Revisiting Homicide - Hussey: Intro

Given that I'm traveling to the Writers' Police Academy, I thought it would be appropriate to re-run some exploits of a real live law enforcement officer. This post is from January 9, 2009

I met Deputy Sheriff Hussey when I asked one of the Civilian Police Academy instructors if he'd mind answering questions. I offered to buy him coffee; he asked if there was an Ale House in my neighborhood, and brought two of his colleagues, one of whom was Detective Hussey. Since then, we've chatted, emailed, and had a few more brews. Hussey has been writing accounts of some of his stories, and he's graciously allowed me to share them. I'll be posting them from time to time -- sorry, I don't have a schedule, so you'll have to check back if you want to see more. I figured the beginning was the best place to start -- so, meet the man who answers his phone, "Homicide. Hussey."

They say that police work is a ringside seat to the greatest show on earth. Truer words were never spoken. It's hours of sheer boredom, punctuated by seconds of sheer terror. It's the toughest job you'll ever love. War is hell. They're all great clichés and they all apply.

I've had more fun and been more miserable being a cop than you can imagine. Mostly though, its been fun and at times, rewarding. Once you've put your world into perspective, and realize that all the things you thought you could change when you were a rookie but found out you will never change, life as a cop is easier to take. You realize things don't matter as much. You just do the best you can, and try to make a difference in a few situations and in a few peoples' lives. You try to leave this world a little better place than it was when you came, or at least not a worse place.

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 - Hussey: Cop humor - part 2

Detective Hussey continues to provide glimpses into the sometimes 'off center' world of Law Enforcement.

James Thileson had come to work for the City of Lakeland's Department of Police in the late forties. Jim's family was one of the few that had founded Polk County. Jim's father fought in France in World War One, and lived to tell about it. Jim graduated from the old Lakeland School and joined the Navy during World War Two. He fought valiantly in the south pacific and was decorated for his bravery. When the war ended and Jim was discharged, there was never any question that he would return home. One of Jim's brothers had become a city firefighter. The pay was pretty good and the job had good benefits and a real future.

Jim had always been his own man though, and when he saw an ad in the local newspaper for police officers, he decided that it could be right up his alley. The am radio was abuzz with news of J. Edgar Hoover and his G-Men, and a radio show called "Dragnet" with Jack Webb as Sergeant Joe Friday was very popular. Law enforcement was seen as a glamorous profession. Jim took the test for police officer, passed it and was given a job as a beat policeman downtown.

There were no backup units and no police radios in those days. When the police station, located in the fire department downtown on Cedar Street had a call for an officer, they would flip a switch in the office, which in turn would light a red light, located on a power pole downtown.

When the officer walked by and noticed that the light had been lit, he would go to the pole, unlock the call box with his key, and pick up the telephone receiver. The phone would ring automatically at police headquarters and the officer would be dispatched to the call.

Keep Reading...

Thileson worked his way up through the ranks and by the time the late sixties had rolled around, he had reached the rank of Captain. As the nineteen-seventies arrived, Jim's health was failing. He had heart problems and diabetes. He could no longer conduct his duties as captain and as a personal favor to his lifelong friend, the then also ailing Chief of Police, Leo Brooker, promoted Thileson to the rank of Inspector. It was a new rank and one that had never been used before. It has not been used since.

Jim's position was kind of a general assistant to the chief. He attended city commission meetings, made sure maintenance on the new Police building at 20 Lake Wire Drive got done, and in the words of some of the officers, "He should hold the rank of General because all he does is walk around being a general nuisance to everyone."

As Inspector, Thileson's illness worsened, so did his demeanor. He would stop people and chastise them for their haircuts, he would follow guys around and catch them leaving their zone or stopping for coffee, and he would just be plain nasty to everyone. Many a rookie would be screamed at for no apparent reason by the inspector. Whatever good things he had done as a young cop, had been forgotten. Most of the new guys called him "the old asshole" behind his back. Everybody hated him. He was just taking up space.

In 1974, the inspector was diagnosed with terminal cancer and went home for good. The road cops, who are known for being unforgiving, asked if anyone knew where the cancer had come from...perhaps they could get some for some of the other administrators.

In November of 1974, there was a new Chief in town. Herbert William Straley had come from somewhere up North and by all account was a little crazy. He was in the habit of firing the messenger who brought him bad news, and many an unsuspecting cop has been the recipient of an "ass chewing" for something he had no clue he had done. You just didn't tell the Chief he was wrong.

Once he was on his way to work and called the station on the police radio. "One," the voice bellowed across the radio.

"Go ahead, unit one," the rookie dispatcher replied.

"Patch me through to the Sheriff!"

"I'm sorry Chief, but we don't have those capabilities."

"You're fired!" the Chief screamed. "Now get me someone who can do what I want."

Another dispatcher ended up calling the Sheriff on the telephone and holding the receiver next to the keyed mike so the Chief could yell at the Sheriff. His reputation was well known.

Also in November, Sergeant Andy Yatchesky was working internal affairs out of the office of the Chief of Police. Andy was growing accustomed to the chief's daily tirades and was always looking for a way to get on his good side. Officer Billy Hyatt knew that the Sergeant would love some information that no one else had. Billy formulated a plan.....

To be continued ... come back next week.

Homicide - Hussey: Merry Freakin' Christmas

Welcome back to the continuing saga of Homicide Detective Hussey. No, it's not Christmas, but since we're in the midst of a major cold snap, I thought this was a fitting post.

One Christmas I remember in the early-eighties, started Christmas Eve when my partner and I responded to a "police service" call in Zone 1. Now a police service call can be almost anything. It means the dispatcher couldn't really get any information regarding the nature of the call, and most cops get a little nervous when they get these, because there is no way to prepare yourself mentally for a situation you can't visualize.

The complainant was a regular, a guy named T.R. Tremble. T.R. wasn't short for anything, his mamma just named him "T.R." He was an elderly black man who would drink anything that would alter his perception of reality. Mostly he drank Thunderbird purchased out the back door of the Sixth Street pool hall, usually after hours.

He would get roaring drunk then walk around getting into anybody and everybody's business. He'd been beaten, stabbed and shot on various occasions for his trouble.

Many a rookie policeman on the scene of a robbery or a murder would ask, "Did anybody see anything"? You always got the standard answer from T.R.

Keep Reading...


"Sho did, I was right der." Usually the account of the incident would be so incredulous that before he finished his statement, even the rookie would realize that he was dealing with a nut case. Sometimes, however, the statement would be taken and T.R.'s name would appear on the witness list. T.R. Liked nothing better than to walk into a courtroom at a high profile trial, with the cameras flashing and tell the whole world he didn't remember a damn thing.

"I been drinkin' for years," he told a judge once. "Sir, I jes be talkin' stuff and lookin' round, I ain't seed nothin'." T.R. would be dismissed and be sent home to plan his next big caper.

Christmas Eve was incredibly cold for Florida that year. The citrus and strawberry industry had suffered greatly, and winter wasn't even over yet. As we arrived at the two room frame house in the 600 block of West Fourth Street, we noticed a light on. We got out of the car and walked toward the front door, and I could hear laughter coming from inside. The distinctive smell of kerosene burning, floated through the thick, quiet night air. I knocked on the door and heard someone yell, "Ya'll c'mon in."

As we opened the door, the stale smell of human perspiration, stale alcohol, urine and kerosene hit us like a wall. Inside the little shack was a kerosene stove burning red-hot. The stovepipe disappeared through a hole in the roof, around which some old rags had been stuffed.

"A fire looking for a place to happen," I thought. The furniture consisted of an old sofa, sweat stained and threadbare, with a hundred cigarette burns at various places on its arms and cushions. The wood floor had squares of plywood nailed in several strategic spots where the floor had given way. There was an old wooden cable spool turned on its side and used for a table, and two folding chairs where T.R. and another old black gentlemen were seated, playing cards. A single light bulb hung on a long drop cord over the table. The other end of the cord ran along the ceiling and down the wall to an electric receptacle where too many cords had been plugged in. I guess in a place like this, fire hazards are the least of your worries.

The most curious thing about the room, however, was not readily noticeable. As my eyes adjusted to the light—or lack of it—I noticed another human being over in a darkened corner. A woman. She was not moving, but something else near the person was. I squinted in an effort to see better. I realized that there was a small animal pacing back and forth in front of the motionless figure. It was too big to be a cockroach, although I had seen some big ones. As I moved closer to the woman on the floor, a small dog began to bark and growl. I tried several times to get near the old woman, with no luck. I finally took an old blanket, which covered one of the broken front windows and kept out at least some of the cold. I slowly approached the tiny terrier mix dog and when I was close enough, threw the blanket over him. I was now able to examine the female. As I was doing this, my partner was carrying on a conversation with the players.

"What's up T.R.?" my partner asked.

"We jis playin' some hearts, offica'," he replied. He laughed in his raspy voice, "We was jis callin, cause' dat lady ova der be's sick. We's tried but we can't wake her up."

"How long she been sick?" I asked.

"What time it is now?" the other man asked.

"About 12:30," I replied.

"Sheeeeiit, she been sick since dis evnin' around about five."

As I approached the female, I caught a whiff of vomit and saw that she was lying on one side, one leg behind the other, with her arms outstretched and encircling a galvanized washtub. She had apparently emptied her stomach contents, which by the smell, likely consisted of some steamed blue crabs from "Baker's Crab Crib," and some fine wine, aged since last week.

I reached down to the elderly lady's shoulder, in an attempt to wake her up and ascertain the nature of her illness. It was then I realized that even in the intense heat of this little house, her skin was cool to the touch. I tried to pull her toward me but gravity and rigor mortis held her firmly to the floor. As I lifted her partially, I could see the dark color of post-mortem lividity in her face. I grinned evilly to myself as I walked back over to the two card players, who up until this point, barely knew we were there.

"How she is?" my partner asked.

"Not too good." I smiled. Tom looked at me with a puzzled look on his face.

"Hey T.R., that girl ain't sick," I said, looking over at the pile in the corner.

"She ain't?" He didn't bother looking up from his game?

"No, she ain't sick, she's dead." Before I could get out the last part of my sentence, T.R. and his partner had kicked over the folding chairs and thrown their cards into the air. They almost ran over Tom getting out of the house.

After telling us what they remembered, which wasn't much, T.R. and his partner went to hang out in front of Harris' Grocery. They weren't about to go back in that house.

"Merry Christmas, Thomas," I said as we watched the medical examiner drive away. "Know where we can get some crabs this time of the morning?"

"Of course," he replied wryly. "Baker's Crab Crib, whose motto is...and I joined in the recitation of the advertisement which appeared on the side of Mr. Baker's building, "When they hot they hot and when they cold they hot too"!

MERRY FREAKIN' CHRISTMAS!

Have a great weekend, everyone. I'll be at my RWA chapter meeting tomorrow, and will share any notes of interest on Monday. Tuesday my Guest Blogger is author L. C. Hayden who'll tell us about how she takes some very special cruises -- without paying for them.

Homicide - Hussey: Dangerous Dan Murray

I'm pleased to share another story from Detective Hussey's files. Enjoy!

Dan Murray was a cop's cop. He stood 6'8" tall and weighed about 240lbs. He had sandy brown hair and steely light blue eyes. He wore tight tailored uniforms and almost always smoked a pipe. He was handy with the ladies, and normally gave the impression of being easygoing. Most of the time he was. But when provoked, his personality changed dramatically, and he became a formidable enemy.

Dan had been a motor officer with the Daytona Beach Police Department, and when you could coax it out of him, he would tell stories of beach babes and car races and spring breaks. We all wondered why he would leave a paradise like that for this place.

I never worked with Dan, but did have the opportunity to meet him after he left the Lakeland Police Department to manage the "Big Leader" sporting goods store on Lake Parker Avenue. The meeting was somewhat official.

I had stopped at the Marine Corps recruiting office to visit one of the Gunnery Sergeants who rode with us on the weekends. I was drinking a coke and staring out the front window of the office. A sidewalk stretched across in front of the building, and the glass had one way, mirrored window tint so people walking by could not see inside, but those inside could see out. Just then, a short guy walked past the window, at a brisk pace. As soon as he entered my field of view, a tall white male with a beard ran up to him from behind, put a hand on his shoulder, spinning the shorter man around, and punched him squarely in the face.

Keep Reading...

The smaller man fell on his back, sprawled on the sidewalk. I ran out the door and grabbed the taller man, who I realized was at least six inches taller than myself. I had my night stick out and told the man to turn around and put his hands on my car. He was compliant, but kept saying, "Don't hit me with that stick."

The smaller guy was getting up and I asked him if he was all right.

"No, I'm not, and I want this nut in jail!"

"He's screwin' my sixteen year old daughter and he's 23," the taller man said.

"That so?" I asked.

The short guy didn't answer.

"Let's see some ID," I said to the tall man.

He removed his wallet and produced a Florida Driver's License. In the DL picture, he was clean-shaven and wore a police uniform, like my own. I saw the name. "Wow," I said. "Dan Murray. You're a legend."

"Well, not really, and don't hit me with that stick," he said.

"Sorry," I said, feeling at ease, and replacing the stick to the ring.

"How about you?" I said to the shorter one. He had apparently considered the impending possibilities of being arrested for offenses against minors.

"Look, I'm okay, just let's forget about this and I won't call his daughter anymore," the short guy said.

"You better not, or next time I won't be so nice," Dan said. The short guy rubbed his chin and looked nervously from me to Dan.

When the little guy had gone, Dan stuck out his hand and said, "Nice to meet ya', come by the store some time." I did, and we became good friends.

I met the other major player in this story one midnight shift, working the Northwest Area, Zone 1, with my partner, Tom. This was the area where all the violence happened. Tom and I were two of a kind, rookies green as grass, with a lot of natural police ability. Tom had an advantage in that his dad, Harry, was a sergeant with the department.

We had a genuine desire to have the most fun possible on a shift. That meant getting into the hottest calls, and digging up our own bad guys. We would regularly volunteer for the Zone 1 assignment and the veterans were happy not to have to work the area. They said the just didn't have the patience. Boy, can I relate to that now.

As we patrolled our zone, we noticed a young black man walking along the sidewalk. He looked hinky, and I looked at Tom and nodded. Hinky was a term used in those days, meaning you just had a hunch that the guy was up to no good. Unfortunately, the Supreme Court has said that "hinky" and "hunch" are no longer probable cause for a stop.

As I pulled the police cruiser to the curb, the man put both hands in the air, approached the police car, and without being told to do so, assumed "the position." I got out of the car and asked him what the hell he was doing.

"I don't wanna' get shot again," he said.

"Who shot you?" I asked?

"Mr. Murray shot me," he said, his voice rising and trailing off. "I done my time."

I immediately knew who this man was. Jimmy Lundeen, who had recently been released from prison. I had heard the story about the burglary at Polly Prim Cleaners, and listened to the tape many times.

Jimmy had been a small-time burglar in his younger years. He started at age 16 doing residential burglaries, and graduated to businesses. Most businesses had petty cash and items that could be easily disposed of—fenced—on the street. Jimmy's career as a burglar was going well. He and his partner had hit two other businesses early in the week and had come away with over three hundred dollars. Not bad money for a couple hours of work.

It was Saturday night. Usually Jimmy and his partner would have been drinking and making trips to a local grocery store for pork rinds or boiled peanuts, stopping off in the back to play craps or poker with some of the locals.

Tonight they didn't have quite enough money for the big time they had planned for the weekend, and Jimmy had been casing a cleaners in town, where his cousin worked. She told Jimmy that the money from the store on Saturday would be wrapped in a towel and stuck up under the counter.

The store had a drop safe, but the owner had long since lost the combination, and the safe had not been used in years. Jimmy also knew that the store had some kind of an alarm system, but the local police were usually slow to respond to alarm calls, and on a Saturday night they would have their hands full working car wrecks and breaking up fights at the local bars. While this was all true, Jimmy just didn't factor in "Dangerous Dan," or Sonitrol.

Fate plays a heavy role in police work. After a call, you can always hear a cop say, "Man if everything hadn't been just right, that never would have happened." Dan Murray would have been off this Saturday night too. He had taken an off-duty job helping out at a minor league baseball game.

Dan left the game after the last car had gone from the parking lot and headed his Harley toward the police station. The radio blasted the familiar tone alert, indicating a priority call.

Attention all units, Sonitrol hears glass breaking and voices at Polly Prim Cleaners, 601 Lake Mirror Drive.

Sonitrol was relatively new in the area, but so far they had been right on the money. Nearly every time a Sonitrol alarm was issued, an arrest had taken place. Most businesses serviced by Sonitrol were equipped with listening devices and tape recording equipment. Dan Murray knew this too, and he couldn't resist getting into something, even on his night off. Dan downshifted his big motorcycle and headed toward the area.

The tape recording from the Dan Murray Sonitrol call at Polly Prim cleaners was legendary. It had been played for every rookie policeman for years, even after Dan left the department. It went something like this:

The tape starts with glass breaking and the whispering and hushed voices of two males. The voices continue as does the sound of furniture and papers being moved as the two burglars rifled through drawers and cabinets. Then far off in the background, you hear the wail of a police siren, followed closely by the unmistakable "wop-wop" sound of a 1200 Harley Davidson motorcycle. The voices of the two burglars become frantic and one can be heard saying, "Oh shit, it da police."

Then there's more scrambling, and shortly after the last of the scrambling, the voice of patrolman Dan Murray can be heard clearly, yelling, "Police. Freeze, mother-fucker."

The voice of Jimmy Lundeen can be then heard clearly saying, "Go ahead, shoot me ma-fucka, I ain't got no gun."

This is followed almost immediately by the loud report of a firearm, and several seconds of silence. It is at this point when people who had never heard the tape before and didn't know Dan Murray would ask, "Who got shot?"

The listener wouldn't have long to wait. Jimmy's voice was heard again, but this time it was an agonizing moan and the exclamation, "I been shot," displacing any question as to who was the shooter and who was the shootee.

The moaning and screaming continued as Dan asked the second burglar, Jimmy's partner, "How about you mother-fucker, you want summa' this?"

"No suh boss, dat man got jis' what he aks fo'," the partner replied.

Jimmy and his partner got ten years in prison and were released early for good behavior, which is when I ran into him. Although Jimmy wasn't fond of being shot, he forever credited Officer Murray for turning his life around. He never got into trouble with the law again.

Officer Murray got a division commendation, became even more of a legend than he had been before, and left the department to pursue a career in retail sales managing a sporting goods store.

The tape of the incident was played for years after. The original copy of the tape however, was accidentally erased by Sonitrol personnel, prior to the trial. Imagine that.

Have a nice weekend, everyone. See you Monday.

Real Life Detectives

I had the extreme pleasure of buying three Orlando homicide detectives a few brews and some nachos yesterday--small price to pay for picking their brains in the name of realism in my book.

I walked away with fodder for my novels, even more respect for the jobs these guys do for way, way too little money, an inside look at the way cops talk to each other (firing shots across the bow, is the way they put it, and giving one of them a really hard time because he recently transferred from homicide to child crimes. When one refers to himself as the silverback gorilla and his colleague as a poop-throwing squirrel monkey--well, that's going to HAVE to show up in a book someday.)

I also walked away with a piece of Chattahoochee from a murder scene as a tangible souvenir from one of the detective's cases.
Check it out here, here, or here.

Plus emails and phone numbers and a promise to help out with any other questions.

The challenge, of course, is to right it "right" when everyone thinks cops work the way they do on TV. But they certainly gave me enough to keep my cop busy, and filled in some important details about how they do the job.

Thanks, Mick, Mark & Darrell.