiday Inn. He must have been really enjoying himself, until his member swelled up and stuck in the pipe.

Try as he might, he was unable to free himself, even when the pump's timer shut the pump off. He was just too swollen. His skin resembled hand-tooled saddle leather. Hours later, an unsuspecting man and his wife walked to the pool area, then ran back to the lobby to call the police. When the officer arrived on the scene, the man was reported to have said, "It's not what it looks like."

What most cops learn quickly is that usually, it's exactly what it looks like. It was.

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1n 1985, I went to car fire in the Meadows subdivision, south of town. When I got there I saw the charred shell of what had been the car, being hosed matter-of-factly, by a sleepy firefighter. The driver was perched on all fours, on a gurney in the back of an ambulance, with his naked rear end stuck high in the air. As I approached I realized that the rectal area and his scrotum had been badly burned.

"Third degree," Brad Baad, the paramedic said as he flushed the affected area with water.

"What happened?" I asked the tearful 19 year old?

"I dunno," he sobbed.

Brad took me aside and whispered, "I think I know. I've seen it before." He handed me a Bic disposable butane cigarette lighter. "What these kids do is, go out and eat a lot of nasty stuff, you know, onions, pigs feet, Krystal hamburgers, then when the methane gas inside them builds up, they hold a lighter to their asshole and fart, to see how far they can throw a flame."

I laughed out loud as I got a mental picture of the kid sitting in his car. "He must have set the car on fire by accident," I said.

Brad grinned and nodded.

By far the craziest thing I've seen involves a situation called auto-eroticism. The participant puts a belt or a noose around his neck and attaches it to a ceiling beam or other strong object. Many times this is done in a clothes closet. The person then slowly puts his weight onto the noose as he masturbates. Just before the noose cuts off the blood flow to the brain and the person passes out, he is able to experience an intense orgasm.

The problem comes when he goes too far to obtain this satisfaction and passes out completely. Death soon follows. Many people who practice this form of pain/pleasure do so with a partner in case they go too far. The partner can then release them and save their lives.

I responded to such a scene once in the City of Lakeland. The victim was a 42-year-old Florida Highway Patrolman. Clothed only in a t-shirt and his leather harness, he was found by his best friend and fellow trooper when the friend was sent around to check on the guy after he didn't show for his tour of duty. The bad part of this one was that when the friend found him, he went nuts and for hours, held other units and paramedics at gun point, as he sobbingly clung to the corpse of his dead partner. When he finally let other officers in, he could not quit crying. He never went back to work. It was tragic.

I've thought about Mr. Zeigler and the others over the years. I've also thought about how I felt that night when I saw old Mr. Zeigler pleasing himself. It was my first trip into the dark world that many people live in on a regular basis. It would not be my last.

The Exhumation - Part 2

This is part two of The Exhumation. Scroll down and read Part 1 first if you haven't already, or if you need a refresher. Also, if you're using IE 8 and are having trouble with the blog, I can only suggest you try Firefox, or use IE 7. There are issues with IE 8 that nobody has been able to debug, at least not that I have found.

On to The Exhumation ... Part 2

L.W. Roddenberry, or "Uncle Wayne" as he was known to his friends, arrived on the scene. After carefully placing his police hat on his head, he limped over to my car and in a friendly way asked, "What's up?"

"I can show you better than I can tell you," I said, turning and walking away fast.

As we pushed through the brush, I related the story to the boss.

When we got to the spot, I showed Wayne the makeshift grave. He agreed the situation warranted looking in to. As Wayne talked to dispatch on his walkie-talkie, I looked at the dirt. There were handprints where the dirt had been carefully packed down.

"Better step back. You might be standing on evidence," Roddenberry said. I moved closer to the sergeant.

"This might be in the county," Wayne said. "I'm having the Polk County supervisor meet me with a map."

I couldn't believe my ears. Here was a bona fide murder, and the supervisor was trying to pawn it off on another agency, letting them get all the credit. "This is our case," I whined.

Keep Reading...

"Maybe, maybe not."

What happened next was some of the finest fancy jurisdictional footwork I have ever witnessed. For nearly three hours, the two "leaders" argued. It looked like something out of the Paris Peace Talks.

"It ends at the tracks," Roddenberry said.

"Bullshit," the S.D. Boss said, "Those aren't even the right tracks."

Finally, Wayne resorted to the old standby. "We can't determine, so you guys have got to take it, in case it turns out to be the county." The county sergeant knew he was had. By now he was also very angry that this had been dumped on him. He seemed to cool off a little, when Wayne told him he would leave me there to help out. I was pretty happy too.

What happened next was truly something to behold. For two hours, a host of law enforcement gurus began to arrive. First came additional supervisors, the watch commander and some support deputies for crime scene control. Then came the detectives from homicide and their supervisor. Then came the forensic people, with their vans and trucks and the photographers with their vans and trucks. Just behind them came the news media. The television, radio and newspaper crews. It was a multi-ring circus.

As we stood on the perimeter, keeping back curious onlookers, the homicide detectives talked quietly among themselves and smoked cigarettes. They would chuckle ghoulishly from time to time.

God they were cool, I thought.

The news media stood at the edge of the yellow crime scene tape and craned their necks like vultures, looking and listening...waiting for the first bad news.

I watched intently as the crime scene technicians worked. They wore uniforms but no guns. They had surgical masks on their faces. One held a magnifying glass in one hand as the other carefully brushed away dirt with a paint brush, being careful not to destroy any key evidence. It was a tedious process.

It began to get dark. As night fell, a generator was delivered from the fire department. The huge machine was started a several flood lights were put into service so the techs could work as long as necessary.

By now, several inches of dirt had been removed from the mound. Another truck arrived with coffee and sandwiches. I had been there ten hours. I was beginning to think this wasn't fun anymore.

Around midnight, the tedious brushing and digging gave way to a certain earnestness. The crime scene techs shouted something to the homicide dicks, who walked briskly to the edge of the would-be grave. The crime scene guys were working carefully on what appeared to be a dark plastic garbage bag. I, having been in the military remarked to one of the reporters, that it looked like a "body bag." Everyone crowded in and peered into the hole. Then I heard one of the detectives say, "Hey let's get back and give em' some room."

The brushing and digging continued for another 30 minutes when one of the techs said, "Okay, let's open it."


One guy had what looked like a scalpel and began to carefully cut the bag from one end to the other. As the opening became larger, the stench of rotting flesh hit everyone's nostrils.

The reporters grinned to one another. A big scoop. In those days a murder in Polk County was still a pretty big deal. All at once, all hell seemed to break loose. One of the forensics guys was laughing hysterically and pointing.

"What the fuck?" one homicide detective said loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"Ho-lee shit," another one remarked. "Well that beats all," one of the uniform cops said.

The sheriff's lieutenant made a circular motion in the air with his index finger extended, as if to say, "Okay let's wrap it up."

"What the hell's going on?" one female newspaper reporter asked.

The LT. noticed the bewildered reporters standing at the edge of the crime scene tape and walked over with a half grin on his face. "Folks looks like we all got roped into this for nuthin'." The deputy shot me a sharp glance.

"What's that mean?" one camera guy asked. "In the hole there," he said, pointing behind himself. "It's a goddamn dog, a fuckin' K-9, as it were. Some wino gave his pooch a fond farewell."

"Shit," was pretty much the only comment from the reporters as they gathered up their cameras and lights and packed out to the next story.

I guess everybody was pretty much pissed at me and the Lakeland Police Department. It wouldn't be the first or the last time for either of us. Well, how was I to know? It could have been a human. They all knew that too, but would never have admitted it. It would sure have done that old dog some good if he'd known how much he cost a couple of government agencies that day.

Homicide Detective Hussey: "The Exhumation" Part 1

By now, Detective Mark Hussey needs no introduction. Here's Part 1 of "The Exhumation." Part 2 next week.

Jurisdictional boundaries between counties and municipalities are a touchy thing. Cops are always trying to get out of calls that are right on the fringe of the city limits. The county sheriff will try to say, "I think it's inside the city," and the city officer will inevitably say, "That's in the county, call the S.O." One afternoon in December, a fight began between the cadre of the Polk County Sheriff's Department and the brass of the Lakeland Police Department that had far reaching repercussions, and believe it or not, I started the ball rolling.

I was finishing an Egg McMuffin and a cup of coffee when the dispatcher called. "Go ahead," I said, my mouth full of breakfast. "See the man, reference information."

Gotta' love these dispatchers. "Any idea what kind of information?"

"He didn't say," the idiot behind the microphone returned.

Beautiful. I found the old gentleman, standing near the coin operated rocking horse out front. He looked a little like the clown, Emmet Kelly. He was wearing three or four pairs of trousers, and a couple of light jackets. Atop his salt and pepper hair, which stuck out in all directions, was a baseball cap with the inscription, "I don't have a drinking problem. I drink, I fall down, no problem."

More of a testimonial, I thought. "What can I do for ya?"

The man got real close and started whispering.

"I can't hear that. Speak up, nobody's around," I said.

"Oh, sorry." He coughed. His breath smelled like rotting flesh. "I was walkin' in the woods this mornin' and found me a cemetery plot."

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"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked, squinting into the morning sun.

"Well over yonder," he pointed to a wooded area near the railroad track, "I found a burial plot. You know a grave."

"How do you know it's a grave?" I asked nervously.

"Just looks like one. I'll show ya, Officer. Another thing," he added. "I ain't seen this guy name-a Sawgrass in a few days, and down yonder on that plot is a cap that says, 'West Virginia' that I saw old Sawgrass wearin'."

"Shit," I said through my teeth. Those winos never gave up their hats; the hat was like their trademark. They wore them until they literally rotted off their heads. I didn't like this.

He took me to a wooded area along the tracks, off Wabash Avenue. I parked the cruiser and told dispatch I'd be leaving the car. I switched the federal system over to the "radio" position, and hung the microphone out the window, in case I had to beat feet back to my cruiser.

We walked about 50 yards into some really thick brush of scrub oak and palmettos. After a short while we came to a clearing. As we walked into the open area which had obviously been well traveled and well "slept," if you will, by the bums, I observed a fresh, slightly raised mound of dirt. The dirt area was about six feet in length and about three feet across. At one end of the mound was a crudely made white cross. Hanging from the cross was the baseball cap with the inscription, "West Virginia, almost heaven."

"Whew," I whistled through my teeth. "Almost heaven or almost hell, at least they gave him a proper burial."

I must admit that by now, my adrenaline was flowing, and I was thinking as most small town cops do, that we were about to solve the crime of the century. Maybe Hoffa was buried here.

I raced back to my police car and asked the dispatcher to send me a supervisor. No way was I going to make a decision of this magnitude on my own. I didn't have to wait long.

Come back next week for the conclusion ...

Homicide - Hussey: Adventures in the Paranormal 2

I know you've been waiting for Part 2 of Homicide - Hussey's Adventures in the Paranormal. Wait no longer ... here it is. (If you haven't read Part 1 yet, you'll need to do so first. It's here

To refresh your memories, we left our stalwart office investigating some reported noises in an old, abandoned mansion. This is where we stopped last time:

I let the rookie go up the stairs first, because I didn’t think we would find any bad guys and he needed the experience of searching buildings. This one would give him plenty. The interior of the building was 180,000 square feet. We checked the first floor together, tediously looking into every room. Opening the room doors first, then looking cautiously into the bathrooms and closets. The electricity was off in the building, and thus the air conditioner was off. All the windows had been boarded up. The hot, stagnant air inside the building made it difficult to breathe. Vlad and I began to sweat profusely.

And now, on to Part 2

"Look, this place is huge and this is going to take us forever,” I said. “I'll take the second floor and you take the third. If either of us finds anything, we’ll holler for the other.”

Vlad nodded and disappeared up the stairs. I followed, checking the stairwell and landings with my “Kell” light.

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When I reached the second floor, I checked the rooms sporadically. It was getting really hot in there and I wanted to get out as quickly as possible. When I reached the end of the hallway, I yelled for Vlad. The echo in the old building was interesting. I heard no answer, so I yelled again. Still, no answer. Perhaps the rookie had finished his search too and gone back downstairs. I followed the beam of my flashlight back to the lobby and looked for Luther and Vlad. Finding neither one, I walked outside.

I found the security guard, sitting in the front seat of a golf cart, smoking a cigarette. "See anything?” he asked.

“Just a lot of empty rooms.” We made small talk for a while. He was a “Wisheye” for sure: you know, “Wish I was the police.” Eventually my young partner emerged.

“Ready?” I asked Vlad.

“Yeah. Who's staying in those rooms on the third floor?" he asked, looking at the guard.

“You saw someone, where...” The startled Luther jumped from the golf cart.

“I didn’t see anybody,” Vlad said “but there’s furniture and things in two of the rooms up there."

“I don’t know what you saw, but there ain’t no anything in any of those rooms and ain’t been anything in a couple of years.”

It was pretty dark outside, but I could see the color drain from Vlad's face. His voice raised an octave as he said, “I know I'm not crazy. Two of the rooms had beds, dressers and night tables, you know old fashioned stuff.”

“Calm down and let’s take a look,” I said. “Was the stuff stacked, or piled up, maybe it just got left when the old guys moved out.” Both men tried to answer frantically. “Let’s head up there and see.” I turned toward the door. Vlad was a little hesitant, but followed.

We climbed quickly to the third floor, and as I stepped into the hallway, I unsnapped and drew my service revolver. I wasn’t taking any chances. The rookie followed my lead.

“Which room was it?” I whispered.

The kid pointed to a door near the end of the hallway on the right. We made our way carefully down the hallway, sliding close to the wall. When we reached the door, I crouched down and motioned for Vlad to take my position. I then moved to an area in front and slightly to the left of the door. This would afford me a view of the interior of the room when the door was opened. I made note of the fact that door was hung on the right and swung inward. I nodded my head to my partner. Vlad reached up with his left hand, pointing his revolver at the door with his right. He turned the doorknob left, then right.

“Locked”, he whispered.

“I'll stay here and cover the door, while you see if the guard has a key." Vlad walked quietly down the hall to the stairwell.

He returned a short time later with the security guard, who was mumbling something about the doors not being locked and fumbling through a large ring of keys.

“It’s either this one or this one," he said, separating two keys from the large ring.


“Stand back.” I motioned with the right hand. This time, Vlad crouched down and covered the door, while I reached up and worked the keys. The doorknob was wet like it had condensation on it.

That was weird, I thought. It’s three hundred degrees in here.

The first key wasn’t it. I inserted the second. Bingo. I dropped the keys, and the door swung open, hitting the wall on the inside. As the door opened, a blast of cool air hit me like a wave. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as we worked slowly around the corner, shining the flashlights in every corner and crack. When we went inside, the temperature seemed to drop even more. It was a good forty degrees cooler at the center of that room than it was in the hallway. It wasn’t even like air conditioning. It was...damp, cold. I mean cold, not cool.

“What the hell?” I said out loud. “You sure this place ain’t air conditioned?"

The guard just shook his head. His eyes were two tiny beads at the end of glass tunnels. “No power.”

My partner had lost it. He was running frantically back and forth from one room to the other. “I know what I saw!” he screamed.

I tried to reason out the situation. It was obviously not working.

“There were beds with brown spreads and doilies on the tables and lamps and a toothbrush in the bathroom."

"Are you sure it was this room?” I asked

“Positive. I'm not crazy.”

I was starting to feel a little spooky myself. “Let’s get the hell outa here.”

I’d barely gotten the words out before Vlad and Luther were running down the hallway. When I got downstairs, the guard was on his second cigarette having inhaled the first one in one puff, and my trainee was seated in the passenger’s seat of the cruiser, staring straight ahead.

“You okay?” I asked

"Yeah,” he replied, not looking at me.

We drove the rest of the night without much conversation. Vlad finished his training time with me and moved on. He seemed to be preoccupied. Several months later, recruit Vladimir Novanavich reenlisted as a second lieutenant in the United States Army infantry, and resigned from the Lakeland Police Department. He would never discuss the Carpenter’s Home incident, and in later years he would say that I had probably played some practical joke on him.

Hey, even I wasn’t that good.

As for me, I've never seen a U.F.O. Or a ghost. Or talked to Elvis through my television set. But on a hot August night in Lakeland in the early eighties, I did work a genuine “unknown” trouble call.

Books for Mothers Day?

What I'm reading: Loitering With Intent, by Stuart Woods

(and be sure to read to the end -- there's a Homicide- Hussey bonus for you)

I'll be with six other members of the Central Florida Romance Writers at Barnes & Noble in Orlando on Saturday: Dara Edmondson, Catherine Kean, Judith Gilbert, Shauna Hart, Michelle Young, and Cillian Burns. It's the day before Mother's Day, and there's normally a good turnout. But I have to wonder about the economy, and whether it will affect sales.

I know I haven't stopped reading – I can't imagine ever doing that – and although I've cut back on buying, it's more because of the idea of moving more books than I already have than because of the budget. I'm buying more e-books, simply because they don't take up space.

There are a lot of mixed feelings about used book stores. Some authors don't like them because they aren't getting royalties. It's never bothered me. I've found many new authors I might not have tried otherwise, and I'm more willing to take a chance with a discounted book. I think I found my first Susan Wiggs book at a used book store, and I've bought everything else she's written.

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Another budget-cutter is your library. I'm also a strong believer in libraries. I'm a strong believer in anything that gets people reading (as I'm sure many of you know from the countless times I've mentioned my association as a volunteer with the Adult Literacy League here in Orlando).

If you read yesterday's post, you saw that I'm having a contest that runs all this month. (I'll wait while you scroll down and read it – I'll find something else to put in the prize envelope while you do.)

You're back? Great. One of the 'rules' of the contest is that you check with your local library for one of my books, WHEN DANGER CALLS. The publisher, Five Star, targets the library market, and having it in as many libraries as possible is a triple bonus.

One, the publisher sells a book. Two, the author (in this case, me), gets the royalty. Three, the reader (you) gets to enjoy a great read at no cost. Of course, I have no objection to you deciding you just HAVE to have the book for your collection (or to give to your Mother for Mother's Day), but seriously, I know the hard cover books are pricey.

I'll be interested to see how it does at Saturday's signing.

So – how has the economy affected your book-buying/reading habits?

And, because tomorrow is reserved for Detective Mark Hussey's next installment, I won't be seeing you until Monday. If you're in Orlando Saturday (May 9th), drop by the Barnes & Noble at Plaza Venezia, 7900 W. Sand Lake Road, Orlando, FL 32819, between 1 and 4 pm. We're giving away a $15 Barnes & Noble gift card to one lucky winner – no purchase necessary. All you have to do is come in and say hello.

And, just because this post feels a little too much like a 'commercial', I'll leave you with a bonus. Last week, the beginning Civilian Police Academy class had their session on the Homicide Division. Their speaker was none other than Detective Mark Hussey. If you've been following his Friday posts (and if you haven't, shame on you – they're great!), you know he has quite the sense of humor. He opened his talk with his own personal Top Ten Reasons he became a Homicide Detective:

10. You develop the bladder capacity of 5 normal people.

9. Chances to teach seminars entitled “Suicide--getting it right the first time”.

8. Discussing dismemberment over a gourmet meal seems perfectly normal.

7. You can identify a negative teeth-to-tattoo ratio just by looking at someone.

6. Opportunities to hang out with a 10 day old stinker on the hottest day of the year.

5. It’s nice to be the only person introduced at social gatherings by your profession.

4. Exhaustion becomes your favorite hallucinogen.

3. Caffeine is available to you in IV form.

2. Advance notice of soon-to-be-available apartments and cars.

1. Free Chalk.

Be sure to come back tomorrow. His chapter is called "Adventures in the Paranormal."

Noises in the Attic

Again, if the sidebar doesn't display, please try using Firefox until the issue with IE is resolved.
Today, Detective Hussey continues with another story about his rookie days on the police force.

Mike Butler, whom you met in the previous chapter, was another of those characters who have entered the annals of police history. Mike was one of the most aggressive, physical, honest, contentious cops I have ever met. And he is also one of the craziest bastards it has ever been my pleasure to serve with.

The first time I met Mike was in the locker room of the police department. Several of the veteran cops were talking about going for a beer after work at Zimmerman's bar. "God that would be great," I made the mistake of saying. There was instantaneous quiet and everyone looked my way.

"You ain't invited rookie," Butler said, scowling at me. "And also, you ain't allowed to talk to veterans. Change your clothes and get the hell outa' here."

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I dressed in silence and left. I heard several other comments as I dressed into my street clothes..."That rookies got some balls," one guy said. "Who do these F.N.G.'s think they are?" (F.N.G. Is an acronym for "fucking new guy") another guy asked. "Sure has changed," one said.

On another occasion, after I'd been with the department for several months and was riding alone on patrol, Officer Butler summoned me on the radio. "56 at Lakeshore and the Boulevard."

"10-4," I responded and raced off to the meeting.

Mike needed a form he didn't have to complete a report, and I was glad for the chance to get closer to, or to even be acknowledged by, this veteran officer. Mike was so cool on the radio. I had heard him once after calling out on an armed robbery in progress call. Mike was right on top of the call and after calling out of service on the call, came back on the radio in his same calm voice saying, "Lakeland, roll me a supervisor and a homicide man, I just shot one." The robber survived, but it was just so cool. His composure on hot calls was something every rookie wanted to master.

We exchanged niceties and talked about some calls we had both been on.

"Look what I bought," I offered, holding up a small black canister containing tear gas.

"Where'd you get that?" Butler asked.

"I bought it at the Spur Station on Lakeland Hills."

"Let's see that." He extended his arm. I shoved the small black canister out the driver's window and into the veteran cop's hand. He examined it carefully then asked, "Used it yet?"?

"No, not yet."

What happened then will be forever etched in my mind. Mike Butler brought the canister up level with the top of the window and depressed the button on top, discharging a stream of caustic gas striking me directly in the face.



Mike moved his car and helped me out. He was laughing hysterically as the tears and snot poured from my eyes and nose. "That shit really works, huh", he asked?

"Yeah...guess...it...does." I choked out the words. Mike stayed with me until I had regained my composure. It's just the way he was.

There are so many stories about Mike Butler, and I've been with him on many occasions. My favorite story though involves Joe Reed, an elderly man who was what we called a "regular." He liked to call the police, and nearly every officer on the department had been to his house for one thing or another.

On this particular evening it was noises in the attic. Officer Dewey Pollack, a thin, six-foot-five Navy Vietnam veteran and Mike's best friend was Mike's backup officer.

"I'd like to cure this old fucker," Mike said to Dewey as they walked up to the front door.

"Yeah, but he's harmless," Dewey said.

"But he's a pain in the ass."

Pollack knocked on the door and after some difficulty with the locks, the door popped open.

"Hi officers," Reed said as he held the door open.

"What can we do for ya?" Dewey asked.

"Huh?" the old man yelled.

Jesus, Mike thought. He's deaf as shit.

"Turn on your hearin' aid!" Mike yelled.

"Oh yeah," the old man said, reaching for the device. "I been hearing noises up in the attic."

"How the hell could you do that?" Mike asked in a low voice.

"What's that?" Joe leaned toward the officer.

"Nothin',", Mike said "How would you get into the attic?"

The old man showed the officers a trap door in the ceiling located in the hallway of the home. Joe got a small stepladder and put it up under the hole.

"I'll go," Butler offered. "I'm smaller".

Mike stood only about 5'4" tall. He had been accused at one time by a suspect who was beaten severely by several "vertically challenged" officers of being a member of some "pigmy" patrol.

As Mike looked around in the attic, Dewey and Reed continued their conversation, walking into the living room area of the home. Joe Reed was a colorful old guy. He'd lost his wife several years earlier, and I suspect he called the police sometimes just so he could talk to somebody. He really liked the police. Dewey and Joe were standing facing each other in the center of the living room, when they heard a loud crash. All of a sudden, the air was filled with white dust and tiny fragments of plaster. Dewey looked to his right to find a very dusty Officer Mike Butler standing right next to him. The whole thing resembled a magic act.

There was a person-sized hole in the ceiling above Butler's head.

"There's nobody up there," Mike said rather matter-of-factly. He grabbed the stunned Dewey Pollack by the shirt, said, "Let's go," and headed for the door.

"Thanks a lot," Reed said.

"Don't mention it," Mike said. "Always glad to be of service."

Homicide - Hussey: The Macintosh 15

Here's another story from the files of Deputy Mark Hussey. Enjoy.

In the early 1970's an incredible building boom took Central Florida by storm. Following the opening of Walt Disney World in Orlando in 1971, industry and people streamed into Florida, making it the fastest growing state in the U.S. With this mammoth growth came all the problems, crime, crime, and of course, crime.

There was no housing for the thousands of people moving into the state daily. The facilities in place in the sixties could not handle the growth of the 70's. Traffic had become a nightmare and just about everything else was in transition or total chaos. The 26th amendment to the United States Constitution was voted in, lowering the legal voting age from twenty-one to eighteen. Newly elected President Richard Nixon announced his new economic policy which included a ninety day wage freeze, imposition of a 10% import surcharge, and an indefinite freeze on the conversion of dollars to gold. The news caused the Dow to jump 33 points.

The city of Lakeland, located just west of Orlando, with a population of 50,000, was also booming. A new civic center had been built and revenue from big name rock concerts like Chicago, Marshall Tucker, and The Rolling Stones was pouring in. The city prided itself in having a top-notch police department. The then 80 sworn officers were trained in tactics, and equipped to handle any emergency. In reality, they were ill equipped and under trained to handle some of the problems that would confront them in 1975. There was no riot gear, except for a few helmets that had been bought as an afterthought. No shields, no tear-gas, no gas masks. The sixties were over and things had been quiet for nearly six years. The war in Vietnam was ending and everyone seemed ready to go back to work and take advantage of the prosperous economy.

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Many of the people moving to Florida were migrating from big city areas like New York and Detroit. Workers there were accustomed to large hourly wages, great employee benefits and union shops. What they found in Florida were companies that would spend millions of dollars annually to break unions, keep wages at a minimum, thus keeping their costs down and their profit margins up. They also found something unheard of: governmental entities, such as police agencies with poor or no retirement and no disability or medical benefits.

In the spring of 1975, the city had broken ground on the east side of town for the Macintosh Power Plant, a new coal burning electric power plant. Workers were hired on site, and most were local people looking for a job. Many were relatively unskilled.

On Monday morning the phone rang at police headquarters and a very upset city manager asked to speak to the chief of police. It seemed that a large group of individuals were causing a problem at the site of the new power plant and city workers were being kept from work. It was unclear what all this meant, but the chief, having come from the north, was relatively sure that this was some kind of union activity. He was right.

The "Boiler Makers" local 386 had gotten wind that non-union workers were being hired to build the new state-of the-art power plant. A few pickets and protesters were sent to force the city to hire the union to complete the project.

The forty-one men, all around 6' tall and well over 200 pounds, were meant to be intimidating. I'm sure they were some type of organized goon squad. Initially, they didn't seem to be much of a problem. The first 40 weren't. They just stood around and made some quasi-threats. The workers refused to cross the picket lines, and work on the new plant stopped for a time. The first eight cops to arrive was the entire day shift, excluding one old-timer left in the city to handle any emergency which might arise.

The mere sight of the cops, seemed to cause some emotional rise in the crowd. It also seemed as if some of the non-union workers had made their way over to the union crowd. It was getting hard to tell who the players were. For some time, the cops just stood around smoking cigarettes and talking. Then the Captain arrived on the scene. As he walked into the group of officers and began shaking their hands, everyone from LPD knew there would be trouble. This guy had no people skills whatever. The sight of him and the sound of his voice pissed people off.

"I brought you guys some gas," the captain said. "I've got it in my car."

Well, maybe that would help, they thought.

By mid-afternoon it was the general consensus that nothing was going to happen. Most of the 41 original demonstrators had gone, and some of the construction had resumed. At around 4:20 pm three unmarked tour buses made their way out Lake Parker Drive and pulled onto the property adjacent to the power plant construction area. The buses began to unload, and it was evident that now there was going to be real trouble. As the nearly 400 men assembled, they yelled threats and obscenities at non-union workers and the police. The Captain, who had been preparing to leave for home, went to a telephone and briefed the Chief, asking for reinforcements.

The department was on some kind of alert. Guys were called at home. Some were poolside, drinking heavily. Others were preparing for shifts later in the day. The Sheriff was notified and asked for any help he might be able to spare. The crowd grew increasingly more hostile.

A sergeant arrived who had seen some National Guard action as part of a riot squad in Miami during the Democratic National Convention. He gave the guys some tips and formed them into some crowd control lines. Then someone remembered that the Florida Highway Patrol had some experience with crowd control in Miami at that same convention. A call went out to them.

Cops began to arrive from all over. They all asked the same question: "Who's in charge here?"

"I am," the Captain would reply. It was nine hours into the operation and a plan had not been formulated. Most of the guys had not eaten or had any water. The union provided their people with food and beverages.

The Sheriff arrived, and not wanting to miss an opportunity to win a few votes, strolled off into the hostile crowd, tipping his cowboy hat and shaking hands. He told them how he supported the unions and would need their votes in order to implement his labor polices. He wouldn't "mind" seeing a union in his own department, he told one sweaty, bearded man. This of course was an out and out lie. When the Sheriff had taken office amid a scandal in the previous administration, he had fired nearly three-fourths of the department without giving a single reason. It was totally legal. Deputy Sheriffs in the state of Florida in those days, according to Florida statutes, "served at the pleasure of the Sheriff." The Sheriff continued his politicking as the crowd became larger and more dangerous.

As dinnertime came and went, someone brought water and ice for everyone, and later some sandwiches arrived. The crowd was becoming more organized and finally a leader approached. He was around 6' 3" tall and weighed approximately 280 lbs. His massive arms stretched the white tee-shirt at the biceps, both of which were adorned with several tattoos. The man carried a two foot length of pipe in his right hand. Fifteen nervous Lakeland Police Officers put their hands on their guns.

The Captain decided it was time for action. These were reasonable people, and certainly they knew the reputation of the Lakeland Police Department. The Captain reached inside his car and turned the selector switch to the "PA" position.

"Gentleman, this is the Lakeland Police Department. We are prepared to use force if necessary to maintain order. We will allow you some time to disperse qui—"

That was all he got out. From somewhere in the back of the crowd came a projectile about the size of an orange. The object, which turned out to be a steel ball bearing, struck the Captain's car windshield, shattering it and throwing glass fragments on several officers.

Many thought a shot had been fired, including the Captain. Sixteen revolvers came out of their holsters and pointed at the seething union members. The Captain had belly-crawled to the back seat of his cruiser and retrieved a canister of "CS" gas. Like an extra from the movie, "Sands of Iwo Jima" the Captain yelled "Clear" and pulling the pin, heaved the can high into the air and into the middle of the crowd of angry union members.

One of the other officers seeing this thought the Captain could use some help deploying the rest of the gas. He opened the back door and looked for the other canisters.

"Where's the rest of the gas?" he asked the Captain.

"That's all there is," he replied with a worried look on his face.

"Are you shittin' me?" the officer asked.

The Captain didn't answer. The gas canister, billowing the tear-inducing smoke, crashed noisily on the hood of the Captain's car, causing a dent and several nearby cops to retreat. Someone in the crowd had picked up the lone gas canister and thrown it back. The crowd advanced and took some additional ground.


Reinforcements for our side began to arrive and a plan was made to advance on the crowd in a line formation. Anyone who approached the line would be arrested and handcuffed. The sheriff sent a paddy wagon for prisoner transport.

The line of about 30 officers began to advance on the crowd. They were equipped with riot helmets and their nightsticks. The model 64 Smith & Wesson revolvers were holstered in the old border patrol type rigs with one snap across the hammer. The guns were easily removed from the holster by a hostile suspect. As the line advanced, utter pandemonium took over.

Whatever they had tried to organize was lost. An all-out slugfest ensued which by some accounts, lasted for hours. In reality it was probably only 30-45 minutes.

What kept the cops alive is unknown. Nobody was seriously injured, and nobody really went to jail. No firearms were lost, although several nightsticks were taken and not returned.

The National Guard was contacted and advised that the Governor would have to give the order. They did assist by providing a large tent, known as a "GP large" to be used as a command post. Some cots were also donated and some of the guys took turns sleeping. Some additional sandwiches were brought out and some changes of clothing were delivered. The scene for all practical purposes resembled a military outpost.

No one had any idea how long the standoff would last or what actions the crowd would take the next morning. Sometime during the night, Officer Kenny Hendrix got cold and decided to light a fire to warm himself. Some branches and scraps of wood were gathered and stacked near the door inside the canvas army tent.

"Maybe you'd better build that outside," one of the rookies suggested.

"Who said that?" Kenny glared at the rookie. The rookie knew his place and shut up.

The fire was started and did provide some warmth. Elsewhere, Officer Mike Butler, a former Indiana State Trooper was standing a post on the perimeter road. The orders were not to allow anything but police vehicles down the road to the power plant. There was no food, no water and he had been on his feet for nearly 24 hours. The only thing that kept Mike going right now was the earlier promise of a couple of hours of sleep in a tent donated by the army, and a couple of sandwiches. As Mike peered into the distance he could see red lights flashing. They seemed to be coming toward him. As the lights got closer, Mike realized the vehicle was a fire engine.

Officer Butler tried to find out where they were going, but the truck didn't stop. The engineer just waved as he passed.

About thirty minutes later, the fire truck passed M.P. Butler on its way out. The engineer again waved and smiled. Mike waved back. About a half-hour after that, one of the new guys relieved the weary officer. As he got into the patrol car and rode the ½ mile back to the command post, he couldn't wait to lie down on that cot and rest a little. As the police car made it around the corner, Mike noticed several officers standing in a group around a large smoldering patch of grass.

"What the hell happened?" Mike asked the driver.

"That fuckin' Hendrix set the tent on fire. Nobody got hurt, but it burned to the ground, cots and all."

Mike just sat there, seething. Finally, he got out of the car. Before he got a sandwich and something to drink, he chased the bewildered Kenny Hendrix around the command post at gunpoint, threatening to shoot his balls off. He was actually too tired to kill Kenny—he didn't feel like doing the paperwork today. But there would be another day.

The power plant standoff continued throughout the week. By Friday, the union realized the city was not going to bend and hire union workers. The crowd dispersed and the Lakeland cops went back to patrol work. That week in March became forever know as the "Power Plant Riots." The captain that week became forever known as "Captain Gas," and Kenny Hendrix was thereafter known as the "Flash".

Because that's exactly what happened when the fire caught that canvas tent. There was a flash and ten cops were sent scrambling and cussing for safety. And the guys became forever known as "The Original Macintosh 15."