For more than 20 years, my husband was a police physician in our home town of Fort Lee, New Jersey. Day in and day out, law enforcement officers would come in for treatment of illnesses and injuries sustained on the job. During their appointments, they would regale us with tales of their adventures, some of which were hair-raising stories of lives threatened and, most often, saved. Others were humorous bits of interactions between themselves and our local citizens. Even though decades have passed, those police officers and their adventures have stayed fresh in my mind and always… always… bring a chuckle when I think about them.
Picture the lollipop-licking television detective Kojak (1973), played by actor Telly Savalas. That was Butchie. He was a no nonsense cop, who wore his badge with great pride and did not suffer fools easily.
One day, Butchie was patrolling the highway that bordered the northern edge of town. His routine had him hiding behind a billboard on the west side of the road, where he could see cars entering off a ramp. Butchie was just far enough away to allow drivers to pick up speed, and most picked it up about 20 miles over the limit.
As a big red Cadillac flew past him, Butchie hit the siren and the gas pedal simultaneously. Within minutes, he had a distraught woman pulled over and was lecturing her about the dangers of speeding.
"You don't understand, Officer. I have to get home immediately."
"What's the emergency?" Butchie asked the bleached blond floozy in the tight fitting lime green pantsuit.
"Well, you see," she hesitantly began to explain. "I just got my… um… er… period, and if I don't change my tampon soon, I'll bleed through my clothes and stain this white leather seat. My husband will kill me."
Butchie listened politely, his face void of expression. When the driver finished speaking, he raised his hand as if to say "Wait right here" and walked back to his patrol car. When he returned, he was carrying a newspaper. Passing it through the window to the woman, he said, "Sit on this while I write your ticket. License and registration, please."
Another oft repeated story involved my father-in-law, a homicide detective in one of the toughest cities in the country… Hoboken, New Jersey. His adversary was a potential jumper. Standing on the ledge outside a 10th floor window, the man had been threatening to end his life for more than three hours. Many police officers had attempted to talk him down, but he was adamant that he wanted to commit suicide.
Night was closing in and time was running out as were ideas. Dad had been monitoring events from a command center set up inside the lobby of the building. He was tired, hungry and a little hoarse from trying to convince this guy not to swan dive onto the concrete sidewalk below.
Sending all the other officers away, my father-in-law made a decision to end the standoff - one way or another. Climbing out on the ledge, he pulled his gun and aimed it at the guy, who suddenly realized death did not seem so appealing.
"What the f*** are you doing?" he screamed.
"I am helping you decide what you want to do,” Dad said. “If, by the count of three, you have not either jumped or climbed back through the window, I am going to shoot you."
"You're f***ing crazy. You'll be arrested for murder."
"I am hungry and tired but not crazy. I will tell my superiors that I climbed out here on the ledge and tried to convince you to come inside. You grabbed my gun and it went off. Who are they going to believe? You, the psycho, or me, the decorated cop? Now... one, two..."
"Get the hell out of my way. I'm climbing back in."
Perhaps, not exactly text book police procedure, but a life was saved and everybody was home in time for dinner.
I am hesitant to tell this last story because it is somewhat gross. If you have a squeamish stomach and are partial to beef, I suggest you not read it.
Marge Harris had been the matron at the local precinct for nearly 20 years. In that time, she thought she had seen every possible variation on crime. Each week, crooks and criminals came up with new ideas for "getting away with it." On this particular Thursday, even Marge learned a new lesson.
The Shop Rite that was the primary supermarket in town had its fair share of thefts. Someone was always trying to walk out with a beer or bottle of wine, maybe candy or cookies. Occasionally, a package of pork chops or chop meat was shoved into a coat pocket and hurried home for dinner. In business, shoplifters are a constant drain on the bottom line.
Tony Smith, the Shop Rite manager, often said that watching the surveillance cameras was an education. After this day, his appetite for catching crooks was never the same. A very large woman wearing oversized clothing was seen pushing a basket through the store. As she made her way up and down the aisles, items appeared in her cart but even more items were stashed in her coat. By the time she got to the checkout, she was being followed by in-store security. A call had gone out to the police department and officers were on the way.
As good as surveillance cameras are in preventing crime, they cannot possibly see every nook and cranny in a large supermarket. Shelves and end aisle displays block a good portion of the viewing area, and a smart crook knows just where to stand to avoid detection.
The woman was allowed to pay for the groceries in the basket, but when she left the store, she was arrested. Handcuffed, she was brought to the station and placed in Marge's competent hands for processing and a strip search.
As was the procedure, the woman was told to remove her clothing, “… bend over and spread 'em.” Donning her latex gloves, Marge began a body cavity examination. When she reached between the woman's legs, she felt the edge of one of the plastic courtesy bags supermarkets supply for fruits and vegetables. Giving it a tug, she met with resistance.
Fearing that she would do physical damage to the woman if she pulled too hard, she ordered her to squat and remove the item herself. As though in the throes of labor, the woman pulled out an eight pound roast beef.
Now, I like a good steak once in a while, but I swear, after hearing this story, I ate chicken for a long time.
Donna Carbone is the Executive Director/Playwright in Residence at the Palm Beach Institute for the Entertainment Arts. Please visit PBIEA at: pbinstituteforentertainmentarts.com