Naked on a Golf Cart

A naked woman drove a golf cart into the middle of a standoff between police and an armed teenager. The teenager was apparently holding himself hostage on the roof of his home around midnight on September 6th (Happy Labor Day!) when Jessica Smith, 28, refused orders to leave the area and found her bare ass being booked for Obstruction.

On its face, this is one of those police stories where someone outside the job would listen and have no idea how to process what they heard. For me, this is one of those insane moments in policing that reinforces why patrol is the best job in the world.

Here’s how I want this to have gone.

Officer Maxwell and Sergeant Collins leaned on the fender of Maxwell’s cruiser looking up at the young man in boxer briefs pacing back and forth across an architectural shingled roof. He had a butter knife in one hand and a smartphone in the other. As he passed the two cops he stared at them, his eyes full of tears.

“You don’t back off I’ll jump!” he declared as forcefully as his screechy voice would allow.

“Guess he figured out the butter knife was a poor choice.” Commented Maxwell.

“It would speed things along too.” Added Collins.

The comments drew a furious eye from Sandra Harmon, mother of the Kyler Harmon, the teenager walking around the roof. Sandra stood in her backyard wrapped in a plush bathrobe and slippers. Next to her, Jim Harmon, Kyler’s father was in a matching robe and slippers. Jim looked pissed off.

“Kyler baby please!” Sandra shouted.

“Moron,” Jim said under his breath. That drew daggers from Sandra as well.

The two cops studied the dynamic between Kylers folks for a moment before Collins said, “Bean bag,”

Maxwell straightened, his eyes flashing with hope, “He’s not that high up there,”

“We can’t…yet.” Replied Collins. He checked the other two patrol cars forming a perimeter around the back of the house. The house sat on a fairway in the middle of a golf community. The roof-mounted floodlights affixed to the cruisers lit up the entire back yard, drawing onlookers from up and down the cart path bordering the fairway. He and Maxwell went to confer with the parents,

“So this is all over a girl?” asked Collins.

“Kaitlin Andrews unfollowed him on the social media earlier tonight. Then she wouldn’t return our calls, that little bitch,” Sandra spat.

“Did you say our calls?” asked Maxwell.

Collins suppressed a chuckle. He took another look at Kyler and immediately noticed the butter knife in his hand catch the light from the cruisers. Kyler’s full attention was on his phone.

“Whoa, stop right there!”

Collins saw the boy’s head snap up and turned to see a golf cart approaching from the cart path. Officer Carson, who was holding back the gathering group of onlookers, walked out into the path of the cart. His hand was up and he flashed his light at the driver. Collins blinked when he saw her.

No way.

The next pass of Carson’s light steadied on the woman, the absolutely naked woman.

“Seriously,” Carson called. He strobed his light in her direction to get her attention but was only successful in getting her to turn off the path and head straight toward the Harmon’s home. Collins noticed Kyler watching in awe from his perch. Collins had to sidestep as she came in at barely a crawl, a dying battery struggled to keep the thing moving. She had a vacant look in her eyes, hammered or high, Collins couldn’t tell which. Carson trailed her, his hands jutting out from his sides, exasperated.

“You fucking kidding me?” Maxwell hopped aboard as she passed and ripped the key out of the ignition. Collins put an eye on Kyler to make sure he wasn’t sliding any further down the spectrum of stupid than the level he’d already achieved tonight. The kid stood stock still watching the goings-on below. Now would be the perfect time for the bean bag, Collins thought.

“’ss there a prob’em officer?” the woman asked from behind the wheel of the golf cart. Her words slurred, her eyes mere slits.

“I could ask you the same thing,” answered Maxwell. He gently pulled her from the cart by the wrist. Unsure if she would be able to stand on her own. He looked at Collins.

“cover her up, book her for Obstruction,” Collins had seen a lot over the years, and this wasn’t his first drunk, naked suspect. But the absurdity of seeing a naked woman bust into his scene riding a golf cart was a new one on him. He surveyed the scene again to see if there was anything else, maybe bigfoot was going to make an appearance too. He accounted for everyone, Kyler, his cops, the new drunk chick, mom…

“Where’s the dad?” he asked.

Sandra started as if she were entranced by what was going on around her. She pivoted in her fluffy slippers like she was looking for her reading glasses.

“Dad! Don’t” Kyler screamed.

“There he is,” said Carson.

Collins and the others watched Kyler jumping and stumbling under an onslaught of cold water lancing at him from the garden hose in Jim Harmon’s fist.

“Get off the Goddamned roof, Kyler!” Jim bellowed.

“Why didn’t we think about that earlier?” Maxwell asked. Collins couldn’t help but notice the drunk in custody was leaning her sleepy head against Maxwell’s shoulder as he watched their disturbed subject call devolve before their eyes. Above them, Kyler was shivering as his father chased him back and forth from the ground soaking him.

“Okay! Okay! Stop!” the boy said, tossing the butter knife and his now waterlogged phone to the ground. He watched as Jim Harmon raised a ladder for his son to climb down and sighed. There was no amount of paperwork that was going to explain what just happened.

Probably didn’t go down that way but however the incident went, that story will be repeated at the bar for years to come.

References:

Naked Woman, 28, Drove Golf Cart Through Scene Of Armed Standoff, Cops Say | The Smoking Gun

Don’t forget to check out my newest releases in the Jackson Cole Series.

Jackson Cole is a newly minted homicide detective thrown head first into the grinder when he is ordered to investigate the grisly murder of three women.

The victims are marked with odd, occult symbols and the press is stirring up a killer cult frenzy in the media. The mayor, the Chief of Police, and Cole’s Captain want results to calm an increasingly fearful public; and Cole’s supposed partner is nowhere to be found. Cole has zero leads, he’s floundering under the scrutiny of his entire command staff until a stranger shows up spouting a wild theory: blood magic.

Floundering or not Cole won’t even consider it. There is no such thing as magic, no such thing as voodoo; and there are no demons roaming the Charleston Peninsula. There’s always a rational explanation for the evil humans commit upon one another. Then a demon tries to take Cole’s head off.

How do you stop a supernatural evil, something ancient and unencumbered by the laws of either physics or man? Especially when all you bring to the fight is a pistol and a pair of handcuffs. If Jackson Cole wants this case to close, he will have to take on a world of the impossible. Then he’ll have to survive it.

Detective Miles Otis pointed, “That’s an arm…”

Detective Jackson Cole sighed, “Yeah.”

Otis studied the random severed limb for moment, “You ever miss the good old days, dope and drive bys…?”

You catch one strange case and suddenly they call you the Freak Police behind your back. If the case is even remotely weird Cole and Otis get the call. Now they find themselves in a vacant lot staring at a forearm.

Fingerprints give them a name. Hardnosed police work generates a suspect. She’s a witch, so was the guy who’s forearm sits in a cooler at the coroner’s office. The witch says a hellhound killed her friend. And its hunting the homeless of Charleston.

Witches, magic, and a…hellhound?

Any other two detectives would laugh at a story like that. But Cole and Otis have faced the supernatural before. It almost killed them.

There’s a reason they call them Freak Police.

But can they face the darkness again?

New Book Release! Acquisitor-A Jackson Cole Novel

I know this is supposed to be a crime blog. But I got a new book coming out!

Acquisitor, A Jackson Cole Novel, preorder now (https://amzn.to/3zhtIGj) arrives September 3rd, 2021. Just in time for a long Labor Day weekend. Acquisitor picks up about a year after the events of Shattered Circle. In Shattered Circle, Detective Jackson Cole came face to face with supernatural evil. A blood cult sacrificing women and using powerful demonic forces to wreak havoc around the City of Charleston. He put a stop to them. It almost cost him his life.

In Acquisitor, something is killing the homeless around Charleston, SC. Cole, and his Partner Miles Otis’ only witness is also their only suspect in a bizarre homicide. She says she’s a witch, and that a hellhound is hunting people. Any other two cops would laugh and lock her up in a padded room. Unfortunately, Cole and Otis have seen a hellhound at work before. Something tore a suspect apart in his own interrogation room a year earlier. Cole and Otis want nothing to do with evil like that again. They just want to work cases and solve crimes like normal police. But if they don’t take it on, who will?

Acquisitor blends the gritty police procedural with a dark urban fantasy. Trying to make sense of the supernatural through the lens of pragmatic police work creates something unique to both the crime and the fantasy genres. These two books have been an absolute blast to write. I don’t want to say any more because I don’t want to give anything away. I will say though, I am thrilled to introduce Natalie King to the Shattered Circle universe. She’s the witch I was talking about earlier. I think your going to like her.

Here is the back cover blurb about Acquisitor:

Detective Miles Otis pointed, “That’s an arm.”

Jackson Cole sighed, “Yeah.”

Otis studied the random severed limb for moment, “You ever miss the good old days, dope and drive bys…?”

You catch one strange case and suddenly they call you the Freak Police behind your back. If its anything even remotely weird, Cole and Otis get the call. Now they find themselves in a vacant lot staring at a forearm.

Fingerprints give them a name. Hardnosed police work generates a suspect. She’s a witch, so was the guy who’s forearm sits in a cooler at the coroner’s office. The witch says a hellhound killed her friend. And it’s hunting the homeless of Charleston.

Witches, magic…a hellhound? 

Any other two detectives would laugh at a story like that and lock that crazy witch up. But Cole and Otis have faced the supernatural before. It almost killed them. 

There’s a reason they call them Freak Police.

Here are what readers say about Shattered Circle :

“Although this book is crime thriller, it has a supernatural twist to it. If you like a crime triller and/or like supernatural, you cannot go wrong reading this book.”

“Shattered Circle This is an excellent book. I want more. I want to see it on the big screen!! John Stamp is a wonderful author, who takes you with him on a journey into an amazing world that did not allow me to put the book down.”

“Your attention to detail and knowledge of the occult is wonderful and spelling binding. Thank you for a great read.”

Can’t wait to hear what you all think of Acquisitor. More to come.

Food Fight

What is the dumbest thing in the world to get arrested for? Mutual Pasta Battery

What is the dumbest thing in the world to get arrested for? Mutual Pasta Battery.

I didn’t make that up.

First off, thank you again Florida, you guys really know how to do it down there. A couple in Clearwater, Florida were arrested on August 2nd when officers responded to a domestic violence call around one o’clock in the morning. When officers arrived on scene, they found Stephanie Lannas and her boyfriend Adolfo Rivera covered in Spaghetti sauce. The couple appear to have decided to have a late night (or early morning) spaghetti dinner. Somehow the conversation, or maybe the food, took a turn for the worse and an argument turned physical when they engaged in mutual combat wielding plates of spaghetti.

This is no way a true rendering of how or why this incident occurred, but this is how I hope it happened.

You probably don’t know this but there is a long running debate in America on whether Spaghetti sauce is a sauce or a gravy. I’m not kidding.

Gravy is defined as, “A sauce made from cooked meat juices together with stock and other ingredients.”

Sauce is defined as, “thick liquid served with food, usually savory dishes, to add moistness and flavor.”

Researching this nonsense, I found out that the debate is quite the big deal in some Italian American circles. So, When I read this article my first impression, after saying to myself, What the hell? Then seeing this happened in Florida being like, oh, I get it. Then, after all that, I had to guess that this is what happened.

Since I’m completely making this next part up, I’m changing the names of the accused to something a little more…fictional.

Samantha and Al didn’t close down the bar like they usually did every Monday night (the 2nd was a Monday-these two obviously know how to party). Al was hungry. Starving in fact. But he didn’t want something easy like Waffle House. He wanted spaghetti and meatballs, and he wanted the spaghetti and meatballs that was in the fridge at home. Because Sam made it and her sauce was the best. The pasta, seasoned meatballs, and sauce/gravy (?) called to him so he convinced Samantha to bail before last call so they could eat.

By the time they got home Al had complained so much about being hungry that Samantha was starving too. They warmed the leftovers in the microwave and Al made them each a plate. Samantha noticed when he served her that he had a bigger helping than she did, but she let it go because there was more in the fridge. She took a stab and rolled the pasta around her fork then took a bite. It was a little dry from the fridge and being re-heated. That’s an easy fix, she thought.

“Hey Bae, can you pass the gravy?”

Al stopped eating and looked at her. Through a mouthful of noodles and a bite of meatball he asked, “Why do you want gravy for spaghetti and meatballs?” Gross, he thought.

Samantha scoffed, “What else would I put on spaghetti?” she pointed at the big bowl of spaghetti sauce/gravy(?) sitting next to him, “come on I can’t reach,”

Al checked out the bowl of spaghetti gravy/sauce (?), “You mean spaghetti sauce?”

Samantha sighed, “Oh no, you’re one of them,”

“One of what?”

Samantha put her fork down and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, “Spaghetti is a pasta which is covered by a red gravy for flavor and taste,”

Al is confused, “Spaghetti is covered in spaghetti sauce. It’s in the name, s-p-a-g-h-e-t-t-I s-a-u-c-e,” he over enunciated the words.

Samantha slammed her hand on the table so hard he thought she might have broken a nail, “Tell that to my grandma! She cooked the gravy for us every week since I was a little girl! Every Sunday we eat spaghetti, with the gravy she spent all week cooking!” Samantha stood, towering over him, “Spaghetti is covered with gravy, not a sauce!”

No one talks to Al like that, no one! He jumped to his feet, getting right back in her face, “It says spaghetti sauce on the goddamned label!” he screamed.

Samantha’s eyes flared. She yanked her plate from the table and smashed the spaghetti and meatballs in his face. Al’s favorite Affliction t-shirt an acid washed jeans, destroyed. Pasta was worming its way into his nose and the ‘gravy’ burned his eyes as Samantha gound the plate around his nose, “That taste like a sauce to you! Gravy is a liquid made from cooking meat juices and other seasonings! There’s ground beef in this bitch!”

Al groped blindly at the table before latching onto his plate. He whacked the plate and its contents across the side of her head lodging some ground beef in Samantha’s ear. The attack completely destroyed her make-up and more ground beef got stuck in her hair.

“Ahh!” she squealed as a warm plop of gravy/sauce(?) landing on her toed slip ons, “How could you?” she screamed.

The doorbell rang before Al could show her what she did to his shirt.

“Clearwater Police! Open up!”

“Oh shit,” says Al.

Samantha waved her hand in a flourish, “See, now look what you did!”

“Police! Open the door!” this time the voice was louder.

The two of them tracked red sauce/gravy(?) across the living room carpet and opened the door as one.

Two cops stood to either side of the front door. The one to the lefts jaw fell to the floor. The one to the right started laughing.

“Something wrong officers?” asked Al.

The cop on the left recovered before the one on the right, “Your neighbors reported sounds of a struggle coming from your residence,” he lets the accusation hang in the air for a moment as he watches pasta and tomato fall from Al’s chin.

Samantha tried a ‘get out of a ticket’ smile and batted her eyes through a face full of food, “Officer, do you know the difference between sauce and gravy?”

The cop on the right is stumped, “What?”

The one on the left’s name plate reads ‘Spinelli’,

“No,” he answered.

Samantha takes in a deep breath, her eyes growing wide.

Spinelli, put a hand up, trapping the pregnant tirade in her lungs, “No one cares about spaghetti sauce, both of you turn and put your hands behind your backs,”

Al and Samantha comply meekly. As the cuffs go on Al speaks over his shoulder, “You guys think I could get a towel before we go?”

Samantha hissed, “Shut up Al. You’ve done enough,”

Al looked at her, defeat clear across his red smeared face, “You guys gonna make me ride with her to the station?”

Reference:

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/documents/stupid/spaghetti-battery-629538

Heavy Sleeper

A guy in New York City passed out drunk on the street outside his apartment building and got robbed not once, but twice. And he slept through both incidents.

According to the article the victim, we’ll call him Tanner for no other reason than this sounds like something a Tanner would do. Tanner went out and got lit, then ran out of gas right in front of his building. He found himself a nice patch of concrete and snuggled in for the night awash in the cool, fresh breeze of a New York City Friday night. Probably very similar to the soothing stench medley of rotting garbage, urine, and sewer gas.

Over the next couple hours Tanner got robbed twice, by two different people. The first thief stole his “Messenger” bag (I’m thinking more like his murse) and laptop. The second guy, at a different time during the night, rolled his pockets and made off with Tanner’s phone and wallet. This second incident begs the question, what kind of shitty criminal was the first guy?

The fact that the first thief didn’t think of taking the wallet is hilarious to me. I have this picture in my head of this guy sitting on his couch the next morning rocking some fuzzy slippers, boxers, maybe a really ornate kimono. There he is watching the local news, shoveling Fruity Pebbles into his mouth while trying to guess the password of the laptop he stole when the anchor starts talking about the theft of Tanner’s laptop. He stops eating and stares at the screen. Then the anchor mentions the guy was robbed twice, the second thief making off with Tanner’s phone and wallet. Our robber drops his spoon into his Fruity Pebbles and yells, “FUUUUUUCK!”

Palm to forehead, he slumps in defeat as he realizes how much he sucks at crime.

I really hope that happened.

The other aspect of this story I hope is true is a scene, of my own design of course, where the next morning Tanner, the building manager, and two cops are watching security camera footage of his night on the concrete. There’s Tanner, no phone, no wallet, no murse or laptop, hair all disheveled, and head pounding from the dozen or so Lemon Drops he slugged the night before. He has to watch himself sleeping through two robberies. All the while listening to the manager and two cops snickering behind him.

Poor Tanner, or whatever your name is.

PS: The suspects #sharkbait t-shirt is on point. #sharkweek.

PPS: Am I the only one who thinks the suspect is a dead ringer for t he Iron Shiek? I bet very few of you will get that reference.

Reference:

VIDEO: Man robbed while sleeping outside of Brooklyn apartment building; suspects sought (msn.com)

“Twenty Bucks Says…”

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?”

“Couple ounces,”

“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,”

“Why not?”

“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,”

“She is,”

“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.

Reference:

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/buster/dumbass/man-seeks-meth-test-563914