I’ve never done meth but the look on this guy’s face is exactly what I would expect once he realized what he had tweaked himself into.
According to the Smoking Gun referenced below, Mr. Kelly, Doug to his friends, called the Putnam County Sheriff’s Office, Florida (of course) because he thought his methamphetamine dealer, lets call him Kevin, sold him some bad shit. He called the cops after having a bad reaction to his score and wanted his stash tested to make sure it wasn’t something dangerous…that’s something more dangerous than methamphetamines… Kelly is forty-nine years old. At his age, a strong cup of coffee could make his heart explode…
I doubt this is in any way how the real story went down but if it were me; this is how I would want to tell it once we started sharing war stories at the bar.
Detectives Penhall and Hanson (Names changed to protect the innocent) were in the office cleaning up some reports when the phone rang. Penhall picked it up,
“Narcotics, Penhall?” the call was from dispatch. Penhall listened for almost thirty seconds before laughing, “Oh absolutely put him through,” He picked up a paper clip and threw it at Hanson.
Hanson looked up about to say, “What the fuck?” but Penhall had his index finger to his lips.
Penhall put the desk phone on speaker, “This is Detective Doug Penhall, how can I help you?”
The caller’s breath was clipped and heavy in the phone, “Uhh, yeah, uhh, can you guys help me? I’m not feelin too good, I think my guy screwed me,”
“What do you mean Sir?”
“I bought some crank from him last week, I think he gave me some bad shit, Flacca maybe. My freakin heart is beating like crazy,”
Penhall bounces his eyebrows toward Hanson who immediately threw crossed forearms over his chest. Penhall’s eyebrows scrunched as he put the guy on mute, “What?”
Hanson jabbed his finger at the phone, “Twenty bucks says you can’t talk that guy into bringing his shit to us,” he slid back in his chair to relish in the challenge.
“Fifty says I can,” Penhall shot back, grinning. He took the phone off mute, “That’s not good Sir, that Flacca is nothing to mess with. How much have you done?”
“Umm, only one quick hit. I knew it was off, now I can’t freaking keep my hands from shaking,”
“How much you got left?”
“It’s a good thing you called; we’ve been having trouble with some bad reactions lately. You should really get that stuff checked out. I got a test right here. I don’t mind doing it, better safe than sorry,”
The caller sighed, “That’d be real cool of you man,”
“Yeah, I’m right downtown, you know how to get here?”
“I do,” the caller sounded excited to answer the question correctly.
“Great, what’s your name so I can come down and meet you,”
The caller paused, “Uh, well, I don’t know if I should give you my name,”
“Cause I’m talking about drugs with you…um,”
Hanson was grinning, flapping his hands together like he was making it rain.
Penhall shot him the finger.
“Oh that,” he said, “Don’t worry about that I don’t need your name, just ask for me when you get here,”
Another pause, “Uh-okay,”
“Ok, you good to drive?”
“My mom said she’d drive me,” Penhall had to gulp air to keep from losing it, “That’s a great lady right there, Sir,”
“Ok, you on your way,”
“Be there in a little while,”
When the line went dead Penhall stood and took a bow before holding out his waiting hand palm up.
“He’s not here yet,” warned Hanson.
“Money in the bank,” said Penhall.
“You really think some dipshit, even that one, or his mom is going to deliver us a couple of ounces of meth?”
Penhall interlocked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair, “I do, he will,” he said confidently.
“Better be good for it,”
They had paperwork to finish but all the expectant, and or suspicious, cops did for the next twenty-five minutes was watch the cheap clock hanging over the door to the squad bay. When the phone rang Hanson leaped at it, but Penhall was faster, “Just not your day bro,” he quipped, “this is Penhall,” he listened, “Yeah Sarge, I’ll be right down,” Penhall hung up the phone then spun gracefully in his chair to face his partner, “You need to stop at the ATM on the way down?” he asked.
Hanson was smiling now too, “Let’s see what we got,”
In the lobby of the Sheriff’s Office Penhall and Hanson found a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and shifty feet looking around like a prairie dog popping out of his hole to check for hawks.
“He’s gonna bolt,” said Hanson.
“He still brought it,”
“Deals not done until it’s in your hands,”
“Deals done,” Penhall smiled broadly, “Sir, you the one that needed our help?” he asked.
“You Penhall,” the guy’s pupils were big as saucers and his eyes darted back and forth between the two detectives like he was watching the fastest ping pong game in history.
“I am, lets go back and see if we can’t figure out what you’ve got,”
Penhall started leading the man back to the office.
“Where’s mom?” asked Hanson drawing a low growl from his partner.
The guy looked at him suspiciously.
Too late for second thoughts now, numnuts, Hanson kept that comment to himself.
“Waiting in the car,” he finally said.
“Smart, I’m Tom,” Hanson stuck out his hand.
Eyes darted again, “Doug,”
The two shook hands and left the lobby for the Narcotics Unit office space. Once inside Penhall motioned for Doug to take a seat. Hanson went to his go-bag and pulled out a box of methamphetamine field kits. Doug watched them closely as he withdrew a crumpled-up wad of tin foil from his pants. He handed it to Penhall and Hanson realized he was fifty bucks poorer, but also extremely entertained. Penhall stared at his partner as he placed the foil on the desk in front of him,
“Detective Hanson will do the honors,” Penhall held an odd, Joker-esque, sneer as he spoke.
Hanson opened the foil to reveal a clear plastic bag with a little less than a cup of white powder. He took a tiny sample and dropped it in the plastic test pouch. One by one he broke three glass ampules releasing chemicals to mix with the dope. The contents of the pouch turned blue as the liquid reacted with the Amines present in the meth.
Penhall couldn’t resist, “It’s a boy,” he cheered.
“Its not Flacca?” asked Doug.
“No, it’s a felony,”
Doug blinked, “A what?” he asked, a tone of sobriety calming his features,”
Hanson pulled his cuffs from his back pocket, and held them out to Doug, “It’s a felony Doug, better call your mom, turns out you’re not going to need a ride home,”
“Fffuuu…” he stuttered.
“Yep,” answered Penhall, smiling as Hanson slid a fifty across his waiting palm.