Since we're leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow, today we'll be busy taking care of all the last minute preparations. It looks like it'll be a great experience. I mean, how many conferences have you been to where they send the following information about what to expect?
Prepare yourself mentally. Don’t be shocked if someone carrying a machine gun passes you in the hallway. There will be shouting, sounds of gunfire, and bursts of adrenaline!
During the handcuffing and arrest workshops instructors will be demonstrating various techniques. You may be called upon to participate. This is not the time to show off your black belt or ground-fighting skills. Do not, do not, do not do anything other than what you’re told to do by the instructors. The life you save may be your own…
Cameras will be allowed, but you absolutely must ask permission before taking photos and videos during any of the workshops. Some of the officers work undercover assignments and a photograph could jeopardize their safety. Yours too if you snap a photo without permission… :)
And if you want to see some of the workshop offerings ...
Welcome to Terry's Place. I'm an author of mystery and romance, happy to share what I'm learning, both about writing and anything I find interesting.
Showing posts with label Lee Lofland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lee Lofland. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Friday, July 31, 2009
Homicide - Hussey: "Denny"
Today, Detective Hussey shares yet another of his "interesting" experiences in his early years as a police officer.
Don't forget - today is the last day to enter my contest to win a copy of Lee Lofland's book, Police Procedure & Investigation. Details on my website.
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.
Keep Reading...
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?"
Don't forget - today is the last day to enter my contest to win a copy of Lee Lofland's book, Police Procedure & Investigation. Details on my website.
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.
Keep Reading...
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?"
Monday, July 20, 2009
Hiccups, Speed Bumps, Detours, and Roadblocks.
What I'm reading: The Desert Hedge Murders, by Patricia Stoltey
Somehow, there seems to be a lot of synchronicity in the blogosphere. Recently, there have been posts showing up at various sites discussing how closely an author needs to adhere to the facts.
Of course, we all want our books typo free, and accurate in terms of mechanics. When I see errors in books, I have learned enough about the process not to assume the author is solely to blame. There are copy editors who should be catching things, and sometimes, changes are made that the author isn't aware of. Some 'helpful' editor might change a foreign phrase, thinking it was wrong, when in reality, in context, it was correct.
Or, the wrong version of the manuscript goes to print. I can speak from experience there. My galley corrections somehow never made it into print in one of my books, and I'm not sure when they'll get the correct version out. That's the flip side – they're a small press, and their focus is digital books, so they can make corrections without having to sell out a 100,000 book print run.
Authors do not make good proofreaders of their own work. The eye sees what it expects, and the author has probably read the work dozens, if not scores, of times. In When Danger Calls, the head of the company, Blackthorne, Inc., is Horace Blackthorne. Yet until I saw the printed ARC, he was Horace Blackstone the first time he was introduced. I'd missed it on every read, and both my editors had missed it as well.
I was reading a book recently where a character saw the "break" lights on the cars. And someone was waiting with "baited" breath. Or the book where a character put "peddle to the metal."
How much does it take to throw the reader out of the book so far that they don't come back?
Keep Reading...
That probably depends on how good a storyteller the author is, and how compelling the characters are.
Sometimes there are minor hiccups. If a character makes a choice, and you've got a different solution, maybe that will make you stop reading for a moment and think about it. I was reading a scene where the characters had been interrupted once too often by the telephone in the bedroom, so they took it out. Perhaps the author was trying to find a reason for his character to have to leave the bedroom, and this was his solution. In my household, we simply turn the ringer off the bedroom phone. It seems a simply way to handle the rude awakenings. Thus, when I read the 'no more phone in the bedroom' scenario, I stop for a moment to think about my solution. Does it spoil the book? Of course not. But any time you slow the read, you're giving the reader an excuse to put the book down.
Sometimes an error tells the reader the author is lazy. If you're using a real drug, take a minute to research what it looks like. People who are familiar with the medication will know if you say it's yellow when it's blue.
Why does a flight from Hawaii land at the International terminal at LAX? Last I heard, Hawaii was part of the US.
Thumbing the safety off a Glock? That's the most common error made by writers dealing with firearms. I can skip over that with little more than a snicker. I don't know much about handguns, but I do know a Glock doesn't have that kind of safety.
I also know that it's "Canada goose" not "Canadian goose," even if "Canadian" sounds better. And that those big goldfish are "koi" not "coy" (although maybe they're coy koi.)
A cell phone that has a different ring tone every time it rings? I know you can assign a ringtone for various callers, but then you'll know who they are. If the author does that, then do it all the way. Don't have the person wonder who's calling. (Or are there now "random rings" available on cell phones?)
In writing my books, which deal with aspects of law enforcement, I do my best to get it right. Knowing what you don't know is often the hardest part. Thinking you do know something and not checking the facts (like assuming all semi-automatics have a safety you can thumb off) can get you in trouble.
But what about the death of a prominent politician in a car accident that's declared due to his being drunk because the cops smelled alcohol. Excuse me? That's a real stopper for me. No autopsy? No blood analysis? Where are the media?
Lee Lofland's book, "Police Procedures & Investigation"* has a great chapter called, "C.S. … I Don't Think So" which reminds readers that television is a medium of entertainment, not reality. Yet I had an editor once tell me that if I was going to write about police work, I should write what the readers believed to be true, not the way it really was. Since they watch television and read fiction for entertainment, they expect both to agree.
I don't fully agree. I had the pleasure of sharing a ride with Detective Mark (Homicide) Hussey to the Florida chapter of the Mystery Writers of America meeting on Saturday. (As an aside, he became a grandfather for the second time that morning.) Not only did he answer my multitude of questions about police procedure, he was kind enough to read my short story for police accuracy. I feel I owe that to my readers, and if it doesn't match what they see on television, I try to find a way to explain it on the page, without stopping the action.
Harlan Coben said, "It's fiction. I get to make stuff up." But the choice of what stuff to make up might be the difference between endearing or alienating a reader. What sorts of tolerance do you have? What bothers you enough to spoil a read?
*And don't forget, I have a copy of this excellent reference book to give away in my July contest. Be sure to enter. Details on my website.
Tomorrow, my guest is author Bess McBride. She'll be talking about family. And graveyards.
Somehow, there seems to be a lot of synchronicity in the blogosphere. Recently, there have been posts showing up at various sites discussing how closely an author needs to adhere to the facts.
Of course, we all want our books typo free, and accurate in terms of mechanics. When I see errors in books, I have learned enough about the process not to assume the author is solely to blame. There are copy editors who should be catching things, and sometimes, changes are made that the author isn't aware of. Some 'helpful' editor might change a foreign phrase, thinking it was wrong, when in reality, in context, it was correct.
Or, the wrong version of the manuscript goes to print. I can speak from experience there. My galley corrections somehow never made it into print in one of my books, and I'm not sure when they'll get the correct version out. That's the flip side – they're a small press, and their focus is digital books, so they can make corrections without having to sell out a 100,000 book print run.
Authors do not make good proofreaders of their own work. The eye sees what it expects, and the author has probably read the work dozens, if not scores, of times. In When Danger Calls, the head of the company, Blackthorne, Inc., is Horace Blackthorne. Yet until I saw the printed ARC, he was Horace Blackstone the first time he was introduced. I'd missed it on every read, and both my editors had missed it as well.
I was reading a book recently where a character saw the "break" lights on the cars. And someone was waiting with "baited" breath. Or the book where a character put "peddle to the metal."
How much does it take to throw the reader out of the book so far that they don't come back?
Keep Reading...
That probably depends on how good a storyteller the author is, and how compelling the characters are.
Sometimes there are minor hiccups. If a character makes a choice, and you've got a different solution, maybe that will make you stop reading for a moment and think about it. I was reading a scene where the characters had been interrupted once too often by the telephone in the bedroom, so they took it out. Perhaps the author was trying to find a reason for his character to have to leave the bedroom, and this was his solution. In my household, we simply turn the ringer off the bedroom phone. It seems a simply way to handle the rude awakenings. Thus, when I read the 'no more phone in the bedroom' scenario, I stop for a moment to think about my solution. Does it spoil the book? Of course not. But any time you slow the read, you're giving the reader an excuse to put the book down.
Sometimes an error tells the reader the author is lazy. If you're using a real drug, take a minute to research what it looks like. People who are familiar with the medication will know if you say it's yellow when it's blue.
Why does a flight from Hawaii land at the International terminal at LAX? Last I heard, Hawaii was part of the US.
Thumbing the safety off a Glock? That's the most common error made by writers dealing with firearms. I can skip over that with little more than a snicker. I don't know much about handguns, but I do know a Glock doesn't have that kind of safety.
I also know that it's "Canada goose" not "Canadian goose," even if "Canadian" sounds better. And that those big goldfish are "koi" not "coy" (although maybe they're coy koi.)
A cell phone that has a different ring tone every time it rings? I know you can assign a ringtone for various callers, but then you'll know who they are. If the author does that, then do it all the way. Don't have the person wonder who's calling. (Or are there now "random rings" available on cell phones?)
In writing my books, which deal with aspects of law enforcement, I do my best to get it right. Knowing what you don't know is often the hardest part. Thinking you do know something and not checking the facts (like assuming all semi-automatics have a safety you can thumb off) can get you in trouble.
But what about the death of a prominent politician in a car accident that's declared due to his being drunk because the cops smelled alcohol. Excuse me? That's a real stopper for me. No autopsy? No blood analysis? Where are the media?
Lee Lofland's book, "Police Procedures & Investigation"* has a great chapter called, "C.S. … I Don't Think So" which reminds readers that television is a medium of entertainment, not reality. Yet I had an editor once tell me that if I was going to write about police work, I should write what the readers believed to be true, not the way it really was. Since they watch television and read fiction for entertainment, they expect both to agree. I don't fully agree. I had the pleasure of sharing a ride with Detective Mark (Homicide) Hussey to the Florida chapter of the Mystery Writers of America meeting on Saturday. (As an aside, he became a grandfather for the second time that morning.) Not only did he answer my multitude of questions about police procedure, he was kind enough to read my short story for police accuracy. I feel I owe that to my readers, and if it doesn't match what they see on television, I try to find a way to explain it on the page, without stopping the action.
Harlan Coben said, "It's fiction. I get to make stuff up." But the choice of what stuff to make up might be the difference between endearing or alienating a reader. What sorts of tolerance do you have? What bothers you enough to spoil a read?
*And don't forget, I have a copy of this excellent reference book to give away in my July contest. Be sure to enter. Details on my website.
Tomorrow, my guest is author Bess McBride. She'll be talking about family. And graveyards.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
It’s Not All Donuts and Paperwork
I'm proud to host guest blogger Lee Lofland today. Some of you may already be familiar with his mega-popular blog, The Graveyard Shift. Lee's bio would be as long as his post, so suffice it to say, the man has credentials. Today, he's sharing some of his experiences working in law enforcement.
It’s Not All Donuts and Paperwork
I got my start in law enforcement as a corrections officer in a maximum-security prison. In our facility, all new C/Os (corrections officers) were required to start out working the graveyard shift, which I did. My sergeant on the midnight shift was a great guy, always filling in for officers who called in sick, needed to go home early, or for those who simply wanted a night off. My boss’s generosity toward his subordinates was quite unusual for a security supervisor in the prison system.
Normally, the white shirts (supervisors wore white shirts; line officers wore blue) working the late-night shifts spent their entire eight hours trying to find things officers had done wrong so they could “write them up.”
I once saw a supervisor crawling on his hands and knees, sneaking up on an officer, hoping to catch her sleeping. My sergeant was quite the opposite. If he could help anyone out of a jam, he did. I’ve even known him to assume a sleepy officer’s post so they could take a break and gather a second wind. Working graveyard in a prison, watching people during their slumber, can be a very monotonous, mind-numbing job.
Keep Reading...
My sergeant was a fine man, liked by everyone who’d ever had the pleasure of working with him.
I worked in the prison system until the county sheriff hired me as a patrol deputy, a job I’d had in my sights since my teens.
I’d only been out of the police academy a few months when I received a particularly disturbing emergency call from the dispatcher. She told me a male teenager had barricaded himself inside his house, and was threatening suicide. My heart sank when I heard the address. It was the residence of my former sergeant at the prison. The troubled teen was his son.
I arrived at the house and found my old boss standing in his front yard. He was in uniform, ready for work, and he was extremely distraught. He fought back tears when he told me his son was inside with a loaded shotgun. Then I asked him where he’d last seen his son, and for a detailed description of the layout of the house. He said he hadn’t heard a sound since his son forced him outside. No blast from the shotgun, which was a good thing.
I used the sergeant’s key and went inside, where I found the young man seated on the living room floor. He held the barrel of the shotgun firmly against his chin. His thumb rested on the trigger. The safety was clearly off. His knuckles white from gripping the weapon. And he was crying.
I approached the boy slowly, talking about anything that came to mind—mostly gibberish. But the small talk distracted the boy, allowing me to take a seat on the hardwood floor beside him—no easy feat for a guy my size, wearing a gun belt, a Kevlar vest, and polished dress shoes. In a matter of seconds, I was sweating profusely. Every nerve in my body stood at attention. The gadgets on my belt dug into the tender flesh at my waist.
I was uncomfortable, but I didn’t dare move a muscle. I talked to the kid for twenty minutes, or so, with my eyes fixed on the trigger and the thumb that rested on it. He’d bitten the nail to the quick.
Finally, he relaxed his grip for a second and I made my move, grabbing the shotgun barrel with one hand and his trigger hand with my other. In one motion, I slid the shotgun across the floor and handcuffed the teenager.
I sat him upright and then he collapsed against me, crying uncontrollably. I held him until the tears stopped, and then we talked. I listened to his troubles, and then I explained what had to happen next—he’d be going in for a psychiatric evaluation. I also told him to call me if he ever felt the need to harm himself again. I let him know that I was there for him, as his dad had been for me, many times.
When he was ready, we stood and went outside. I don’t think the air had ever smelled any fresher, nor had there ever been a brighter moon.
Lee Lofland, a former police detective, is the author of Police Procedure and Investigation, A Guide For Writers, a 2008 Macavity nominee for best non-fiction mystery. He is a nationally acclaimed expert on police procedure and crime-scene investigation. You can learn more about Lee at his website, or at his blog The Graveyard Shift
It’s Not All Donuts and Paperwork
I got my start in law enforcement as a corrections officer in a maximum-security prison. In our facility, all new C/Os (corrections officers) were required to start out working the graveyard shift, which I did. My sergeant on the midnight shift was a great guy, always filling in for officers who called in sick, needed to go home early, or for those who simply wanted a night off. My boss’s generosity toward his subordinates was quite unusual for a security supervisor in the prison system.
Normally, the white shirts (supervisors wore white shirts; line officers wore blue) working the late-night shifts spent their entire eight hours trying to find things officers had done wrong so they could “write them up.”
I once saw a supervisor crawling on his hands and knees, sneaking up on an officer, hoping to catch her sleeping. My sergeant was quite the opposite. If he could help anyone out of a jam, he did. I’ve even known him to assume a sleepy officer’s post so they could take a break and gather a second wind. Working graveyard in a prison, watching people during their slumber, can be a very monotonous, mind-numbing job.
Keep Reading...
My sergeant was a fine man, liked by everyone who’d ever had the pleasure of working with him.
I worked in the prison system until the county sheriff hired me as a patrol deputy, a job I’d had in my sights since my teens.
I’d only been out of the police academy a few months when I received a particularly disturbing emergency call from the dispatcher. She told me a male teenager had barricaded himself inside his house, and was threatening suicide. My heart sank when I heard the address. It was the residence of my former sergeant at the prison. The troubled teen was his son.
I arrived at the house and found my old boss standing in his front yard. He was in uniform, ready for work, and he was extremely distraught. He fought back tears when he told me his son was inside with a loaded shotgun. Then I asked him where he’d last seen his son, and for a detailed description of the layout of the house. He said he hadn’t heard a sound since his son forced him outside. No blast from the shotgun, which was a good thing.
I used the sergeant’s key and went inside, where I found the young man seated on the living room floor. He held the barrel of the shotgun firmly against his chin. His thumb rested on the trigger. The safety was clearly off. His knuckles white from gripping the weapon. And he was crying.
I approached the boy slowly, talking about anything that came to mind—mostly gibberish. But the small talk distracted the boy, allowing me to take a seat on the hardwood floor beside him—no easy feat for a guy my size, wearing a gun belt, a Kevlar vest, and polished dress shoes. In a matter of seconds, I was sweating profusely. Every nerve in my body stood at attention. The gadgets on my belt dug into the tender flesh at my waist.
I was uncomfortable, but I didn’t dare move a muscle. I talked to the kid for twenty minutes, or so, with my eyes fixed on the trigger and the thumb that rested on it. He’d bitten the nail to the quick.
Finally, he relaxed his grip for a second and I made my move, grabbing the shotgun barrel with one hand and his trigger hand with my other. In one motion, I slid the shotgun across the floor and handcuffed the teenager.
I sat him upright and then he collapsed against me, crying uncontrollably. I held him until the tears stopped, and then we talked. I listened to his troubles, and then I explained what had to happen next—he’d be going in for a psychiatric evaluation. I also told him to call me if he ever felt the need to harm himself again. I let him know that I was there for him, as his dad had been for me, many times.
When he was ready, we stood and went outside. I don’t think the air had ever smelled any fresher, nor had there ever been a brighter moon.
Lee Lofland, a former police detective, is the author of Police Procedure and Investigation, A Guide For Writers, a 2008 Macavity nominee for best non-fiction mystery. He is a nationally acclaimed expert on police procedure and crime-scene investigation. You can learn more about Lee at his website, or at his blog The Graveyard Shift
Monday, March 23, 2009
Can you be TOO Positive?
What I'm reading: Draycott Eternal, by Christina Skye
Finding a Top Pick review for What's in a Name? from Night Owl Romance was a great spirit lifter for the weekend. It's easier to find the bright side when you start with something positive. But, as a reminder that there can be to much of a good thing, I thought I'd share this clip.
And, because I had a great brainstorming session with friends yesterday, I'm going to tackle some (ugh) plotting. It's back story, but I need to know what happened in the past to bring the characters together. We had great fun playing "What If?" And the story seems more complex, both in the mystery and the romance threads. In fact, I haven't quite decided who the hero is yet. However, it's clamoring for a third point of view character. So, this is a short post. I have work to do.
Be sure to check back tomorrow when my guest is Lee Lofland: retired cop, award-winning author, and host of a highly rated blog, The Graveyard Shift.
Finding a Top Pick review for What's in a Name? from Night Owl Romance was a great spirit lifter for the weekend. It's easier to find the bright side when you start with something positive. But, as a reminder that there can be to much of a good thing, I thought I'd share this clip.
And, because I had a great brainstorming session with friends yesterday, I'm going to tackle some (ugh) plotting. It's back story, but I need to know what happened in the past to bring the characters together. We had great fun playing "What If?" And the story seems more complex, both in the mystery and the romance threads. In fact, I haven't quite decided who the hero is yet. However, it's clamoring for a third point of view character. So, this is a short post. I have work to do.
Be sure to check back tomorrow when my guest is Lee Lofland: retired cop, award-winning author, and host of a highly rated blog, The Graveyard Shift.
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