Homicide - Hussey - The Policy Makers

Nothing, as the cliche goes, is etched in stone. This includes police policy and procedure. When you've been a cop a long time, as Deputy Hussey has, you see things come and go. And sometimes, you're even on the cutting edge of new policy. Read on as Deputy Hussey shares another case with us.

After a few years as a police officer, most cops have responded to all kinds of "signal sevens" or dead body calls. I've seen the human body in almost every form: burned, dismembered, decomposing, mummified. I've seen people shot, cut, hung, run over, bludgeoned, strangled and sexually mutilated. I've found people dead who were partially eaten by their pets; I've kicked in doors and had putrefied bodies explode. I've seen them decompose and drip down through the mattress, and I've seen them decapitate because they hung too long. I've worked 'em all and its never ceased to amaze me the things human beings do to themselves and each other.

The homicides and suicides are somewhat interesting, but the natural death calls are just kind of a chore. Usually the deceased is an elderly person who has been bedridden and had some terminal disease. Some family member is usually there, and you have to tell the people how sorry you are and appear to be saddened as you complete your report and try not to be late for dinner, which is usually when these calls come.

On this particular summer evening, my partner, Glenn Seacrest, and I had already eaten. We'd stopped off downtown to look at the new TV sets. There was a brand new channel on one of the sets. It was called "Cable News Network" or CNN.

"It'll never make it," I said. "Who the hell would watch news 24 hours a day?"

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We got the call for an address on West Quincy Street. As we pulled out of the appliance store parking lot, the dispatcher said it was a "natural", which meant that the person died of natural causes.

It was an African American family, and as we arrived, there were several carloads of people just arriving and getting out of their cars. The older families were very close and they usually congregated quickly after a family death. Sometimes you would have to help subdue a distraught family member who would be beside him or herself with grief. That was not the case here. The crowd was rather subdued. As we entered the neatly kept house, several people were weeping softly and comforting each other.

"Where is he?" I asked.

A large motherly looking black lady motioned us to a bedroom where the door was shut. "Papa been so sick," she said. "It sho is a blessin' dat he gone home."

I nodded. "Yes ma'am."

As Glen called the medical examiner and gave him the information, I started the paperwork. Event form, narrative, persons form, death investigation form, and of course, the toe tag. The toe tag was a dark red, 2"x5" tag which had blanks for the decedent's name, address, time of death and the name of the investigating officer and the case number. The tag had two strings attached to one end, and was to be tied to the "great" toe of the decedent.

I was finishing the paperwork when my partner came into the room. "How's he look?" Glenn asked.

"I haven't looked yet. I'm almost finished with the report. I just gotta' fill out the toe tag."

"Let's have a look." Glenn pulled back the sheet.

Willie Jasper Jones was born in 1886, which made him 96 years old. What a long life this man had lived. He was the son of former slaves. He had seen the first automobile, the first airplane, and the advent of the telephone. He'd gone from kerosene lamps to electricity. He had taken all these changes in stride. Yes, Mr. Jones had seen many changes in his lifetime, many not so good.

As we pulled down the sheet, I was somewhat shocked to see that the old man had no legs. I guess I wasn't prepared for it. The shriveled old torso was lying on its back. Only a medic alert bracelet adorned his naked body.

The legs were amputated even with his buttocks, and his limp penis hung unnaturally between what used to be the man's legs.

"I didn't know the guy was leg-less," I said.

"Yeah, he was a diabetic and had his legs whacked off a couple of years back."

"Well, let's tie the toe tag and get out of here," I said without thinking. I looked over at Glenn, and he was grinning that sick grin of his. He looked at me, looked at Mr. Jones, then at the toe tag. I realized what he had in mind.

"Let's just leave the tag with the funeral home guys," I said.

"Can't", Glenn said as he snatched the tag from my clipboard. "The back of the tag says to affix it to the great toe."

"He has no great toe.

"We'll tie it to the lowest place on his body," Glenn said.

"I don't want any part of this."

"Even kinda' looks like a big toe." Glenn giggled.

Glenn securely tied the string to the man's private parts, and shortly thereafter, the guys from the funeral home arrived and picked up the body. I knew we hadn't heard the last of this. I was right.

My phone rang about 8:30 the next morning, waking me from a sound sleep. It was the Chief's secretary. The Patrol Captain wanted to see me in his office right away. When I got to the Captain's office, Glenn was coming out with a large chaw of tobacco in his mouth and grinning from ear to ear.

"What happened in there?" I asked. I could hear the Chief screaming at the Captain inside his office.

"Oh the fuckin' M.E. couldn't take a joke, thought we should have tied the tag to his finger or something. I told the Chief the thing I tied it to was more like a big toe than his finger was. I asked the Chief, hell, haven't you ever stubbed your dick?" Glenn laughed out loud at his own joke. "The Chief didn't think it was funny either."

When I went into the Captain's office, I played the dumb rookie, "Just following the lead of my veteran partner." He apparently bought it, and I was glad. Several days later a memo circulated through the department. It read:

"In cases where the decedent is an amputee or the toe tag cannot be tied to either of the great toes for various reasons, the red medical examiner's toe tag shall be given to the funeral home personnel when the body is released to them."

There we were again, making policy.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

How the Cops Saved Christmas

(Note: IE and Blogger are fighting again. This should work in Firefox until the problem is solved. If you can't see the sidebar, scroll down to the end of yesterday's post, click on the keep reading button and it should appear. Gotta learn more code, I guess. Me and technology)


Yes, I know tomorrow is Valentine's Day. So why a Christmas story? I can't say there's anything romantic in today's post from Detective Hussey, but you'll have to agree, there's a lot of heart. And, if you're new here, I don't write these. I merely post them with Detective Hussey's permission. The credit for the stories goes to him.



Christmas is a magical time of year for most people. The problem for cops is, after a few years in the business, the magic goes out of everything. We forget that the public is not exposed to all the horror and inhumanities of man. Most cops see more terrible things in a few months than most people see in a lifetime. Christmas, even for most cops, remains though, a beautiful, heart-warming, family time of year. It can be a sad time for many people, a depressing time for those who are forced to spend the holidays alone, it can be a time to do more crimes, for those opportunists who don't care who they hurt. It can be a time for some people to believe in something again, just when life seems hopeless. Even for cops.

Janice Foster had moved to Lakeland a year earlier from rural Illinois. Her husband had been killed in a farming accident and left her to raise two boys alone. His parents had been good to them, but she wanted to stand on her own two feet. Besides, she hated the long, cold dismal winters. The boys always had colds and she herself never seemed to feel very well. The farm reminded her of Sam, her husband and childhood sweetheart, and that made her even more depressed.

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One year in the mid-seventies before they were married, Janice and Sam had visited Lakeland in the spring, to see Sam's favorite baseball team, the Detroit Tigers. The Tigers played their spring training games in Lakeland. They had loved the little town so much and vowed to return after they were married. It just never happened. Nicholas came along just nine months after the wedding and then there was that terrible drought. Oh they always had enough to eat, but vacations were luxuries they could not afford. So when Janice decided to leave Illinois, Lakeland seemed a perfect destination. Even though Sam was dead, it would be like the fulfillment of a promise they'd made to each other.

In September it began to get cold in Illinois and Janice began to get depressed. She made up her mind to make her dream come true. She told Sam's mother and father of her plans and gave notice at the cafe where she was a waitress. Janice rented a small U-haul trailer and loaded up all the family's possessions. The trailer was hitched to the old Buick station wagon, and Janice, Nicholas and Tommy headed south on the first great adventure of their lives.

When they got to Lakeland they got a hotel room for the first week. Janice got hired at the first place she applied, the Pizza Hut restaurant on Memorial Blvd. She wasn't making the kind of money she had made in Chicago, but the apartment she found a week later was a lot cheaper than it would have been back home. The boys settled into the new school. The school bus picked them up and dropped them off near the apartment. Janice's job was within walking distance. The car died in November and Tommy broke his leg the same month. The little bit of savings they'd had were gone. Still the weather was beautiful. They had gone to the beach in October. It was unbelievable. In short, things were up and down. Most of it seemed good, the bills were paid and they seemed to be getting ahead.

Well it was December 23, Christmas Eve, Eve. The weather was in the 70's, and not a cloud in the sky.

My partner Tom Brown and I had just finished booking a shoplifter from the mall into jail. "Tis the season," Tom said as we left the police station and headed north toward our zone. It was after 5:00, 1700 for all you para-military personnel, and I suggested we eat. A few minutes later, we were sitting in our local Pizza Hut being waited on by a pleasant, slightly overweight, waitress. The name tag said Janice. She and Tom cut up as she brought us our dinner.

"You must be new," I said.

"Yes, I just moved here from the Chicago area," she said, smiling.

"Kinda cold up there," I said.

"They don't call it the windy City for nothing."

Tom and I talked a little more, then got up to leave. We left the standard cop tip of a dollar on the table.

"Be Safe fellas," Janice called after us.

About 2310 hrs, the tone alert sounded and the dispatcher's voice crackled across the old Motorola radio. "One-oh-six-alpha, signal 29 personal with a gun, rear of Pizza Hut on the Boulevard."

I put my foot in the carburetor of the Plymouth Fury and arrived behind the restaurant in less than thirty seconds. A female in a pizza hut uniform was sitting on the curb with her head in her hands and several other Pizza Hut employees were standing nearby.

"What happened here?" I asked, as I got out of the car?

"This lady was robbed," a man in a white shirt and tie replied.

"Is she hurt?" Tom asked.

"I think her arm is broken," another woman said. Then the lady lifted her head and looked up at me.

"Hey you're our waitress from dinner," I said. She just nodded and continued sobbing. Tom called the ambulance and I got what description I could.

It had all happened pretty fast. A young, thin male, race unknown, had come at her from behind, she thinks out of some bushes. The "perp" had grabbed her purse and attempted to run. Because the purse was precious to her, Janice did not let go without a fight. The man had kicked her in the ribs after knocking her to the ground, and dragged her until her arm snapped and the purse slipped off her arm.

Tom and I were silent as we drove the mile and a half to the emergency room. When we got there, Janice was being cleaned up and a doctor was preparing to set her broken right arm. The uncontrollable sobbing had stopped, but she was still crying softly to herself. "I just don't know what I'm going to do", she said as Tom and I entered the treatment room. "All the money I had was in that purse," she said. "My whole paycheck."

"Well if it was a check, I'm sure Pizza Hut will replace it," I offered.

"The manager cashed it for me so I could pay off the boy's bikes and take them off layaway in the morning and get a Christmas tree and buy things for Christmas dinner," she said. My boys, there'll be no Christmas for them at all." She began sobbing again.

"Don't you have any family here who could help?" Tom asked.

"I don't have anybody here," she replied. "Just me and the boys since Sam died."

"Where did you have the boy's bikes on layaway and how much did you owe?" I asked.

"They are at Woolco at the mall and I owe $50.00 on each one.

Tom and I finished getting the necessary information for the report and headed for our cruiser. We were already an hour late getting off. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking partner?" I asked Tom when we were back in the car.

"I think so." Tom and I actually had come to know one another to the point that we knew what each other was thinking. It sure paid off sometimes. Other times it was scary. We had been in so many tight situations, that we knew each other's next move and what to expect. "We could hit up the briefings tomorrow for some donations, and I've got a little extra," Tom said.

"Me too.Let's do it".

The next morning I was already up, when Tom rang my phone. We made the seven thirty briefing and after explaining the situation, we collected $48.00: not too bad for short notice. We collected another $20.00 from the manager at Pizza Hut and when we got to Woolco and explained the situation the manager knocked $20.00 off the bill for the bikes. Tom and I made up the rest, including tax. After getting the bikes loaded in the back of my truck, we stopped at a Christmas tree lot. We badged the owner and explained the situation to him. We picked out a nice large tree and loaded into the back of my truck.

"Merry Christmas, officers," the lot manager said as we drove away.

Our last stop was at the market on the Boulevard. We bought all the trimmings for a top notch Christmas dinner. We knew the manager and he threw in a pre-stuffed turkey, absolutely free.

Tom and I were having too much fun. We also bought two Santa hats and some fake beards. We drove to the apartment complex behind the Pizza Hut, found apartment 261 and knocked. I was so exited, my heart was beating so hard, I thought someone could hear.

We heard the lady call "who is it?" from inside the apartment. I guess she looked out the peephole and saw two guys with disguises on and thought the robber from last night had returned. I had to produce my police ID before she reluctantly opened the door. She was still somewhat suspicious.

We asked her where she wanted the tree, and the food. She just kind of pointed, in shock. I don't think she could believe it. The two boys had come sleepily out of a bedroom by now and were also looking suspiciously at Tom and me.

"I think there may be something in Santa's truck—I mean sleigh—for you guys too," I said.

We walked the boys outside and unloaded the bicycles. The kids whooped and hollered as they rode them around the parking lot. Janice walked out in her bathrobe, tears streaming down her face. She had one arm in a sling, but she hugged each of us with her good left arm. "Nobody has ever done anything like this for me, this is the best Christmas I've ever had." She choked back tears.

Tom and I agreed it was the best Christmas we'd ever had too. We went home that year and really enjoyed Christmas with our families more than ever.

I hoped the scumbag who stole Janice's purse bought Christmas dinner with the stolen money too. And choked to death on the damn wishbone.

Whether Valentine's Day is special to you or not, I hope you'll have a nice weekend. We'll be out of town visiting family and maybe doing a little celebrating of our own. Oh, and for today: Happy Friday the 13th.

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.

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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.

"Homicide - Hussey ": The Promise

Our next Homicide-Hussey episode deals with his transferring from the military to the "civilian" police force. I found this and the previous post (The Awakening) most enlightening, because a lot of the back story in a book I'm reworking deals with my hero's original training partner. Based on what Detective Hussey is sharing, the character I created didn't stretch the envelope too far.


My first field training officer was a salty old veteran named Mike Royko. Mike was a nasty, burned out, surly veteran cop who hated everybody and drank way too much, causing him to be regularly hung over and generally mean. Mike was a short, pear shaped sandy haired little guy. He was always red faced. His nose was a road map of blood vessels, burst by drink. He wore small, wire rimmed glasses, which he always peered over, as if looking down on everyone.

Mike was an extremely intelligent, well-educated man. He had a master's degree in education, and eventually left the department to pursue a teaching career. I saw Mike many years later and asked him how he liked teaching. He said, "It's just like being a cop, except they don't let you carry a gun...and it's a damn good thing".

I rode with Mike for my first week and it was certainly an experience. One day we were having lunch downtown at the old McCrory's dime store. An elderly gentleman approached our table holding a roadmap and said, "Sorry to bother you, officers."

Mike looked up and said, "Well don't."
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One day while writing a report in the parking lot of the Grove Park shopping center, an elderly lady stopped and walked toward our patrol car. Mike was in the driver's seat and I was sitting on the passenger's side writing a report. The lady started to walk toward Mike's window. Mistake .... as he saw her coming, he rolled up the window. The lady changed directions and came over to my window.

"How can I help you, ma'am?" I asked. Mike rolled his eyes.

The lady was asking directions to one of the local churches. As I explained the route, I realized that the engine had begun to increase RPM's. The noise of the engine got louder and louder as Mike pressed harder and harder on the accelerator. The lady raised her voice, as did I. Soon this white-haired old lady and I were yelling at each other. I glanced over at Mike who was grinning fiendishly. All of a sudden the engine went back to idle and I was caught in mid yell. The lady jumped, startled by my loud voice.

"Thank you officers." She smiled, looking over at Mike suspiciously.

"Anytime," I said quietly.

One Thursday morning we had just called in service on the day watch when we received a call of a possible injured person at the Wabash shopping center. As we drove into the shopping center parking lot, I saw a beat up old blue pickup truck parked in front of the Publix supermarket. As we got closer, I could see something squirting from the driver's side window. The early morning glare of the sun kept the interior of the truck hidden until we were right on top of it. I found out too quickly the liquid was blood. A large pool of the red stuff had run down the truck's door and had begun to coagulate on the gray pavement of the parking lot. As any rookie would, I jumped out of the car and ran to the truck.

The old man inside still held the .38 caliber, four-inch revolver in his right hand. A small trickle of blood ran from a small hole in his right temple and dripped onto the gray security guard uniform. He gurgled and jerked unnaturally in the seat. "He's still breathing," I yelled to Mike, as he was coming around the other side of the truck. I ran to the patrol car and grabbed the mic. My voice several octaves above normal said, "Lakeland, send me rescue and an ambulance."

"Ten-four," the voice said.

Then Mike, in one of the only tender moments I had ever seen from him, placed a hand on my shoulder and took the microphone, saying in a soft voice, "Roll me a supervisor, a crime scene tech, and a homicide detective."

"Ten-twenty-six," the dispatcher said. "Already on the way."

After the paramedics examined the dead security guard, and agreed there was nothing they could do, crime scene tape was stretched around the truck in an effort to keep away curious onlookers. As eight o'clock came and went, more and more people began arriving. Some were the crime scene technicians and photographers. Some were the detectives and people from the medical examiner's office and some were just people coming to work.

One bank teller recognized the truck and wept. "Bill was such a fine old gentleman," she said. "We will really miss him."

As the day wore on, the temperature began rising. It was nearly 10:00 when all the investigators had finished their work. It was everybody's feeling that the wound was self-inflicted. An apparent suicide.

Flies were beginning to gather on the dried blood areas as Mike and I went through the old man's pockets looking for some identification. We found a driver's license with his picture. It matched the tag information. The ID was positive.

I signed the M.E. Report and the toe tag and released the body to the funeral home. The old man's body, now stiff with rigor mortis, was carefully removed and placed into a waiting hearse.

"Now we've got to take care of this vehicle," Mike said. At that instant, at the far west end of the crime scene tape, a very heavyset, sweaty woman in a pink muu-muu was yelling at us and motioning us in her direction.

"What can we do for you?" Mike asked.

"That's my husband's truck right there." She pointed at the blue Chevy pickup.

"Yeah, and we want it," a skinny, stringy-haired white male added.

"Shut up," the woman snapped at him.

"Look," Mike said, "I'd have to see some ID, but that's not the problem. I have to tell you some bad news. Your husband is dead, and that truck is kind of a mess."

"I know," she said, rather matter-of-factly.

Mike was looking hard at her now. "No I don't think you understand, you can't drive it. You will want to have it towed."

"Why? Did he do somethin' to the truck?" she asked.

"Well, not per se, but to put it bluntly, his brains are all over the inside," Mike said shortly.

"Oh that." She smiled. "No problem, I grew up on a farm."

Obviously, I thought.

Mike Royko was absolutely dumbfounded. He was speechless! The woman produced the title for the truck, which she owned jointly with the deceased. She also produced a driver's license, with a photo of her in younger, thinner days. Mike just motioned for me to check it. He had nothing else to say.

As Mike and I stood and watched, Mike's jaw dropped open. The woman waddled over and gingerly opened the driver's door of the truck. The blood had run down the door and dried below the window. On the seat inside was a small pyramid shaped pile of what had been the brain of Bill Pruitt. The colossal woman swept the gray matter (which isn't gray at all) aside with an old sheet, which she placed on the blood covered truck's seat. She smiled and waved as she slung her girth into the driver's seat and turned the key.

My partner watched, still in shock as the truck disappeared. He disgustedly turned back toward the patrol car, and got in. I was barely in the passenger's side when he sped off like a madman. We drove in silence for nearly an hour when Mike turned to me and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he spoke.

"Rookie, if I live to be nine hundred years old, God forbid. I will never, ever, ever see anything as fucking cold and nasty as that." Mike drove on in silence and he didn't speak to me or anyone else the rest of the shift.


Again, thanks to Detective Hussey. Enjoy your weekend. And wish me luck with the Ridge Area Arc Tea. I just realized these people are paying money to attend. I know it covers the food too, but I don't want anyone disappointed.