Work. Small Town Policing.

I haven't posted a lot, lately. I will admit to having been a bit busy.

While our PD is down a man, I've had to step up and work patrol as a shift supervisor, instead of doing my investigator gig.

Throughout the month of September and the beginning of October, I've been hit with pretty major Index Crimes. Small towns still have them, though not as much as bigger towns. Here's the problem: because we don't investigate them as often as the bigger cities, we're not as experienced at the investigations thereof. The good news is, that barring other cases landing at the same time, we have more time to focus on them.

In this case, we (A) lucked out, and (B) knocked it out of the park.

At the beginning of September, I had come in to the office on my day off (I find that I do that a lot, lately), and tended to some paperwork. I wore a polo with a badge and gun and ID displayed, and had on some decent cargo pants and athletic shoes on. On my way home, I made a traffic stop, and towed the vehicle. Toward the end of the stop, the on-duty patrolman was dispatched to a disturbance. Over the radio, he reported that it was actually a serial burglary in progress. I responded from my traffic stop, in time to meet a couple who exited their house, having fought with the burglar-turned-home-invader. They directed me in the direction the man had fled. I got lucky, and found him in a back yard, and coaxed him at carbine-point to lie on the ground. When my cover officer arrived and tried to cuff him, the burglar attacked him physically. Long gun in hand, I used appropriate force to prevent the man from getting to my officer's gun, or escape. The burglar was taken into custody with a pretty good bruise to his backside, and a couple of taser barb marks in his back. I worked the case.

Two weeks later, I was on duty, and responded to a disturbance. When I knocked on the door at the disturbance, the resident briefly pointed a gun at me, and later at the responding officer who covered me. He fired a round in the air. I set up a perimeter, and we eventually took him into custody. I got a warrant and we got the gun.

Last week, we had a commercial armed robbery. I was off that week, but I came in. My chief and I checked a neighborhood outside of our town, and located the suspect vehicle. I got a warrant for it, and canvased the neighborhood, and we met the robber that evening. I took the robber's confession, and we recovered the gun used.

Our cases are rock-solid, and we're going to get good convictions on all of them.

Now I'm back on duty after a week "off."

And I'm nearly done with the paperwork.

Fireman stuff.

I ended my patrol shift at a structure fire, and wrote my first "Crossing Fire Hose" ticket. I knew my brethren in the red hats* would give me hell if I just let it go, and I hadn't gotten to help with the fire, proper. (Always a bride's maid, and never a bride.)  We had to run a 5" line diagonally across a major intersection, and it's harder than you'd think for one car to stop down all traffic and let them understand that they have to turn around and go elsewhere. I will make a guess that every state in the Union has some kind of law about this, so that we don't have to have a man guarding fire-hoses from each direction; the law says don't cross it without permission.

I am perpetually reminded that people are creatures of habit. If I throw a roadblock in the way of their routine, a surprisingly high percentage of the population simply cannot conceive of an alternate course of action to take. I have commented before on how people suddenly taken out of their comfort zone in expect to be told where to go. I kept having people drive up to a blocked intersection in the middle of a downtown (admittedly, a small downtown) grid of streets, asking me how they were supposed to get to work, and then still not figuring out the answer when told that this was the only intersection being blocked. They literally had to be told to make a U-turn, make three lefts, and a right, to perform the detour. Sure, if I'd had the manpower, it would have been great to have blocked the streets a block away in each direction. But I didn't, and the blocked intersection was visible from blocks away in each direction. I worry about our future, and the people that I serve.

I had one man tell me, quite upset, that this would cause him to miss his morning coffee at the convenience store he wanted to get to. When I pointed out that there was another one conveniently located along his route to work, he dismissed that as an impractical option, because he didn't know right where the coffee-maker and cream and sugar all were at the other convenience store. Mind you, we're talking about another store in the small rural town that he lives in, which he drives by almost every day. Not an option, to him.

One of the other cops that came over to help me chatted about the fire stuff we saw. He mentioned that he heard a lot of fire alarms going off, and I wondered about that, having heard none. Then I realized that he was hearing the PASS alarms on Scott SCBA air packs. The PASS alarm has a sensor on it that detects if the pack has not moved in about 20 seconds, and sets off a pre-alarm, and then goes into full-alarm. When the firefighter hears the pre-alarm, he does a little duck-waddle shimmy with his butt, to shake the pack and tell it that he's fine. Occasionally, when the pack is doffed, the alarm is not turned off properly (the bottle has to be turned off), and they'll go off.

Earlier this week, I did a shift at the FD, and practiced getting better at engine pump operations. Yes, I still need to attend the official classes, and no, I don't think that I'm qualified to be an engineer. But if there's a structure fire, I can get your engine placed pretty well, get it into pump gear correctly, prime the pump and get it up to the pre-set RPM or pressure (we are spoiled with a high-end pump system), crack open the water re-circulation cooling system, get water from the tank to the correct hose (front, rear, or two cross-lays, or deluge), and open the intake valve for water from the tanker we'll have come out to nurse from.***  I can also throw out a portable pond to draft out of. That will get us out of 90% of our problems, in our fire district.  Areas that I need to work on: actually drafting, and putting on 5 inch hydrant supply hoses (we've got two different kinds of adapters, and while I can figure it out, I need to get proficient, so that becomes a task that I perform without really having to think about.)  I drive that engine pretty much where ever we go when I'm on duty, and I perform the check-off's of the engine when I work a shift. (Others do it in 10 minutes. I generally take more than half an hour.)

It still amazes me a bit, sometimes, that it is common practice to let an unpaid volunteer get into a quarter million dollar piece of apparatus and go to work. Even more impressive was that I did it just a couple of months after starting with them. This is why they vet the firefighter applicants, and why one of the biggest reasons to dismiss an applicant is for traffic violations and accidents.

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*Figuratively speaking. Actually, in our fire department, the color of the helmet denotes the rank of the firefighter. The Chief's is white. A captain's is red. A lieutenant's is black. Mine is yellow**. I just think of the "red hat" as the firefighter, and the "blue hat" as the police officer. There are two of us who are on both departments, currently (the other guy is a full-time firefighter).  I'm seriously thinking about making us red and blue hats that have both logos split down the middle, just for the fun of it.

**Even though it's the basic brand and not really mine, per se, that Morning Pride yellow helmet tricked out with goggles, an LED light, and blast shield runs north of $300, making it the most expensive headgear that I've ever had.

***One thing that I really didn't know as a cop was that one of the first rules of the firefighter is to not use that 1000 gallons on board the engine, if you can possibly avoid it. That's to be kept in reserve, in case there's a problem with the water supply when the firefighters are fighting. There have been instances of engines arriving on the scene of structure fires, putting maximum output out of their deluge gun, and then being unable to do anything even after the tanker arrived, later, until the engine tank was refilled. Or so this rookie is being told.

Random Halloween Day Thoughts.

• --The Eighth Grader In The House carved up a jack-o'-lantern that was better than any that I've done in 40 years. My wife, a sculptor, was impressed. Not fancy; just well-executed. I don't have a picture because the effect is lost without darkness and a candle, and I forgot to take one last night.
• --I still need to finish cleaning guns from Blogorado. Next year we should put together a gun-cleaning table to sit and chat at while cleaning guns at the end.
• --While working the crosswalk during the city-sponsored Halloween event this weekend, my partner and I wondered how else girls would learn to dress up as sluts in public, if they didn't have their hot moms to show them how at Halloween.
• --Yard decorations for Halloween have gotten out of hand. I don't think Christmas-style strings of orange house lights were even seen before about two or three years ago. Now they're ubiquitous.  Front yard graveyards are thick on the ground. Stupid inflatable fabric lighted yard decorations? All over.
• --My daughters are terrified that I'm going to wear my kilt and pith helmet while accompanying them and their pack of friends trick-or-treating this evening. I've let them believe that I'm going to. Talk about the scariest thing that they can think of on Halloween! Heh.

• --While in the front yard spattering stage blood (left over from my graduate studies) onto the white lace garage sale dress that The Fourth Grader In The House was wearing, I thought to myself that the greater horror for me was seeing my kid in a bridal gown.
• --My younger daughter, while standing outside with the blood drying on her bridal gown, saw the cat playing with a mouse. She tried to save the mouse, and got bitten for her trouble. Didn't break the skin, and the mouse was healthy as could be. I told her that she was lucky that I got to see the rodent, or I would have her getting shots. Do they still do that? I also threatened her with a thrashing if she ever again tried to touch a wild animal of any stripe. I killed the mouse, which did have a broken back already. The cat looked at me disgustedly, and ate it.
• --My elder daughter dressed in black, painted her nails, eyes, and lips black, wore a giant silver cross and a chain belt, and made her face white, and went as a Goth Girl. She practiced sighing and rolling her eyes as she announced, "Trick or treat" in a voice dripping with irony.
• --My neighbor thought that it was AWESOME when I put Burglar Bob, the reactive shooting dummy, on the front porch. He liked it even better when I put the words "Free Candy" on my skeevy old van parked out front. I took some pictures, and then chickened out. I gotta work in this town.
• --At the last second I had to run get some candy. The door hasn't been knocked on yet.
• --I should probably fix that doorbell.

Mid-morning walk.

I awoke to find my house empty. I was a bit ashamed that I hadn't helped take the girls to school, but my sleep schedule is difficult to regulate, sometimes.

I answered a message left by my boss, who needed something at work. I started the coffee, got dressed, and walked to work.

On the way in, I noticed that last week's break from the summer heat was over; when it's 88 degrees and 70% humidity at 10:15 AM, it's going to get hot, before the day is over. Still, a 10 m.p.h. breeze from the south made the walk pleasant. I arrived and tended to some business at work, discussed time off for a possible hunt this October, and walked back home.

Approaching a distant neighbor's dog, I could hear him barking furiously at me from a long ways off. How dare I intrude within the scope of his master's realm?!? He has some pit in him, and some other breed that I can't identify. I walked up and petted him through the fence, and he wagged his tail. It's all a big game.

Getting home, I wistfully looked at my next door neighbor's majestic pecan trees, and then gazed derisively at my own trash trees.

There's a reason that I'm planting pecan trees of two varieties about my yard, along with fruit trees and even an almond tree. I will soon cut down some hackberry trees in my yard, despite the dense shade that one of them provides.

I stepped inside my house, frustrated that a short walk could bring sweat to my oversized brow, shaded or not. I was greeted by the cool quiet air conditioning of a distinctively empty house, and the smell of fresh coffee.

There are things to do before autumn comes.

Not a fan.

I'm going to do a little hatin', here.

Look, I'm not against sports. I'm not against American football.

I'm just not a fan. Oh, the athleticism can be fun to watch, especially when you know the players. But I don't get the obsession.

I understand the ritualistic warfare aspect of it. I understand that something has to be popular, and if it's not feetball, it's soccer, or baseball, or basketball or... whatever.

But I resent that my mandatorily-contributed school tax dollars, which make up the larger portion of my property taxes, go toward this over-wrought spectacle. I resent that my daughters will benefit, from what I can see, not one whit from this spectacle.

I resent that the same school district that refuses to hold any kind of educational camps or tutoring over the summer has a football spectacle in the first week of frickin' August, when it's 93 degrees at 11PM, according to the sign at the friendly small town bank. Said football spectacle is complete with over-loud P.A., over-bright stadium lights, and rambunctious teens drinking in the parking lot while their more-rambunctious parents cheer themselves hoarse over the exploits of Little Johnny, sweating on the pitch in full pads.

My best friend Scott and some others insist that this is a money-maker for the school, and that my daughters' education will benefit. Bollocks. Show me the figures. I ain't buying it until I see them, broken down.

Out there searching. / Out here fumbling. Out here waiting

The 20 mile per hour wind may be humid, but at least it's cold. 20 degrees Fahrenheit might not seem like much of a chill, but it's enough tonight to flash freeze the ditches full of last night's rain. The mud reflects the diffused light from the cloud deck only 1500 feet above, which in turn is lit by every sparse streetlamp in my little town, along with the fullest, biggest moon of the year, that I can't see. In the doggiest town I've ever known, I've not laid eyes on a single canine all night.

The radio is so quiet that I periodically turn it up, and when someone finally does speak up, it blares annoyingly. I turn it back down, and then go through the same cycle.

I'm the only car on the streets. The occasional rig tending oil wells does trundle through town, and I leave them be.

I'm just looking for that right stop. The guy burgling cars. The drunk side-swiping parked vehicles, while trying to get home. The runaway 14 year old sneaking out to meet her new Internet boyfriend ("...so dreamy. He's 29!") at the street corner. Something to give tonight's patrol some meaning.

It's fruitless, and feels futile.

The goal is to work ourselves out of a job, I guess.

I sure could go for some coffee. But it's getting too close to the end of the shift, and bed time.

It's not crazy....

...that I keep poultry in my little back yard in town, is it?
Or that we named them?

Clockwise from the top: Pot Pie, Yolky, Lulu, and Bock-Bock.

Lulu is the head of the pecking order, and we thought that Bock-Bock would never fit in, because we got her last, and for the first week the others pecked at her. We had originally gotten four chicks as un-sexed birds. It's hard to tell gender until they're mostly full grown. We didn't want roosters, because we would be unpopular with the neighbors. We found that one of our original four was a rooster, and took him back to the feed store to trade him for a pullet, which we brought home in an empty yellow Shiner Bock case box. My wife and I quickly dubbed the poultry conveyance device the Bok-Bok Bock Box, for the sounds emitting form it on the way home. The name stuck, and we named her Bock-Bock. :)

Wrong hobby, youngsters.

In a rural town with crumbling asphalt streets, no curbs, and less than 100 yards of public sidewalks, why not take up a past time OTHER than skateboarding, brainiac?

Might I suggest bicycling? Or roping? Maybe weeding your folks' driveways?

Quick updates.

Sunday morning, Dad and I had coffee before breakfast. I was slightly sore from moving a friend before working the night before. We went to a fairly new little coffee shop down the road, and enjoyed our over-priced coffee and pastries on the porch, basking in the lovely October morning. Some of the most cherished moments in my life have involved swilling coffee outside in the cool early day of a tenth month. Lots of those have been with Dad, and this time was no different. He handed me yet another birthday gift, which this time was a Bianchi Speed Strip with 6 rounds of Remington 158 g SWC +P in it.

"You might try this. They work pretty well," he said.

He was speaking of the Speed Strip. As I stated in comments, I've been meaning to try them out, and now I am doing so. When I ran some errands about town yesterday, I carried a M36 on my belt and just tossed the Speed Strip into my off-side pocket. It carried well, with less clinking than I'd expected. I need to get to the range and practice fast loading with it, 2 by 2 by 1.

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The house is very nearly ready for move-in.

I've got a truck rented for this weekend, and days off to move. We've built my wife's studio (something I've been promising her in earnest for a decade) in the garage. The bamboo looks stunning against the slate. The carpet is a low shag, and it makes my wife happy, so it makes me happy. I've called to have the 30 yard dumpster removed, as it is packed and brim-full of cast-off material from the house. I wish it had more room; I'd keep it for cast-off from the move.

I need to find that pesky gas leak from the stove, though. Until I do, the gas cock at the wall underneath is turned off.

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I've a test tomorrow night in Statistics that I'm really not quite ready to take. Interestingly, while my professor (an kindly old man of about 80 who tends to ramble afield a bit with his anecdotes) was giving us a review in class last week, a group of women sitting in back were chatting. Not in whispers, but in normal talking voices. I put up with this as best I could. I sit in front when the topic is boring (and rest assured, Statistics is a boring class.), so I could generally hear him despite my tinnitus. But when another student from across the room asked a question about the test, and neither I nor the professor could hear it over the din of conversation, I turned around and spoke loudly to them:

"Ladies: 'Disruption Of Classes' is a Class C Misdemeanor, and your continued talking qualifies as an offense. I have paid $1016 to take this class, and I will not put up with your interruptions. If you wish to speak further, take it out to the hallway, and I will bear you no ill will. I speak to You, You, You, and You, miss. Yes, I mean you. Do you understand me?"

They nodded. It turned back around and tried to concentrate on my review. I wasn't just irritated that they were interfering with my class, but that their actions were what I considered insulting to this gentlemanly elder instructor. Worse-- but for myself and one other, I knew that everyone else in the class was working on post-graduate degrees of one kind or another in Education. I should have thought that they would show more professional courtesy. But alas, most of them were young (early 20s) women, and probably have not yet entered their career field. (I had never seen such activity in any of my Criminal Justice classes, I can assure you.)

One of the talkers--a very fit, attractive girl-- had tried at some lenghts to wheedle some extra points out of the professor after we got our grades on our first test. I had been proud of my professor for mildly refusing her repeated urgent whining request.
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Yesterday afternoon while checking my mail, I heard gunshots. I looked to my neighbor, who was checking his own mail. We both felt the wind, a nice mild southerly breeze. We live just four blocks from the south edge of our little town. "Sounds like the dove are still flying," he laughed.

I grinned and took the mail in to thow away.

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Note: mothers-in-law who were born during the Depression (a real depression, not this BS little recession thingy that people are getting their panties in a wad over) are constitutionally incapable of draining the grease off of the cheap hamburger that they fried up for hash. Not one drop. While the hash was tasty, I could have plunged a wick into a bowl of it and lit it to make a passable lamp which would burn for days.