Valor Defined.

Officer Kenyon Youngstrom # 18063

California Highway Patrol

End of Watch

September 5, 2012.

My return is bittersweet, as I owe my readers part two of “In Pursuit of Happiness.” It is done, but how can I respectfully post a little humor when another officer has been taken from our family of life. I can’t spin this any other way and I refuse to ignore the pain and suffering shared most intimately by his family. This death comes almost a year after my friend Jim Mathiesen, a Deputy Sheriff with the Marin County Sheriff’s Office was also murdered, another wound yet to be healed.

I was not able to attend Officer Kenyon Youngstrom’s respectful curtain call from this planet. I had yet another bout of bullshit from my personal life that infected my ability to show my respect in person, but nothing could have prevented my attention that day as I watched from my computer and drifted unconsciously in spirit to that blessed place. The place silent and most honored with the love of his family and friends by his side. Officer Youngstrom shot on September 5, 2012 was never alone. He arrived in heaven surrounded by everything important to him from the moment he was struck by the coward who shot him until he gave his ultimate gift to people who would allow Kenyon to live on in their bodies, recipients of his life-saving organs.

I can tell you that I never met this fine man, but I can tell you about the searing- and for the moment, non-repairable wound of his death. Lets call it what it really was, his cold-blooded murder. It affected thousands of mourners and in a “just” world should have come to the attention of every person on the planet. But we don’t hold hero’s like California Highway Patrol Officer Kenyon Youngstrom in the same esteem as the modern day pop culture jerk-off or basketball player found plastered on the world’s television screen. Those over indulged, privileged people, “famous” for nothing but the type of shoes they wear or some wardrobe malfunction find their way into our lexicon, but hero’s like Officer Kenyon Youngstrom or his partner State Traffic Officer Tyler Carlton fade from the public like steam dissolving into the atmosphere.

Funny how we all slow down to see the car wreck on our freeways, but overlook those in uniform who are there to literally pick up the pieces. Instead we get pissed off that our commute is a little longer than usual – never giving the poor bastard in the accident one moment of concern for his or her safety. And then some, not all of us- take hero’s like the medics from American Medical Response, the doctor from John Muir Trauma Center -who did not drive past -but stopped to render aid, the Walnut Creek, Danville, San Ramon and other Police Officers, not to mention the firefighters and silent hero’s like the freaking Freeway Service Patrol workers, who simply and importantly blocked the road to prevent injury to those desperately trying to save Officer Youngstrom’s, life for granted. Well, they do that for a living…right?

My contempt at times submerges my forgiveness and ambivalence for the human race. I get it. I don’t fall on my knees every time someone is killed for no reason. But I take pause when innocent men, women or children and soldiers fall victim to some dark soul possessed by evil. I retreat and regroup when public safety professionals -you know those same “millionaires” that get their asses kicked daily for their pensions, are taken from their families and from their abilities to provide that peace for the very public that scorn them and relishes in their personal failures. Think I’m full of shit? Open any paper today.

Sorry, but my tolerance for mitigation from those who throw rocks from the back row, or exploit their bully pulpits, kind of like what I am doing here, has run out. Two weeks ago I started my 29^th year of service for my community. While I have been well compensated I ask you, how much is all of this really worth? Really, my health, my destroyed neck because of a careless jerk-off who crashed into me. How about the ex-con who put me in the hospital. I don’t know, you tell me. Was it worth the $50.00 an hour? Is lifetime medical just to cover my neck injury only - that will someday require surgery when I am old- too generous? I guess Officer Youngstrom and legions of others who decided to put on the uniform each day to make this world a little better – not for profit -but for selfless principal of doing the right thing- deserve what we get. (Said with unbelievable sarcasm colored by contempt.)

I will reread this in a few moments because I hate regret, but I suspect my bare, naked emotion displayed in this cathartic post will not balance out anytime soon. So while I thank you for allowing my indulgence, I simply as for your own personal moment of silence for the wonderful family and friends of Officer Kenyon Youngstrom from the California Highway Patrol’s Concord, California area office. If you are so inclined, take that moment to say a prayer for the intact and respectful soul of Officer Youngstrom but don’t forget to include in those prayers his 4 children, his wife and family – also hero’s. Keep in your thoughts that valiant hero found in Officer Tyler Carlton who channeled St. Michael that morning in that moment when he too faced potentially his final challenge on earth and faced it down with bravery and decisive almighty intervention.

So I close this post overcome by the grace of this population of men and women. People from all walks of life who come together from a variety of cultures who simply, by putting on that uniform- cops, firefighters, paramedics alike -who step out from the dark locker-room and into the light of the public, risk their lives and wellbeing and forfiet their future and special moments with their families in that instant for people who live vicariously in their shoes watching episodes of COPS. Those same people who turn the TV off when it gets too spooky and roll into bed - forgetting that those over compensated people they read about are still out there...in the dark...away from their loved ones and turning off the danger facing them is not an option.

The big guy (or gal) and I have not seen eye to eye in a while, but there is a time to cast away my selfish thoughts and take a look beyond my own circumstances. This little passage brings me back from time to time…take it or leave it. It’s free. Just like this blog.

Matthew 5:9 “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”

May God hold and protect this community of peacemakers. Especially the family and friends of State Traffic Officer Kenyon Youngstrom, California Highway Patrol Officer #18063

In Pursuit of Happiness. Part I

Thanks for the wait!  I was a little ill and needed some time to get better and poof here you have it.  I hope you enjoy it and, more importantly, I hope you are at a nice coffee shop with an espresso.  Ralphy

OK, cops have come a long way in the pursuit department.  There are plenty of dumb stories of cops chasing people 100mph for a red light violation.  Last time I checked, you don’t get the death penalty in California for speeding or running a red light.  I say it like that, because the potential could be a fiery death sentence or worse, you and the violator could end up maimed and not able to speak while some Panamanian nurse turns the show “The View” on TV and you are eternally sentenced to watch it during your sponge bath, skin graft, or worse -- your Foley catheter change.  Note to my close friends: unplug me!  I think I could survive the Foley and the graft, but “The View”... seriously, kill me. 

Been There, Done That...

I have been in more than a few chases.  I think I have shared them before either on this blog or the original blog, but lets face it, I have been kicked in the head so many times I can barely tell time.  So be patient.  This could be like the movie "Groundhog Day."

Diplomacy

Chases can be fun if you are 20 years old, but reality and responsibility -- at least for me -- came in a 6 pound 11 ounce package seven years ago that I named Giuseppe.  Driving fast is like walking a tightrope with a safety net made of spider webs below.  It was especially true if you used to drive a Dodge Diplomat police car in the old days.  Christ, the brakes, wheels, suspension and axle could fall off at any moment.  Of course, now Dodge owns the raceway with their amazing Charger.

I recall a couple of times driving after a bad guy across the Richmond San Rafael Bridge and I’d swear there was a huge baseball pitcher at the opposite end of the bridge throwing 2000 pound cars at my pals and I like we were playing pursuit-baseball, and the cars were fast balls.  You had to be very careful because getting hit by a stray pitch (er, car) would really smart. 

Due Process

Each time, and in every chase, I could remember I passed these slower cars like I was running from a process server.  I could be wrong (plausible deniability) but think on at least one occasion I hit 120-ish mph (193kph) on the bridge.  By the way, did I tell you how I invited the process server, who gifted me my divorce papers, to dinner?  He was an invited guest in my house from that day forward.  Christ, I sent him a Christmas card that year. 

Pants on Fire 

Every tough-guy will tell you they did 140 and how much fun it was.  Fucking liars!  Maybe I am growing up, or maybe my son’s need for a Silly String partner is first on my mind, but for me it’s not as fun as it used to be.  Well, not after the first five minutes. 

The end of the chase is almost always fun, if not exhilarating, for so many reasons.  The end of the chase is like a triathlon.  Drive fast, crash, bail out, run and always…always hop fences.  Everyone brags about his or her speed, but my ego is not so attached to the accelerator like I am some Formula 1 or NASCAR couch enthusiast that I need this shit.  The escalator is too fast for me.

Think about it -- I am Italian.  Outside of a racecar, we suck at driving.  Think I’m kidding?  Find me one…ONE (1) car in Rome without a dent!  OR let me introduce you to my beautiful cousin Daniella, who is brilliant but for the grace of the Benito's trains, she would never get to work…well not in her car, maybe in an ambulance.  She gets a discount…she is a doctor and they are on the way so maybe it is her own version of carpooling.   

So much goes on during a chase, like not blowing up your car (I have done that, not especially fun), keeping your sweaty hands dry as you hold your palms to the air conditioner, while making sure you call out the speed, violation, location and number of crooks in the car.  Then there is the worry of crashing or running over some poor schlep that was simply driving to the store.  The balance is this: is the risk worth the reward?  Now excise the tumor of adrenaline that seems to be intertwined in this little cerebral tango and you get the bigger picture of responsibility of pursuit driving, or worse, being the on-duty supervisor calling the shots.

All of that is part of the deal when you chase after someone, but then the end is so unpredictable.  As the car door opens on the crook’s car before they come to a complete stop -- a violation of the cardinal rule -- you (the good guy or gal) try to switch from driving your ass off to running your ass off.  Not so easy if you have what I like to call a “Mediterranean Ass," like mine.

Now throw in placing the car in the park gear (a little technical detail I forgot once that cost my city an air conditioning system, but only once) and then call out the foot chase as I (allow me to speak for myself) pull my industrial-sized ass from the car, breaking the synergistic bond between my wool pants, boxers, ass and the poly-weave seat in my car.  OH, yes, while we are multi-tasking we have to un-freaking seat belt so we can get in the chase.  I have been hamstrung by the seatbelt a few times in my zeal to get out.  At least that has been my alibi for losing more than one crook. 

Lit Phone Booth

Getting out is really F-ing important.  Why?  Simple.  Look into the crystal ball and answer this: why is the asshole running?  Is said sphincter going to get out and shoot at you?  If the answer is even maybe I don’t want to be in the 2000 pound equivalent of a lit phone booth with a disco ball on top directing the shooter where to aim.  Call me crazy. 

Courageous cops and supervisors often end up “calling” the chase off because it was too fast and the crime was not serious enough to warrant driving like this.  It is easy to drive fast.  Making sane decisions for all is not so popular, but so important.  So, I guess some crime does pay, if you have a fast car and run for the border.  So what?  I am a big believer in karma (pun intended).  Let the store take the loss of 100 pairs of jeans.  Better that than your family taking the loss or, equally worse, being consigned to watching "Maury," "The View" or "Jerry Springer" during the sponge bath with your rehab nurse from Panama or Singapore. 

Each chase gifts me with important lessons in automotive engineering that always seem to get lost in all of this nonsense.  Any 4 cylinder car can drive really fast, especially if you are wanted for a felony.  You don’t necessarily need an 8 cylinder car to run from the cops, or to chase a crook.  Of course it’s not really about speed so much as it is all about the torque baby!  Not as sexy, but equally important…BRAKES.  Fucking brakes!

Marconi Was a Genius

No matter, I always tell crooks at the end, you can drive fast, but can’t drive faster than the speed of sound.  Thanks to Marconi, the Patron Saint of Police Radios, we usually call for our pals miles away who direct their noses to the sky like a pack of lions getting a sniff of some gazelle.

Part II is on the way.  (Its actually done...this is that dramatic pregnant pause that is supposed to inspire you to want more.)

Around the Coroner

I had worked in a large M.E. in the past so I was kind of familiar with volume…but nothing could prepare my crew and I for the 340 bodies in the huge stainless steel walk-in cooler at the Los Angeles Medical Examiner – Coroner’s Office.  And those were just the guys and gals that passed the smell test.  The walk in fridge had the equivalent to a small town’s population inside…whose inhabitants were dead, of course who could weather the eternal chilly winter in this county-run horizontal motel. 

The others, those who lost their cute figures in the heat of their apartments or from bobbing off some pier in Long Beach, their pink complexion, deodorant and mouthwash no longer relevant, would now resemble a bad nightmare, and were sequestered to vaults outside. 

Air Apparent

Each of my visits to the L.A. Department of Coroner was an amazing experience and to be sure it siphoned the air from my lungs each time I was given the executive tour from my pal John.  My vapor lock with the awe inspired jaw-drop of amazement behind a surgical mask upon the opening of the walk-in morgue cooler was a welcome unintended consequence because you never really want to take a breath in any morgue.  I felt so strongly that it was a rare event that I wanted to share it with my pals.  I even shared it with my then girlfriend Amy. 

Red Alert

I’m not sure “Red” (as I affectionately called her) was as excited, but she didn’t really know what was up my sleeve and she was a new cop, in awe of my awesomeness…no not really, But still, she had not figured out my evil intent and I wanted her to experience as much as I could share with her from my Jurassic police work point of view. 

I knew in my bones that Amy was going to be a big deal in the police world someday.  I competed with her time as she whittled away at her master’s program, worked full time and tried to better herself as she put up with my nonsense.  I was amazed at her tenacious struggle to get to the next step in her agency something that would serve her well in this business. She never gave up after being turned down time and again for advancement but still pulled herself up and moved on to the next arrest and eventually the next promotional test. 

Before I met Amy I never had an intimate clue about the feelings and frustrations associated with the struggle women endured in this business.  It was Amy’s gift to me -this at times loud and clear perspective and illumination.  

There are no substitutes for experience like this little field trip. This life emersion program would give “Aim” a little edge.   Any cop would benefit.  A few days ago I learned that she was just promoted to detective.  I am proud of that first step in what I hope is an amazing career.  I hope that maybe I taught her a trick or two.

Hot Date

Weird, now that I look back on it, I guess that trip to L.A. Coroner was a date.  Cool date eh?  (Pun intended.) 

I mean how many of you have been taken to a morgue and then a drink?  I like to be a little unconventional and push the envelope (or barfbag) a little.  I am betting the next guy won’t take her to the morgue on a date.  That, my friends, are the things she can one day tell her grandkids.  I roll like that.  It’s like instant immortality.   

Dying to see ya

On this particular occasion my detective team and I we were in L.A. chasing down a murderer who killed someone in my city and ran to L.A. and then out of the country.  We had spent a number of days with our pals from LAPD’s Robbery Homicide-Special Division housed at Parker Center.

The 1104 North Mission Road address is a very cool place for a couple of reasons.  If I recall correctly, it’s the oldest city building in L.A. and used to be a hospital.  It really looks like something from central casting.  The building, the back way in, the location near the freeway, all of it- a very cool experience and one I had seen so many times on TV.  From the stalking paparazzi voyeurs who want the million dollar shot of some celebrity, to the TV series North Mission Road.  (Awesome show.  Watch it.) 

While so much goes on at the L.A. Coroner’s Office that would equate to a horror movie, to include the very cold and supine cast – or should I say guests- some are often used up actors or recording artists, you know, composers that are now...decomposers.  (I have been dying to use that little gem for months!).

Much of the cool forensic work done at the L.A. Department of Coroner in a day is lost on us cops that work in smaller agencies.  It is pretty amazing and detectives outside of L.A., New York, Miami, The UK or SF would not come close to seeing and learning from those experiences in a year or maybe a career.  For me, I felt like I was privileged to have a pal like John who was generous and allowed me to interrupt his day and allowed my pals in for the visit. 

Skeletons in the Closet

I can’t impress on you the awe you feel when you walk in, past the gift shop…yes the gift shop and if you pay attention you can appreciate Lindsay Lohan’s aseptic hallway floors she so expertly mopped.  The gift shop funds youth awareness programs.  The shirts make great Christmas presents, but the body-chalked outline on black beach towels, are my fav. 

The receiving area in the back lot at L.A. Coroner reminded me so much of the receiving areas of hospitals I have been to so many times as a patient and as a cop. Minus the asystolic heart condition of every single recumbent customer of course.  It’s interesting as the staff seem to live a little larger to make up the dreaded difference.

Hospital gurneys with mysterious human-like forms, were pushed past us guests as the nicely gift wrapped lumps were escorted by uniformed and professional staff to rooms designed for forensic laboratory work.  They made their final journey past the intake coordinator and my team right into a room that if this was a hospital would be a trauma room.  This room was the fingerprint-scanning and video or digital imaging processing room. 

Dead Scan

The fingerprint device just inside the door is similar to what we have in police stations called “Live Scan.” Of course, in their world it’s “Dead Scan” kind of like an iPhone-finder for loved ones to be reunited with those who can no longer call home and ask for a ride.

Once they were checked in to the processing floor those souls would be carefully escorted down the wide clean hallway to the X-ray room.  Seriously, it’s a hospital for the dead.

Heeeeere's Johnny!

My pal John is the right guy for the tour.  He’s a good guy who has the smarts to go along with appropriate and a well-timed sense of humor.  His delivery can take the edge off just about any horrible thing.  His quick wit as you walk past the lump in a bag that fell from far too high up, or the gang member missing his head after playing catch with the other gang member’s shotgun is like Johnnie Carson disarming an awkward moment in the morgue.

The cool thing about John is that he can read his audience, unlike me, and before you know it you are past the headless horseman who ended up in the polyvinyl chloride visqueen tailored outfit, presented nicely, on the autopsy buffet table. 

Knock Knock...

The collateral and consequential tense build up of walking down the hallway toward the body cooler, for me, was like a scene from Quincy.  We all put on protective masks that incidentally do absolutely nothing to filter out the smell…in any way, and then John hit a button that released the wide stainless steel cooler door.  I was not looking at the door.  I was looking at the faces of my pals, some who now were looking a little green. 

It was like some Hollywood designer created this place.  When the door broke its seal from the wall, I’d swear I heard a hiss as it pushed forward and then gently across the floor- wide open, allowing access into this endless chamber.  The only thing that was missing from the script was the white fog rolling out and maybe a black cat.

The morgue is cold.  It has that acrid and sweet perfume of decay in the air.  Every body-fridge no matter where, at funeral homes or morgues have the same smell.  It’s an ever-present olfactory “gift” that accompanies the departed.  It’s like some warning device the almighty built into virtually every living thing to warn us pedestrians to- A) Call the cops.  Or- B) don’t ask them for a light.  Yuck.  I want to sniff bleach or gasoline just to get past this rotten smell.  What’s worse is that now it barely affects me. 

The smell of dead people is really an amazing marketing device to stay the hell away.  It is also nature’s way of sounding the chow bell for every bottle fly on the planet to come home for dinner. 

The room is not as brightly lit as the hallway so the creepy factor is elevated as you prepare to step in.  Each time I have been here I have been impressed with the rows of not-quite see through plastic wrapped people lying on cold metal tables.  Some in white sheets, but all tied off with rope at their head and feet.

Size Matters

If you are not paying attention, you won’t notice that not all of the plastic packages are the same size.  Some have more than one package on the same table.  I’ll leave that up to your imagination.  I know why.  Do you? 

To see the rows and rows and then stacks of plastic wrapped former taxpayers of this planet was like being in church, minus the guilt.  It was Quiet.  Just the hum of the air conditioner and fan.  The lights made a little buzz, again I suspect to enhance the spook factor. 

The brisk bite of the cool air in the walk-in morgue alerted each and every hair follicle on my arms and neck to get up and respect what was before them.  There are no chrome handled rollout tables here like you see on TV. 

The room has hydraulic lifts to help store and move people but mostly these folks are not long-time tenants.  Sadly as you walk from one side to the next you end up in the room that is reserved for the victim babies, a room that commands quiet, respect and sorrow.  A room I can’t navigate very well.

During the tour, I remember asking John what was with the plastic wrap.  I was used to body bags.  He explained that the cost of body bags for the volume of people that pass through the L.A. Coroner’s Office would cost as much as hiring a forensic pathologist for a year.  Pretty amazing when you think about it.

A little OJ goes a long way

Those who would end up here were coroner’s cases.  Not everyone ends up in this respectful place.  Those that died as a misfortune of some criminal act like homicide, or maybe some association with jealous former pro football player, perhaps a crazy wig-wearing music producer, by accident, suicide or even those who just died alone had a reservation at this little forensic buffet.

187

My pal, John showed us the overnight homicide haul.  The night we were there, I think there were 11 bodies from all over L.A. county.  That is more than most counties get in a year.  Some guests were famous, some not so famous.  In fact I think when we were there one guest was a former child star who met his demise at a young age. He was already career dead, now years later his decomposing employment history would meet his biological fate, in this weird parallel universe only to be popular for one last time on the pages of some shitty tabloid.

The Suite Life

This coroner’s office has a celebrity or dignitary room.  It’s a self-contained respectful area that is singular in everyway.  A locked and secured facility that has housed the likes of John Bellushi, Michael Jackson and others.  It is their best attempt to keep the buzzards with cameras away and to afford those their last deserved measure of dignity and privacy to those who often voluntarily gave it away in an attempt to stay relevant.

My team and I suspect Amy was moved by the experience and the generous forfeiture of time from my pal John.  Of course there is more, but this thing would never end if I went on….and on….and on.  Remember, I promised to whack these posts.  Not having much luck am I?

Stay safe.  Ralphy     

Frank P. Reed. Memorial Day, 2012

I have been dealing with the loss of my partner these last few weeks.  I can't explain this loss.  There is a special place for Public Safety professionals who partner up.  The relationship falls between family and friends.  In fact, those in our business entrust our lives on our partners something we don't ask of our families.  I dedicate this post to the memories of this fine man and his family. 

What do you say when your friend of 24 years dies.  My pal and partner a good and principled man who was all about family, country and right against wrong died on Memorial day.  Frank taught me so much and allowed me to show him a trick or two.  I am destroyed over this loss and from a little personal fallout that followed.  It is true that the best and worst in people come out of critical times in our lives.  For me it was a sense of personal abandonment at the worst possible time followed up with some circumstances that left me adrift in this sea of emotion only to have the typhoon of Frank’s loss looming in the horizon.  In short.  It sucked.  The best in people also came out.  A gift from Frank.  Thanks to my pals who called. 

My Foundations Made of Clay - Eric Clapton

It seems that every couple of years now I am loosing my personal infrastructure.  First my mom then my pal Jim and now Frank.  It makes me question all of this while my son, who is showing his father’s sensitive side has picked up on all of this, forcing me to have this talk with him a little sooner than I expected.  It has been kind of a strange journey about family, “friendship” and faith.  I put the F word in quotes, because it has so many subjective meanings and is delivered in so many ways.  I know what it means for me and I have been so fortunate to experience it.  But every once in a while one slips past the goalie.

A Little Prayer with a Little Boy

My boy Joe segued this experience, right after we said prayers the night after Frank left. In those perfectly timed and respectful in moments of silence, as we lay in his bed after reading his book of dinosaurs, both of us looking up at the ceiling, he began to talk. It was about my mom and the kind of person she was and ended with a promise from me that I would not die soon.  It hit me like a 2x4 piece of wood between the eyes, but it was not sad at all.  It was poignant.  Almost like Joe was threatening me, and encouraging me at the same time, with his warm little smile -framed by his fat pink lips that he required more time to do silly things together.  It was sobering and lured me away from the ledge of cynicism and sarcasm for a little exploration and perhaps the last trick Frank had up his sleeve for his flawed partner.

While I’m sure Frank was ready to go to his next assignment, I was selfishly not ready for any of this.  So, I sit here at my favorite coffee shop with a hot beautiful cup of wake-up potion and feel every emotion wash over me. I pity for myself the consequences of his timely rendition to heaven.  It’s hard for me to back out of my selfish emotions to allow this process to move in a respectful and honorable direction for his family.  This is not so much about Ralph losing a pal as it is about a family loosing a father and husband.  It is really about fabricating some type of comfort for those most important, the loved ones in his life. 

Do Ya Feel Lucky Punk....Well Do Ya?

For those of you who were not privileged to meet my partner, channel a little Harry Callahan from the movie Dirty Harry with the rough sensibilities and devotion of Al Pacino’s character in the movie Scent of a Woman- Frank Slade, all wrapped up in this wonderful package that could be reduced to the warmth of a Disney character by just mentioning his daughter or wife.

This guy meant so much to me and taught me to be a better husband, (When I was one – each time…) a good father and how to respect life for what it was.  Frank was the espresso of friends for me.  Concentrated, amazing, smoldering with passion for his family, country and for doing what was right, not with what was right for this temporary instant.

Espresso Youself.

Frank’s approach to life and law enforcement was not for everyone; indeed some didn’t like his delivery – often bold and exact, kind of like my beloved espresso.  But he was right and did not waste time with bullshitting others.  He was born from another generation of police officer that resolved problems in a time where some litigants developed the age of the loophole into an art.  His style was steeped in tradition, passion for the rule of law in its rough form mined from a desolate and jagged landscape of evolving social perspectives.

I have so many memories.  I remember Frank when he came to visit his wife when she worked with me.  Always handsome, hair combed back perfectly and he was usually in his sport coat.  They would go on to marry and have a beautiful baby girl.  I was not that well acquainted with Frank at that time, but he would bounce back into my life a couple of times finally arriving in what used to be my office, now our office at the Task Force.

Meet Your New Partner

While I had been in the unit longer then Frank, there was no question who the alpha dog was in our office.  My boss Walt had no idea he had just gifted me this great guy and what would go on to be a lifetime of laughs, memories and solid investigative police work.  Ask anyone.  The members of this unit back then were the princes of the county.  We always remained in the shadows as to not get burned up, slipping virtually unnoticed in backdoors of police stations in the middle of the night and we respected our orders, our unit and made this job actually part of our lives. 

Hair We Go

My first trick was to convince Frankie to grow his hair.  It was complete bullshit because you did not need to do that to buy blow or work undercover, I mean this was Marin.  You could wear a business suit and buy a kilo of cocaine.  It was not about that; I wanted to see him with a ponytail.  I got my way after not much convincing.  Frank was a closet rock star and devotee of the Rolling Stones so I suspect that while it was against every fiber in his being, it was part of the role and a challenge I delivered to him that he was not going to push back from.

Frank was always thinking.  You could see the gears clunking as he ate.  We used to argue all the time about his eating habits.  Frank, a military veteran would pace back and forth in the office as he ate.  Drove me crazy.  But he did his best thinking that way and told me it was born from eating quickly in the armed forces.

The Big Book and the Hockey Team

Frank was a tough guy in every sense.  You did not want to make Frank’s shit list.  He called it the “Hockey Team.”  Many on both sides of this business did.  Frank did not have time for some of the lengthy procedural B.S. that came naturally with an adversarial criminal justice system, but he respected it. 

Any time, anywhere and for any crime, big or little, no matter what, it got Frank’s complete attention.  Piss him off and you made “The Big Book” his mental shit list, the purgatory or precursor to the “Hockey Team”.

Knock-Knock...

I remember how Frank and I used to get goofed on by our partners about some of our gram or ounce marijuana shipping cases.  We devised this silly H&S Holding Company scam for slow days and it freaking worked!  On one occasion Frank and I did a return delivery of a small box of drugs to a dope in Southern Marin who’s license plate was captured by a camera at the delivery company.  I can recall it like it was yesterday.   Frank and I made a personal return to sender delivery to the crook. 

The person at the door was not so sure we were the cops and was not super interested in inviting us into his place.  No matter, I just spoke a little louder because it seemed he did not understand us.  His neighbors got the message that we were the police. 

With my increased volume came a pleasant invitation into this man’s home and the privacy that this matter deserved.  Amazing how that works.

This guy admitted the package had marijuana in it.  So Frank and I had a theory, where there was a little, there was more.  Frank and I suggested that there would be some personal salvation in surrendering the balance of the drugs to us.  And he did.

Look Before You Leap

I remember this guy brought us back to his bedroom where there was a large locker.  The crook went through this personal transformation thing where he was working himself up to open the locker.  It was like Jimmy Hoffa was in there or something.  At the last moment when I had my head up my ass and was not paying attention to the body language, this guy took a big breath like it was some pivotal moment and opened the locker all at once.  He used both of his hands to activate this lock and you could hear the metal “clunk” open as he unlocked this safe-like container.  At the last second, Frank pushed me aside, dumped the crook to the ground and gunned him because he thought this guy was going to go for a gun. 

What I saw that day was Frank’s experience that based upon what he saw it told him big trouble was headed my way and he was not going to let that happen on his watch.  It wasn’t a gun in the locker; it was 50lbs. of beautiful marijuana bud.  So, our little gram developed into this huge haul for us.  All from the knock on the door.  We dusted off our new friend and passed out an apology for the gun thing and moved past this.  Of course he moved passed us into the loving arms of a uniformed cop and into a patrol car.

Frank’s concerns were not too far fetched because that exact thing happened to me a couple of months before, when I worked a case with my pal Rick, who was in my P.D.’s Street Crimes Unit.  On that lovely occasion Rick and I had to fight a guy over a gun he had in a safe.  Rick and I still talk about it from time to time and marvel at how we A) Survived and B) bounced from that crook’s bedroom and ended up in the toilet both of us fighting that particular breed of asshole.  That suspect fled the country and is still wanted.  With any luck his is roasting over a nice fire in the infernal region.

Fastball to the Head

I could go on all day about Frank.  God has been delivering memories to me these last few weeks nightly.  I have lost a little sleep, but it has been worth it.  I found myself laughing out loud in the dark.  I feel like I have been in the almighty batting cage without a bat, while God threw memories at me like fastballs tenderizing me trying to knock some emotional sense into me.

From Russia with Love

One of my favorite memories that came to me at night was the time Frank and I drove an informant around SF to show us some drug houses.  I remember being in the back seat while this total schifoso, seated next to Frank, tried his best to explain his disdain for the United States.  I could see the atmosphere around Frank’s head shimmer like the heat rising from the roadway on a hot day.  Frank said nothing.  The informant then decided to prove his disgust for America by pulling down his shirtsleeve and exposed a tattoo of the Soviet hammer and sickle. 

I swear you could see the bead of sweat formerly occupying the crease in Frank’s furrowed forehead sizzle away into steam as it ascended from his scalp.  Again, Frank said nothing.  But it was not what Frank didn’t say that was memorable…it was what happened next. 

Frankie wanted to assist this guy the best way he knew how.  Without a word, Frank drove us directly to the then Russian Embassy on Green Street in San Francisco and abruptly stopped at the front gate.  Frank then leaned over, held up his index finger about ½” from this asshole’s face as he clearly and without ambiguity suggested our passenger perform an impossible sexual act upon himself and surrender his passport and exit the car.  Frank also explained sharply the benefits of tattoo removal. 

The ride back to the office was quiet.

As my memories part my highway of sorrow like a fast car passing slower traffic, I value the best gift of all. Frank gave me the gift of sharing his family and friends with me.   He and his wife fed me as I took the exit of divorce while proceeding down the highway of in-between marriages.  Frank was in my wedding(s).  His spirit lives on in many of us and is ingrained in my mannerisms, vocabulary, and life-skills and in the way I do police work.  I have passed much of it to my trainees over the years.  It is my unwitting homage to him.  I am a better man for my association with Frank and so many of his friends whom he graciously introduced to me, a fine and honorable fraternity.

My Last Gift

Frank gifted me one last painful gem of human introspection and clarity born from his death.  The lesson that not everyone and everything are as they seem.  Those you blindly trust with the delicate, compartmentalized labyrinth and sacred components of what can only be called your soul are not necessarily worthy of such access – and not necessarily by design.  Frank’s departure invited me to experience personal loss.  I learned from this at 47 years old, that there was only few like Frank you could depend on with your life. 

As I change the personal access to my life from gullible “all access” to invitation only – I take away a powerful lesson.  It’s my curse, but the pain only validated that I needed to mature my sense of personal dignity.  I guess when you stop, the game is over. 

Funeral For A Friend.

I wore my dress blues, my Class A uniform to Frank’s funeral.  It was my last offer of respect to this Detective.  A uniform reserved for formal events and dignitaries.  I know Frank would have been honored if I had said nothing and were just there in my Class A’s.

Frankie, I don’t have to say goodbye anymore on the phone, or leave you.  In many ways we are closer as I can simply recall you in my memories and carry you in my heart. 

You honored and loving partner.  Ralph

Wiener Takes All

It used to be that having sex in a public toilet was against the law.  Apparently it isn’t anymore.  The unbridled lascivious but technically private act, practiced in the naughty cubicle of human conveyance- now converted to erotic encounter chamber, disguised as a public toilet - has evolved.  The act of lustful compulsion once reserved for dark nightclubs and dark alley’s got a little carried away in the 80’s, and so did the suspects, usually in handcuffs. But that appears to have all changed. 

Hyenas

You see a nice collection of hyenas, nicely disguised in collared shirts and politely wrapped in a suit, all graduates of the bar (who incidentally some have so much in common with the intended product of the bathroom stall) have complained on behalf of their clients and created an argument that convinced someone, probably not a mother or father of little kid, that sex in a bathroom stall should be acceptable because it’s a private place and should be protected.  I think the argument is: what happens in the bio-terror cubicle of passion, once reserved for dropping the kids off at the pool, is protected.  Fair enough, I don’t make the laws.  And to be clear, there is a special breed of hyena I am talking about.  Lots of my friends took the bar and are great people and protectors of the constitution.  But not these guys.  Sorry.  

What can I say? I don’t really care and I would bet my pals in vice squads around the planet can breath a little easier, but it seems that the same toilet my son uses privately in public should be free from a sex ed. session.  Call me crazy.  It seems that my benchmark is now what I want for my kid and your boy (or girl) to see and hear balanced out by a healthy dose of what is reasonably “safe.”  Maybe I would feel different if all of this stuff took place at an adult only place, but the same store kids shop at should be off limits.

Street Crimes

Years ago I was in the Street Crimes Unit, it was then and still is today an awesome team of officers who handle the pain in the ass of the month problem in our city.  It was a cool gig.  We worked out of a warehouse in a bad part of town.  Back then it was my good friends, Ray, Hutch and Mike.  We were designed to go after gang members and street drug dealers, but moonlighted in the world of vice and prostitution.  It rocked – with the exception of one dirty little job that had to get done. 

One day my boss Mike decided that the rookie of the team, –me - needed the unenviable experience of truly working vice.  Vice cops, you have not made your bones (no pun intended) until you pull (again, no pun intended) the filthy and naughty undercover anonymous toilet wiener introduction service.  Of course this was before the courts new ruling.  

Mike’s idea was born from a number of complaints from a local shopping mall, and one store in particular had become the local e-Toilet dating service.  They were way ahead of their time.  The dingy walls were like analog bulleting boards with dates, times and of course caveman-like caricatures, of what service or “special” of the day was right there in front of you for your entertainment.  It was kind of like a perverted “daily special” insert for your menu at the local bistro.  They were always scrawled on the wall…the same one with the hole drilled in it for the unsolicited impromptu perverted peep show.  

Welcome to Hell.

I was a pretty good soldier and never really pushed back on assignments.  So I “volunteered” (I guess) for the job. Within 48 hours I was sequestered (Or sentenced your pick) to a bathroom stall for a few days in a row.  I might have just been consigned to hell because it felt like it.  Minus the heat of course, and with snappy green-blue tile.

Le Petite Mort

I was wired up and sat on a phone book in the toilet stall of the public men’s room.  My job was to do nothing but catch these schifoso’s who would hopefully solicit me for sex in the shitter.  Call me crazy, but at least for me, the most intimate of acts- (and I am not biased or shy to what your preference is)- and the surrender of inhibition, passion and maybe the closest some would get to heaven should not necessarily be explored or invoked at the final resting place of last nights burrito.  Maybe I’m too judgmental.  I don’t know.

BrASS Band

My time in the crapper with my personal can of Lysol helped me develop a keen sense of hearing.  I mean there was nothing to look at so you couldn’t help but be an auditory voyeur.  I could hear people of various ethnic backgrounds and walks of life as they used this venue in a variety of ways.  Some used it as it was intended, some fixing their hair, others giving advice, Dads directing their kids to the soap, guys B.S-ing about their dates, all to the melody of the sigmoid-colonic brass band. 

Some would wash their hands first and some would exit the confessional and never wash their hands.  (Think of that next time you eat the pretzels at the bar.)  After my occasion in the toilet, I could actually associate shoes to those who would wad up the toilet paper, versus those who would fold the squares.  Talk about bad karma, I hate feet so-shoes, I guess, were my consolation prize for this assignment.  The folders (Loafers, monskstrap and wingtips) would create a recycled paper barrier with inches and layers of papyrus, like it was this bleached white nuclear resistant blast barrier material, designed to foil the betrayal imposed upon the user because of this obsession with fucking-recycled toilet paper.  I hate recycled toilet paper. 

Paper Mirage

The guy that developed recycled toilet paper is laughing his ass off.  He and the asshole that uses the crescent wrench of misery to tighten up the roller which prohibits the free and kinetic spin-action of the toilet paper roll, sentencing the user to thumb-sized pieces of recycled toilet paper, should be burned at the stake.  They are like the misery duo of Batman and Robin of the restroom.  You know exactly what I am talking about, but maybe you don’t think about it like I do and hopefully don’t say it out loud. 

Pickle Park

Picture this: There you are, finished doing what you had to do, in a place you never wanted to be in, a truck stop, or God forbid, maybe a highway rest area or as I like to refer to them as the Feculent Club Med of Depravity.  Beyond the dirty and graffitied doors of privacy, the ones that don’t lock and always seem to stick open about 4,” suitable for unwanted viewing and adorned with wet floors of an unknown provenance, you are serenaded by the steady rhythmic dripping sound of the broken faucet, trickling a drop of water every second, as you are overcome by the aromatic bouquet of the local sewage treatment plant.  It’s a sensory spectacular. 

Having completed your task, you look down to find a handful of thumb sized recycled confetti in your palm.  As you prepare to execute your final act imposed by the two Lucifer’s of terminal digestion, they team up to give you recycled fucking-single ply toilet paper and it looks like it came from the shredded paper bin.  Of course, it was proudly offered on a full roll, a two-ply oasis, but in reality it was a single-ply roll that won’t spin because it has been tightened by the fairly godfather of misery. 

Recycled Misery

How many times can you recall that moment as you snap-off the one thumb sized parcel of single ply recycled toilet paper, snap! One after another until you have scores of them in your hand.  Now the fun, right?  You summon the god of geometry as you try to cover the surface area of your hand and pray that this penance will be over soon. You sit there smoldering in anger, as the single bulb above your head is flickering threatening to enhance this experience in the dark.  Seriously this is like a bad movie.  You look ahead and can see and hear the buzz of a fly that is now making concentric circles at eye-level in front of you.  Listen close, he’s laughing.  He too is part of this plot.  Evil bastards!

But I digress.  I prayed to the saint of toilet readiness for a quick deliverance from this duty (Again, pun not intended) to the beloved arms of an armed gang member.  I was done with this before it even started.  Cazzo!

I remember singing show tunes over the wire and cursing Mike as I waited to be hit on.  It would not take long, great for my ego, but the wrong type of attention!  I will spare you the auditory hallucination from the symphony of physiological tuba players as I remember waiting for the Senator from Idaho to foot tap his way into my life.  Apparently the foot tapping, but more importantly, the freaking shadow-hand puppets cast from the light above -upon the tiled silver screen of amorous introduction was my ticket to an anonymous introduction.  Yikes! 

Sign Language

My “dates” would get my attention time and again by making an obscene sign on the floor for me to see and approve.  I guess I was supposed to send back an “OK” shadow sign on the floor.  Of course I couldn’t respond because one hand is covering my mouth so I don’t barf, and the other has my pistol attached to it.  I am not bilingual like that so I just sat there.  I remember only hearing my heart beat and my respirations.  Jesus Christ, I thought I couldn’t ever tell my mom or another soul.  I felt that I was sure to go to heaven for having to do this, or maybe this was purgatory.   Of course I did tell my mom.  At Christmas dinner.   

I did not want to entrap these schifoso’s so I did nothing.  That my friends should make you very afraid as I sat there doing nothing and then, without approval or warning some guy’s wiener appears under my stall.  I thought for a second, wow, this guy must have been a yoga instructor or something.  Then I paled as I thought, this guy had to have touched the floor with his body to pull off that stunt.  The salivary waterslide associated with barfing my brains out turned on full blast in my mouth.  For a second I thought I had rabies. 

So lets say I was a 12-year-old kid who was off-loading mom’s meatloaf minding my own business and “poof” next thing you know I am having a date.  It’s why my boy will never use the toilet alone.  Nor should yours.  But remember, now it’s a protected event because it is in private.  I hope St. Peter or whomever allows the attorney(s) that dreamed this up, into heaven so they could get an eternal ass kicking.

I was so freaked out that I remember pulling out my Beretta 92F pistol in one hand and my star in the other as this jerk tried to pull his body into my stall for a date.  As I waited frozen in place, the wiener again! Then he tried to slide out under his stall and into mine!  I remember my brain engaged my mouth into action and I shouted POLICE!  That was not the prearranged bust signal, but I was so shocked that it was the only thing that came to mind.  I admit it, I was not composed.  This guy popped his head, the one attached to his neck, under to look up at me only to receive the warm reception from the barrel of my pistol pointed at his face along with my star.  His next words were No!  No!  Mine were Fuck You!  You’re under arrest!  I felt like I had a hundred snakes crawling all over me as I exited my unsanitary death chamber and faced his.  Of course I would not have shot him…but it stopped him from an intimate invasion of my space.

My buddy Blair was my uniformed back up and he rolled through the bathroom door like a bull in a china shop.  Blair is my Luca Brasi. Blair or as I like to call him “Bull” and I tried to convince stupid it was time to come out and get arrested.   When he refused to exit, Bull used his Frankenstein sized boots attached to his battering ram legs to kick-in the stall door…wide open…so we could extract this guy and take him into custody.  Wham! (George Michael pun accidently intended) The door caved in.  It was like bad public theater.

I remember we had to struggle with this guy who was trying to get away and we needed to get his attention.  Blair and I could not get him cuffed and he was twisting from us trying to pull from our grip.  No matter what the cost – even escape we were not going to the ground with this guy.  The kinetic velocity of grout and bathroom tile applied briskly and liberally to the body of most suspect’s works well.  Blair and I introduced him to the wall so we could get his attention and handcuff him.  It worked pretty well.  Funny, after years of working with my pal we got to this point where we didn’t need to say a word to each other.  We just knew this was the next trick up our sleeve and did it.  

Funny Ha Ha

Go ahead and laugh girls.  This guy was engaged to be married.  Ya, in my service for the city I found that many of my toilet encounters were married men or guys who needed a little extra-curricular activity.  I’ll never forget this guy as we walked him to the security office.  This guy says to us with pals and future officers Justin and Jamie in tow: “You guys understand, my girlfriend is having her period…you understand don’t you?”  I looked at Blair and at the back of this guy’s head as we quickly walked him to the office, “No, No, I don’t.”