PROTECTING THE MISSION CITY

Yes, I'm Still Around

2011-05-20T04:32:00.000-07:00

Ok, you all know it's been a long, LONG time since I've posted here. I've been entertained by Lt Pata's posts and well, my stuff doesn't even come close! I've had my plate a bit full on both professionally and personally, so the creative juices just weren't "there."

If you've been to any of the courses I've taught, you will here me mention the importance of keeping a life outside of police work; balancing work, family, outside interests and sleep (something, I never get enough of, which is why I'm up at 4am typing this entry!) are important but sometimes work does take over.

If you've been keeping up with what's been going on in the City and Department, you know we've been just a tad bit busy. The people I work with, for the most part, are fantastic. We pull together and get each other through things, good and bad. When things get tough, we get some how dig down and do whatever it takes to get the job done, whatever the job maybe. I've watched co-workers in Patrol, Investigations and CSI, work endless hours. Yes, there have been some bitching and moaning (some much louder than others!) but it's human nature. Bottom line, we know a job needs to get done and well, we take care of business.

It's times like this when work does intrude on our outside lives, whether or not you are directly involved in the investigation or not. So, thank you to the PD families, for understanding as best as they can & for the endless support, thanks to the officers and dispatchers who have had to cover shifts because others were pulled from their primary duties, thanks to secondary employers for understanding that this job needs to come first. I know plans have been cancelled, sleep has been lost, schedules altered and it hasn't gone unnoticed. I know we do things because it's expected of us, it's part of the job and it's just in our natures to step up - but THANK YOU. It's very much appreciated.

Honestly, it has been long couple of weeks for me. Between my regular duties, my volunteer job, the incidents of the last week and training, there's hasn't been a lot of extra time to catch up. But, I can say, this last week has been a great way to re-charge, network, work with a great group of people and exercise the gray matter (yes, I go home more tired after sitting in classes all day than working my 8 hour days at the Aquarium - and it's all physical labor at the Aquarium!). I, along with four other CSI Team members, have commuted back and forth to Napa so we could attend the California State Division of the International Association for Identification's Annual Conference.

I've learned from some of the best during this past week. I'll gladly admit some of the stuff was WAY over my head and above my pay grade and my eyes did glaze over once (or twice) when they were talking chemical compounds and other "stuff." I am coming back with better photography skills, ideas on how to over come some of the issues we run into in the field, and a better understanding of things in general. I've heard fascinating lectures, gone hands on to learn new techniques or test new equipment and have been met some of the most talented and fascinating individuals this field has offer! I need to thank the instructors who gave our team all of the help and individual attention we needed - sometimes, I know, it took a lot of patience and effort on your collective parts but it is much appreciated. Thanks for also letting us borrow your equipment!

Today is our last day in Napa and as I reflect on everything that's gone on, I have to say the best part of the Conference has been the people. I've met some great people from other agencies, gotten to tips from those working in the field and labs, many veterans and some like me, who are still learning. Nothing beats, in my eyes, learning from peers. While I'm very close to some of the team members I went to the Conference with, I think I've gotten to know each of them a little better - learned strengths and weaknesses, both personal and professional. I think this helps us understand each other a bit better and makes us more of a cohesive unit. I know you know this already but Peggy, Lyn, Marc and Lisa, you rock. I am proud to work with you and beside you (and thanks for keeping me balanced!)!

Uncle! Uncle! I give. By Lt. Pata

2011-03-23T11:16:00.000-07:00

Living large in Marin County in the 80’s and 90’s was the order of the day. It was all about chemically imported self-indulgence coupled with the usual twist of have and have-nots in a tiny county largely invaded by a new culture.

Marin was all about family, and hard work. Now, arguably, it is still is part of the fabric of our county, but I’m not so sure anymore if it is the primary focus of Marin life. Maybe I’m confusing lifestyle with family life. Of course I could be wrong but when I look back on some of the ridiculous chronicles and portrayals of Marin in movies like “The Serial” or our alleged renown love-affair with hot tubs and massage using peacock feathers it seems like maybe someone (and you know who you are) maybe went a little too far. Now, saying that, I did contribute to the 4-20 culture (allegedly) as a student of San Rafael High School.

Today most of our citizens are well-educated, upper middle class to wealthy folks. Of course, like most places, there is a segment of our world that is underprivileged and probably underserved to some extent.

Marin County is breathtaking. You can be on top of Mt. Tamalpais in 30 minutes from virtually any hamlet in this county. Or you can be at the beach or touring one of the gallery’s in San Rafael’s downtown or maybe having a nice snack at some of our nice little dining facilities dotted all over our downtown. Soon you can barge into the new Marin History - Rock Museum on Fourth Street. Pretty cool.

I am so grateful that I did not get trapped into the new drug culture that many of my pals fell into. I think it was fear and serious injury (from mom and pop) that kept me flying in the right direction. Oh and Catholic guilt works too. Four short years into the job and I was shoulder hair long into it. I was buying drugs but not for my personal anesthesia. I had already developed a serious disdain for drug dealers and a pathetic acerbic pity for the users.

My pals and I were in the right job at the right time. Steeped in DEA, Customs and the FBI we were a fine working machine. I remember in the late 80’s when one of my partners John Donnellan developed a case that got Marin it’s first taste of the drug ICE. Back then that is what it was called. Methamphetamine smuggled in televisions and shipped to the US from the Philippines via Hawaii. It was a cool case, but we had no freaking idea what it was. I think a couple of months later 60 minutes had a story about the new drug explosion to hit the US.

There was also a group of “businessmen” we vigorously applied the Health and Safety Code to who moved over 1000 pounds of meth – but not the stuff you see now. We also found 1 million dollars in cash. The drugs and money were vacuumed packed. These guys were serious professionals and a totally different type of clientele that we were used too. In fact there are not many like that today in our area. We chased these crooks down from Marin to Oakland. We slept in our cars a lot during those days as we switched off the “eye” on surveillance to get our bad guys.

While I lost out on a great relationship with a pretty decent woman during all of this middle of the night stuff, I would not trade it. She found the right guy; of course I wish she had done that sooner than 3 days before our wedding. The 200 folks set up for the wedding coupled with my family flying in from Italy was a little hard to handle, but its amazing what a wifeless honeymoon with a pal, my big brother and the “left at the altar” story can do for a guy in the Caribbean. I am over it. I’ve met her wonderful husband and kids.

What was funny for me was that some of our targets were pretty well off people who sold their souls for money and lifestyle. These people had the cash to live a healthy life, more than a couple was in the music scene. Some I knew. Some you know. I was happy to provide them with the local if not federal vessel to deliver them to a special and secure recording facility of their choice. You didn’t see, read or hear that little tune…but some got there and you never noticed. The downfall of people I run into is really sex, drugs, money and alcohol. I have been disappointed more than a few times from whom I found in massage parlors and in the cocaine aisle of your local illicit grocery outlet. Mom’s, dads of pals I grew up with not to mention a childhood hero or two. Yes, the camera does add 30 pounds and most of the known popular culture types seen on the big screen or on a record cover are way – way smaller than you think. (Relax guys – I don’t kiss and tell.)

Along with the “famous” folks there were local idiots who thought they were Pablo Escobar. I did not mind sending them to prison mainly because they really did prey on those hapless morons who would rather spend their last $20 on a paper bindle of powder than get a sandwich. It was that screwed-up thinking that made narcotics a life consuming struggle for all of us. So in the end, everyone lost really. The dealers went to prison, I lost out on a 3 year relationship, some died of overdose, and some were walking test tubes for vicious STD’s and some ended up on the street. It’s an American tragedy in my eyes. When I look at those who gave up everything for the American dream and see those who have the roadmap in their hand and they wipe their behinds with it.

I remember one group of princes who thought they were the mafia or something. They were maybe 20 or 21 years old. These were the “haves” the kids that drove to high school in their BMW’s. This one crook had an Italian last name, so I guess that was his street cred. I volunteered to sit in the surveillance van while they parked it near these guys at a local bar with a bad reputation. These guys were not stupid, so they decided to start to mess with the van. I wanted to blast holes in the back of the van I was so p#@!d off.

They rocked the van, tried the doors and of course talked loud enough about what they thought was in the van. I remember pulling back the window covers inside so I could get a peek at these guys. As soon as I did I saw this face looking right back at me. Scared the crap out of me. Of course we had the cops drive by and shoo them away. The delivery driver returned and pulled me out of there. Unhappy Ralph made this group a priority. Awhile back I was taught it was ok to lose the battle but win the war. I have lived my life that way and – it works! Eventually, one by one I got my ability to deliver these vultures to a nice secured bed and breakfast.

Think I’m kidding? Ask the kid that kicked my behind and spit in my face while trying to rob me when I was 13. You see us “dark Italians” those with real ancestry to the “Old Country” (less than one generation away) never….ever…forget a good or bad deed. So almost 10 years later when this malscalsono (Italian for something a little dirtier than crook) was riding his motorcycle…without a license, illegally in front of me-I was allowed to re-acquaint myself with him.

I was able to tap into that humiliation and the still sore behind to fairly enforce the law. I never broke a smile, but overdosed him on my syrupy saccharine-laced sympathy for him as I lawfully towed his motorcycle. It was like a spring day for me. The exhaust of the tow truck smelled like an Acacia tree as the fumes swirled and enveloped the motorcycle like the loving arms of God himself on the back of the truck as it drove away. I took a deep breath and left my former assassin on the sidewalk as I drove to a secluded area for the fist-pumping “YES!” I needed and deserved.

I look at my team from the past – a solid group of confederates with solid leadership and I see so many great cops now who fit that mold. I would love to lead a group with the same eccentrics and OCD compulsions with the economy size sense of humor to get into the worst parts of our little community and rock their world.

I’d want the same kind of guys and gals who would terrorize the fire investigators (as we did) early in the 90’s who temporarily occupied an office in our Task Force. I think it was Ken or Doug who tied a string of pull-a-part firecrackers to the shoulder rig (gun thing) of one of the fire guys. So when he picked it up, the rig pulled against the seat it was tied to and made “pop – pop –pop” sounds. I think this guy made a boom in his pants! God I loved it!

There was the very popular bar back in the 80’s and 90’s. This bar was in a central Marin town. Everybody knew it. Night Ranger, Journey, Huey Lewis, the Tubes all of the big bands back then knew it, played there and partied there. I used to go there all the time. I can even recall getting my foot stepped on by the guitar player of the band Night Ranger one night. Of course every rock star wore boots back then – so I needed a nice alcoholic anesthesia to soothe my pain.

The owner of said bar was this pathetic overweight bald guy who wore a hairpiece. This bar was all he had and probably the only connection or at least avenue to a steady staple of young doe-eyed ladies to be in his company, without the benefit of clergy…if you know what I mean. (May he rest in peace)

This guy was dealing out of the bar. Not a shocker, but a serious “no-no.” That was my ticket to shut the place down if I could. Now, I was a little conflicted, because it used to be a cool place to hang out, part of the fabric of our county and many acts got their start there. Actually it was in the Huey Lewis video “The Power of Love” if you want a little walk down memory lane. Was I going to shut down a Marin Institution? Yep. I was. With the help of my pals and an informant.

What’s an institution without captive customers -right? This really nice informant…and I mean it…he was a good guy ended up in our lap after getting busted by an agency for some drug thing. This guy would go on to be a very valuable and plugged in part of the community. I know he slipped – they all do, but I think his embarrassment never left him and made him work with underprivileged kids and families. I admire his turn around. I shake his hand and drop in on him when I can. Talk about a man who rebuilt himself and worked on getting on with the rest of his life. I was proud. I think he was maybe one of two that made it. This guy was not so shy about telling us what we needed to hear and then take it another step to close the deal and testify. He knew like we did, that in order to get rid of your connections, you have to be persona no grata with the criminal world and burn up the bridges behind you.

The pathetic guy that owned the place was more than willing to dive head first into the greed center of his brain when it came to buying and selling dope. The problem with this guy was that he was too stupid to do this for long without some bad things happening to him…like having our unit crash in his front door and when he did not do what the nice armed undercover guys asked – like get on the ground, we invoked the gravity law and tossed him to the ground. Before this guy’s behind hit the floor he was shouting out the name of his connection. Thank you very much. What he did not know was that as we were escorting this guy to the lumber floor, we were also at the connection’s home doing the same to him. Actually he had carpet. I think we gave him a rug burn. (And now a public service announcement: Attention drug dealers. If the nice heavily armed undercover team tells you to get on the floor, it is not a request. It is a profound invitation. Do it.)

While we were able to score lots of cocaine, the connections place was a little more interesting. The Uzi submachine gun and sawed off shotgun were a pretty strong indicator of the type of guy he was. I’ll say it. He was an “Adam- Henry.” (Take the first two letters of each word and subtract the balance.) Seriously. He was an angry, rotten kind of guy who was probably more than willing to “go for it” had he had access to the guns. I still keep a picture of the guns as a reminder of how bad this could have turned out. In the end everyone went to prison and the bar…well I’m sorry America, er at least Marin. It was fun while it lasted, until this someone bought it and turned it into a pharmacy.

The owner of the bar would go on to lose his liquor license, his toupee, his freedom and his steady stream of non-paying female consumer- event coordinators or “personal entertainment consultants.” He would later drop dead of a big heart attack a couple of years later. I wonder if there is a witness protection program in the infernal region? If there is an especially hot part of this place, who would get it, my dealer or his connection? Makes a guy wonder.

That’s it for now! Congratulations to a couple of folks who have done some great things in our area. Congrats to Captain Dave Jeffries for his promotion, to Chief Jennifer Tejada for her first Chief gig in Sausalito, for Chief Erik Masterson (my former partner) for his first Chief Job at Ross PD.

I would also like to send my greetings to our pals (readers) in Russia, the United Kingdom, Canada, and South Vietnam, our Dutch readers, our pals in Pakistan, Australia, Germany and the Great USA. I’m sure there is a couple I forgot – I will get ya next week.

Stay Safe. Ralphy,

In the Nick of time… By Lt. Pata

2011-03-02T05:42:00.001-08:00

The police dispatch center is usually the most frenetic and energized section of the department. The men and women that work in this job are, in my opinion, insane (and I mean insanely amazing!). I say that because it is a really hard job. The training program is over a year and these folks are constantly learning and participating in new methods to get us to you in a safe and timely manner. Toss in the calls from people who want to report seeing Elvis downtown and add a healthy dose of people calling for weather conditions in Lake Tahoe and if you are weak minded, you have the recipe for losing your mind.

I have sat in dispatch a number of times and would recommend it for any cop or citizen to see how it works. It is pretty amazing. The front office is also pretty crazy. The difference is the people can actually come in to the front office and engage our expert front office staff face to face. Once I had a guy walk in the office and demand I arrest his wife for adultery. On another occasion I had a former hooker pull a knife on me and slam it into the counter (Cue the “Boing!” soundtrack.) She was arrested, but now has been paroled to the eternal parole officer. (May she rest in peace.)

I worked in the front office as a Cadet and immediately recognized that I was not nice enough or patient enough for both jobs. So to make the world right and undo my past grumpy advice to the world as a Cadet we give you: Margo, Lori, Kelly, Lynn, Gina and Julie. In truth, your “customer service” experience is either their cheery voice on the business line or maybe your nice visit to our facility while waiting in our lounge……err holding tank)

After listening to years of storied calls from my brother and his fellow asylum occupants at the communication center, I can understand the coffee consumption, the nail biting, the foot tapping and all of the other stuff that seems to naturally come with the job. I am surprised they don’t have a large – industrial sized Pez dispenser for stress reducing drugs affixed to the wall. They do, however, have Dispatcher Anndora Lee’s infused water to help wash down the blood pressure pills and aspirin.

I have nothing but respect and attachment to the ladies and my brother because they deserve it…not because they have dirt on me. Well, OK some do! I can’t name them all, but Charly the boss is a saint in my book. Sabrina, Lisa, Shelly all of them are pro’s. Our dispatch center is famous for not having a huge turn over. That speaks of the community, our department, but most of all the people. Of course my respect won’t prevent me from goofing on them.

Imagine taking a call of a shooting and then sending your pals to the call hoping they make it back, so you can all tell a story, or maybe share in an adult beverage one day. The pressure must be debilitating.

One word can make the difference in this dangerous game. Ultimately it is the responsibilities of the officer to self evaluate a call and not get caught in the trap of what I call –reporting party induced coma. The suggested possibility of what something might be is a dirty trick – kind of mental Russian roulette.

Take for example uninformed or unverified perspective…What I mean is a caller might suggest a toy gun from their vantage point. Well, today, real guns look like toy guns. In fact they are partially made of plastic. The mindset going into that call is so important, and while we don’t disregard a dispatch – we have to make a mental call based upon what we think – not upon the message from a caller who may have never seen a gun before in their life. I can only imagine the years ticked off their humble and valuable dispatch lives from the internal inertia coupled with the caustic shot of gastric acids working over their stomach-lining like a pinball bouncing off the metaphorical bumpers of their gastrointestinal system. Add a gallon of coffee-chugged earlier to stay sharp and viola - Peptic Ulcer!

Our dispatchers are the mice on the wheel of our department. I say that respectfully because, while their equipment is good, their conditions are not so luxurious. Their room is a cave. It is as pleasant as we can make it, considering they are underground with no windows and essentially trapped like rats in a small room. I used to joke that we needed to buy a canary in a cage and leave it in the radio room as a poor man’s air quality monitor. The room is outfitted with all kinds of radios, phones, LCD and plasma screens that operate surveillance cameras in our back lot that make it look like NASA or NORAD. I guess the cameras are really a version of a window.

Cops are afraid of the dispatch center. I am. Imagine the insertion of stress via a plastic tube carrying the screams, crying, whining, at times angry and incoherent pleas, transported from the radio plug - directly into your brain. All of this happens for twelve hours a day and its piped directly into their ears and therefore their lives each time that freaking phone rings. What will the next call bring? Birds chirping keeping a resident awake? Maybe a shooting or stabbing? Will it be the desperate call for help in the middle of the night when mom or pop does not return from the toilet as they lay on the cold floor as their life leaves them, pulse-less. Maybe it’s the child that won’t wake up.

Imagine being a dispatcher and being off duty. I would never answer the phone at home. I’d send it all to the answering machine and then when the phone rang at home, I think I’d do the wave with my family. I would be willing to bet none of our dispatchers have called and asked for weather conditions at their local police department.

Those calls for help do not come easy for some. It is an admission that there is a problem our clients can’t resolve. It is an agonizing realization that maybe their marriage should not be abusive and painful, or that my loved one should have come home or called days ago…or a mother’s worry that their child is on the street surviving the very best way they know. Our dispatchers and front office staff are the perfect reception center for these worried and desperate folks, programmed for all of it, but rarely do they ever get to see or hear the result. Very often they never hear a thank you. It’s like reading a book or watching a movie and never getting the opportunity to finish the book, or finish the movie. How much could it suck to constantly be the person that initiates the delivery of help, but never see the outcome? It would drive me crazy. It is like your mom turning off the TV before you get to see who committed the crime or who got the girl...on every show…every night.

Cops get to go to the scene and fix the problem, even if it is just to hold a hand and maybe share a quiet cry. The dispatchers are left in a lurch. They sit on the edge of their chair literally between life and death. The silence of a car calling out that they are on the scene…and the deafening pause between the crackle of the radio announcing the arrival and the disposition once the officers have assessed the situation. That kind of perpetual sitting on the edge of the chair should squeeze the life out of our folks, but still they persevere and somehow maintain their patience (usually) and their sanity.

There is a little phenomenon that happens from time to time, I like to think it is God’s little way of announcing an officer needs help. It happens in every department and is not an engineered function of our sophisticated radios. It is really, in my opinion, an external special-maybe spiritual force that reaches down and pushes the push to talk button on the portable radio during a fight. It is the cousin of the spirit or almighty wise-guy saint that also hits the push to talk button and broadcasts to the universe –when you are goofing on the boss or maybe another officer’s new girlfriend.

The “hurry up this guy needs help” sound is universal. After even a month on the job you get the meaning of the hurried unintelligible noise transmitted on the radio as a call for help. I can’t tell you how many times the radio mysteriously keyed up as the fight was ‘ON” between an officer and a bad guy. This is an unmistakable sound that reverberates between the portable radio on the officer’s hip to the rest of the planet. It is a jumble of furniture breaking, grunts or maybe moans that is the unintelligible –but widely recognized as a scream for help. Hear it once and you will understand the mechanism that our dispatchers must understand and harness when they hear sounds from officers fighting, to the 9-1-1 call where the fight is heard on the open line. For me, it is a contraction in my stomach that only releases the closer I get to my partner. How they do it is probably a curse for them, but a blessing to all of us.

Harnessing your experiences and giving our customers a wide variety of perspectives only makes us stronger as an agency. Let me explain: A couple of year’s back I was a patrol sergeant. Our dispatch center received a 9-1-1 call from a woman saying she had been kidnapped. The cell phone she used to call us suddenly went dead. There was a strong suggestion that this woman was an erotic roadside entrepreneur.

We had some GPS coordinates, but had no idea what she looked like.
Dispatcher Antoinette Cook was on-duty. Antoinette has more personality than most people I have ever met. Antoinette denies being a diva, but I would think she runs the show in almost any venue. I asked Antoinette to call the number back; however it went right to voicemail. That is usually a bad sign that the phone has been turned off. The detective in me asked Antoinette what kind of music was playing on the victim’s phone voicemail. I could clearly hear music, but I’m no longer hip, it was not the Doobie Brothers or Metallica so could not figure out who was singing. So what do you do when you are half dead and no longer hip? You ask your youthful members to step in and translate.

Like magic – the room went silent. Antoinette started to listen to the music playing on the victim’s voice message…about three seconds passed and I noticed Antoinette started to bob her head from back to front. As she did this her chair also started to rock back and forth. Antoinette then got into the groove of the song. I remember seeing her hair bounce back and forth as she suddenly blurted out “Beyonce!” It was hilarious to see. For me it was like Gene Wilder in the movie Young Frankenstein announcing the monster lives! In trying to solve this crime we had to turn to the voice message song to get a clue. In the process, Antoinette was able to get her groove on.

I took a chance and asked Antoinette to broadcast to our units to keep an eye out for a prostitute in the area of the GPS coordinates. I never thought this would work, but it did. About 15 minutes later we found the hooker and she had the phone. Oh and the song, was Beyonce.

Another time, I was a patrol officer awhile back and was in a foot chase with an armed suspect. I was out there alone, but I could hear the sirens coming to my aid. I called out on the radio “PD L-20 foot chase!” I followed it up with “He’s got a gun!” The calming voice on the other end was my big brother Nick. He was always my common sense mentor as a kid – usually cleaning up after my mistakes but always respectful of my decisions as wrong as they might have been. Nick’s voice and presence on the radio never seems to raise a peg on the decibel level. His delivery in a calm monotone voice is calming to me and as I look at his service over the years admire how he does his job. Of course the behind the scenes editorializing – er language, would make a hooker blush, but I guess that is his way of off-loading stress and I know the other pro’s in the radio room fire off at us and at our community- perhaps not with the same vigor… in the privacy of their cave. The nice thing for him is that he has a genuine tender spot for the gals who work with him as he would quickly deny. They deserve a purple heart for living with him, hearing his professional wrestling mania and his world travels to the next WWE adventure. I know ladies.

What was remarkable to me about Nick was as I caught up to the armed suspect when he hid in an external building closet, I was at a kind of a cross roads. Was I going to shoot this guy? I called out “PD-20 One at gunpoint!” Nick calmly repeated my message to the responding cars and then…there was silence…nothing.
I waited for my cover to get there so we could get this “scifoso” out of the closet and into my car with everyone hopefully coming out of this uninjured. I later reflected on that moment of silence. I know how my heart squeezes hard and stays contracted for that moment when I hear an officer call out the same message, and wondered what it would be like for my brother.

Now, Nick and I had a typical big brother little brother tumultuous childhood. He was (and still is) into wrestling and used me as his turnbuckle, or practice dummy. I have vivid memories of him jumping down on me from the top of the couch with his elbow shoved into my chest or gut as the air was purged from my little lungs. He also used the “sleeper hold” on me way before the disclosures for kids not to do this stuff at home. Of course I paid him back once – the pivotal moment of my life when I knew I was going to be an artist. I stabbed him in the leg with a pencil. Now back then, I remember we were all warned about lead and how it was poison. I thought I had just given Nick a death sentence.

So this all passes before me when he is on the radio and I am in the middle of something that is digressing into a bad, bad call. On the call above I had the one and only serious talk with Nick at the end of the watch. I remember walking from the back door of our station to my car. It was about a 50 yard walk. I remember we were both quiet. You could hear our feet shuffling across the pavement as I broke the silence and I said “Nick, do you ever worry about me on those kinds of calls?” Stoic and a little devoid of emotion, big bro said in his monotone and matter of fact voice “No, I figure you are going to die first.” I looked over at him to see the non-verbal queue that he was joking or poking fun at me. There were none. He walked away toward his car and never looked over. It was a little sobering considering he is older than me. It also made me reconsider my life-insurance beneficiary assignment! Of course I told my mom. She said with a smile and a heavy accent “Ralphy why are you so stupid?” She then said he was probably right.

Officers typically get the glory and the “thank-you” (if ever) but only deserve part of that. The balance of it really belongs to the person that called, but more importantly – the people that answered that call. The front office and the dispatchers. What’s the point of making a call if it won’t get answered? It is like asking a question and getting a stern question back – “Don’t you know? Don’t you remember?” That won’t happen when you call us. While privately, we might goof on your dilemma – like losing the handcuff keys in the throws of passion, we will still come and unlock you. And yes, we will throw a blanky over you first.

Stay safe and always keep a spare key in the nightstand. Ralphy

Good Coffee and Bad Girls by Lt. Pata

2011-02-25T06:32:00.000-08:00

I just sat down at my favorite coffee joint in Santa Rosa, Centro Espresso, received a beautiful and expertly made Americano coffee and made my way outside next to the large oak tree. The sun is sneaking past the limbs as those annoying little birds try to serenade me into dropping some of my biscotti on the deck so they can have a snack. Not a chance. I know their kind. They start with a cute fly-by and then they land near you staring at you, head tilted to one side…staring with the one eye. Then they do the head cocked over fluttering the eye thing…It’s a cute little trick designed to manipulate me into breaking off a corner or my cookie so they can later fly away and deposit a gift on my car.

I come here when I can because it is not just the coffee it’s the people who make me feel at home here. Did I mention the coffee rocks? But the setting is pretty nice. It’s quiet. Oh, and the yoga joint next door is a nice – if not – leering location for my observations. I’m Italian, I marvel in the beauty of women. I wonder if DaVinci hung out at a little Roman espresso place.

I am traditionally not a quiet country setting kind of guy. Quiet used to be a harbinger of trouble. I can recall how the quiet actually made me uneasy. Sleep was a silent form of hell. That first few moments before unconsciousness crept into my room (or closet) and took possession of my body…Yikes! Now, perhaps because of the passage of time I seem to enjoy it. Maybe it is because I want to hear if my ticker is still whacking away as it should.

As long as we are on the subject of silence, I used to draw in my home studio late late at night. I have always liked the late night. One night I heard foot steps. Certain that it was a goof, I ignored it. Then I heard it again. I got up from my table, opened the door and looked down the hallway. Nothing. Was I going crazy- or did the previous owner of the house not disclose that Casper the friendly ghost was a non-paying tenant? Finally after the third time, I got my gun and decided to check out the entire house. Not a creature was stirring…just the freaking cat looking at me as if I was insane. Finally I took a minute to study the sound and discovered, duh, it was my heart beat in my ear that I was hearing. That little incident caused me to see Mr. Doctor – who insisted that I might want to partake in a little pharmacological pulse-blood-pressure maintenance. My resting heart rate in his office was 136. I said yes. But I am not ruling out a ghost.

Cops do sometimes get creative in the sleep department. When you work all night and then come home to a brightly lit world, you have to improvise. For me, it was the dark closet and a sleeping bag. For some cops it was tin - foil the bedroom window to keep the light out – like it’s a grow room for marijuana or something. I’m sure the neighbors loved it!

As I sit here I am trying to get my hands around the violence of the last day. I am trying to channel my sympathy and concern for the 11 officers shot in the last 24 hours. It is not just about them, but their families, the effect on the community and those cops left behind that usually do not get time to mourn the loss because they are left behind to answer the radio calls. I toss around the disparity and juggle the emotions hatched in my head from some opinions I hear on talk radio about how much we get paid and wonder, how much should a human life be worth? What is the right number? Does a cop with a Master’s degree (actually his or her family) get a higher cash-out value? Its hard to listen to this conversation when the pay-thing makes page 1 and the shootings, to include 4 officers shot in their own police station, is buried (Quite literally in some occasions) on page 3 or 4.

I have known a couple of officers who have been shot and more than I care to know of officers who have been shot at - or who have shoot bad guys. It is not like the movies you never ask. Ever. If they want to tell you about their experience, they will tell you. It is very personal in nature. People always ask me, “So have you shot anyone?” My answer is usually loaded with sarcasm (What a shocker – and notice the cool pun!) is something like: “Not today – yet.” Or “No, but maybe someday…” I don’t know, but do you suppose people ask doctors, “Hey did ya kill a patient today?”

The shooting of an officer is a sobering event no matter where you are on the planet. We feel it. It sucks. If any good comes from it, - it is that extra couple of days worth of enhanced officer safety that is infused in our bloodstream. That might come at some cost to you, our public. Usually the price to pay is the stern look; maybe the hand on the pistol while it is in the holster as we walk up on your car. No one wants to get shot.

Of course some of us want to have a shot (Usually tequila and the good stuff!) but getting shot hurts. I have talked to more than a few shooting victims and they will all tell you universally, it hurts!

When I selected my pistol for work, I used some common sense and experience to find the perfect caliber. Remember I used to work at the coroner’s office, so I had some experience with bullets. It’s not necessarily the gun. It’s the bullet! So I shoot 45-caliber pistol. I am not so interested in how many bullets I have.
It is my goal that – God forbid - bullet #1 will do the trick. So to accomplish that, in this situation, bigger is better. I realize that it goes against everything suggested in my heritage. You know the .22 caliber behind the ear thing. But I am not settling a score. If I have to go down that dark road, then it is to protect you or myself.

OK, that’s a spooky little topic, lets move on to something fun. VICE!

As a new cop – who at the time looked 16, I was the victim of my older officers who decided it would be cool to put the new kid in a car and have him solicit hookers. I remember Jimmy Cook, the Intelligence Detective and another guy who now is lost on me – probably due to a few kicks in the head. They decided that it would be a good idea to send me out. I was a puppy. I had barely talked to girls, at least those who were not beating me up. Usually any conversation I had with girls was “Stop! Stop! I give!”

Jimmy Cook was a very cool cop. There are a couple of cops over the years that I looked up to who were right out of central casting for some cop adventure film like “Heat.” Jimmy was one of them. Mike Miller and Walt Kosta were also in that group. Jimmy is one of those guys who looked like a thinner, dirty blond Jack Nicholson. Especially when he is wearing his wayfarers. When the eyebrow and forehead crease broke the plane of his glasses, you could not tell the difference.

He was from the Midwest, was in the war and this guy knew how to talk to people. He was a little unorthodox, but that, I think is what made him successful. I remember once he had a call of an abandoned car in front of this apartment complex. He got on the PA system of the patrol car and announced the car belonged to a drug dealer and it would be towed in 30 minutes. I sat there as a rookie thinking we were going to get in trouble. He used the PA system at full blast in the middle of this neighborhood at 8:00AM! When we returned in 30 minutes…the car was gone. That is the “G” rated version of his magic. Of course there is more. Jimmy did not need to BS people. He connected with them on a Forest Gump kind of way – kind of like my Colombo routine, but his was genuine. The Indiana cadence made it all the more believable.

I remember way back when we did not have a Vice team. It was all done kind of at your own risk, and in your own car! So JC gave me money and a wire. We checked it all out and had a pre-arranged bust signal. Back then we had lots of young and not so young women working in a particular area known as the “track.” San Rafael was like the old west back then. It had a not so pleasant reputation in the 70’s and 80’s but if you were a cop, it was a fun place to work.

So there I was, barely able to ask a normal gal out on a date…usually sweating, nauseated and on the brink of a seizure and feeling like maybe I am going to make a boom in my pants. I am a little tentative even now because I hate rejection. I can barely look at the gal at the checkout counter of a grocery store without turning red.

I remember navigating my Mustang down the street looking for the right person to pick up. The idea was that I had to pick up this entrepreneur and drive until the gal made me an offer I could not refuse. Then I would go to where she wanted me to go to complete the “date” and call out the bust signal on the way. Now, remember, I had on a wire, so technically, I would not need to say the silly bust signal. But still, it was part of my programming. Oh and for those of you with filthy minds…no. We never did the deal. Ever. Yuck.

Scared to death, each block felt like I was on death row walking to the death chamber. Seriously I was sweating. I had a gun and all of that, but I was not brought up to talk to women the way I was about to talk to them…I would never bring up the context of this to my parents. I would however mention it at Thanksgiving dinner that I picked up a hooker – just to see if mom could pass ravioli through her nose. She never did, but for some reason my stories would always lead to a kick under the table. Usually as my stepdad wanted to know more. The quiet broke at the table when suddenly there was an “ouch!” and the wine in the wine bottle would sway from side to side vigorously as it seemed like we had an earthquake. In reality, it was mom kicking my stepdad. He was my proxy because I was too far away. Mom would usually say something like “Oh Ralphy don’t be like Beretta” referring to that stimulating and award-winning cop drama played by former Little Rascal’s star, acquitted murderer and the former Mr. Bonnie Blakely. (May she rest in peace.)

As I drove my car around the track, I see a number of young, but tired looking gals wink, wave at me and do their very best to make eye contact. I felt like a rock star for a second and then Catholic guilt came over me. I averted my gaze and noticed I was breathing like I had just run a marathon. Don’t laugh! It was spooky. So I made excuse after excuse to not pick up some of them….Uh, that one has big feet, stinky looking, um, too many scars from picking her face NO! That one looks like a guy!

Finally the hooker of my dreams stepped up. She was dinky. I mean she was maybe 4-11, and was maybe 100 soaking wet. I thought, OK, considering my murky progress and success with fighting those vicious hyenas in middle school, I think I can take this one if it goes south on me.

And so, I drove around the block about three times trying to get my courage up to pull over. I am sure this gal was thinking “What is wrong with this kid?” I had this internal fight with my brain and my body to pull the car over. It was not so easy. There was this pop-up cartoon in my head of my mom looking disappointed in me and simply saying “Ralphy…” Then there was the Serpico cool cop in me flipping his hair back, reaching under the seat to feel the cold steel of my gun prior to the pull over. Game on! I pulled to the curb like a tentative teen-ager walking across the gym floor at prom ready to ask the pimply-faced girl against the wall for a dance.

When I finally pulled over, I rolled down the window and said hello. I tell ya, I was feeling like I was going to make a boom right there in my pants. I was so nervous. Ladies, if you have not noticed…you own us! You have the ability to convert a once very nice dinner into a horrible legacy in our trousers. Now channel that power into good, please. Have mercy on poor stooges like me.

So there I am. I have some issues to deal with as I open my mouth to solicit this gal. Issue #1: I have never asked for a naughty thing like this before and could not practice this script without getting slapped by someone. #2: I was certain there was a nun watching me. #3: Any conversation I had with a girl was usually as I was on my back getting strangled.

The prostitution patron saint was looking down on me because this gal made it easy. She just asked “you wanna date?” I was now a little confused. Was I to take her to a nice joint and buy her a drink and then dinner and then take her to her hotel room, where I would say good night under the lit room number sign? Or was this hooker code for – do you want to pay for special talents forbidden by some religious books?

My guardian angel of common sense gave me a nice motivating twist of my small intestines to get me back on track. I simply said “sure.” This gal was probably thinking school was in for me.

She opened the door to my car and got in. I remember her getting in with all her stuff. She had a couple of bags. I was thinking – which one had a knife in it? Was she going to execute me behind a building – starting at my particulars and work up from there? Would I scream like a big sissy? Of course she could not stab me so long as she continued to eat her fried chicken in my car! My NEW car! I guess a girl’s gotta eat – in this case between shifts.

This social worker directed me to a lonely area of the track, her place of “business” so she could commence with her version of non-taxable services. As we drove I tried to engage her in a little conversation. She was all over the place. She looked everywhere to see if we were being followed. Of course my cover was in a car behind us, but they were doing a good job of following loosely behind.

Unfortunately for me, she did not get into naughty conversation with me. She directs me to drive my NEW car down this dirt road and behind some tall grass. I was feeling uneasy because she had not said a word about the particular details of this little enterprise. Finally as we sat all alone in my car, she asked if I wanted a certain task performed without the benefit of clergy and very unceremoniously – here in the weeds. I felt like my mom would walk in on us at any moment. I hesitated, and then said, “Uh – ok.”

She named her price and I whipped out the cash. (You thought I was going to say something else didn’t you? Go to church you saucy voyeur!) Once she secured the case, I called out the bust signal. I think it was WOW; I am really going to like this…..

I waited…nothing. I said it again…WOW I am REALLY going to like this…Nothing. The gal was getting ready to explore my zipper soon and I was squirming in my seat like I had ants in my pants. I said it again…WOW I AM REALLY GOING TO LIKE THIS….as purposeful as I could and completely like I was reading a script.

I was panicking. Dread and terror took over my cerebral cortex. I had sweat rolling down my brow. This gal was making a move to my privates and got within a millimeter of the protected and secured zipper area. I think I let loose with a small gaseous eruption as the fear center of my brain took over all other functions of my body and yelped out a red alert. DANGER! DANGER! Where was my cover? I was ready to jump out of the car like it was on fire. I was not a happy boy. In fact at that time I was thinking I had to go to confession and wondered how many days I would be in church praying to balance out this sin of which I was complicit.

I now wonder if God has a rebate program or perhaps there was some prayer adjustment for work-related sin. Maybe a two for one deal or a God-pon, like a coupon but for graces. Call it a blue chip stamp program for sinners.

Time and space slowed to a crawl. I can remember seeing the knotted, blistered, work-worn spindly fingers attached to the mitt of this purveyor move in slow motion from her side toward the steering wheel release thing. As she did this I held my breath as I thought about how I was going to get out of my car – or better yet get her and all of her food and debris out of my car! As soon as I put my hand on the ejection seat handle (Uh, car door) my saviors’ arrived! Jimmy and his partner laughing as hard as I had ever seen. Ya, I was thinking it was funny too. I was thinking how funny it would be to visit them in a rest home someday paralyzed with age as I introduced the same favor upon them.

As the nice Vice officers walked up to my car the woman looked over to me and told me not to say anything. I waited until she was out of the car in handcuffs before I disclosed that I was a cop. Remember I had seen her kind in action in Junior High!

As I progressed in my career I would once again be subjected to the dank and sinister world of sexual deviance. I would eventually go on to work in our Street Crimes Unit, be sequestered in the public toilets trolling for any chicken hawk that would have me, or George Michael, and of course there were the massage parlors. All of it for another harrowing “blog” and yes, you can bet that it came up at just about every sacred family dinner, Christmas, New Years, My birthday, Thanksgiving…all of them. Would my mom pass that ravioli through her nose? Guess you will have to read on.

Stay safe. Ralphy

Sex, Drugs, and Pepperoni Pizza By Lt. Pata

2011-02-16T06:28:00.001-08:00

Confidential Informants are a pain in the behind. Seriously. They are yesterday’s crooks and tomorrows suspects. I still have informants calling me-twenty years later because they are in trouble or need something. It is like having a relationship with a crummy business partner who is a drug addict. You know the one that takes the profits and runs to Vegas with some harpy he met hanging out by the debris box around midnight at some club.

These guys and gals are sketchy. They often think they are smarter than you or that they are living a role in some episode of “The Wire.” The reality is that most are using drugs and are probably doing some petty larceny on the side. That is my experience, of course these citizens may have changed in their pedigree and might just be good honest members of the community now. But let’s face it; even those members of the community go on to other forms of larceny. Take some members of congress, maybe a televangelist or infomercial representative for example.

I can think of a dozen informants that my team saved from long prison sentences to get to the bigger fish. It is a dirty little business and often I went home and prayed to the informant god that they would get a nice canker sore or the split on your fingers –right on the tips, you know -the ones that hurt and are usually related to a really cold day….I’d even settle for a bad case of dysentery with no toilet in sight. Seriously, these people, especially to us Italians, are a necessary, but annoying amoeba on the food chain of life. The mafia is also not so happy with these guys, but then again, according to my pop, the mafia was invented by the late President Nixon and never really existed. Ya, neither did dinosaurs pop.

Informants come in all shapes and sizes. Most were drug addicts or bad business people which is how they came to our attention. Lots and lots of them were scorned women. Guys, if you are a dope dealer, don’t make your female paramours angry.

I had one gal as an informant who was promised a music career with her drug dealer and occasional product sampler and sales associate. This gal and this guy were as exclusive as you can be when you are married hanging out in clubs and dealing dope. I mean he shared everything with her, to include the STD that keeps giving and even the blessing of a pregnancy without the benefit of clergy.

The problem for this guy was that he said a little too much in the pillow talk - “baby I love you” department. After he returned to his wife and kids from a long weekend in Vegas, she would have a little time to think, apply ointment to her new medical condition and make reservations at the local planned parenthood.

I think the deal breaker for this gal was when this guy failed to appear to her “recording session” and pay for it, she was genuinely scorched with anger. That little anger, in my business is key to all good female informants. That little raging inferno of jealousy, STD and financial vacancy is the perfect storm for a good informer. And I was more than happy to help stoke that fire.
I brought my pal and a can of figurative gas with me to douse on this innocent victim of cocaine. (Sorry, huge sarcasm and not an ounce of sympathy assigned to that last morsel.) Each and every time I visited this gal – always with a female partner, I did my best to keep her from feeling sorry for this guy. How do you do that?…Easy, show pictures of him with his beautiful wife wearing a mink. It is a little trick my cousins in Italy taught me. I think a couple of senators in the 70’s went that way.
I would always end the meetings by asking her how her medical condition was and maybe dropping a flier for the free clinic in her mailbox. It worked. Don’t laugh.

My gal was really good a “playing” stupid and was really angry at this guy. So much so that she agreed to introduce another woman to him as a potential drug user and maybe another cocaine induced conquest. Of course she was a well trained and heavily armed undercover cop, but hey, they need a little love too.

Like a dog to a treat, this loser went for it. He did it because the sex / greed reception center in the brain was swollen with narcissism and unhealthy laziness which caused this guy to sell drugs instead of work. I was more than happy to accommodate his delivery and safekeeping to a state run bed and breakfast. And deliver him I did. Nine years later, I understand he has a better appreciation for women. I will write more on this maroon, another day. It is a good story.

And then…there are the control problems. I had to work with a guy once who was a huge control problem. This guy was not a bad guy by design – he was just a selfish petty drug dealing Marin guy who thought everything was owed to him. We developed this guy on a nice sunny afternoon – signed him up went through all the paperwork necessary, ran it by the D.A. and got him out of jail. He was a good informant because he could get us some weight. We were a major unit which meant we were not so interested in the gram dealers. We wanted ounces of cocaine and bigger.

After getting this guy out we had “the big talk.” I told him the rules, reminded him that the money we gave him was not his and was designated to buy drugs. We instructed him how to drive nice so we could follow him and told him to talk so we could hear him in the wire. These were rules that were not so hard to follow. Well, so we thought.

When we turned this guy loose for a planned deal, he drove like a maniac. We had cars on him trying to keep up with him. This guy took his car. Of course we searched it first and him, but we were not prepared for the Indy 500 car race just to get to the deal location. Of course he needed to stop in first for a car wash (with our money) and then dinner – I think it was pasta with scampi (with our money) and then to the meet. We would have usually tried to call this guy or drop in on his dinner, but we had no idea if the dealer was going to meet this guy there, and of course he had the radio on so loud in the car that we could not hear the phone. Personally I wanted to crash into his Mercedes like a kamikaze pilot to teach him a lesson.

The deal never happened and he was the recipient of an index finger in the chest coupled with a couple of motivating if not cathartic words from me. (Expletives deleted.) We made him pay us back, set up another deal and quickly learned that he was not able to pull off a good case for us. I think he was annoying to the dealers too. We fired him. I am not so sure what happened to this guy, but it would not surprise me if he ended up in a ditch.

Now I did have a couple of informants who were unbelievable. Some had to work off a little trouble and I had one that just wanted to help. He/she was surrounded by drug dealers and just wanted to get rid of them. Another was a nice person who worked at a place where lots of mail was handled and was exposed to package after package of drugs. This person just thought it was wrong.

So here is how is worked back then. I suspect that the informant enrollment program is still the same or very similar. 1) Select a nice target to be an informant, or sometimes they come to you via a nice note from the jail or a call to the tip line. 2) Check on their background. Lets face it…they are usually troublemakers. It’s a dirty business. 3) Meet them, make no promises and run them by the D.A. 4) Make no promises (yes again) and get them out with a court order or work with them when they get out. 5) Find out the motivation. Some people you can’t work with and you put them on the shelf. The whole deal thing on TV is a fallacy. No one really gets to walk. They get convicted and do their time. The judge and their attorney’s can make that a variable based upon their cooperation. Sorry, no free rides. I left a lot out on purpose…there is way more but it’s boring and top secret. And I’d have to kill you.

There were always female informants (Usually ex-wives or ex-girlfriends) that wanted to use their wily ways to perhaps convince you they had more to offer than working a deal. There were the strippers and adult film stars who came to the meetings dressed provocatively and had that apple in their hand. (Genesis – old testament)

We never met these gals alone and in private on purpose. Ever. Some have suggested naughty unlawful behavior as proof of their commitment. (Punishable by death in some countries) Of course later on they could potentially exploit this to get themselves out of trouble. I had one gal ask for consent to have sex with her dealer apparently to close the deal. She explained that this was part of her routine. We, of course said NO in about every language we knew. I was not so sure how I would explain the child support payments from the County of Marin to the taxpayers, I but I knew it would be on page 1 of our local paper. I have never wanted that kind of fame. But some went that way. I had a guy from one of my dope schools end up going to prison because he played house with an informant. Of course she snitched on him the second she was caught with drugs.

I met one young lady who was barely 18 and dropped out of school. She did not have a clue how to buy drugs but thought she could because it seemed cool on TV. I used her once to call a wanted felon. I had his phone number but knew he would not show up for me…presumably because I was not his type…at least until he went to prison. I had her put on her best squeaky voice and had her call him. It was beautiful. She called and gave him her first name.

When he drew a blank…she worked him over. “What you don’t remember me?” He took the bait like a trout at the fish hatchery. He suddenly “remembered.” Of course he was right, they had never met, but again, the greed / sex center of the male mind is unbelievably transparent, shallow and malleable. She suggested they have a nice pizza together and perhaps do something naughty afterwards.

The primal caveman response in his brain took over. This guy had pin wheels in his eyes. The trance was almost audible. He was like a cartoon zombie walking with his hands up toward his hypnotist. He was a prisoner to his privates and the direct hormonal conversation between them and his sex /greed center, leapfrogged over the “common-sense too good to be true” portion of his brain and delivered him to our humble and wanting hands.

Of course we arrived two hours early to have a pizza – part of our “cover.” This guy was disappointed when six of us introduced ourselves inside the pizza joint after we sat next to him at his table. After a year on the run, he was captured and taken to the big house. And, of course, he had some party dust in his pocket for the after show with his date. Sucker. God I love this job.

…Back to our interview with the young woman and about what she was going to do with her life. She told us that one day she wanted to be an adult film star. Seriously. Again I was looking around for the Candid Camera and “gotcha!” I forgot about her until a year later when a nice package was delivered to the PD in a paper bag with my name on it. The package was delivered to my then den-mother at the PD, Nellie who was working in the front office. I was back in patrol from my time in the Task Force and received the call to the station. Sweet Nellie handed me the package and I pulled out the box inside right in front of her.

The box was a commercial videotape that displayed a number of unclothed men and women in geometric and may I add non-ergonomic positions doing unimaginable and transformative things. I think Nellie saw it as I jammed the box back in the bag quickly and ripped the bottom out as I was so embarrassed and a little scared at what I saw. I slowly removed the video tape box far enough to see the autograph and note from my former wanna-be informant wishing me well and announcing her triumphant arrival in the adult film business. Of course I had to watch the video in the privacy of my home with a number of my friends and had to self medicate my self with a foamy beverage as I witnessed the depravity and exploitive script for this young lady. Some excerpts were reviewed a couple of times to validate her acting skills. Of course all of us had this look like a dog that hears a strange sound, head tilted to one side, eyes wide open.

Well that’s it for now. I have to send a “Oy!” to SRPD Pal Marina Simoncini with the Australian Federal Police- a reader, Suzi Kim with Santa Monica PD also a reader and of course all of my new pals from the SMILE conference weeks ago in Santa Monica. I also want to recognize Jimmy Hoffa, not a reader, as far as we know. Stay safe. Ralphy.

Fighting fair hurts! By Lt. Pata

2010-12-30T06:39:00.001-08:00

In 1986, I was a rookie and not-so street smart. I lived in Marin County, California so I was not exposed to the kind of stuff I would later be exposed to as a cop. While I grew up in a lower middle class area, our version of trouble was speeding, maybe stealing a car or two, breaking into a building to party and maybe participating in some unlawful botany. Not me, of course, my pals.

I learned to fight in junior high school and I was terrible at it, but even that was kid stuff, and those girls were really kind of mean. Fighting as a cop is nothing like it. Adults who fight are usually moron’s, but fighting a cop, with a gun, who has lots of friends who dress like him…well, that is kind of insane.

In the police academy they teach you how to fight fair. Its funny how much of our job has to do with perception of what should be acceptable. So fighting fair looks better on TV or to the public, but often is more painful than street fighting. I used to love the TV shows COPS or CSI Miami, now, they are the bane any cop’s existence. It used to be that when you testified to a jury, you were the expert. Now they are. They watch these TV shows and feel like they know how to do the job. I remember having to tell a jury once, for 20 minutes, that the science on CSI was not necessarily practical and how we really did things.

I am waiting to sit in judgment on a jury for a brain surgery gone wrong. I have watched enough episodes of “House” that I think, given an Exacto-knife and maybe a drill, I could pull it off. (Said with unbelievable sarcasm)

I have had similar heart-wrenching conversations with parents of murder victims. One wonderful woman once stated in desperation that she did not understand why we could not solve her child’s case like they do on reality cop shows. I felt like a jerk, but reminded her that for every one case you see on “The First 48” there are a number that never make it on TV because they are unsolved.

TV has had a huge impact on our job and depending on the video point of view and its context, seeing is not necessarily believing. But let’s face it, cop shows sell. They are interesting – which is why there are lots of shows about the job and not so many about librarians or accountants. I’d like Di Nero or Pacino to play me. Maybe Dennis Farina.

OK – Funny story time. Many years ago I worked a pretty significant case. The case was profiled on one of those reenacted detective shows. I knew the date and time it was going to be on, so, of course, I told everyone that they had this guy who was going to play me on TV. What I did not know, was that he was a nice bald man, about-oh, lets be charitable and say 300lbs. You know the kind of guy that has sweat spots under his chest and food stains on the top of his belly. Ya. I was a hero the next day

This police thing we do is violent at times. If you are smart, ending the fight as soon as possible, even doing stuff that seems shocking, like punching a guy in the chops, while not pretty, works. Trust me, the “5 from the sky” (a real police move) doesn’t work for me. I tried it once. I lost. The fist sandwich to the jaw sometimes works. But only if you don’t have access or time to get to some pepper spray or a Taser.
Oh and TV writers and cop book fiction writers - punching a guy in the chops hurts. So the multiple tenderizing of a crooks jaw on TV is kind of dishonest. One good one delivered briskly and with some profundity might break your hand.

Pepper spray works if you are a good Christian and go to church every Sunday but not if you are too close or in a room deploying it. You always know when the satanic fluid directly from the infernal region got everyone in the room too – just look for the 4 or 5 cops leaning against the house or building with that slime stuff from an alien movie falling out of their nose as they ball their brains out and wretch. It works, but it is a hazmat experience. Yuck.

The Taser or Electronic Control Device as we call it – works. Usually. I’d like to meet the guys that dream up these things just to see what makes them tick. I would have liked to be in the lab when they came up with this idea. “Hey lets make this gun that shoots darts into people, and THEN, let’s send a current through their body!” Cool! Well, I have to tell you, an ECD being deployed is kind of a religious experience for these tough ex-con’s who would otherwise need 700 pounds of cops to keep them on the ground.

The problem- if you want to call it that -with the job is that it is easy to have a complaint filed against you for just about anything and especially for using all this stuff they give us to end the fight.

Let me serve up an example of how not to do it… in the late 80’s I was crossing the street, in uniform to help out a guy who was sick. Halfway across the street an old Ford pickup with three men inside the cab became acquainted with me, er - actually the hood of their truck became acquainted with me. I flew over the hood and landed in the beautifully landscaped city planter box.

Of course I landed first onto the concrete portion of the box on my back and then rolled into the soft dirt inside. I was not happy. I was hurt. When I got up, I walked up to the driver and opened his door, this time for a proper introduction. An open can of beer fell out from the floorboards. And for those of you who care…it was domestic beer, a Marin County felony.

The group of men was drunk. Unhappy Ralph lost his cool, picked up the can of beer and threw it into the cab of the truck. I didn’t hit anyone and all I did was get my new friends foamy with the suds in the can, it still felt good to do my part to pick up the littered can. I told ya, I was mad. Well that little delivery of aluminum, hops and barley justice landed me a citizen’s complaint. No one complained about me getting run over, but I can understand that I did waste a beer, so, I get it. Guilty.

The merchants in my town were very cool after the accident. After my little circus act, one business brought me out a towel to clean my uniform and another brought me a cup of coffee, exactly how I like it. It made me smile and took the sting out of my back for a few moments.

In the academy you get all of this tactical purposeful movement stuff. How to walk, talk and use the restroom with authority. They teach you enough to be able to swim to the center of the pool, but not necessarily how to get back. As a cop, you do carry in the back of your mind a little fear that your actions might cause a complaint. I used to think it was just me and Catholic guilt.

In the old days, it used to be a citizen who thought your behavior was not acceptable called in your name and you got yelled at. Now it’s YouTube or video and it can look very bad. It kind of explains the high-blood pressure and heart attack thing with cops. But isn’t it true that integrity is doing the right thing when you think no one is looking? So many more times than not, our people do the right thing.

Think about it, maybe guys on the most wanted list have an equally stressful job wondering who is looking over their shoulder, and when the next car stop will put you back in prison. Well our guys and gals know that and try to prepare for the next stop to be the last stop. Apply that scenario every time you drive, or get out of the car to handle a call. Multiply that over 35 years, add a pinch of fast-food and an alcoholic beverage, maybe a cigarette and viola! Heart attack. Now, in my 40’s I understand the mechanism.

I fought fair once. I lost. Getting your behind kicked is an education. As a cop you quickly learn you are: 1. Not that invincible, 2. There is always someone bigger than you. 3. You should do your best to stay in shape and 4. Turning left away from trouble is Eve offering you a bite from a tasty apple, and an intoxicating trance but one you have to fight off because it is part of our job jumping into the deep end.

If you had to get your behind handed to you, I guess its better to graduate from this little painful experience at age 21 than 41. It is easier to bounce back, and if you are seriously injured, at least you have some time to heal and find another type of work, rather than be an unemployed and a lame candidate for a job at 41 years old.

I have told others, and I really believe that doing 20 years at this job is like being in the NFL for a couple of years. All of the bouncing around, getting in and out of your car with all the stuff on, going from seated to jumping out of your car and running full speed for maybe 20 yards then tackling a bad guy or getting your head whacked adds up.

Police work is not like the stuff on TV. Each night you don’t meet the woman or man of your dreams, have a shootout or a cathartic experience. But each night, if you are a good cop, you visualize the shootout before you arrive at a call that is sketchy. Cops know, the 911 hang-up call with people screaming in the background, or the robbery alarm-call at the bank, where no one answers the phone. It is a pressure valve check on the old human body, but one that is so transforming, that you would not have it any other way. (For the record -I also visualize the girl sometimes. She is usually crazy about me and a member of the Swedish Bikini Team. She is also sight impaired and has a pizza in her hands.)

The wear and tear of this work does mess with you but, like any good drug, after you sleep it off you are ready for another dose of adrenaline-induced insanity. Next thing you know you are 20 years into it and some damage is done. After all of my years of being spit in the face, that little truck thing, falling down stairways, burned by crack pipes and most thoroughly getting my butt kicked, it has been a great career, one I would recommend to the right person and an honorable way to participate with your community.
But it hurts sometimes and thankfully there is this little thing called “worker’s comp” that pays the doctor’s bills.

I think more of my pals have ended up on the receiving end of the scalpel and with fused necks and backs, than guys I have grown up with on the job who have gone out on time. The quality of life after getting a wired neck is not so great. Someone should consider a barcode tattoo on your behind for all the times you end up in the hospital answering the same questions.

An example of how fighting fair doesn’t work is the time I was knocked out by an ex-convict. You don’t forget about these things. It’s like your law enforcement first kiss. It was around 3AM and it was right in the middle of our city on a busy night. I had just given this guy a break and asked him to pour out his beer. (Ya I know, me and beer.) When I walked away from him, he walked up behind me and hit me so hard in the back of the head that I’d swear it knocked the fillings out of my teeth.

The momentum of that smack turned the earth back a rotation. The cartoon stars over my head and the coo-coo clock sound were there! I remember it. Ralphy took a dive in the first! Those are the days I wondered – did I really check the police box? I should have checked the firefighter box on my application.

I got up and took him on- fighting fair. I was not happy. This guy messed up my hair, my uniform – 100% wool and my $100.00 shirt was dirty. When I looked down I noticed I had a hole in the knee of my pants. That was it! An Italian felony. Game on pal! Its one thing to knock me out, but my pants? Are you kidding?

I got up to take him into custody after calling out my location. Worst thing I could have done. I should have taken a nap on the sidewalk. He proceeded to beat me like a rug. I was busy doing all the cool move stuff my instructors in the academy taught me and none of it worked. I remember rolling around in the center of the street with this guy, as my back-up was coming from miles away. I fought this guy for 9 minutes. I remember seeing sky and street, over and over as we rolled around. Then came my chance. I thought this guy was going to eventually kill me. I resorted to caveman stuff and simply strangled him in the gutter of the street. This was all I had left.

My stick was gone, my mace was gone, my uniform was in tatters, my hair, was a mess the only thing I had left was my gun and for some reason, I felt like I could not kill this guy for a fist-fight. Although, after glancing at my pants, the thought did cross my mind. Barbarian!

Some weird thing overcame me. As I was watching this guy get sleepy – actually the life leave this guy, I let up. I relaxed my grip on his throat because in my head I thought he was done fighting. It was almost like he gave up. Well, he did but only because of the motivating, if not liberal application of my hands, to his neck.

My plan was to roll him over and handcuff him. Those, of course, were not his plans. Instead, he sharply applied his knee to my intimate parts rendering me a lump on the side of road – retching. At this point I was thinking that nothing was working and now, in front of God and maybe another future Mrs. Pata I was going to barf my brains out from the pain. I remember wondering where was the love? Why were none of these big, strong, bar patrons not giving a brother a hand. It’s like I was the dinner show or something. Not one of them stepped in or even tossed a lit cigarette or maybe a bottle at this guy. I needed an AFL CIO guy or Teamster to pull this guy off of me.

I look back and I guess I understand that if this guy was doing me in, perhaps it would not have been advisable to jump in. I would have killed for a stake and a bottle of holy water. This guy was all over me. Right now I’d kill for a steak! Writing makes me hungry.

I later learned that my sparring partner was insane. He was released from the Marines for being too crazy and, was placed in a state run mental institution. His probation report read that he was “imminently dangerous to society.” Well, if that’s the case, I can understand releasing him! It’s like leaving the henhouse door open for Christ sake!
I’d like to take whoever decided it would be a good idea to let the Tasmanian Devil out of his quiet and medicated world for a ride.

After the brisk application of the felon’s patella to my privates, I fell over and he got on top of me. Right as that happened I heard sirens and the next thing I remember was someone trying to take my gun from me. I was scared to death and did everything in my power to not let this happen.

I remember rolling over on my gun so whoever was trying to take it would have to roll me over and work a little to get it. I had nothing else. I was exhausted, scared and hurt. For some reason, probably the idea that I was going to witness my execution, I could not open my eyes to see that it was one of my partners trying to take my stuff, so I could be treated by paramedics. I ended up getting a second wind and started to fight off my partner. They actually had to subdue me a little to get me on the gurney for treatment. As it turned out, I was just scared and beat up. No lasting damage, except, of course for my freaking uniform and my pride.

I do remember fighting this guy again in my dreams for a while. I used to wake up exhausted. I’m sure I was a fun date. The nightly boxing match eventually went away. He was sent to prison for 3 years. When he returned, it was business as usual. I actually had coffee with him a couple of times at the downtown 7-11. We never talked about it. I learned to get over this, that it was not personal. It was just business. Of course I never turned my back on him again. He would go on to stab a person – at the same 7-11, a year later, and go back to the joint a couple of times before he too was summoned to the infernal region. I can’t remember how he beamed up, but I had an alibi.

Stay safe and don’t turn your back on psychopaths. K? Oh – and don’t come near me with a beer. Ralph.

On your mark. Get set…. By Lt. Pata

2010-12-23T06:57:00.001-08:00

Alrighty, so I get it. My blogs are not blogs at all…they are short stories. Guilty. Since I started on this little adventure, I was not sure what I was doing, so I called my little contributions -blogs. Um, they clearly are not. To give you an example of my technological shortcomings, when I started police work I used to write everything in pencil. Now, it is the computer. So it’s not hard to imagine that I am “challenged” in a computer way. I have cyber envy. I am digitally vacant.

My versions of the “blogs” are small morsels of my past, comingled with some of the present. Next thing ya know POOF! they go on a little longer than desired. It’s a curse. Its funny but the only time my trap is shut is when I am typing this thing. Also- remember that I can’t type and talk at the same time. To fall head first into the stereotype, I am Italian and, well, ya know the whole talk with your hands thing…for me its true.

The response to all of this blog stuff has been pretty amazing. Who would know that people were interested in this stuff? I mean after all me and my pals are not some big-city cops doing the shootout a night thing. (In reality – even they don’t do it each night. And thank God for that.) But their stories I’m sure are just as interesting. Actually, the way I look at it, they are really lessons in some ways. But I have been blessed – and at times cursed – with a great career surrounded by huge personalities in a very interesting community. I have to take a few lines and thank Beth Spotswood from CBS5 eye on blogs and Phil Bronstein at the Chronicle for giving us a little time and recognition on their own blogs and for seeing what we are really trying to do, which is chip away at some stereotypes and let you look over the wall to see there are really no big surprises.

I am a regular Joe, or Giuseppe, I guess. I just happen to come from a cop heritage that rubbed off on me, my brother Nick, my sister Diana (an ex-FBI employee and probably a spy) and maybe someday my boy. But he is kind of leaning towards being a paleontologist. I don’t care what he does. Really. I want my little guy to just love his job as much as I love mine. And, of course, buy daddy a nice Harley or Indian motorcycle someday. I just hope he does not do what his Cousin Dave did and join the freaking fire department. Holiday dinners are tense at our house. I guess every family has a black sheep. Ours is more like mutton. Thanks Dave.

I goof on myself, my family and “others.” It is a flaw, a weakness in my construction. I keep names out of it and try to be sneaky with some details that – if disclosed might make things a little too specific. It’s all true and in most cases there was a witness. Of course I have paid off the witnesses or they had an accident and are no longer with us. (wink)

Police departments are supposed to be a microcosm of society. And our little slice of heaven is just that. We have a nice variety of employees with piercings, tattoos, and people of all walks of life, color, religious beliefs, cultures, gender preference and political affliction.

It makes our world interesting and provides our customers some balance and absolutely some empathy and flexibility. It also keeps the old guys like me young and a devotee of the urban dictionary. All of the divorces, deaths, kids, births, marriages, financial issues-all the stuff our community suffers or celebrates, we do too, both at work and at home.

Suiting-up at work is not unlike getting ready for war, a paintball match or maybe for a few rounds in the ring. For those really sensitive types that saw the word war…yes, I know, we are not at war with our community. Trust me; someone will bristle at that little word. But take a look at what we wear. Bullet resistant vests, guns, bullets, tasers all of it wrapped in a nice 100% wool package. Oh and leather. Lots of leather.

The transformation is kind of cool to watch. A variety of fresh faces, like Officers Anthony Augustyn – usually on his way in from law school, Geoff Bowker, maybe Kim Larkey or Rob Cleland casually make their way across the parking lot and into our back door in their jeans, shorts, flip-flops with their iPods blaring and sometimes dragging behind them their suitcase, yes suitcase, with their work stuff in tow. All smiles until they hit the locker room.

The sardine can we call a locker room is small, cramped and the lockers – relics of WWII submarines -I suspect, are small. We shuffle things all over this little compound, kind of like a kid in high school with lockers in all of the buildings storing our things all over because we ran out of space in 1964. Closet poles are all over the place with jackets and rain gear hanging in long forgot corner’s of our police basement. The former briefing room is now the patrol officer equipment, helmet and gas mask storage room. Our guys and gals keep their suitcases there which contain report forms, gloves -maybe a snack or two and of course the obligatory Penal or Vehicle code. For those of you dying to know…the ladies have their own locker room. For those of you that thought otherwise, go to church. Now.

Not that I watch, but having been through the ritual of getting suited up for work is kind of a work in progress. First all of any sense of your past world is removed. You take off the shirt with the questionable graphic logo, or maybe the peace sign or whatever might actually indicate your bias.

The switch is almost religious in a weird way. The officers, me included, keep their religious medallions on or in the front pocket of their vest. Some have special tokens or mementos tucked in the front pocket where the Kevlar plate designed to slow down if not stop a higher caliber bullet resides. I keep a laminated photo of my son and a star with my girlfriends badge number in here. Some officers have painted in white on their black colored vests their blood type and donor status on the vest, a grim reminder of what this job can become in a moment. It is a desperate and polite message to the trauma center about what they might need quickly and what their wish would be in the event of the unthinkable. While we are on this happy subject, we also have locker letters and final arrangement documents for our peer support team to access in the event of that day.

Before the vest, you put on the black T-shirt. On hot days you use the material that wicks away the moisture. Doesn’t really help because on a hot day you could easily sweat off a couple of pounds of water. Where does it go? To your bullet resistant vest, of course. Now repeat this throughout the year and VIOLA! You have a lab experiment strapped to your body. A seasoned veteran officer could be found on the hottest of days – maybe in the walk-in cooler at the local 7-11 sitting on a stack of comfortable cases of beer.

While you can wash the liner of the bullet resistant vest, you can’t really wash the vest. So, the sweat and yuckiness is yours to keep until you get a new vest every 5 years. Nice huh? I like to call it “patina.” Some guys like Cpl. Mike Byers think its bad luck to wash the liner, kind of like a baseball player’s superstition and hang the vest like it is some sacred relic. It’s a nice little olfactory gift as I walk past his locker each day.

On cold days you wear layers of stuff. Maybe long underwear and of course the black T-shirt. About the black T-shirt. It is relatively new to us. We have been wearing it about 10 years now…that’s new. It used to be we wore white T-shirts under our uniform but we felt that it is kind of a give-away to a crook. If you work nights, the white shirt doesn’t work well with the blue uniform. I am a traditional kind of guy, so I like the white T-shirt, but as a safety thing, I get it. We are all about not being seen when we don’t want to be seen.

After strapping on the vest over the T-shirt then comes the 100% wool pants or maybe if you are a contemporary kind of cop you have on the cargo shirt and pants. I like the cargo pants. They are comfortable and they have a material that will stop from ripping in the very likely event of a tear. There is also a large selection of pockets to put your stuff in. The new pants and shirts come with rubber knee pads and elbow pads built in a very Smart idea, but not very official police-like for me. It doesn’t show well, and let’s face it, some of what we do is kind of showy and so it is not what you wear to a funeral or a council meeting…-Same thing.

Gotta have boots! It is the next thing that will cost you a mint and you put on because in reality it is the only thing that looks cool in uniform pants and it does have some utility. You can buy the mortuary boots, you know the cardboard ones that will last you a month or spend the money and get the good ones. The $200.00 brand is made with love and waterproof material. The good ones are also really light, an important feature if you have to run after a crook.

From the boots you put on the gun belt or the “Sam Brown” belt. OK, this should your first clue that this might be a sketchy job. We wear two sets of belts. Yep. There is the regular black belt that keeps the trousers up and then the utility belt, yes like Batman’s belt, that keeps your weapons and adjunct equipment properly stowed. This belt is attached to the other belt by way of mysterious straps of leather adorned with shiny snaps. Seriously, you would think the Marque de Sade was the designer of this uniform – or maybe Michael Jackson’s wardrobe guy.

The belt holds the gun, two sets of handcuffs, gloves, radio, ASP brand “baton” (an impact weapon) Extra bullets? Check! They are there on the belt too. All of it has a purpose and all of it is used virtually every night.

Our “stuff” is loaded up and checked in the locker room. The gun and electronic control device (Taser) are checked outside for obvious reasons.

When I see football players or baseball players in the locker room I think of our team getting ready. Not to play, but to provide our service and to prepare for whatever might come our way. Will tonight be the night we get in a shooting? Will all of my guys and gals come in at the end of the watch, in one piece, much-less alive? The game face goes on when the uniform goes on. It is a state of mind. Don’t get me wrong, it is not like a church here, briefings are very spirited and there is some time to yuck around, but the air seems different in our building than when it did just before you walk in. And not just because Mike won’t wash his vest carrier or because of the dank, musty smell of the dungeon we call a police station.

When these courageous and selfless officers come out of the locker rooms, whether it be the men’s or women’s locker’s they are ready to go. You can see the change in behavior from the moment they passed the backdoor into our little, dark, cramped world.

Some people have said we look mad or maybe mean. OK, sometimes we do. It is part of the game-day ritual. Take a look at the football player on the bench. How about the stare from the bullpen? It is the same mechanism, with just different results. It is state of mind stuff.

The job will sneak up and get you if you pretend to be Deputy Barney Fife. There is some science that the “friendly” or passive kind of cop has a problem getting killed. That is not to say the roulette wheel will not land on your number – no matter who you are. Take a look at officers who are getting killed. They are well trained heroes who were greeted with misfortune. As I write this two officers have been killed in the last two weeks. One last night. It is all about balance, fate, training and luck.

After the uniform and briefing, it’s time to strap on your office, a two-thousand something Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor. This is a boring looking, but fast little car. It has been the industry standard for a number of years, both as cop cars and as taxi’s. But that has all come to an end. Ford stopped making them. Soon you will see all kinds of new cars hitting the street. It is actually pretty exciting.

Once you hop in the car, you check out all of the stuff that makes it your office. The mobile data terminal, the first aid kit, the stop-stick, the high-powered rifle and the bean-bag shotgun. The mobile data terminal is what we get our calls on – actually we are dispatched on the radio, but the details, the dirty little details -are on the screen. The MDT’s also give us criminal and contact info with photographs, car info, you name it, and you can get it on our MDT’s. And to those who would feel a little irregular about all this info based stuff, all of it is audited and checked and encrypted. It keeps us honest and totally transparent. The stop-sticks – they are a James Bond like device that will flatten tires of bad guys (And good guys alike who forget they are on the road) who are trying to get away. A car chase with the stop-stick deployed usually will be good for a set of police car tires. It happens.

Here I am trying to make this a simple more bloggy type blog and I am already five pages into it. And I am just getting started. So in order to facilitate the function of the blog, I will stop. Yep, to my critics I say – There ya go!

Stay Safe – Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays. Ralph.

Skullduggery by Lt. Pata

2010-12-10T06:17:00.001-08:00

A couple of years ago I was the Detective Sergeant for our Investigations Bureau. It was a cool job for a couple of reasons. Reason 1: I could wear a suit, the official uniform of Italian men. Reason 2: I have spent about half my career as a detective and found that it was the most cerebral part of police work for me, either in the patrol car or in the bureau, investigating and putting clues together was my juice. It gave me an opportunity to completely investigate things patiently if not loudly...I used to get really vocal with some of my clients, usually after I politely put the phone receiver, gently into the receiver. Reason 3: I was exposed to some of the best cases and I was able to sink my teeth into some major events that changed the lives of our community, our department, other departments and most sincerely, my life oh and of course, coffee was the potion that would transport me to that spiritual Jack Webb place in my brain.

Being a detective and especially a guy with the police art talent exposed me to a new side of crime. The filthy dirty, underhanded side. People who are actually sinister in the manner they conduct their lives. Those rotten people that prey on our children, our elderly our disabled and cowardly take the property of others when they are not looking. My pop’s sense of right vs. wrong coupled with my grandfather’s execution of justice the N’dragngheta way, helped form my foundation for doing the right thing. The N’dragnheta was a “social club” similar to the Gambino’s but in the old country. The really, really, old country and Nonno Ernesto was, um, the Village scorekeeper er, maybe I should say “shot caller.”

The stories from years on the street and in the bureau would get your attention and as the years aggregate they create a protective veneer over the sensitive parts of my soul making me have to reach down a little farther to feel some things. I am invited back to the real world through my non-cop friends, my boy and a healthy application of pasta. All of those quiet moments are what help mold you into what you might be once you retire from this business.

One of the events that changed my attitude was the discovery of the human soccer ball on a neighborhood hillside. The call came out the night before and I received the call at home. “Ralph, the sergeant said, I think we found a skull.” Apparently a local guy was trying to clean up the hillside of a thicket of blackberry bushes and picked up what he thought was a soccer ball buried half way in the hardened dirt. Surprise! It had holes in it and was too light to be a bowling ball. The holes were, of course, for eyeballs. I am guessing for the guy that found this…there was a near incontinent -with a sudden lack of atmospheric pressure moment -as he sucked in a volume of air preparing for the big Holy $#@! that would accompany his ever contracting bladder. The discovery of this bony globe would be the beginning of a week long effort to resolve this case.

My experience with these kinds of finds was that they were usually fake or Native American bones. Marin County is loaded with Native American remains. I had a car sit on the remains all night at the end of the street so we could get on it first thing in the morning, well almost first thing. I had to see my friend Peet for my seductive elixir of roasted legumes. That beautiful, beautiful brown extract from the Arabica beans.

There was no use in going out the night of the call, because if was what I thought it was, it was not going to get any dead-er and hillside excavations suck at night. The only thing you accomplish at night is stepping into deer droppings and fall. Even with my center of gravity enhanced by fettuccini, I still have balance problems on steep hills. Remember, the Pata collections of people are lovers, not Billy goats. I ended the call and returned to my baby-back rib dinner. (Sorry, had to)

Too early the next morning I took Det. Auld with me, after coffee of course, and drove to the hillside where the World-Cup skull was found. I joked with Blair that it was probably some kid’s dirty trick, that I just put an officer on the bones all night for no reason and that I was going to have to explain myself to my boss. My boss was Lt. Al Piombo. Al is one of those brilliant guys who, given enough time would solve world hunger. Seriously, I used to be jealous of how smart this guy was and respected how he trusted me to do my job. Of course, my respect for him did not dissuade my goofing on him by booby-trapping his office when I could.

Blair and I casually walked up to the hillside from the street and saw all of this thick blackberry all over the place. Of course I had a coat on and it was starting to get a little warm, so I wanted to look at the bones and become a hero by telling everyone it was Native American or someone’s science room silent instructor, you know the bones hanging on the wire thing at the back of the class.

I walked up to the officer who directed Blair and me up to the scene. When I got close I saw the skull in the position it was found. I’m not sure what soccer league our reporting party was in, but this was not big enough to be a soccer ball, oh and the squiggly lines on top, where the three bones meet, gave it away to me that it was not suitable for making a goal. Well, not in its current configuration.

When the Officer rolled the skull over exposing the bowling ball holes, the two eye sockets and nose, I immediately felt everything from my a stomach down lock down tight. I’d swear I heard God start laughing at me. My heart started to beat faster and suddenly it became really, really hot out. The patron saints of nausea were also visiting me to enhance the moment of discovery that would rock my little world.

Of course I still didn’t put my coffee down or take my coat off; doing so would be a violation of the Dragnet code of conduct. I turned around and then told Blair, “Uh, we’ve got problems.” He asked me why, “Bull, they didn’t have dentists that back then.” My skull had fillings. In our business that was a clue. The Native American’s did not have access to 1-800-Dentist in the 1800’s. Problem number two…it appeared to be a child. The skull was tiny in size. Big-Big problems for us. Problem #3. I had to use the little detective’s room.

I had our patrol guy’s seal off the area and I contacted my boss. It’s like the horn for a cruise ship went off, notifying everyone around that we had problems. Of course all good cops are voyeurs in a way and dayshift showed up to see what the big deal was. And where there are cops…there are administrators, neighbors, ghouls, and yes, the media.

When you find a skull, it is likely that you will find bones nearby. We treated this like it was a crime scene and put up the tents and ordered the pizza. We also moved into the neighborhood with our Mobile Command trailer.

The next call was to the Coroner. Two investigators that I have so much respect for, Dave Froehner and Daryl Harris, showed up to give us a hand. This was going to be an archeological dig and we needed the pros to help. The Coroner called on two scientists from an archeological firm in Sonoma County to come and help us. Suddenly this was an Indiana Jones moment. The only thing missing was the hat and whip.

One of the first things we needed to do was discover from our archeologist if we were dealing with a Bona-Lisa or a Napoleon Bone-apart (Boy or girl.) One challenge we have, always, is keeping the lookie loo’s from contaminating the scene. This was not so hard because it was at the end of a road. Then there was the media air-force above. That was not so bad, but if you needed a moment to stretch out the elastic in your boxers or something, it would be on the tube. Not really a flattering moment, ya know?

We did all the background work on this we could. We pulled reports from the area, set up a hotline, made a media splash to see if we could get some callers to share their thoughts with us. We do this pretty often, not just for leads, but it is pretty cool to hear the stories, conspiracy theorists, and yes, angry ex-wives who snitch off their husband as the killer. The psychic’s are also an interesting group. They like to call too. I am not that closed minded to discard the thoughts of the psychic, but of course it is fun to poke at them a little. I’m a little psychic too… you see I knew they would call. See. Psychic. I rest my case.

As it turned out this was not a murder. But what happened? Days of sifting and digging dirt gave us most of our dearly departed. Some of the parts that were departed were yum-yums for the wildlife in the area, but we recovered most of the victim. Our CSI team of Peggy Ruge, Lynette Keller, Andorra Lee, Marc LaPlante, TJ Collins (yes a cool name) and others sifted yards and yards of dirt. The dirt was screened, and then taken to smaller and smaller screens. Finger bones in the dirt for years look a lot like little twigs. This find was in a grove of trees under a huge blackberry bush. To make matters worse, nice people over the years deposited their trash and steak bones in the area we were digging. So we had a few porterhouse false alarms.

We learned that a load of blackberry cuttings were picked up by the city and taken away. I called and found that the cuttings were still in the back of a truck at our corporation yard. A city dump truck containing the chipped remains of blackberry bushes and brush was sent back to the scene for us to shovel and sift through for any other clues. Our city Public Works crew’s dropped what they were doing and sifted the 5 yards of brush to make sure we had the entire victim and did not miss a clue. It just occurred to me, are we recyclable?

As our CSI team worked with the archeologists, using paint brushes to brush back inch after inch of dirt, we found bones dressed in what was left of denim jeans. At first it looked like the bones were tied up in a non-consensual way…but upon closer inspection, it was just the elastic part of the denim material left behind. The fabric appearing to be a ligature- was God having a little fun with me at the expense of my blood pressure. At the top of what used to be pants we found a button for LEE brand jeans and a cloth tag with some numbers on it. Our friends at the coroner’s office in Marin took the button and tag and did a little digging around (sorry) to find out what they could of the jeans. OK, ready for this?

That little tag told us a month and year of manufacture. The location of the tag on the zipper was changed in the early 1980’s from zipper to the back of the pant. This was definitely found near the zipper, so our friends at the coroner’s officer were able to date the pants. The coroner actually talked to the artist that designed the jean who was still alive living in the Midwest. The jean company was also able to tell us the year they switched from snap buttons to regular buttons. The number of belt loops was also a clue for us. All of this info was so interesting and gave us a time frame of how long the body may have been there. Pretty cool eh?

I noticed that the body had some thick blackberry roots growing through some of the bones. So here was my, or should I say Blair’s problem…why was this body under a thick blackberry bush? Was it dumped? By now everyone was calling us wanting to talk to members of our team about their missing cousin from Arkansas. Was this a murder victim?

I took the blackberry root from the victim and drove it to the genius’ at the UC Davis school of botany. These guys rocked! I felt like I was in the movie Silence of the Lambs when Clarisse met the bug guys at the university.
Two PhD’s met with me and looked at the root. These guys were not as creepy as the bug dudes in the Silence of the Lambs, but it was a very cool moment much like the movie. They were smart, and had a good sense of humor.

These two collaborated and told me the origin of the blackberry bush. “This is a Himalayan blackberry bush.” Really? “You can tell by the gray on the back of the leaves. “Ya, I said, I figured it was that” (I am such a liar.) The doc’s then took out a razor blade and sliced a sliver from the root. They put it under an electron microscope and told me how long the root had been in the ground. That data would give us a time frame of how long this victim had been there. The docs gave me a number around 18 years. They then said, “I think this part grew through your victim’s bones in the spring.” I looked around for the candid camera again, and then looked for the marijuana bong. “How can you tell that, doc?” They explained that the rings on this plant showed fall and summer. The dark represented slow growth, interpreted to these guys as fall. My sample showed some light growth just past the dark ring; therefore, my sample indicated the victim was in her spot in the springtime.

I drove home with a headache. This was all to smarty pants stuff for me and I felt like I needed a beer and a bar to dumb me back down. (Sorry but, lets face it; the local gin joint is not the Library of Congress.) On the way in I spoke to our park ranger, Mark Hedeen who told me that he recalled a number of years looking for a missing person, a woman on the hillside. He told me that SRPD even used tracking dogs but could not find a thing. Hmmmm. I was becoming really interested in this case.

On the last day at the site, we were preparing to remove the body of the person in the ground. I called for our police chaplains to respond so we could give this person a little official send off from what would be her almost final resting place. A couple tough-guys thought this was over the top, but I believe in Karma and decided she deserved it as much as anyone. The police staff at the scene, Coroner and archeologists stood around Lynn, (We named her) and said a little prayer for her as we were able to finally take her from her cold and undignified resting place. Blair and I along with our CSI staff personally carried her in casket box to the coroner’s van. It was important for both of us to do this and deliver her the willing and responsible hands of the coroner’s office. It is kind of like we had a relationship with her and after all of the time and effort, not to mention a few sleepless nights, we felt connected. It was a respectable handoff. I still remain proud of our team.

When we went back to the office we checked our messages. I had a call from a woman who lived directly up the hill from our find. I drove to her home and met with her the next day and asked her what she knew. She pointed out the house next door and told me that there was a woman who lived in that home, a small framed woman who had some pretty significant alcohol problems.

I would later learn that she had good reason. Five members of her family were lost at sea when the 1964 Tsunami from the Alaskan earthquake hit Washington State. Her husband,mother in law, and two children would later die in a car accident years later. Her cousin died of suicide and his adult child would also kill himself. This family, now all but wiped out was about to lose one more. Lynn, as we called her wrote a suicide note and was heard late one night by the neighbor saying “They will never find me this time.” SRPD responded to her home in the early 1980’s and found a ladder from her back yard to the blackberry infested forest behind her home.

I raced back to the police station and found the report now filed on microfilm. The automated record check we conducted did not go back far enough; this case never hit our radar screen.

The report had the name and suicide notes. The woman would never be found. Did we just identify “Lynn?” I gave the info the Coroner’s Investigators. Our coroner’s team found a last living distant relative in another state. That person submitted to a DNA test and after a month of waiting, we were able to identify Lynn and give her a proper burial. Lynn would no longer be missing. She was found, less than 200 yards from her fence. We never knew how she died, but an estimated opinion would suggest that she drank some alcohol, took pills then crawled under a blackberry bush to sleep. Sleep she did, for 20 years.

Stay Safe. Ralph.

Turn for the worse by Lt. Pata

2010-11-23T10:07:00.000-08:00

As a cop you are not really supposed to have that moment where you actually see your life pass before you. Not really. I mean of course it happens on every episode of popular cop shows, along with the shootout and paramour experience, but in real life, it happens - but it is not as sexy as on TV and at least in my experience I did not jump in the bottle or take drugs or seek out some cheap one-night stand. However, now looking back I am wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Built in excuse, a little legal- but immoral bad behavior-How long will Catholic guilt and Italian pathology poison my opportunities to have the adult “E” ticket experience? Sheesh!

Don’t get me wrong, I am a little interested in some vices. A nice bottle of Rafanelli Cabernet or Zin perhaps? I am not a prescription medicine guy but the company of a beautiful woman, Madonna (The mother of Jesus not the naughty singer-Said lovingly, almost like singing it- while looking up and both my hands flexing the index fingers to both thumbs.)…don’t hate me. It is my heritage. I love women.

As far as meds -once I brought back a canister of Oxycoton to the Emergency Room the day after a wonderful doc at Kaiser prescribed it for one of my many bumps from the job. I did not know what to do with it because it made me sick and I figured someone else could use it. I figured I could trade up- or down for something that would not make the lining of my stomach introduce itself to my mouth and nostrils. I am a really really bad patient. Some would call me pathetic. The idea of barfing, makes me sweat. Anyway, I remember the doc saying to me, “Are you kidding? You know the street value of this stuff?” Ya, like I was going to sell it to my pals.

After fighting fair, once-I remember seeing my life, short as it was and not quite as adventurous or interesting, pass before my eyes. Actually the fist of the bad guy, his knees, and the cement passed before my eyes first. I guess the moral of the story is if this misfortune is going to happen, then it really should happen late in life, so at least the story – actually the slideshow in your spinning head -is interesting. Mine was about silly stuff, you know, the past gals I dated, my pets and my mom’s ravioli, maybe a couple of really good donuts. It was probably a PG maybe an R rating – tops if it were a movie for others to see. Now, of course it would require the almighty version of a motion picture rating of an NC-17. I confess, I have enjoyed my life. Forgive me, it’s been 25 years.

So the slideshow- while in the heat of the battle- is a little distracting. Thankfully you have the loss of consciousness that works out the details with your subconscious. They are pals. “Unconscious, meet Subconscious.” A little synaptic handshake and POOF! You’re on your way.

It’s hard to swing or take a shot at the bad guy when in my subconscious – “life passing before me delirium” - my sweet mom is there in my hallucination, trying to feed me. “Not now mom I am getting my butt kicked!” In my experience, it is the few moments in between the well placed -fist-assisted clock-cleaning- punch that provide this little visual hallucination. But everyone is different.

The best way to describe it for you, the consumer of my nightmares, is to put in foam ear-plugs, then take a couple Valium- go to your girl or guy friend’s home and tell them you cheated on them and watch the festivities. Be sure to duck when the book War and Peace is thrown at you. Oh and jump off the roof for the pain factor that sneaks past the experience goal-keeper. Another good way to experience the wonder of this is to crawl in an industrial dryer at the Laundromat.

Of course, while many won’t get there, at least on a assault-induced level, Murphy’s law, or the Italian version, lets call it Peppino’s law’s, would ensure that I have this wonderful life fulfilling event. Twice. For now.

The first event was completely born out of my sense of stupid cop-ism. I normally don’t participate in my own behind whipping, but for some silly reason I decided to stay in the fight this one time. I should have handed this guy the keys to my car and bailed into the bar for a drink. I devoted a blog to my butt-pounding and if it makes it past the censor – you should get it any week…So – I won’t bore you here with the details.

The second event was much less painful, but more of a mortality-reality check. Facing down a guy with a gun is “Interesting.” I don’t really recommend it…well not for most, but there are a couple of folks I think of who would benefit from it. It is the big equalizer or perhaps the huge roadside sign in life that sets the perspective on the balance of your life. ATTENTION RALPH – Duck!

My little late night lesson in fight or flight, or survival was an attention getter to many, but mostly to me. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was another event that caused me to relive it in a cruel little way- designed by God I’m sure, to make me never forget that I am totally expendable, mortal, and made of water and gooey stuff that when damaged leaks red.

The beginning started like this: I was driving in at the end of the night and I was looking for trouble. I was driving west on a troubled boulevard in our city when I saw a felony car driving past. A felony car is a nice moving container of “suspected” criminals. The car was filled with people and was driving past me really-really slow in the opposite direction. It was like every nerve receptor in my body was alerted and telling me….turn around….turn around NOW. So, stupid Ralph, did. In hindsight, I now know it was God and his pals “Saint Pain” and “Saint Scare the Pants off of You” that dropped a nickel in the Ralph juke box of life and ordered up this little event.

I tried to not fall into this trap by evoking the innocent citizen clause. I said to myself, Naaaaah, these guys are just passing through. Well, just as I was about to disengage, they did a naughty thing that caused me to close the deal and pull them over. The result was my traitorous right hand lowering from the steering wheel, to the police light bar thing and then the fateful un-twitching deliberate right handed motion across the lever that sealed my fate. I activated the overhead light-bar. Oh, the naughty thing they did to seal their fate…they used their blinker to indicate a left turn. NO ONE uses their turn indicator. That coupled with the other stuff, like a burned out license plate light, (totally serious) and the fact they were driving the speed limit, was it for me.

I called out that I was going to stop this car. Smart Ralph called out the number of people in the car. There were 4 seen, but actually 5 in real life once I pulled them over and could see all of my new friends. In San Rafael we get an automatic cover for this, a car stop at night was the trigger. (So to speak.) The fact that there were 5 guys in the car, gave me an extra car for cover.

My pals Rob Guidi (now the Chief Inspector at the D.A.’s Office) and a martial arts expert kind of guy with a cool name and now retired Officer Bart Snyder, a muscular guy who actually reminded me of pit-bull, were my cover officers. The stop was in a good place for trouble. In a certain part of town, not unfamiliar with things that go “pop” in the night.

Before my cover could arrive I walked up to the car’s passenger side, a little trick I learned to keep people off balance a little and give me or any cop the only advantage that they could have in a car stop. Remember that most people getting pulled over have that time to hide or pull out things to make your life miserable. These guys would not disappoint me.

“Hi guys! I stopped you because your license plate light is not working…” (Said in my best Beaver Cleaver cheery way.) Yep, that was my probable cause. Oh. My. God. Getting it out fast and as friendly as you can is the key to keeping any weapons in their pants, which would, in turn keep mine in my holster. Its basic street cop stuff designed to put the bad people at ease. Think about it…you’re a crook, you just robbed or maybe killed someone. You are paranoid and now this pudgy cop is pulling you over. Now, throw in a little crack cocaine and you have a recipe for the OK Corral.

The old license plate light is a cheap little reason, but one sanctioned by the law and one that gave me what I needed, a legal introduction. The astonished crew from North-Richmond California gave me the look like, “Seriously?” It is not a stretch for me to play Colombo and act like an idiot…one would say that, perhaps it comes naturally. So – I gave these guys my best stupid cop – nothing is wrong pitch, which probably saved my life. These guys bought it.

Ok, you may not believe this…but there really is something to feeling a vibe. I had a really bad feeling as I walked away from the car that something bad was up. I guess it is part of the reason I stopped them. Officer Tom Sabido was in shrink school and was doing his Master’s Thesis or a paper on the “premonition” thing or whatever you call it when cops get that spider-sense hair on the back of your neck feeling. Ask anyone, - ask him it is real! It is also another of God’s misguided games – at least on me. Sure, he will give it to me for labor reasons, but when it comes to matrimony, or perhaps investments…I get the big goose-egg. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada. Not even a wave of nausea.

By the time Officer Guidi and Officer Snyder got there, I was ready to invite these guys to the beautiful scenery that is the sidewalk in this lovely part of town. I remember walking up to the car, a crappy dumpy rusted-out lowered Chevy and I asked the occupants if they would not mind stepping out. OK, so here is every cop’s dilemma. Keep your audience in one place, making a smaller target, or getting them out so you can keep your eyes on those filthy little trouble-makers – their hands. I got them out. I wanted to see what was in the car. I asked the driver if I could take a look around. He said yes. Remarkably, people normally always say yes. In his case, he knew he had nothing bad in the car. It was on him. I came out of the car dejected. I knew that something was up. But where was the dope? Grrrrr.

This next little event proved to be annoying. I should have just said thanks, dusted these guys off and left…but no. Not me. I asked to search these guys individually. As luck would have it, of course they said yes. What I did not know, was that their “yes” was my little avenue to personal growth that would cause a vacuum effect relationship between my trousers and my lower gastrointestinal area.

So I picked the wrong-or maybe now as I look at it…the right citizen to search. Rob and Bart are dialed in to the other 4 guys and I start to work my way down this guy’s prize-fighter shoulders – searching all the way. This guy could have been a welterweight boxer. He was fit. But his fitness betrayed his central nervous system.

I like to take it all in when I am dealing with people…no matter what I do. So the artsy guy in me noticed a couple clues: One, he was sweating, Two: He was talking really fast, Three: I could actually see the beating of his carotid artery on both sides of his neck, as I stood behind him and Finally: I could see and feel his muscles contract as I touched his shoulders to check under his armpits. (Ya sexy job eh?) Now, Ralph was getting nervous. This guy was nervous like a priest in a line-up.

I asked a really-really stupid question, but one, again that I think may have contributed to me not getting shot. I asked my new pal “Um, you don’t have a gun, do ya?” Flabbergasted and a little hurt, he assured me that he did not. Phew! OK, now that I got that out of our system, you know the 300lbs elephant in the room, I said, OK, and started to search him again. Because, of course, he would never lie to me. People are too good.

I put my mitts back on this guy’s shoulders as I prepared to search under his armpits and down his spine for hidden stuff. You know, knives, machete’s guns bombs. Etc. Don’t laugh. I actually took a hand grenade off of a El Salvadorian guy once. I’ll share later.

The second I put my hands on this guy’s shoulders again he tenses up. Now it is the late in the evening, around 11-ish it’s not cold and my hands are not especially repulsive or cold to cause such a reaction, in fact I think they were nice and toasty –if not sweaty so I am wondering, what is going on? And I do it again…the question thing. This time, I am NOT HAPPY with the answer…Actually it was more of a statement…. I said “You have a gun don’t you?” Not really wanting the truth, I got it.

My new criminal friend said “Ya!” I tell ya…the planet stopped rotating for a second.

OK, lets dissect this a little. He didn’t just say “Ya” and direct me to his blued steel pistol….no no, well, not really, I guess he did in a way, He decided that our friendship, or acquaintance was over. It was terminated and he no longer was interested in forging a working relationship that would allow me to help him mend his ways. One that would help him find a new path. Nope. He made the decision that although he did not know me, he was more interested in ending my short life. Perhaps it was a harbinger for things to come.

My new client had a pistol and decided to go for it. I did not get the “sit around the campfire wanna see my new gun” vibe. I really-really got the trouble signal that this was not going quite as I had planned. Now I was wanting to be in my happy place, perhaps in Vegas, or maybe surrounded in a bathtub full of my mom’s lasagna or gnocchi. I would have settled for having to eat my way out of a tub full of peas, while listening to Justin Bieber – I hate peas and need I comment on JB?

My would-be terminator was going for it with all of his energy. I responded by paying attention and turned to basic survival and did what I thought was reasonable at the time. All of my parts were working. I remember the submarine “Dive Dive Dive!” alarm going off in my head. Aoooooooga Aoooooga!, then there was the fire bell “Ding ding ding!” Followed by my guardian angel flying down grabbing me by the front of my shirt collar and vigorously slapping the taste out of my mouth as he shook sense into me that this was the real deal. This is what the silly firearms and defensive tactics instructors had prepared me for. This is why cops drop dead at 50…the stress of this one moment. All of that training was for this moment. Holy #%$@! (My pulse is rocking right now as I write this and yes I have gone to the bathroom twice since I wrote this little paragraph.)

As the non-visual and inaudible alarms went off in my head, my body became a task oriented piece of equipment. My epiglottis slammed shut. PROBLEM, I need to tell someone. Mr. Epiglottis, my soft pink squishy pal designed as a safety hatch to keep barf down, squeaked open-long enough for me to say those nauseating but necessary words….”GUN! HE HAS A GUN!” That was it, my pink soft palate slammed shut so I would not barf and still be able to breathe. AND breath I did. My lungs inflated twice their size, I’m thinking now that it was their little way of getting my last breath in or perhaps getting ready for the organ donor recipient.

Next: The behind. My rear-end started to consume my underpants and trousers in an alarming rate. I actually think this is why I am interested in clothes. I believe that this event integrated the natural fibers of my boxers into my DNA on a chromosomal level.

Every muscle contributed to this fight. I remembered instinctively going for the bad guy’s gun. There was a flurry of action going on and I distinctively heard the sound of a metal hitting the ground. But it was not my guy’s gun because I had it in his hand. OK, new problem….HOLY @#$%! His pals are also armed. This is a big problem to cops. Um, there are five of them and three of us. And I am fighting this schifoso with all I have.

Dilemma. What the hell do I do now? I have his hand trapped over his gun. My right hand is pushing down in the guy’s waist band as he is trying to pull the freaking gun up. It was a push pull thing and the whole time I am thinking…no you don’t! My other hand was punching him in the head then as he moved forward toward Bart, I got a hold of his puffy jacket from my position behind this guy. New problem. Bart is standing in front of this guy with his pistol drawn pointed at the couple of guys that are remaining.

Two bailed and ran. So Bart – not by any design of his own, is not in a good place, but he and Rob are probably the reason this has not digressed into a big shootout.

I think Rob called out the “Officer Needs Help” on the radio, but still all of this… these last few pages lasted literally seconds. The fact that I can remember it is because of the slowed down time perception that happens in these “OMG” moments. I can tell you right now that I can smell my crook as I sit here typing. I think I can smell the foundry his pistol was made at and I might be able to tell you if the guy that poured the metal was wearing deodorant.

Back to my problem. Let go of the hand holding the gun…giving this guy a split second to turn around and blast me or Bart as I pull out my Beretta? OR, keep him from pulling it out giving me some time to try and strip it from his hand and maybe if I am lucky, this jerk will shoot himself. I suck at gambling and this was the gamble of my life. Maybe Bart and Rob’s too.

Another little concern…my Beretta holds 16 really fast rounds, I feared I would end up shooting this schifoso and a couple would get past the goalie and hit Bart. This, in official police terms – SUCKED! I am not ashamed to tell you, I wanted to shoot this guy. I did. I still do. My index finger is cramping right now.

During the fight, apparently the good Lord found it in his best interest to keep me alive. I remember punching this guy in the head and holding on for dear life, seriously, to his right hand. Well, in doing that, I actually did strip the gun from his right hand. Of course I did not know that at the time. My hearing was shut off and the aperture of my vision was about the size of a quarter. The suspect pulled out of his jacket, and did another no-no. He grabbed Bart’s gun and tried to steal it from him. Bart did an awesome job of pulling it away. Now all of this really made me quite upset, and I fell to the ground – disturbing the natural fibers of my LAPD blue pants. Ralphy is no longer scared. He is angry. Really Reeeeeeeeallly angry.

Once the crook pulled out of the jacket, it was like the beginning of a horse race. This guy was ON! Now, a sane guy would say, “see ya!” and let him go. But not us. Cops go after these guys and Bart and I ran after this crook who was pulling away from us like he was in the Olympics.

I remember seeing Bart try to light the suspect up with the laser on his pistol but it was bouncing all over the place. Once this guy made a quick left, poof! He was gone. About 100 yards into the foot chase, I could hear the sound of my feet hitting the pavement, and almost like the guy directing the soundtrack for this race was turning up the stereo slowly introducing the sound of my flat feet running. There was also the huff and puff of my Mediterranean body sucking in air like a jet engine.

Bart and I called out the last direction of the crook and that we lost him in the apartment complexes West of us. While we were chasing this guy the couple of blocks, I remember one of the OTHER crooks, who was with him, was not running toward us in this dark industrial part of the street. I guess the sigh of us running make him hop a fence at a car dealership –right in front of us! It was a bad move for him for a couple of reasons. It was a fenced-in lot AND-the top wire was razor wire. Yes, at this moment I am smiling. This guy just jumped into the Cusineart food processor. But imaging the confusion, we are chasing one guy and another is running toward us. If it was not so serious, it could have been a comedy. Did I mention the razor wire?

The “Officer Needs Help” call turned into a county-wide response of cops. It was beautiful. There were probably 60 cops there. This guy was in our perimeter. I remember I was assigned to check every a group of apartment complexs with our police K-9. It was with one of my personal cop heroes now Sgt. Rick Clary and I think it was his alligator-with a toupee- (disguised as a police dog) MAX. Max was a very angry little German Sheppard. And he was so good. Max was the piranha of dogs. Max, or as I called him Maximum or Maxi-tude, was ready to find my guy who disappeared in the night, That dog put his nose to the ground and pulled Rick toward an apartment complex in this heavily dense populated neighborhood. Max took us to these carports and then to the laundry rooms of this one complex. Picture, if you will, a small room that is not unlike a box, with a couple of windows, containing washing machines and driers.

Max is all over this one room. Rick knew the crook was there. Max looked like a junkie ready to get his next meat fix. His fur was all spiked up on his back, I could picture him tying a hankie around his neck while the saliva lathered up his snout. I looked in the window with my pistol drawn ready to do this again with the crook. All I could see was a huge pile of clothes in the corner of this room. I don’t think I blinked as I scanned the room for my crook. And then, I received a gift from God.

As I stared at intently at all of the stuff in the room, suddenly, the pair of shoes in the pile of clothes moved. But just a millimeter. I remember shouting…he’s in here! I was a maniac. I was shouting for this guy to put his hands up, because as far as I knew, he was still armed. I was rewarded for my observation, by receiving a love bite from Max who tried to get my attention. I think Max was trying to get me to shut up so he could go do his job. Or maybe he was jealous that I found him first. All I remember is seeing teeth of what I thought was a werewolf coming my way and Rick - with his eyes wide open and pulling as hard as he could to keep Max from devouring my lower leg. The boot saved my shins – and the pooch went in to get his treat. The crook really should have put his hands up. But he didn’t and I was ok with that, I know Max was. He literally became a squeaky toy for Max.

After Max introduced his canines to the suspect (liberally) I noticed that Mr. Tough-guy had enough. As soon as he popped his hands up, Max stopped chewing and again, good overcame evil. The hands up part was not quiet as fun as the chewing part for me, but all good things come to an end.

I don’t think I slept for a week after this. I do remember receiving a telephone call from a Richmond Police Officer the next day. I did not know who this guy was, and actually still don’t. I remember him saying “Congratulations, you are alive.” He then told me that the crew I stopped was conservatively estimated to be responsible for a half dozen robbery homicides in North Richmond and Contra Costa County. The cops were very interested in the guns for ballistic work.

As for the rest of the crew…the “clink” I heard during the fight was another gun. The guy who ran and hopped the fence was armed too. Thank God he was too much of a chicken to pull the trigger on us. I also thank God for razor wire. He needed some help from an emergency room doctor to stop the leak and put him back together. Yes I am still smiling. I suspect it was Rob and Bart having the crook’s behinds in the sight of their guns that kept me and us alive. Two of the other guys were wearing bullet -proof vests. Moral to the story, never use your turn indicator. As far as I can tell, the guy that tried to introduce me to his pistol is still in prison. I think he got 15 years. The others stayed in the joint for 9 years. The guy who hopped the fence, last I heard he was on the run.

Stay safe. Ralphy. More to come.

The Good, the Bad, and the Hawaii.......

2010-10-27T10:12:00.001-07:00

This blog comes to you from the Island of Kauai. I thought I’d bring you up to speed on what’s going on around the PD. It has been a busy couple of months for us. Like any family we have had people sick and injured even a death to our family and have had to muscle through it all while trying to maintain the same level of service our customers and clients have grown to like. Needless to say it has impacted the blogosphere but, I have a remedy for those moments. I have saved up a couple and they are on-deck to submit in the next few weeks. So here I sit in Hawaii, listening to the water and typing this little filler article until I can get my head around the next wave of blogs. Oh, and let me tell ya…there is a next wave…No pun intended. (Hawaii)

The last few months our team has been working with Dominican University to help them pull off the California Governor’s Debate. A huge endeavor, especially when you look at the stakes in this race and what it meant to San Rafael, not to mention the University. Now add a stabbing, shooting, miscellaneous thefts and missing people and bad stuff and you should get the picture that our shrinking staff has been working pretty steady trying to make it all work. It reminds me of a chainsaw juggling act

I have to hand it to Dominican; they did a great job of pulling off this debate in a well managed if not frenetic way. The energy level, months, then days leading up to the event could have powered a small town. Setting up an event like this is not like planning a wedding. Well, it might be if the bride and groom were polar opposites and the vows they were taking –literally “for richer or poorer” had a profound effect on everyone on their guest list…the welfare of Californian’s from the Oregon border to the Mexican border.

I will write more about this event another day, once we figure out who we want to drive the USS California, and once my medication wears off. For now, suffice it to say, I am qualified to be a Sheppard who specializes in herding cats.

In September one of our finest young officers lost his brother in a tragic auto accident. I can remember being at the range with 20 officers and police staff who were trying to learn how to deal with difficult people with the application of firepower and negotiations. During the range day, Captain Starnes announced the loss of our officer’s brother. It was like all of the air was sucked out of the room. God wound up and pitched a fastball directly to the private parts of our team. Immediately heads dropped to the ground. I watched as our officers, dispatchers and police specialists put their hands on their hips, turned and walked away from each other to have the moment alone. The wiped-out lack of expression, punctuated by the thousand-mile gaze said it all. (Hard to do by the way with shots being fired all around you. Gave me a new appreciation for our troops…)

While none of us knew this officer’s brother, it might have been anyone of our brothers. No smarty pants Ralph here. It was sobering. We all knew the struggles of this officer in growing up in a not so pleasant world – and knew the sacrifices his parents and grandparents made for their entire family. So, to hear this news was especially difficult and disappointing. Like all good cops, we took a few minutes, then immediately brainstormed on how we could rally and surround this family with what we could offer. Solving the problem and rescuing the innocent. It is kind of our way. Our dedicated and woefully inadequate but genuine way.

The day of the funeral was interesting – to say the least. I drove over to Richmond on a Saturday, with the Chief of Police. A number of our officers came on their own time to stand beside this family and our pal in his moment of need. The arrival of black and white police cars, and officers in a very weary and torn part of this city was not met initially with praise or a feeling of “come on in, we were expecting you.”

The tension could have been cut with a knife. We were not what people expected to see. I remember feeling like maybe we were being self indulgent or perhaps selfish in showing up. After all, the officer was our friend, but this was their brother. Those feelings left almost after I stepped out of the Chief’s car. The gray in the sky seemed to yield to sunlight as the hardened suspicious looks, thawed and retreated to acceptance and tolerance.

The service for our officer’s brother was amazing. More life was present at this funeral than I have experienced in both of my weddings and in all of my religious experiences. The singing was on par with any professional group on the radio or any choir twice its size. The sermon and recollection of the young life by family and friends was warm and sincere. I was in the most real and loving event than I could recall in years. The pastor acknowledged the 300lb elephant in the room, the cops. The parishioners and mourners gave us applause. I was touched. We all were.

Finally, I have to share the wonderful sight of men and women of all ages standing, singing, and I will never forget seated in my pew, looking up at the beautiful woman, maybe 80 years old, now standing, who pulled out her own tambourine from her purse and joined the young man on the drums and one on the organ as they celebrated this lost young life. As I looked up and around the room and reflected on our arrival, I wonder how many other young lives were celebrated in this hall. Well done. Attention organized traditional religion: time to take a field trip. I have an appointment with the Pope. We need a little facelift.

As if this emotional shot to the ribs was not enough, our organization dipped to an injury level I have not seen in more than 10 years. Some were detectives; some were from SWAT others from our patrol teams. Cynical cops always dissect the mechanism of injury and then apply their own physicality to the injury… it’s our version of water-cooler talk about the weakness of one of our own. Like the recipient of the injury was made of glass or china. That is part of the culture, and I would say “there but for the grace of God…” I am a court- recognized disabled officer who was damaged in a 1996 car accident. I get it. I can still work, mostly because I love my job and I feel like I have more to do and offer. I can work through the pain, but I have to admit getting up some days is not so easy and at times not so smart. I can do it, does not mean everyone can do it. But many before me have worked through injury and illness and I am sure after I go many more will deal with their pain in their own sobering ways. So long as those ways are not tied to the pharmaceutical industry. A couple of my friends have gone that way and sadly, they are no longer employed and others are no longer alive.

I still go to the Emergency Room a couple of times a year for the “big shot” that will fix my neck. Most of our officers have or are headed to surgery to fix their injury. It’s hard to fake that. It gets back to my saying that this job is like being in the NFL for a couple of years.

The treatment for some of these injuries, a sinister byproduct of this vocation, is second to some forms of Chinese torture. Imagine being 25 years old and having to have your nerve endings burned off to ease the pain. Or maybe a nice cadaver bone affixed to your spine? Rods, pins and screws used to hold together the frail and failing skeletal infrastructure? Sure. How about seemingly routine arthroscopic procedures to knees and shoulders almost like ordering a sandwich at a local deli?

Our department Chaplains has had a spiritual workout these lasts few months. I am sure their white collars can stand on their own from all of the use. From the death in our family, to the injury and illnesses and two very critical incidents involving young people, our officers have been navigating demons from these events with honor and valor as the robberies, crashes, domestic disturbance and violence calls do not cede to our moments of misery and seem to slide in between our “normal” calls for service, oh and the debate.

Its’ been a rough season at SRPD, but still our people move forward as we enter robbery season. Like a watch you can count on, a few days ago our first in a series of robberies started. Note to Detectives’ - stock up on legal note pads and pens – oh and keep your sport coat handy.

I can’t tell you how proud I was as a San Rafael Police Officer, an OLD San Rafael Police Officer, when I heard Officer Chuck Tirre call out on his radio that he was in foot pursuit of a robbery suspect a few weeks ago. Chuck is one of our most senior – if not the most senior officer in the organization. I love it when one of our “mature” officers runs down a young hyena as they rob or victimize a citizen. It sets the tone for the young officers that we, the infirmed and lame are not done. These young criminals have no idea. While the years do affect the infrastructure of a cop, usually in the form of ravioli deposits throughout the body, the mind and engine of these cops is ready and willing to take on any threat. Officer Tirre is a great example, well, actually, he is one of those weirdo’s that never got fat, but still, his motor was on when the robbery call came out.

The suspect picked wrong - that day. Chuck, Officer Bob Henkle, also part of the department’s tenacious “venerable” team and honorable survivor of a violent act that nearly cost him his life more than a year ago, ran this guy down into a building where he tried to hide from our guys. I ran from the police building after ordering up a helicopter from the CHP. I was determined that we were not going to lose this guy and I wanted to be there. The wise-guy in my head was chanting “neener neener neener!” because I knew this guy was done and we were going to resolve this situation professionally (Neener neener withstanding.)

In police work we get clues, delivered to us at times from the almighty. A big-big clue is when a handful of ordinary people, just trying to do their jobs, run like they are on fire from a building in all directions. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a clue from God. The bad guy is in the building. Of course those running out were normal. Once we secured the perimeter, it was time for us “abnormal types” to go in. The adrenaline was palpable. I recall hearing the shouts of our people on the radio and live from inside a phrase that is a “gut bomb” for anyone in the business- “we are not code 4!” What they were saying in polite hurried police talk was: ‘get the %$#@ inside we need help!’ While maintaining a perimeter, those who could go in-did. When I got inside I saw the suspect kicking, screaming and resisting the best he could on the floor. Of course he was a gang member who was threatening to kill our officers while they tried to subdue him on the floor. Of course good overcame evil and our client was arrested and taken to the hospital for evaluation, prior to being booked. When a suspect is acting pretty violent, we take them to the hospital in an ambulance first to avoid any conflicts that might occur, like maybe a cardiac arrest.

Attention bad people – hereinafter are clues that your criminal ways have betrayed you this fine day: One: Sgt. Wanda Spaletta, a great street sergeant, who is not shy about overcoming resistance from suspected criminals (wink) is the boss; Two: Sgt Coale a weightlifter who has to turn sideways to walk through a doorway is on duty; and Three: The likes of Officer Tirre, Officer Sabido and Officer Henkle all seasoned vets who are hip to your wily ways are working and have arrested people probably before you were born.

Good overcame evil and the “alleged” bad man was arrested. I love the word alleged…the press use it all the time. It is a dishonest word, but one used all the time because apparently we always arrest the wrong guy – or gal.

So from Hawaii, stay safe…bruddah! Ralph.

Next few weeks – A blog on fighting fair, an archeological dig and who knows…

Busy Busy!

2010-10-20T07:21:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone,

I just wanted to apologize for no new blog posts. I take full responsiblity as Ralph sent me a blog to review weeks ago but it has been a very busy month. Ralph is on a well deserved vacation in Hawaii but when he gets back I will have him re-send the blog which I have since lost in the mass of e-mails I get everyday. I hope all is well with everyone as we move towards the exciting holiday season.

Lt. Dan

The Kilo Club by Lt. Pata

2010-09-21T05:55:00.001-07:00

Back in 1989 I was a new cop. I tested and got the best job in the world, undercover guy in the Marin County Major Crimes Task Force. It still remains one of my fondest memories and the pals I made in the unit have become life-long friends and really are like family. I worked with I think the best Marin County had to offer back then. An eclectic group of professional’s who thought outside of the box, politely teased and poked each other, but when it was time to get to work, or pick on the Fire Investigators that shared our office for a couple of months…we did the heavy lifting on serious cases and did a great job of messing with the hosers and chasing them out of our office. Regarding the best job in the world thing…OK, food taster for Food and Wine magazine and Bed – Room comfort researcher for the Four Season’s Hotels might be a better job.

We were a “Major” unit because we were not limited to just narcotics. It was our focus, but back then, there was a nice variety of criminals for us to pick on. The beginning of our unit was pretty cool. We were each hand selected for our strengths and personalities. Then Lt. Walt Kosta and then Sgt. Scott Sibbald were the team leaders. I will never forget the interview. I was totally nervous. I gave the panel all of the standard cop answers about why I wanted to be in the unit.

I think I wore a J.C. Penny Blue suit and a horrid wide tie to this little soiree. Oh, the humanity! Let me take this minute to apologize to the late Gianni Versace and Mr. Armani and Zegna. I’m certain my punishment will be purgatory consigned to a WalMart brand suit, or worse, shoes.

At the end of the questioning the stoned faced leadership thawed a little. Sgt. Sibbald looked at me and reminded me that while all of my answers were correct and very professional, that being in the unit would be “a blast” too. He was not kidding.

After I was selected I packed my bags and left behind SRPD for the Task Force. There was a certain lieutenant who was not supportive of my move and did not feel I was a good candidate, so, I had something to prove. And, prove it, I did. Neener neener neener, ya big meanie. – Oh and thanks for your office!

It was a cool experience. I remember saying goodbye to my pals and did not look back for a number of years. That was a little problematic, when one day my black and white buddies forgot what I looked like.

You see I was setting up a drug deal in a parking lot when my beautiful paramour Beretta 92F Pistol, apparently made a surprise performance. The very hip Hawaiian shirt, pulled up and over my gun which was in the small of my back. So there I am at a really nice grocery store in a really nice part of town looking like one of characters from Miami Vice on the payphone and my pistol is making friends with all of the housewives. I told you, God likes to play hide and seek with me.

Oblivious to my armed rear-end’s “how ya doin’” act, I sat in my car waiting for a delivery of cocaine. Suddenly I see a number of black and white patrol cars circling me like I was a seal and they were sharks. I am getting a little frustrated because Mr. Drug Dealer only likes to deal one on one, not with a bunch of cops as spectators. Suddenly a group of police cars pull in behind me and I hear that nauseating sound a universally recognized sound that can only be a police issued Remington Model 870 shotgun. It is a beautiful sound when you are on the trigger side and you hear the gentle steel hands of your long-legged long gun escorting the plastic canister of death to receiver of the gun. That little canister containing those 9, 32 caliber hemisphere’s suitable for non-voluntary insertion into the unwilling recipient. This time, ME!

My frustrated fog of boredom is then illuminated by the following unfriendly demand: “YOU IN THE CAR PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” My brain had the following conversation with the rest of my body…Holy @&$! My eyes dilated, the eyelids of my “ravioli eyes” opened way past their intended aperture, nostrils-open wide and take over breathing duty as Mr. Mouth prepares for babbling and, or vomiting. Hands slllllooooowwwly move from the steering wheel to the roof of the car. Lower gastrointestinal tract, secure the aft hatch!

I look in the rear view mirror and I thought I was facing the firing squad. There were 4 cop cars and all of them were pointing guns at little old me. My arms were spring activated and immediately attached themselves to the roof of the car.

Now a couple of things were going through my mind. 1: If I get shot I am really going to be upset. 2: If I get shot, I am going to a hospital, where I dig this nurse and they are going to cut off my pants and she will see my beer-mug patterned boxer shorts. 3: #2 won’t matter, because in a second it will look like I spilled a beer on my boxers. And Finally, I knew if they pulled the trigger none of this would matter because I would be an ornament on a cold stainless steel table and some ghoul doctor would be taking pictures of me naked as they part my waterproof full body leather container and expose my insides.

It is never a good idea to negotiate with the cops when they are ordering you to do things. Especially with guns. So, I am trying to comply, but I also don’t want them to feel silly when they discover it’s me. I shout out of the window, “Jimmy – it’s me Ralph!” After I am told to be quiet and comply, I start to wonder if I owed any of these guys time off from a shift trade or something…I finally get someone’s attention and my pals put away the arsenal and dust me off. I thank them, and they drive off, probably to coffee. Of course my deal never happened and I drove out of the area quickly, completely embarrassed. I wanted to take up smoking. One gun pointed at you is bad. Four with a couple of shotguns mixed in, sucks.

The first week at the Task Force was kind of an introduction to how things used to work. But I was not selected to do things the way they used to be. We were all selected to do this job our way. Walt was the best boss. He was very supportive and he was a giant in the cop world. Lt. Kosta had worked a number of homicides and was really a star at SRPD and in the county. I mean when Detective Magazine writes a story about one of your cases, well, then you hit the big-time! He also had two master’s degrees, so he was not a slouch. Walt gave all of us enough room to get the job done. I can still remember seeing Walt standing in the door of his car at a shopping center after my team arrested a prison guard for buying cocaine to smuggle into prison. I recall handcuffing this dirty cop and hearing loud claps and someone (Walt) speaking loudly to a crowd of people in the lot “Another drug dealer goes to jail ladies and gentlemen!” The whole crowd started clapping and some sang the tune to “bad boys,” seriously, as we lead this guy away. This was a pretty cool experience.

The Task Force was located in a non-descript building, far away from any police station. Of course we were the undercover pool for the county and to do our job we all dressed funny, grew our hair and drove a combination of cool cars. Except mine, of course. My first car was a Chevy Beretta. What a dump-truck car. (Sorry to the Beretta owners of America, but seriously, yuck.)

We ended up switching cars pretty often, because some entrepreneur decided to sell a list of “Task Force” cars, with their descriptions, capabilities – like monitoring conversations (You know James Bond stuff) and license plates to patrons of local bars. Of course they were all wrong, but you have to hand it to the guy that thought that little one up. I think he sold them for $20.00 a pop. Nice. By the time I was out of the unit, I had a Buick Regal convertible, A Mercedes Benz convertible, A BMW, a Camaro and a Toyota and a few others.

One of our jobs was to attach ourselves to the feds when they came to town. The DEA liked us because we played well with others. So did the FBI and State Narcotics. Our unit had a great reputation because we worked pretty hard and were not territorial. All we wanted to do was catch crooks and send them to jail. By the way DEA does not stand for Don’t Ever Apply but FBI does mean Forever Bothering Italians. I keep trying to tell them what my dad told me, the “Mafia” was invented by Richard Nixon. That’s my pop…I love him, but he needs a little work.

One afternoon my pals were ready to leave and the DEA blew into town. The group was doing this “reach out and play with the local’s” thing. So, I was single and had no life and volunteered to go out with these guys. I was doubled up with this agent in a car in a Southern Marin restaurant parking lot when without provocation or warning, this high-roller in a really really nice car parks next to us and starts talking about ounces. Seriously, it was like Christmas. We are in a parking lot and a drug dealer pulls in next to us and starts talking about ounce deals of cocaine in what would later become my car.

The agent looked at me in amazement and asked if I heard the same thing he heard. We watched this arrogant guy (completely metro by the way) drive across the street into a secured parking lot. Well, it was not that secured because I got into it and watched in amazement as this dealer stocked the front seats of a half dozen unlocked cars with ounces of cocaine. Each car was parked next to each other and the driver’s doors were unlocked.
The suspect opened each one and slid a Ziploc bag containing cocaine under the front seat of each car. The cocaine gods were all over me. I should have bought a lottery ticket.

We took this guy off and found a kilo of cocaine and a huge amount of money in the trunk of his – now OUR car! We whisked him away and towed all six cars. All six cars would later be forfeited and sold at auction.

This guy thought he was Pablo Escobar or something. We get him to the county jail and roll him. Its funny these guys never hold their own. They roll over on their sources pretty easily but they like to feel like they are getting a deal. The art of the roll – to develop a client into an informant – will test your patience at times because these guys and gals are generally self-centered, and greedy. We nicely make the wannabe government informant disappear from jail because it seems that everyone knows everyone and the word gets out that the police talked to the them. It’s kind of like government sanctioned and consensual kidnapping, or “Rendition.”

I decided to let this guy cool his ego in the jail for a night and brought him down for a nice talk the next morning. The crook got escorted down to the sheriff’s office to a private room where I and the DEA agent were waiting for him. Immediately this loser starts to mouth off about what he wants and needs. He looks terrible. He has a little stubble on his face and the gel wore off. He tells me that he can’t talk to us or do anything without an espresso. Hey, it’s Marin. I have had about as much of this princess that I could have and its only 7AM. I didn’t get much sleep and one could say I was grumpy. I was not in my happy place.

I agree to get him an “espresso” – at the sheriff’s office, right!
I go over to the coffee machine in the hallway with the institutional prison quality coffee; you know the stuff that comes in a foil pack. I dump yesterday’s all day long brewed coffee into a cup. I look around and then dump some of grounds into the cup and give it a stir and bring it back. He drinks it and looks into the bottom of the cup after taking a sip and gave me one of those looks like, “OK, ya got me.” I smile back and ask if I can get anything else for him. Surprisingly, he says no. It’s too bad too because I had a great idea for a cold cup of water.

We set up the deal and like all good dope deals, we wait and wait and wait then set up the deal in a couple of locations. Dealers always want to change the location. We like to control the location because on more times than I can remember on major deals there usually is help or some other person you don’t know about hiding. It’s a huge risk, but one we try to plan for. Try is the optimum word.

Once the deal is arranged, we give Mr. Drug Dealer back his car, temporarily, of course. We set up a 5 key deal with his crime partner another pathetic pretty boy, from southern Marin. You know, tanned, manicured fingers, probably wore a little makeup. Because of the weight of the deal and the amount of money involved we pulled out the stops and manned this case with several agents and detectives.
We put my crook up on a wire and my boss and I team up in a car nearby to monitor the wire and eat Doritos. The wire car calls the shots usually with the case agent inside.

After our team is set up we sit there for what seems like forever. We wait and wait for the deal to go down. My boss and I are parked across from the meet location and we send in our crook to wait for the connection. Finally after about four hours the middle-man drives up in his foreign convertible. He gets in my bad guys car and the two of them start to talk.

After a little small talk the middleman says to my crook, “Crook, I heard you got arrested.” Of course I am now preparing to make a boom in my pants. He then says, “Lift up your shirt and show me you don’t have a wire.” My heart squeezed shut. This is my first big case and it’s going to go down the toilet. My quick-thinking criminal reminds the suspect of their long business history and blows him off. The two have a little more small talk and then the middle man says “Um Crook, you have not shaved today, you never not shave…show me that you don’t have a wire.” My informant tells the middleman that he got up late and did not shave. I’m telling you the transmission in my car was smoking because each time the guy did that, we went from park to drive thinking we were going to have to rescue this informant. My hair was starting to fall out.

Finally, the middleman says, “Crook, you’re wearing the same clothes you did yesterday and there is a helicopter up there that has not moved….show me your not wearing a wire.” My whole team is on edge, I am feeling like I am going to barf and we are ready to end this when suddenly the cocaine gods shined upon us again. The middleman’s pager goes off and he exits the car to use the pay phone.

When he does this my informant rips his wire off and ditches it under the seat of his car. OK, I dated this, right? Pager and pay phones? For those of you to young to remember,
we used to not have cell phones. Pay phones usually came in a booth and were popular places to make calls, change into superheroes outfits and pee.

When the middleman comes back to the car, I could see my informant lift up his shirt. Once he did this, the middleman left the car and made a telephone call from the phone booth. When he returned, the informant gave us a prearranged visual cue that the deal was being completed.

Without notice and right freaking in front of us, a new guy appears from the bushes and runs across the street. The freaking mule was right next to us in the bushes! He too was watching the deal. I wonder if he needed to down a bottle of Tums to keep from getting sick like we did.

Once the mule crossed the street, he delivered a key to the middleman and ran off. The middleman gave the key to my informant and the group split up. OK, now we had a little problem. Um, where’s the dope? Who do we follow? A team split and followed Mr. Middleman while a team stayed with our informant and another team split off to follow the guy on foot who delivered the key.
Within minutes we stopped the middleman, stopped our informant and arrested the key guy. But we still did not have a car or dope and no one was talking. It’s not against the law to talk about drugs and last time I checked, it’s not a crime to carry a key. So, I now feel like I have been slugged in the gut. Of course it was nothing, just God poking me and having more fun with me. What a knee slapper! I am guessing John the Baptist and St. Raphael, the Saint who was “represntin’” for the home team here in San Rafael had a big laugh.

Our high-stakes game of hide and go seek was just beginning. We carefully delivered all the criminals back to the local police station where we tried our best to motivate some truth from our drug dealers. Of course everyone was worried they would get whacked by the source, who is now out 5 kilos of cocaine (more than 10 pounds) AND the money.
I applied that fear liberally as leverage to get one person to roll. Loudly talking to your pals like “WOW! I’d be really mad if I lost 5 Keys and all that money. Sheesh! Glad its not me!” And roll they did. Later this case would get a little dicey and Mr. Mule would end up rolling. But not until we found the drugs for ourselves.

It took a couple of hours but our group found the car in a parking lot. It had a broken window. Not what you would expect to carry tens of thousands of dollars worth of cocaine. The cocaine was wrapped up, just like you see it on TV and was lying in the hatchback, not even under a dirty sheet.

So everyone went to prison. The source was never fully disclosed, but the mule, our informant and the middleman all went to federal prison for some time. The mule however had a much harsher sentence. He was deported back to his native country after being released from prison. When he was returned, I was told by the feds that he was hanged by his fellow countrymen for violating his religion. I still have a picture of him. He was younger than 25 years old.

For perspective drug dealers: It’s not like TV. Only three things happen to dealers. They go to prison, they get killed or they start using and end up dead.
I have not seen many successful dope dealers. The guys in the big house on the hill that you see glorified in movies are few and far between. Even they get killed. One of ours ended up being the spare tire in his car left at the park and ride for a while. Eventually, like in this case, someone will talk. They always do…and it’s been my experience that the girlfriends you promised to take care of, and ex-wives really, really like to consult undercover narcotics agents for the purpose of blab therapy. Thanks girls.

More later. Ralph.

Dog Watch by Lt. Pata

2010-09-02T06:04:00.001-07:00

Night patrol rocks! If you love the dump of adrenaline and spooky night stuff, well, then let me introduce you to the main event of police patrol, the overnight shift. In San Rafael our teams work from 5PM to 5AM. It is a long night, but you usually get your second wind around 11PM. Our officers (who want to work the shift – you like them less after you have a family…) like the watch because there is less traffic to deal with, generally the admin is gone and the crooks wake up around 2.

Ahhh the criminals…. After a nice lunch of chips washed down with a little white port and Kool Aid or maybe a tasty glug-glug of a fortified “wine” the crooks usually want to play during the night watch. Oh and lets not forget the methamphetamine dessert buffet course that goes on for as long as our customers have cash… and the adventure some go through to get it, until we get them or they crash at 5AM. Sometimes literally.

At our little slice of heaven in Marin, we are pretty busy with stacked up calls right out of briefing until about 7 or 8PM. Briefing is like homeroom. We get together for a half hour of show and tell about the night before, do some update on quality of life stuff plaguing our community, you know barking dogs and pesky neighbors lighting bags of dog poop on fire, new law stuff and humiliate the poor rookie that drove off with the gas pump still in his or her gas tank. That sort of stuff. Oh we also read letters of appreciation from the community at the end of briefing. That sets the tone for the night. After briefing it’s steady with calls until about 11PM to 1AM – but not steady enough for a rather sizeable cup of coffee to start the watch. After a certain time the coffee well runs dry and you are stuck with institutional prison coffee.

It kind of breaks down like this: 5PM to 7PM, traffic crashes, “group fights” – some call them gang fights but lets be nice…shoplifts - for dinner- I presume, and missing kids probably at their girlfriends or boyfriends without telling mom. From 7PM to 9-ish is violence prime time. It’s our robbery, shooting, stabbing and miscellaneous ringside beat up your fellow citizen or loved one time. 9PM to 1AM is drunk at the bar time, prowler time and a couple of robbery straggler’s who missed the 7 to 9 larceny shift. No night would be complete without illicit social engineering time. The red-light is usually turned on around 5PM for the dinner crowd and goes pretty much until midnight. From 1AM to 3AM is DUI- I’m an idiot time, and crash into the building or tree time. From 1:30AM to 5AM is burglarizing cars and business time. It’s probably the same in variety and volume in just about every town.

There are a couple anomalies that pop up like miscellaneous insane acting and wannabe insane acting people along the night watch, but that pretty much sums it up. Of course in between all of this from oh, around 5PM on, is powder induced social inhibition acquisition time or for those of you less complicated, drug dealing. How ironic, and moronic, that people actually sniff up stuff that your nose tries to sneeze out.

Attention OLDER PEOPLE: Grow up! Learn the lesson from the former guy in the Righteous Brothers and John Entwistle from the band “The Who,” don’t use cocaine or really any drug – especially if you have to show your AARP card when you buy it! It will kill you. Your ticker is not designed for this stuff…that’s why you sleep 14 hours a day and play bingo.

At your golden years you should be chasing your grandchildren, eating a nice fruit compote on your dinner tray and planning your next TV show to watch. You should not be chasing the dragon. Duh.

I have to say that I am all right accommodating your expedited arrival to the afterlife and will lump you down the stairs in your new plastic suitcase if you don’t heed my warning, I have done it hundreds of times before. Think of your kids or maybe the hot ocentegenarian down the hall in 21B, but if you do want to risk it, for the love of God, do it on the ground floor and have your ID with you.

While I have you, take this from a guy that cares: don’t pretend to be young and wear black T-shirts and hit on 20 year olds. Stop trying to be hip with wearing the latest sunglasses inside, and by buying tickets to Lady Gaga. Ladies, your not off the hook either…facelifts leave scars…we can see them. Take if from a Police Artist…it’s the HANDS that betray you! Spend the money on the hand-lift not the face. Also leather or suede pants, not so sexy at 65. Remind me to tell you someday of a pathetic story in my past. All of this play 20-ish stuff will kill you. I know. Trust me. It could be part of the natural order of things. Kind of a modern thinning of the heard but let’s try the word dignity on for size. Don’t get me wrong…. I am not saying succumb to stretchy pants and other stretchy unmentionables, but a happy medium seems to work.

Ladies and Gentlemen, back to our story: Once you have figured out the nightly schedule and the seasons of the year, you know, Bank Robbery season (October to December), Stabbing season (End of May to September), Fraud season (January to March) then you have conquered what police work is all about.

Night watch is a “trip” because the world goes from brilliant color to awesome shades of gray after the big orange ball in the sky sinks past the horizon. I love it. It is an experience driving in the cool night air with the sky setting the stage. It is seemingly black in the heavens but then the night sky becomes perforated with dull orange brown dotted lines from the low-watt streetlights.

In some areas of the city it is like you live in a video game. The sky seems black and orange all night. There are so many of those low watt bulbs that they actually take over from the dark of the night and you live in this orange brown world.

It’s cool on nights because you get to experience the sunset and sunrise each watch. I used to park on San Rafael Hill and watch the sun come up. What sucks is seeing the lights in homes go off, as you drive down the street or see the goodnight kiss on the porch and you still have 6 hours to go on your shift. It especially sucks if your pet dog is asleep when you get home and you sleep on the couch because you don’t want to disturb her.

I actually used to sleep in my closet. OK no closet jokes this is honest sharing time. Many cops do. It is the one place in the summer that is cool and dark. Take for example the one-year I decided I wanted to work with my pal Blair. I volunteered for the night shift. It was the same year that the developer behind my house decided to build 40 new homes. Hmmmmm they start at 7AM, Ralph gets home at 7:30AM. They stop for lunch and Latin American Polka songs I lay in my sleeping bag on the floor in my closet praying to the Madonna of air hammers and drills to wash away the sound of the Latin American Polka. At 3PM I wake up and my pals are going off duty. It was a wrong decision.

When the lights go off at night you go to a gas station and load up on caffeine or chemistry enhanced stay-awake tonic stuff. When you drive by from the street, it looks like a well illuminated fish tank with your garden variety night crawlers inside. You know garbage truck drivers, cops, newspaper delivery people, off-duty strippers from the city, and a few burglars. The prison grade coffee beans imported from Siberia are yucky, but the conversation inside the gas station is pretty interesting. It is kind of a like a weird episode of Cheers.

Probably one of the most terrifying calls we get are the “Hot Prowls.” Usually these are perverted deer buck’s walking through back yards, trying to score a sexy doe, but from time to time it is actually a bad guy looking through the window. I’d pay to see a buck gore one of these guys in the behind. How cool would it be to have a turf war over backyards between big mean bucks and pathetic, creepy prowlers? Or better yet – Mountain Lions!

We run to those calls because it really makes cops mad to think that there is a guy peeking in on someone. It could be their family while they are at work. So, we don’t like these hyenas. Technically, I am thinking Santa Claus would be a prowler. Huh? That just hit me. And you can’t tell me the red nose and cheeks are from the wind. Let’s face it; he’s a gin-head.

Prowler calls get quick and stealthy response. Turning on the siren and lights is like erecting a giant billboard for the crook announcing that the Calvary is coming. So we get sneaky. Its funny but you can actually hear a siren from miles away across the city at 2 in the morning.

If Mr. Prowler listens closely he can hear the hum of a half dozen Crown Victoria Police Interceptors, their V-8’s spinning up with some smartly dressed men and women who would like to meet him. He could probably also hear the grinding of our teeth and the squeezing of the steering wheel as we quickly and deliberately drive up the street. (OK dub in the Adam-12 soundtrack for emphasis.)

Mr. Prowler could enjoy this experience with all of his senses, not just those silly ones he reserved for himself and his victim. We come fully equipped for totally sensory immersion. Let’s look at it as if it were a nice dinner: This tasting menu of police work starts with smelling the brakes of our cars as they now seem like a memory of what used to stop us. From there the main course of prowler. The police illicit behavior intervention team comes in the form of a nice group of male and female protein, carrying with them decorated metal and plastic; let’s call them the silverware of this little dish. Products named Glock, Sig Sauer, Kimber and Heckler and Koch are clearly visualized. Sounds like an East German Escort service not a cops handgun, doesn’t it?

No one likes running in the night and doing the freaking middle of the night prowler triathlon, especially with a flashlight and all of stuff hanging off our Batman belt. Running in people’s back yards, with dogs nipping at your ankles, or worse, poorly lit swimming pools, and poorly maintained fences, and yes, Mediterranean bodies like mine, having to navigate sharp slivers suitable for crucifixion or insertion into your palms or behind is not so fun.

It looks cool, but in reality, it sucks. Especially if your neighbor violated the municipal code and put a swimming pool directly on the opposite side of the fence. It’s happened. I had a pal once hop a fence during a search warrant in Richmond. His pant leg got caught on the top of the fence. Thankfully there was a swimming pool on the other side. Unfortunately he fell into the bottom of the drained 12’ deep pool. I am guessing that water would have broken the fall instead of his ankle. Ever since that, Ralphy pulls the slats off.

To get the complete picture, the puppy landmines all over the backyard, the ones your husband or the kids were supposed to pick up, well they provide that nice, but stinky ice skating experience but is only fun while you are upright. And of course, the bigger the dog, well, ya know….better the Apollo Ono experience. Of course, as luck would have it, the crook never – ever steps in it. We usually do. It is like there is a doggie poop magnet in our shoes. Thankfully you don’t realize it in the chase as to not distract your attention; it usually comes to you in a nice aromatic experience when you get back in the car take a deep breath, clear the call on the radio and settle into your seat and accidently transfer the nauseating yuckiness to the brakes and accelerator. Get the picture? Now add the floor heater and 6 more hours of this lovely experience.

Of course most of our prowler calls happen in nice places that are heavily landscaped with rose bushes, lemon trees with sharp mean fangs, poison oak, and ivy with rats lounging beneath and did I mention mean dogs? Ya, for some reason Mr. Guard dog loves to let the prowler into the back yard, hopefully to devour them, but more times then not only becomes a hero after we get there. “Woof woof woof - Grrrrr!” A couple of times I can recall, man’s best friend becomes “Mr. Magoo” and bites or gets angry at the wrong guy! I tell ya I have wanted to give a number of dogs the walk of shame back to his or her kennel. Nice job Lassie.

I have pictures of me after a nice foot chase in one of these little palazzos. I looked like I wrestled a bear or was tossed in the Cuisine art. I guess the rose bushes worked, but on the wrong guy!

After a couple of years you learn to do cool things to catch or help you catch prowlers. Human nature dictates that if you are a pathetic letch, and you enjoy late night walks in people’s back yards you will run once discovered, down hill. You could almost set a watch to that little theory. Makes sense, who really wants to run up hill? Some of these aspiring rapists go to ground and try to sit it out. That’s why we call our pals at Novato PD to take their puppy for a walk. You would swear you could hear that guttural demon soundtrack the second the door to the K-9 car opens. Makes you wonder if the dog’s badge number is 666. We used to have 2 police dogs and I swear they were alligators with a toupee. We all loved them because they brought a new element to police work. I truly believe those dogs saved our behinds because people do not want to be a lunch or chew toy for them. It is also cool to have them around the station. I’d swear I caught one sharpening his teeth one afternoon while drinking a cup of blood. To whom it may concern: We need them back.

For training one time a while back, I decided to volunteer to wear the bite sleeve and hide in a car. Mistake. Once again the common sense meter, the one that is supposed to keep me out of the emergency room, away from the altar and from drinking water in Mexico was not functioning.

I love all of these tough guys and gal cops who come back from Taser training and always ask, “Hey did you get Tased?” “Well how are you gonna know what it’s like to testify in court?” (A small note to my silly friends: I am not shot regularly in training to testify what that’s like too. . .but I’d be happy to help you demonstrate.”) As far as the dog sleeve adventure, well, I was feeling frisky and I thought it was an extension of petting. So I was wrong. I’m still in therapy for that little mistake.

Sgt. Rick Clary, a true hero in our department, used to be one of our dog guys. His dog, “Max” was one of the best. I am serious I used to look for the buttons and fabric in the post lunch remains (know what I mean?) This dog used to run so fast that it looked like those cartoon animals with the wheels for feet. I was always too afraid to look this dog in the eye. I thought some satanic demon was going to jump out of its pupil and devour me. It was like looking at one of those mesmerizing pinwheel’s slowly spinning, capturing your attention, and then your soul. I’d swear I felt like I was in a trance when I looked at his pooch. I could hear a doggie voice in my head say “unleash me; pet me with the hand that is holding the sandwich…..gooooooo noooooow.”

We had another dog that was operated by Officer Joel Fay, “Rocky.” This pup was not as angry, but let me tell ya, equally effective. Joel’s dog would not hesitate to jump in the fight. One Christmas Eve in the 90’s a soon to be chew-toy decided to rob a convenience store using a gun. OK, that usually equals 10 years off of everyone’s lives. His for the minimum time he is going to get in the joint and ours for the stress of running into them and the possible shoot out.

We never find these guys near the scene. Usually by the time we get the call, the crook is long gone. Of course, not that night. Maybe it was a Christmas present from the robbery gods. As our officers rounded the corner, there was our bad guy and he had a GUN! There were a number of us that pulled up to this guy, including Joel and his wonder dog, For a split second I wondered, what am I doing on Christmas Eve, with a man with a gun in his hand directly across from me…and then the little man on my shoulder walked down my spine and put his boot directly in my behind. Suddenly everything became clearer…he had a gun, but so did I. Time to go to work.

My pals and I bailed out of our cars and used our best motivational speaking to get this guy to drop the gun (at gunpoint of course). When that didn’t work, we decided to introduce him to our canine motivator. Rocky was like the Anthony Robbins of motivation for crooks. Usually they saw Rocky and did absolutely everything the nice police officer wanted. But this guy was drunk and wanted to fight Rocky. The situation was going from bad to worse. I was really worried for Rocky, because I knew Joel was going to send in Rocky to take one for the home team if needed. Sorry pet enthusiasts, Rocky like all police dogs are loved and treated better than some humans, but when the rubber hits the road, they go in first.

Suddenly Joel made the decision to send Rocky in for an intimate introduction. Rocky ran so fast that in a blink he went from the car and attached his dentition to an area just left of the bad man’s privates. Now, believe it or not, that crook did not scream or anything. He simply looked down at the dog that clearly needed to get a better bite. And so he did. When Rocky repositioned his chops, he clearly made an impression on all of us. The crook with his gaze downward looked up, his eyes grew in size disproportionate to his face, his mouth dropped open and some unintelligible language was passed forcefully from his vocal cords to the rest of mankind. It resonated with all of us. He dropped the gun and all of us, back at our cars made a collective groan. The up side was this guy got a nicely wrapped present for Christmas from his new friends in the emergency room. Wonder if he unwrapped it on Christmas day?

I once saw Rick’s dog get so angry at the bad guy that he turned to Rick and snapped at him to let him go so he could have a nice criminal entrée. Or how about the time I saw the pooch go in a house to get an armed crook and used his nose to move the kitchen table this guy was wearing as a deterrent to his pending dog dentition perforation. The dog actually went under the table, got a nice grip and pulled a 150lbs guy out- tugging all the way. I tell ya, I felt like a proud uncle. So it would make sense that I would put the sleeve on, right?

I hid in our corporation yard like I was a kid playing a dangerous game of hide and seek. I’d swear the dog smelled fear, or perhaps that little pressure relief moment when I saw Cujo running toward me. That dog must have been cheating when he counted to 10 because he ran right at me.

I was in the middle of a number of cars and this dog was like on a mission to eat the nice officer. I wanted to take a timeout and protest the cheating, but the dog, now with glowing red eyes, or so I thought, was on a mission.

I put the sleeve way out ahead of me so the dog would not miss and get my face. And get it he did. This dog grabbed the sleeve and bit like he was possessed. His bite broke my watch under the thick canvass sleeve.

I mean the teeth, the slobber, the growling, and the inability to talk him out of it. I even tried to throw him off by yelling – “Look free steak!” Didn’t work…I was used to most of that from a past matrimonial experience, and had equal luck. (Just kidding dear…)

If you don’t have a pooch readily available, the poor man’s way of tracking down prowlers is simple. Park your patrol cars in the street, but space them out, kind of like a perimeter. Roll down the windows and turn off the motor then look down the street. This is not scientific, but I tell ya, it works. You will hear dogs’ barking as the crook goes from one back yard to the next, you might see lights turn on and you should hear stomping on the plants as the crook runs away. Another less heard, but equally pleasant sounding noise is the screams of pain as these suspects break a leg or fall into the cactus.

Weekend nights are the best. I love them. But I also like my new life away from work. Usually. Of course I wink to the overnight felony gods as I tuck my Blackberry good night. Wondering if this will be the night I am jostled from sleep with a call from the sergeant announcing the next “big one.”

More later. Ralph

"Mom, get out of the way!" By Lt. Pata

2010-08-20T05:55:00.000-07:00

Code 3 driving is the spring-roll of police driving. It is exciting, dangerous and frustration all wrapped in a nice black and white package. Most people take their driving test and usually know what to do, of course, most of the time they don’t do it. The pull to the right thing is not an option, it really is mandatory, unless, of course you are my mom.

One day watch, years ago I was driving on Second Street in San Rafael, a pretty heavily travelled multi-lane one-way street. As I was driving around looking for my next bad person, I received that adrenaline inspired radio call “3L43 – 415 Physical…” That little phrase means a couple of things…it requires me to drive Code-3 (lights and siren) to a fight call. I and 750lbs of back up officers would drive to that call in the hope of getting there before too much damage was done to the victim. Oh the other thing is I am required to get there safely. I know, party poopers.

I went through the ritual, answered up for my call on the radio and then rolled up my window, turned up the volume to the radio, checked my seat belt and said a prayer. Police cars should include a statue of Jesus on the dash, just like my little aunt “Nini” used to have in her car, because you really take your life in your hands when you drive in a black and white, but no more so, then when you have to drive Code-3. Code -3 is the cool police term for loud noise and disco lights. It’s actually not the driving that is spooky, it’s the response from the world the second you turn on the siren. But I’m Italian and we are predisposed to driving, lets say, unconventionally. It’s so hard to drive and curse in Italian with both hands on the wheel.

Think about it, pedestrians who stop in the middle of the sidewalk and cover their delicate ears and have the “what? what?” Look on their faces as I sit patiently with my siren on waving for them to move…bicyclists, hybrid cars, big trucks, cars that should have been recycled years ago and semi-deaf mothers in Ford Futura’s that think their son is messing with them are typical hazards.

As I drove over a bridge and around a corner there ahead of me is a gold Ford that will not pull over for the nice police officer. I‘m driving 20mph with my siren blaring and lights flashing. I think smoke was coming from my ears, as it usually does when I think, but now it’s because I am not happy with the Ford in front of me. I am going to an emergency. The siren is usually the universal language and there is this woman, driving probably 20mph. That’s what you do in a 25mph zone. You drive 20; well that’s what you do if you’re my mom. So, I hit the cool siren, the “yelp,” you know the one that goes “whoop whoop whoop!” its kind of the “move over already!” version of the siren. It is also pretty good for “I can’t stop-move!” It is designed to help vibrate you or elevate your car up and over traffic, to the next obstacle.

It was after the yelp siren that upon closer inspection I noticed that the 60-something year old “Nonna” with the jet black hair could only be one of two people. My mom or Ronald Reagan in drag.
I don’t think I have seen another person, aside from President Reagan, that had that almost blue-black colored head of hair. Its funny, as a kid I remember seeing my mom wash her hair and she used to tell me it was black shampoo. Now, I know. Duh! I wasn’t so smart as a kid.

Apparently my mom thought I was just messing with her, like its something I do at 2pm in the middle of traffic. My dear mom responded with putting her left hand out the window and made the up and down waiving motion with her left hand and arm. I was familiar with as Italian sign language for “shut up.” I know this, because she used to do this from time to time at the dinner table, church, backyard, bedroom, and especially while watching Beretta on TV. By the way, Mr. Blake, thanks for ruining my life. After your ex took a dirt nap, near that Italian joint in L.A. my mom thought I was going to be an “alleged” wife murderer. Thanks pal.

My mom had a heavy accent and messed up words like “Lake Taco”, for Lake Tahoe, but with the helpful assistance of her hands and feet – oh and the wood cooking spoon and her slippers, we all understood. The kick under the table was probably her biggest non-verbal skill and it was a universal language. Even the dog got it. Mom ran the show.

With great humility I had to turn off my siren and get on the PA system, because mom would not pull over and now the conga line of cop cars was getting bigger behind me. It’s hard to whisper “MOM MOVE OVER” on the loud speaker, but I had to do it. The only bonus was that I did not have to do it in Italian. My mom took her sweet time, but finally gave me and my pals enough room to pass her. Of course, she just stopped in the lane of traffic. I was seriously waiting for her to throw a shoe at me. Needless to say it was a topic at dinner on Sunday and everyday for about a month in briefing. Her response: “Ralphy, I thought you were being stupid, I’m, sorry.” Then she cackled her trademark laugh and passed the lasagna.

My mom was well known in San Rafael so I couldn’t even lie about who the non-responsive driver was. My mom was the gal who worked at the local See’s candies and sugared up everyone from the Chief to judges and of course cops. Her favorite pastime was to pass out stuck together deformed candy that could not be sold, then tell everyone she knew that I was born premature and with no skin. Ya, it’s now no wonder I could not get a date. She always asked Chief’s and judges, “my Ralphy isn’t being stupid is he?” Mom also always made breakfast for my team members on special days, like Christmas. She was definitely one of a kind and a class act. I miss her.

OK, sirens are obnoxious, but it is kind of cool knowing in seconds you are going to cause a little noise and panic for some and activate the “frozen in place” hormones in your unsuspecting fellow travelers on the street. We don’t do it for no reason, (Usually – OK, there were a couple of times, like when we booby trapped patrol cars at lunch breaks to activate the siren once you opened the doors, but aside from that…)

There is no rhyme or reason as to who does what on the street. Young and old, men and women make up how they will respond to the police car or ambulance driving behind them with the sirens on. It’s like musical chairs. When the music stops, or in this case when the siren starts, people just stop -or worse, they pull to the center of the road, (left).

Stopping in the middle of the road, usually at the last second, or maybe the adventurous X-games driver who pulls from a driveway, in front of you as you are passing a car on the left, is a bladder and lower gastrointestinal pressure valve moment. The only thing I have found to alleviate the lower gastro-intestinal pressure is a nice combination of multi-syllabled profanity reserved in the confines of what could be your black and white coffin.

Most people continue to drive like this because we don’t have the time or opportunity at the time to pull them over and issue a nice coupon to remind them of their driving errors – because we are busy driving to the emergency! I can recall a couple of times hunting the driver who would not pull over for me or the ambulance, but usually it’s too late to catch them so they get a pass. It’s too bad, it’s a great ticket.

I have considered the healthy application of my push bumper to the rear of the car that won’t move. I have tried it before with crooks and it works. The problem is that is usually causes some damage. Our budget doesn’t support these little maneuvers anymore, so we wait for the NASCAR moment, draft off of the back end of their car and slingshot around them when the time is right. A nice prayer to the “wrong way gods” helps so that when you do pass on the left you are not met by a semi who already owns that lane. I used to work for the Coroner’s office…people lose to semi’s. In a big way.

There are other reasons to drive Code-3, but they usually get you in trouble, but I have to admit, I have done it.

Sometimes we have to drive quickly to other events. Take for example the lunch gone wrong. Safely and quickly getting back to the station after you had a meal that did not agree with you is also important. You know what I am talking about, don’t ya?

The toxic fare that caused an unmistakable internal combustion which reminds you that it is not smart to eat at a place where they can’t spell the “food” item right on the menu. Or how about that meat-like product that you have never heard of before? I actually walked away from a restaurant once that had the words POOSH and POOL on the door. Seriously.

Officers know what I am talking about. Let me frame this shot for you…you just finished a nauseating combination of rice, beans and either seagull or squirrel, nicely disguised in a flour vessel that, when gift wrapped, looks remarkably like a suppository for an elephant. Truthfully, it can and has been any hygienically challenged food product.

After lunch you are lured into a sense of satisfaction. Within 3 minutes of swallowing your last bite…you stand up and feel the hand of God poke you in the abdomen. Huh? You think to yourself, maybe my gun belt is on a little too tight. NO no no….after your first step away from the table, you notice that your body has turned on the perspiration machine. With each step toward your patrol car you feel like your gastrointestinal tract is starting to unwind. God is playing catch and release with your lunch. You pull at the collar of your T-shirt and try to get a little cool air down the front of your shirt and bullet resistant vest. Without notice, embarrassing symptoms of your intestinal dispute become apparent and you immediately look to see if anyone noticed.

The moment you sit in the driver’s seat, the red alert notice transmitted from your lower digestive system to your brain is activated. (Think of the soundtrack to a submarine diving: A-OOOGA A-OOOGA!) Your hands start to sweat. You feel God knocking on the inside of your stomach…and then the cramping starts. The anatomical vice-grip starts to twist your mesentery like it’s on a taffy puller. You don’t call out that you are finished with lunch on the radio and drive as assertively as you can to the station.

On the way to the station you look at the computer screen and pray to the emergency call gods that none happen. As you drive back you scope out every possible burrito reception center on the way, but are careful not to make eye contact with any citizen because there is not room for error, no time to waste. (So to speak.)

Finally you see the finish line… the police station. The problem is that the guy in front of you is in a hybrid and is testing the gas to mile per gallon ration as he lets his car slowly cruise using the electric motor. Or he (or she) wants you to see how good they are that they are actually driving 25MPH. It’s a dirty trick. You would swear that you can hear your heart beating faster and faster…nothing else matters.

Suddenly you realize that soon, you may not actually make it to the station. Thoughts of living in exile come over you. By now you have rolled up the windows of the car, turned the AC on full blast, removed your seatbelt and have unlocked the doors. Finally, you decide to accept the written or verbal reprimand by activating your emergency lights to blow past Mr. Hybrid. As you scoot past him you accelerate like a dragster into the parking lot of the station, now removing the belt keepers and decisively sprint to the back door of the station and directly to the burrito recycling center. Sound familiar?

OK cops, be honest- How many of you reading this has activated emergency lights less than 100 yards away from the station to get to salvation?

Once you make it into the station you have the police station obstacle course to complete to get to the official police lounge. You have to code-into the back door, you have to be polite to wayward citizens who happen into the back lot and dodge their questions, lets not forget about the pigeon meteors falling from the second floor, conveniently located above the back door of the station. Once you are in you have to sneak by the sergeant who wants you on the street or wants to tell you about his or her vacation…finally you have to avoid and maneuver around the senior volunteers in the hallway.
God bless them, they are awesome, but not now…MOVE! All of this while not chancing any potential relief maneuvers that could earn you a terrible nickname, exile or clear the building and activate the alarms.

For you non-cop types, getting your trousers off in a hurry for the sake of grease infused lunch is not easy. We have this junk, you know, guns, Taser’s pepper spray and such that we just can’t toss to the side as we sprint to the executive lounge. No, no, someone thought it would be a great idea to make our uniform complicated. I am guessing this guy would later go on to design lingerie or naughty subculture accessories, made of leather and snaps. We wear two belts, and then they are connected by strips of leather with snaps, called keepers.

You just can’t leave your gun on the bench or on a seat, so it comes in with you and the second you unsnap the front keepers, if you’re a guy, watch out because your sidearm may become an impact weapon and could swing around and get you briskly in an area that would make you vulnerable, subject to nausea and certainly would activate your lachrymal system causing you to ball your brains out.

So you see, driving code-3 is not for the faint at heart or for rookies. I think everyone at one time in their life would like to drive this way. It can be fun, but totally nerve wracking. Especially if you are in an unmarked car and no one really see’s you. That is actually fun, it looks like someone dropped a siren bomb and everyone is looking around for the black and white. I do it too for grins. Then when it’s safe try to get to the call.

More? OK. Stay safe. Ralphy

All in the Name of Science by Detective Phil

2010-08-13T08:45:00.001-07:00

My name is Phil Melodia and I am a police officer with the San Rafael Police Department. Along with being a police officer one of my other assignments is as a Crime Scene Investigator (CSI).

I am sure that the San Rafael Police Department has had some form of a CSI team since the beginning of time. In fact, we used to be called Field Evidence Technicians before the popularization of the TV show with the same name and all their spin offs.

Ever since, then San Rafael Police Department Chief Cronin, and continuing with every Police Chief since, they have felt that a police department of our size should have a self sufficient CSI team.

In order to have a self sufficient CSI team, the police department has had to provide adequate training for all the CSI members and buy the proper equipment. We finally got rid of the converted ambulance that was our old “CSI van” and got a dedicated CSI van with all the bins and storage compartments, drop down tables, lights, and all the other necessary accouterment for a properly outfitted CSI team.

One of the new pieces of equipment that the police department purchased was an Alternate Light Source (ALS). If you have seen one episode of any of the incarnations of the CSI shows you know exactly what I am talking about. It is when the CSI investigator is using a black light in conjunction with a pair of colored safety glasses in an attempt to locate biological material left behind at the crime scene by the suspect. It makes for dramatic television and it is not nearly as technical as portrayed.

An ultraviolet light source, in conjunction with the properly colored lens, will cause bodily fluids that might not be visible with the naked eye to fluoresce and become readily apparent. Some of the bodily fluids that this technique is used locate is: blood, urine, sweat, saliva, mucus, vaginal secretions and seminal fluids. Basically, if your body produces it and secretes it, the ALS will help you locate it. The ALS is vital tool to be used at any crime scene where a sexual assault took place.

Our first ALS was the Spectroline TFK-100. The sergeant in charge of the CSI team was Sergeant Correa. He assigned me to learn how to use the ALS and teach all the other CSI investigators how to properly use the ALS. I read the instruction booklet from cover to cover.

About this time in my life, my grandfather had recently passed away. I had taken his old v-neck under shirts and brought them home to be used as rags. I came up the brilliant idea that I would take each tee shirt apply a small amount of biological fluid on the tee shirt. I would then write on the label of the tee shirt what the biological fluid was so the CSI investigator could see what each biological fluid looks like while using the ALS.

The first one, blood, was easy. I took a sewing needle sterilized the tip with a lighter and I pricked the tip of my finger. I dropped a few drops of blood on the white tee shirt.

The second one, saliva, was a little more difficult. You never realize how difficult it is to spit on demand until you have to do it. The first time I attempted, the shirt was hanging and the spittle beaded up, rolled down the shirt and fell off the tee shirt and onto the floor. I then placed tee shirt horizontal and I repeated my experiment with much more success.

The third one, urine, was easy. I used the learning experiences I had with the saliva test and duplicated my experiment with urine. I applied a few drops of urine on the third tee shirt.

The following day I facilitated my demonstration of the ALS machine to all my fellow CSI investigators. The training was a smashing success

Since then, the San Rafael Police Department CSI team has used the ALS on numerous crime scenes. I am glad that my blood, sweat, and tears have been utilized to arrest bad guys and put them away for many years.

The Rundown by Lt. Pata

2010-08-13T07:08:00.001-07:00

Foot chases are not fair and not fun. Not even for a second. Trust me; it is not like the TV chase on TJ Hooker or one of the cop shows. Foot chases are not fair because we never have the advantage. The crook knows when the decathlon is going to begin. Sometimes you can tell by the way they work themselves up, that they will run, but sometimes these track stars just run from a standstill. The problem for the cops is that we have to drop our coffee and try to catch them. Its not an easy task running after people and not spilling a drop of your Peet’s, but it can be done. I have mastered code-3 driving (lights siren and fun) with coffee, not spilling a drop of that precious seductive brown fluid of love, but not running. I mean really, look at me, the Pata family DNA was not designed with running in mind. We are lovers, not runners. Plus, let’s face it; Italians are better at running numbers, not track meets.

Running in 100% wool uniforms, with steel toe boots on and 35 pounds around your waist oh, and a bullet resistant vest is a huge handicap, but a great excuse! Factor in oh, a “couple” of extra pounds – I like to call them safety pounds designed to thwart would be stab wounds and you get the picture of the blatant unfair nature of foot chases. I have voiced my concerns with the Amalgamated Criminal Sprint Team Union, yet my concerns have gone unnoticed now for 25 years, so I like many other veteran cops have added a little handicap to our fleet footed endeavors, a Crown Victoria Police Interceptor. The car is a nice equalizing factor in foot chases. Apply the car vigorously to the foot chase and let the runner get tired. Just when you feel the runner is sufficiently tuckered out, jump out well rested, and dump them like a cougar taking a gazelle to the ground.

On one fair day in a neighborhood of our city I saw this guy hunched over in a walkway at an apartment complex. The guy looked like he was enjoying a nice cigarette. Upon closer inspection, coupled with gross cynicism and my knowledge of the area, I exited my patrol car because I knew he was not smoking a cigarette, but rather he was smoking some crack cocaine. The giveaway was the rapid look over both shoulders and the “uh oh” look on his face – decorated with very big pupils, the size of hubcaps, that activated the primal instinct in me to walk up and ask my prey how his intoxicating smoke was?

Ok, problem #1. My cover officer was not there yet. Problem #2 he was smoking a stimulant. Problem #3 stupid me asked to see the pipe. So, what would you do if the nice policeman asked to see your pipe? You would hand it to him, or her, right? Of course, so in the spirit of cooperation, my new pal handed me his pipe, hot end first.
Guess what happened next? Right, I immediately felt the thermal properties of the glass in my greedy mitts. This naturally activated the pain reception center in my brain. Mr. Hand, meet Mr. Smoking HOT pipe! Attention vocal cords its time to scream.

I dropped the pipe and waived my now incinerated hand back and forth, like maybe it would help. It didn’t. What did help though was the nice application of his fist to my face. His sudden and unexpected poke in the nose caused my brain to forget about generating a blister in my hand. Mr. Brain opened up lines of communication with the plumbing department of my body. While they decided on whether or not to cause my nose to bleed, the suspect ran from me.
After I shook off the coo-coo clock sounds and when the stars circling over my head disappeared I ran after the bad guy. This bad man was across the street running from me the moment I got my stuff together and ran toward him. I can remember calling out on the radio that I was in foot pursuit. “PD huff huff huff, L- huff huff, 20 –huff huff, I’m, huff, huff, in huff, huff, foot, cough huff huff, pursuit!”

When a unit calls out a foot chase, or any chase for that matter, we have standing orders that everyone goes. That means bring your pizza, burger or whatever you are eating with you and drive as safe as you can to get to your partner. Let the car stop go, run out of the station and drive code-3 to back up your partner. We do this because chases are dangerous. Take for example the brave officer from Santa Rosa PD who was struck by a car and injured severely. Foot chases are dangerous, especially at the end. The end of these is risky because both people are now tired and usually fighting on the ground. Fighting when your are not tired sucks (well sometimes…) fighting when you are wiped out is worse.

My brain was competing with a couple issues. I was in pain, I was angry and my ego was hurt. How could I fall for such a sucker move? Apparently there is a common sense defect located in my brain, take for example my last marriage…, it happened then too. It’s like a kid that wants to see what the nice bee is doing by the flowers. I now run from bees, but run to crooks and soon to be ex-wives. I am guessing my mom smoked in her last trimester with me.

Well, I fell for the flaming pipe move and now I was running as fast as I could to get this guy. As luck would have it, my bad guy disappeared like a ghost. Poof! Gone. I rounded a corner and my little helpers, the street folks that nod in the direction of the Olympic runner were not there. I stopped and called out the description and last known location of my bad guy.

My sergeant met with me at the apartment complex and tried to console me. I was not to be consoled. When I called out that I lost my guy, I heard the sirens across the city shut down as the black and whites continued in and started to circle the area, like killer whales looking for their next meal. I asked the sergeant if he could take me off “the board” so I could look for my bad guy. Taking me off the board is a term for making me not available. I walked back to my car and sat in it for a second thinking about how stupid I was to actually let this guy give me his flaming pipe, looked in the mirror, called my self a nice Italian name and then drove around looking for the crook.

My pals left the area and I started to circle around the neighborhood. I drove in circles for about 30 minutes, mumbling to myself. I think I actually growled at a person who said hi to me. I was like a hungry person looking for a sandwich. Finally the moment arrived…I found him.

I saw the suspect walking slow away from me up a short street and I called out that I had my runner in sight. He did not look back, so I was able to be sneaky. (Dub in the soundtrack to the movie Jaws here…)

I called for a perimeter and directed cars to where I thought the suspect would run towards. I waited and drove my car at idle speed behind the suspect who was now about 60 yards away. When my pals called out that they were in the area, I unbelted my seatbelt and rolled up to the suspect with my door opened. My window was down and as I got closer, I could feel my heart pounding and my salivary glands foaming up. I had a cartoon flash of me playing Wiley Coyote tying his dinner handkerchief around his neck with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other just before I reintroduced myself to him.

I looked over at the suspect and simply said “hi, remember me?” The suspect looked at me and appeared exhausted. After casually looking at me, his eyes popped open wide and he ran from me again. OK, this was getting ridiculous. We did not have a helicopter and dog available so we were going to have to do this the hard way.

The urban runner did the fence Olympics and hopped from one backyard to the next. There was no way I was doing the fence circuit, especially since I had black and whites all over the place. Also the potential for harming yourself in immeasurable and unmentionable ways was too great. I told everyone to sit still because I knew this guy was going to pop out on a city street soon. For once, I was right. I saw the suspect run from between two homes and across a street…towards a dead end.

I was so happy. I think I started to tear up. I was planning for our reconciliation and reintroduction as I ran toward the suspect. As soon as I went to ground and ran after the suspect I saw my pal Detective Blair Auld pull up in a patrol car and jump out. It’s like I could hear the angels singing when he got there. I’d swear I saw a bright light encircle his body when he bailed out of the car.

OK, about Blair, he is the size of a doorway. He is a sizeable lump of protein. Blair, or as we call him at work, Bull, is not a huge runner, but he is a weightlifter type, so I was happy to see him arrive to help me convince the bad guy to give up. Usually all Blair has to do is get out of the car and bad guys start to cry, become incontinent, perspire or hand over their Kaiser card.

I ran around a corner and saw my suspect trying to pull himself up a 6 foot fence. I told him to stop and ya know what? He didn’t. Imagine that. I grabbed this guy off of the fence and gently escorted him to the pavement below. We both ended up on the ground and I flipped the suspect on his stomach and he continued to fight. Unfortunately for both of us, we could not prepare for the locomotive that was out of control coming down the tracks.

With out notice, I could hear a chugging sound and both of us looked up toward the street. When I looked up, I saw the unmistakable and irrevocable lumbering of my partner Blair coming toward us. Now, we were not code 4 (cool police talk for okie dokie) so there was no reason for Blair to slow down, except for maybe keeping me, his buddy, out of the emergency room.

My senses shut down and I could see everything slow down. This happens a lot, it’s called tunnel vision and it usually is my body’s way of numbing me for the impending impact of the 250lbs sledge hammer disguised as Blair. My attention was now diverted toward him. His image became slow, blurred and the only thing I remember seeing were his wide open blue eyes, constricted pupils and the flapping of his jowls as he took each step. I’d swear smoke was puffing out of his nostrils too. You could have easily superimposed the image dog from Turner and Hooch running toward the bad guy in that movie.

I think the crook shouted in really slow garbled and plaintive-nnnnnNNNNNNOOOOoooooo! Well, the suspect might have well been a red cape and Bull ran through it. The brakes on the locomotive did not take and we all collided. All of us ended up on the ground. The up side was that it was really easy to handcuff this guy after being struck by the human wrecking ball. The brisk application of Blair ended the fight and remarkably, no one was hurt. We all picked ourselves up, brushed off the dirt and politely walked back to the patrol car. It would be my guess from the litany of apologies our suspect was handing out, that he would go on to walk, not run, from the cops in the future. I love my job.

More another time. Ralph signing off.

Things I've Learned (with a Little Influence from Murphy) - Dispatcher AD

2010-07-27T15:57:00.000-07:00

Here are some of the tidbits I've learned about life...courtesy of working in police work...
• No good news comes from calls in the middle of the night.
• Never turn down a chance to go to the restroom.
• Keep a full change of clothes and stash of personal toiletries at work.
• If the gas light goes on in the car, go to the gas station and fill up, no matter how tired you are.
• Trust your instincts
• If it can happen, it will happen!

Middle of the Night Calls
This is something parents know. But being young & childless when I started here, you learn rather quickly, in this field, that middle of the night calls means canceled plans, missed social functions and long hours...but it's usually worse for the person who is the reason for the call. I've been woken up countless times by a work related phone call. A few of them have required me to wear my dispatch hat but most have been for Crime Scene Investigations.

Go Now!
Dispatchers have bladders of steel, well at least most of us at SRPD do. At times, we work alone and the restrooms are located on the other side of the department - so, either you develop a bladder of steel accented by yellow eyeballs or you suffer the embarrassment of having to call an officer into the office to come, well, relieve you. But officers, generally HATE, working in dispatch - talk about being out of their comfort zone. They'd rather be out hunting bad guys, scaling tall building (except for Lt Pata - see his last blog!), or otherwise dealing with the public. It's kinda funny to watch them stare, with huge Bambi eyes, at the 911 phone console - willing it not to ring.

I remember one New Year's Eve (well, now very early NY Day), I was a solo dispatcher with an empty bladder (yep, I turned down my partner's offer of one last bathroom break before they left). My partner had gone home, on time, because the night was fairly uneventful. I think we had 4 officers plus a supervisor on duty. Oh, my friend Murphy (you do remember him, right?) would also be tagging along on the rest of this shift - so, everything that could happen, did happen. We got a few calls from the various bars downtown requesting us to do a walk-through. Okay, to understand this fully, you've got to understand the situation -- bars normally do not ask the police to do walk-throughs.

I remember calling one of the officers to "10-19 and contact dispatch" which was usually code for come, into the office, I need to take care of some business... yep, had to go use the restroom - but no need to shout it out to the listening world. Meanwhile, I take a call of a possible "5150" - reader's digest definition: mentally unstable person, on the east end of town. Two officers were initially dispatched. When they arrived on scene, the situation quickly escalated. The fight was literally on. They "screamed" (they'll never admit that though) for more help. The other 3 units were sent to the address and arrived fairly quickly. Meanwhile, the portable radios of the officers were being engaged but nothing was said. All I could hear is the background of the tussle happening with the 5150. The emergency buttons on their portable radios were hit numerous times [when an officer hits the emergency button, it literally sets off bells and flashing icons on my console and then ties my transmissions to that officer's radio] and I later found out the officers in the middle of the chaos couldn't hear that I had more troops rolling, more importantly, they just wanted help there now. I don't blame them. [I think one of the hardest parts of this job is knowing someone needs help, especially someone you know, and you are so close - but yet so far away. Realizing you can only do so much or sometimes it seems so little from the console.] This situation was eventually handled by carting off the offender to the crisis unit-which leaves me down an officer. And yes, I still needed to go use the facilities.

While the boys in blue where wrestling with the 5150, I was still answering calls, most of them having to do with situations at the bars and noise complaints. The calls were stacking up. As soon as the boys, let me know they were code 4 (things are under control) I did a generic dispatch letting them know that I've got calls pending at the downtown bars - where security has barely got things holding together. I'm down to 3 officers and a supervisor (one had to take the person to crisis, remember?) and me - with a bladder getting closer to full. For what seemed to be the next several hours, the gates of Hell were opened. We went from serious call to serious call...only being able to put band-aids on most because there was just so much going on. It was getting closer to 2am and the bars were trying to shut down. There were fights in the bars; there were fights in the streets...chaos. I remember units being at one bar fight where the drunken offenders were all separated and having to have cabs sent to take people home. I also remember having to pull officers of from one bar fight to go to another bar fight involving a heavy beer mug only having to re-dispatch officers to an earlier bar fight to deal with the same drunken idiots who had the cab return to the bar! Okay, if we deal with you once, it's over...if we have to deal with you again and again, (especially in the same shift, let alone the same hour or two) you're probably not going to like the accommodations we'll reserve for you. Get it?? Officers were bringing in all the in-custodies from the various bar fights to the office. It was easier to sort things out in the relative safety and calmness of the station.

I'm running background checks, warrant checks, criminal history checks and a bunch of other stuff on the in-custodies. During the adrenaline rush, I forgot of my need to go to the restroom but as calmness was restored, the need came back with a vengeance. I remember looking longingly at the trash can, trying to think of a way to explain it to my co-worker who'd be taking over in a couple of hours about why and what I had done. As I worked my way through the uncomfortableness and pain, I was rational enough to realize it wasn't a smart move...plus, my friend Murphy was sitting in the corner as a reminder that if I did do it, someone would walk right in and catch me in the act! Calmer heads prevailed - thank goodness! Later, one of the officers calls in asking about information on one of the arrestees, we made small talk while I got the information for him, and then I asked if they were "code 4." The reply was yes. I asked if he could come in and give me a quick bathroom break. He said, "Oh, yeah I was on my way in when the crap hit the fan..." As he came in, I remember just tossing the headset at him, said "you boys are all in here, just worry about the 911s - write it all down and if it's medical or fire transfer it" and took off to the restroom. Yeah, I learned the hard way to never say no to an offer to use the restroom.

Clean Clothes & Toiletries!
Remember, I said that calls in the middle of the night do not equal good news? There have been times that I've literally rolled out of bed and into street clothes to jet to work, I can't tell you how fast I was going but my best time is about 15 minutes (no kids, do not try this at home, I’ve had vast training!) from my home to the PD parking lot. Sometimes, depending on the circumstances, that means not getting a shower before heading in. Some long shifts mean I've been in the same clothes for a loooong time. It's just nice and probably much appreciated by coworker and other folks I have contact with, if I have fresh clothes to jump into after a short but much needed shower. I've been held over cause of flooding, crime and just work load.
There was one storm (another New Year's fiasco) and we were getting all sorts of calls regarding flooding and overflowing manholes. We were swamped. We were monitoring rain fall levels and rates and other neighboring agencies, including public works. The storm let up and there was a period where the calls had drastically dropped off. A joint decision was made by me and my partner that I should try to go home. As I made my way to my car, it started sprinkling again. By the time I made it to 580 the storm had started up again. Being the only fool out on the roadway, I decided to straddle the two lanes, because I couldn't see the lane markings or beyond the front of my car. The wipers couldn't keep up with the rapid rain fall. I knew I needed to go back to work and get my foolish self off the highway...but I couldn't see where I was going!!! It took me nearly 40 minutes to make it back to the department. By the time, I made it from the parking lot to inside the department, I was SOAKED! but relieved because I was safe and had dry clothes to change into. Back to work I went with Murphy at my side.

The Gas Light
Okay, most modern day cars have that little light that goes on when you have about 2o miles of fuel left. I work hard and I play hard, so usually that last thing I wanna do is go get gas, if it wasn't in my master plan. Every time, I tell myself, I'm gonna wake up early and get gas before work, I forget. Then I drive to work, with fingers crossed hoping the fumes will get me to work on time. Or, if Murphy has his fingers in the pot, I'll be called out in the middle of the night. Can you imagine have to explain why you were late showing up to a call out...um, well, I ran out of gas, I'm stuck on the side of the road waiting for AAA to bring me some gas? There are just some things, you'd NEVER live down. And getting gas in the middle of the night is not one of the safest things you can do. So filler up!

Trust your Instincts!
I've heard just about every type of call, just about every excuse of why or why not something was done. Bottom line - if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Use common sense - if you think you are getting a deal or getting away with something, you aren't. You can't get something for nothing. If you are in a situation where the little hairs on the back of you neck are standing up, get out of that situation.
You know I've been training to run a 1/2 marathon. I've also taken up biking to cross-train for the running. Many times it means running or biking on my own. I always let someone know where I'm running/riding and a guestimate of how long I'll be away but usually because I have knee issues and not for safety reasons. However, there have been times where, I've gotten that feeling to just get the hell out of there. Nothing appears out of the ordinary. I've made eye contact with folks I've met along the way. I know my surrounding but I trust my gut instinct and would rather not become a statistic. There have been many times, for no apparent reason at all, I will simply turn around in the middle of a run/ride or gotten out of an area as fast as my feet would carry me. Who knows, I might have saved myself from a situation, but maybe not. I don't want to be the reason someone dials 911 or the reason why the CSI crew gets called out. Maybe I'm a product of all the 1000s of 911 calls I've taken or maybe I'm just a little overly cautious but what ever it is, I'd rather be safe than sorry. So, if you see an Asian female on a local trail, running (or riding) with a Leukemia and Lymphoma Society tag on her right shoe, who abruptly turns around mid-run, it’s probably me – either instinct is telling me to go the other way or I’ve been called back into work.

My Friend Murphy
Okay, a version of Murphy’s law, as it applies to me, is “If it can happen, it will happen” which can make my life and my co-workers’ lives very interesting. Murphy has been sitting with me since about day one of my career here at SRPD. My first week here at the PD involved several high speed pursuits. My first year had 7 homicides – an anomaly I was assured. My training in dispatch would bring about every type of call a dispatcher could experience during their career. We would talk about a type of call and what I would do and “poof” the call would happen within the next several hours or at the latest, the next shift. Talked about suicide, got a suicidal caller. Talked about taking shooting calls, the 911 board would light up – with possible shots fired calls and would be later determined to be a homicide. Role played a pursuit call, and there real with thing would happen. Discussed how to request a mutual aid or set up a county-wide roadblock and I was in the thick of things, setting up the real deal! During my almost 20 years here, I’ve been riding along with officers while on hot calls or in pursuits. I’ve watched, first hand, officers perform felony stops. I’ve searched female prisoners. I’ve dealt with hostages, victims, prisoners, bad guys (and gals) along with children and other innocents in person and on the phone. Occasionally, I will be the one to answer the 911 call, dispatch the officers and then process the crime scene. My career, so far, has been fun, exciting, sometimes boring and tedious but as long as Murphy is by my side, it will never be dull and I will continue to earn my nick name of “S**t Magnet.”

Until the next blog, be safe - Dispatcher AD and her side kick Murphy. Don't forget you can always find me at 391@srpd.org

The Blogging Lieutenants

2010-07-27T11:25:00.000-07:00

Okay, so is it time for our 15 minutes of fame? I wanted to say thank you to Beth Spotswood (our pseudo-agent), VidSF, Phil Bronstein, and future undercover Detective Katie Baker, for the amazing video interview and really cool commentary in the SF Chronicle. Phil, Katie and the crew came to SRPD last week and we had a great time. They got a tour of our police department and got to try Dispatcher Anndora's yummy water of the day. Anyway, we had a great time and here is the link for those of you who want to see what Ralph and I really look like. Sorry to bum you out (Beth) but Ralph doesn't resemble Dennis Farina!

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/bronstein/detail?blogid=47&entry_id=68796

Oh and I wonder if Ralph and I will get invited to some cool event in the City because of this exposure?? Come on, if Beth or Phil can't make that happen, who can?

Have a great day! Lt. Dan

What goes up.....By Lt. Pata

2010-07-23T05:41:00.000-07:00

I am completely and totally afraid of heights. I can admit it. I don’t like ladders, standing on chairs, eating on elevated revolving restaurants above the city below (unless someone else is paying, of course) and rooftops. I hate rooftops. I get sweaty and nauseated on fair rides. I pray to myself when I get on an airplane that there are no bumps and that the pilot took his or her antidepressants.
I actually try to book flights early in the morning because I was told there are less bumps in the morning. If I can’t get an early morning flight, then I make sure my ATM has plenty of room for in-flight acquired liquid anesthesia. It might say Virgin America on the side of the plane, but it’s really Gray Goose-amnesia airlines.
I admit am vertically challenged. I love terra firma. Little did I know that this job, which seems to have a firm footing on land would put me in some very uncomfortable if not nauseating situations.
I think God loves to mess with me. I believe it. Sometimes I think the good Lord sits in front of his (or her) version of the “almighty edition” of X-box and sees us little guys playing life. Just when it seems safe, I get a smoke alarm to change, maybe a spider just outside of reach, an ex-wife, or of course, Christmas lights to hang. Now, you would think that my respect for God would buy me a couple of points. I mean, I put up the Christmas lights sometimes in the most hazardous of situations. You know the reach to get the cord on the hook, 12 feet up with one foot of the ladder sinking in the dirt after a good rain, right? You would think I could get a pass on a rooftop jumper or crook running from me on a rooftop. No, of course it does not.
I remember a little while back, I was called to a transition house in our downtown. It was located in a four story building. (Reader, please pause for an important message from me, loaded with sarcasm and a little irreverent.) OK, a message to shrinks and administrators of these places….transitional housing in a FOUR STORY building is not so smart. A bad day in a one story structure is maybe falling on the lawn from your bedroom window. A bad day in a four story building will really hurt. No soft lawn, just concrete, or maybe some poor soul riding a bike or taking a walk below to break the fall. But hey, if teaching a lesson is what you want, well, by all means, shoot for the 7 story building. Bigger thump, much more impressive – and more time to do tricks on the way down.
The call at the transition house was for a jumper on the roof. Of course this was an 1800’s era building, with no elevators and really narrow stairs. My blueberry muffin down the street, with a perfectly made cup of coffee would go cold for this call. I had to go to this and there was no way I was going to quickly eat it only to temporarily store them in my stomach for them to appear again in front of my pals. I mean, I like my coffee and muffins, maybe a little too much, but not enough to experience them twice.
I lumbered up to the roof. The stairs were narrow and as I ran up them, I bounced off of the walls all the way up. It was easily 3 left turns per floor all the way up. I was dizzy when we finally arrived.
When I got to the top, with my partner, I saw that our bad day was going to get much worse. First, no oxygen tank for me to suck off of, second, no railings around the roof and finally no beautiful member of the opposite sex trying to get me to wake up, like it was a bad dream.
What’s worse than a rooftop negotiation session with an unhappy person? The gravel roof she is standing on. For all that mattered to me, it might have just been a rooftop of ball bearings. My heart stopped beating. I’m sure I looked like I was walking on a tightrope above a mine field. My feet felt like they were in concrete.
The jumper was a woman, about my size who was in a pink nighty AND –had yucky vanilla scented lotion all over the exposed parts of her body. I could actually see her arms were all shiny. She smelled like a vanilla shake and had this nighty on, but I don’t think the two worked well together. The nighty I think it was from Fredericks of Hollywood. Not my style. A little contrived for my taste, plus everyone knows black is slenderizing and the “in” color.
When I realized I was on the roof and there were rocks at my feet, (a sensory trick, by the “Almighty” used to lure me into believing I was on the ground…) I had this weird thing come over me. Suddenly I felt like there was a magnet over the side of the roof and I was made of cheap metal. This mania comes over me when I am high up. I literally feel like I am getting pulled closer to the side. Same thing happens to me on the Golden Gate Bridge, with pizza and on fire ladders.
I was not a hostage or crisis negotiator yet, so I did not have anything to offer this lady to comfort her or maybe convince her that cement poisoning was really painful. Most of my professional experiences centered on what happened after a victim’s brisk and purposeful walk over the side. I can say I am an expert when it comes to the terminal application of concrete to the body, but at the time of this incident my heart was not into this call. Don’t forget – Muffin and cold coffee! Really high up with rocks…and no railing, not good at all!
At the time my biggest crisis in life was where to find a good plate of gnocchi. I really was a simple kid with no real connection to this gal’s misery. I tried my best stuff, including my standard line of “hey have you ever been to Jamaica?” “You can’t die until you have been there.” That actually worked once, but apparently this gal was not a fan of Red Stripe Jamaican Beer and instead of being mesmerized by the thought of white beaches and people selling stuff to you that you don’t need, she walked closer to the side and looked over. My heart took one giant pump, and then stopped again. I remember saying something under my breath and she asked what I said. Ding-ding-ding! I was on to something. I did not intend this, it was not a skillful training thing, and it was an absolute accident.
I started to talk normal and looked away a couple of times. I was really good at talking under my breath. I went to Catholic school and I was no genius, so talking under my breath – asking for test answers, with a turkey sandwich chaser offered to my cheating confederate, was how I passed Biology.
My new tactic was like reeling in the big fish. It was working! She walked a little closer with each statement; I’m guessing so she couldn’t hear what the heck I was saying. When she was close enough, my partner and I took a quick big step forward and grabbed her.
Remember the lotion? Ya, the fight was on! She slipped from our hands. It was like trying to catch a chicken on a rooftop. I don’t think this gal was really interested in jumping, because after our little slip-a roo she could have just run over and taken a leap of faith.
All of us ended up on the gravel roof. The one lucky thing about the lotion and the gravel was that the little sharp rocks, used for roofing material, stuck to her skin. It made her palpable. It also poked her with just the slightest of squeeze, an unintended consequence that worked really well for me. Each time she squirmed and tried to pull away, I squeezed her arm, gently, of course. She went from devotedly suicidal to really angry. I like to call it an attention-getter. We handcuffed her and she went off to the crisis unit for a little TLC and a tune up. I have not and will never go back up there. I am certain that my place is on the ground. I like the ground. We Italians don’t do really tall buildings very well, Take the leaning tower of Pisa for example. Need I say more?
Running on a rooftop is not like a Bourne movie. It sucks. Especially so, in the dark. One night a crook was in an upper room at one of our local – by the hour – motels. I learned he was a parolee who was wanted. After I confirmed he was in the room with a woman, who I like to call an exotic social engineer, I knocked on the door with my partner.
This was early in my career, so I was naïve and announced “Police.” The next sound I heard was this weird sound like someone was kicking something. I was right! I looked up on the roof and could see the upstairs room window was open and a guy was kicking at the bars. My pal and I booted the front door and ran up the stairs. Just as we made the top of the stairs the suspect kicked off the bars on the windows and jumped out.
I popped out the window and noticed immediately, its dark and I am on a roof. Not my idea of fun. On TV the stunt guy gets this honor.
Like many good cops before me, I was sucked into the moment and ran after the criminal. What I, and apparently he, could not plan for, were the wires securing the TV antenna to the roof.
As he reached the end of his flight, at full speed, he tripped on a wire and fell off the roof. I actually think that was the hand of God escorting him to the pavement below, very quickly. I stopped, then carefully walked toward the edge with my gun now out as I peeked over the side. I had my best “Stop Police” voice cued up and looked over the side. Poof! Gone! This guy vanished. I was blown away. I expected a lump on the ground, but found nothing. Not even a spot where his DNA hit the deck.
I walked back to the room and down the stairs with my partner. We walked to the end of the building but could not see this guy anywhere. I looked at my partner as if to see if maybe this was a goof or a ghost. He simply shrugged his shoulders. We then went from door to door under the escape route looking for this guy.
I stopped and listened before knocking on each door. About halfway through the rooms downstairs I heard the sound of a person whimpering on the other side of the door and knew this was either my bad guy, or maybe my displaced social engineer. I knocked on the door and a non-involved party, who looked afraid, came to the door. You always know these guys; they have really big eyes and are sweating. I whispered for him to step out and said “He’s in here, right?” I got the nod. My partner and I entered and found a guy whose elbow looked like it had extra parts to it. I mean, it bent in unnatural ways. He no longer looked like big strong convict. He looked like he was in pain. Pain is the great equalizer.
I think this guy was glad we found him. The paramedics took him to the hospital and he was later escorted back to another room with bars on the window, this time not as an hourly guest, but as an invited resident of the Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation to finish his parole time.
Remember, Always-always look before you leap. Let us know if you want more.

Until the next time......Ralph.

Thanks and Do You Want to Attend The Citizen Police Academy?

2010-07-21T09:50:00.000-07:00

Hello folks, it's Lieutenant Dan. I have to say that the blogs by Lt. Pata and Dispatcher Anndora have been amazing. I never imagined that they would receive the response they have. Anndora was asked to blog for a national blog and Lt. Pata is being interviewed by none other than Phil Bronstein today and has a life long fan in CBS Eye on Blogs writer, Beth Spotswood. So thanks to all of you that continue to read the stories about the men and women of the San Rafael Police Department.

So my other reason for writing today (and no I don't have some exciting story) is to see if there are people interested in attending the fall session of our Citizen Police Academy. This is an awesome 10 week program where each week you learn about a different function of the police department (ie: CSI, SWAT, Investigations, etc). As an added bonus, you also get to go the shooting range with an SRPD firearms instructor and go on a ride-a-long in the patrol division. We have a great time in the class and it is a great experience. The next class starts Wednesday, September 15th and it runs every Wednesday for 10 weeks from 6pm to 9pm at San Rafael City Hall. Usually the class is only open for San Rafael residents or people who work in San Rafael but I can hold some spots for some of our faithful blog readers. We have a cap at 35 in each class so if you don't get in this time, we will have another session starting up in the spring of 2011.

If you want to attend, please e-mail me at 447@srpd.org by August 13th to get your application going. Most of all, I will assure you a personal introduction of the famous blogging duo, Dispatcher Anndora and Lt. Pata. I hope to see you there!

A Rookie Detective's First Autopsy by Lt. Pata

2010-07-15T06:10:00.001-07:00

Ah…the autopsy. The tried and true staple of any good cop flick is the puking rookie cop into the autopsy-room garbage can. Well, there certainly is a particular unsavory aspect of being a guest to the intimate examination of another’s viscera, but I am guessing that the proprietor of said viscera has a bigger gripe, so I try to keep my lunch to myself and not share.

Of course it is every good senior officer’s job to try with every fiber of their being to make the new guy sick at autopsy, but often times the build up is worse than the event… Unless, of course, the benefactor of the examination has been missing for a week or more or succumbed to a rapid unhealthy increase in temperature change resulting in their thermally induced demise. Those still bug me a little. Sorry for the “bug” inference.

So, my peers are always making fun of my close association with the dead. It’s not so much that I have a pathological relationship with them, I’m just a little curious about what makes people tick. I was the kid who used to poke at the dead stuff on the side of the road. I look at those gems of my life as learning my first lessons into the world of investigation. Think that’s weird? How many of you slow down to get a peek at the car wreck? I rest my case.

If you are analytical with maybe a little twist of macabre and are interested in the “off switch of life”, where do you go for the answer? If you are me, you drop by for an autopsy every now and then. Dead folks are not so bad. Most of them don’t really bother you, they keep to themselves and when you are done learning from them, you can put them back in the drawer. (Go ahead and cut this Lt. Dan…I dare you.) They are not clingy and don’t stick around for long. They are usually gone in a couple of days and are replaced by new folks.

By now you know that I used to work for the Marin Coroner and San Francisco – Medical Examiner’s Office. Both were good jobs. I learned about what not to do and how to stay alive. Things like, wearing rubber boots to clean out some types of farm equipment machines…not a good idea. (Rubber is good on pavement, not so good on steel. It’s like ice skating around a hole in the ice, while a Great White shark is patiently waiting for you to slip.) Another lesson I learned was that it was not so smart to try to make a buck by recycling semi precious metals, like copper… forgetting to turn off the power to the ka-gillion watt power grid before doing so. That was my most current example. (Pun – completely intended.)

I have taken a number of new officers to their first autopsy. Actually, I think I have been to small towns that had fewer people inhabited in them than people who I have been acquainted with in death. I was kind of the den-father of death for the new kids. I don’t remember all of them, but I will never forget bringing then Detective Raul Aguilar to his first.

Raul and I were in detectives back in the early part of this century. He was a sex assault detective and I was a homicide – violent crimes guy. I had the easier job. I remember getting the call from my boss asking me to take Raul out to the cemetery for his first postmortem exam. I look back on it now and it totally played out like a Hitchcock movie.

I drove my Crown Victoria to the front of our detective’s building. I remember that it was a cold but crisp-clear day. Raul and I have a great relationship, but remember it was my unofficial and non-sanctioned job to enhance this experience and do my best to reverse his breakfast intake.

Raul and I were going to a homicide autopsy. The victim was on the receiving end of an instrument normally reserved for disarticulating vegetables and rendering them into small edible parts. Some would call it, a knife, but it’s not as sexy of a word and I have been dying to use the word disarticulation for some time.

When I picked Raul up, I noticed that he was not his usual cheerful self. He was quiet, but looked great in his new detective suit. Raul is one of those terminally cheerful types. That morning, his beautiful wife clearly picked his attire and, as I suspect, she left the suit on their bed like a little deflated man for him. I was in my usual sport coat and open collared shirt. By now I knew the routine, keep a spare tie in my car and in my drawer in case I needed to look the part. I also remembered Detective Rule # 3 never wear a tie to an autopsy. Why you ask? Uh, bending over to get a closer look at something, formerly associated with non-exterior portion of the victim, will almost always cause you to have to cut off and throw away the tie. Get my sanitized drift? Ya, yuck.

I always figured that people, who dropped dead be it accidently or on purpose, by virtue of nature, karma maybe by gross consumption or as a result of some sinister act, deserved at least a detective-looking guy or gal to come to the location of their departure or discovery, looking sharp. It is the old-school respect thing that I have always had for serious crimes, but especially for the family of those who died. Breaking the news of a death, while in a Hawaiian shirt, with a gal depicted on your chest – dancing, dressed in coconut shell bikini, grass skirt and lei, is not so professional, but definitely cheery.

I’ll never forget one casual Friday where my whole team wore Hawaiian shirts (tasteful of course) and we were called out to investigate a dead guy, found behind a debris box, downtown. A citizen interacted with the team for a few minutes then asked: “Hey are you guys cops?” That was it. From that point on I always had a coat and tie nearby. Plus, honestly, I have to, I’m Italian…and yes the buttons on the Hawaiian shirts were made from coconut shells, not plastic. C’mon we’re not barbarians!

In Marin, they do not have a central morgue, so selected funeral homes and cemeteries have facilities to do embalming. You don’t need much to do an autopsy; all you need is a table, a sink, and a nice collection of shiny instruments, some jars to collect samples. Oh and a saw. You need a saw.

The drive out with Raul was kind of surreal. I remember the low volume of the radio playing in my car of some string quartet as we drove from the downtown to a really quiet and nice neighborhood. I can recall seeing and hearing the kids at the local school playing in the school yard as I looked over and saw Raul staring straight ahead not saying a word. As I drove I remember seeing the sun shining in his face and shadows of the tree lined street breaking through the bright sun, but I don’t think he blinked the entire ride.

By the time we arrived at the cemetery I drove back to the rear of the complex. I decided to point out one of the experience enhancing moments to Raul as I noticed the heat coming off the building we were going to enter. “Hey look Raul! I think they are doing cremations today.” That little statement got him to actually blink for what I think was the first time during the 10 minute ride to the cemetery. I discovered that I also possess magical powers, as suddenly I was able to blanch and discolor his face with that simple statement.

When I parked, we got out of the car and collected our police stuff, camera, notebooks and pens. As we walked toward the unmarked entrance, to the windowless room, I said “hi” to a guy who looked like he stepped right out of central casting for a horror movie. This guy was a gravedigger or “groundskeeper.” He had on overalls and a ball cap. He was also covered in dirt. I could not have set this one up any better. This guy was seated on a planter box eating a tuna sandwich. I remember him saying hello mid-chew. He had this partially chewed lump of food in his mouth. When he did this, I noticed that he was devoid of some esthetic frontal dentition. It doesn’t take a detective to figure out that explained the soft tuna sandwich and absence of a wedding ring. By now I could feel Raul’s polite but palpable tension. Raul looked like he had rode the “zipper” at the county fair – after lunch. The only thing missing was the banjo music.

When I opened the side door to the mortuary, there was a customer in the head up position. The person was not lying down, but almost standing. I am guessing they were trying to get some normal color back or maybe they ran out of space. Who knows, maybe she was the like the Wal-Mart greeter. I have to admit, I was a little taken back when I opened the door and right in front of me, was this person looking right at us. I think I actually said hello to her.

Raul and I navigated our way past the overnight guests who were resting eternally, in their small but functional wood and metal cottages. We made our way into the autopsy room and met the rent-a-pathologist. I remember the room was cold. I also remember the doctor was preparing his equipment for the autopsy. I offered a little gracious “hey how ya doing-how are the kids?” while putting on the mask, as he got his sample jars ready. It was part of my disarming tactic designed for Raul’s impending and calculated cerebral tornado I was trying to stir up and eventual evacuation of his stomach contents. I was feeling frisky. I admit it…I am a bad man.

Raul stopped short of entering the room willfully as the surgeon unzipped the bag containing the once vibrant, if not artificially, and usually unlawfully-stimulated life of a petty criminal. This guy met his demise the night before at the hands of an old friend.

Its friends like this, who would be by your side as you leave the planet that really demonstrate the meaning of “friend for life.” Actually, he was more like behind him at the time of expiration, not by his side. He also gave his pal a pat on the back, several times, but forgot to remove the steak knife from his meaty fist. Remember, if you, the victim, do not consent to being stabbed and you die, well, then those “friends” are just despicable murderers.

I told Raul that I had to use the bathroom. He quietly said he also had to use the restroom. I walked across the ceramic tile-showroom that is every autopsy-embalming room and opened the door to the inner sanctum of the mortuary. The casket storage room and, yes, the cremation room.

Picture a dark room with a distant light leading to an open door about 50 yards away. That light was our passage to salvation, the restroom. The serenity of the dark room with the light struck me as having a weird coincidence to what people, who have described a similar circumstance from returning from their near-death experience. The dark room became a little brighter, after the technician opened the door to the retort (cremation device), as we started to walk toward the restroom. While you are visualizing that little vignette - pipe in the sound of heavy-duty fans.

I made it to the restroom, but Raul didn’t. I think I said something to Raul and looked over my shoulder only to find he was no longer behind me. Raul retreated to the autopsy room, which – all by itself was not so safe for his psyche either, but better in some regards, than the room before it with the standing deceased person and her friends and way better, if not colder, than the cremation room.

Raul never became sick, and I could not bring myself to enhance his already perfect storm of nausea and fear. He remains my valedictorian in death 101. Raul was not so happy during the procedure, but never complained. He stood with his back against the corner wall like he was hung on it and took pictures of our victim using the telephoto lens, but still, he stuck it out. The pictures by the way were all of my back. Thankfully this case never went to trial because the bad guy pled guilty.

I am certain Raul is a different man for it. I think that was his first and last autopsy. Raul is now a sergeant and doesn’t have to go to these anymore. I’m telling you, he’s missing out. I’ve gotta go. I’m hungry.

Trust me, there’s more. Stay safe – Ralph.

Always Eat Your Dinner! By Lt. Pata

2010-07-06T05:47:00.000-07:00

Early in 2004 (or so) I was called by nightshift and told that one of our local street guys was in a fight with another guy at a flophouse in our city. The fight was over a girl. The bad guy kind of saw himself as the big-brother type in this community and thought my victim was taking advantage of this girl’s not so brilliant mind. The suspect decided to invite the victim over for a little talk. Not a good idea.

The talk leads to a declaration of love from the victim, and his plans to enter into the sacrament of marriage with his inamorata, to whoever would hear it in the apartment. This could have been touching had the victim asked the girl’s father, and maybe did it with a little panache, you know, dinner, candle, bottle of fortified wine, down on a knee…uh maybe a ring! I feel qualified to make this statement because I have done this a few times. I would just not be the right guy to give the bride and groom to be the “pick wisely” talk. Instead my victim would rub his undying love for his girlfriend in the suspect’s face – at her apartment.

What Mr. Victim did not know, was that Mr. Suspect had planned on intimidating him or even killing him with a rather sizeable knife. The suspect kind of set up the confrontation by placing a knife in a location that he could get to it. Of course you know what happened next, right? Wrong, he did not kill him, but he did stab him. Some would later argue that I killed him. Let me explain…

Of course the suspect stabbed the victim. This would not be interesting if he just left really angry. So when my victim tries to leave, the suspect perforates him, oh about 3 maybe 4 times in the back. Thankfully, the victim had a Mediterranean type body, much like mine, but a little heftier, and the knife never made it through the nice protective layer of fat. See? Another reason to eat all of your dinner.

The victim’s problem was not so much that he was stabbed, but that he had some very professional and thorough care at the local trauma center. When he arrived with his new sharp-force wounds, he was taken to surgery where they gave him another sharp-force wound. After they unzipped him, they found that he was saved by a few too many desserts. Kind of interesting isn’t it that the treatment for a stabbing is…another stabbing. Medically sanctioned, of course.

The next day, I took then Sgt. Masterson with me to the trauma center, so we could have a little talk with the victim who was resting uncomfortably in the ICU. I could plainly see he was not in a good mood. Maybe he was worried that the suspect would give his betrothed away at the pending sacred event. I mean, really, if you get stabbed for just announcing the engagement, what could befall you if you go through with it?

Despite having all these tubes in him I was able to get a good statement. Sgt. Masterson and I left him so he could rest in peace. Unfortunately, he literally took us up on that. At about 6PM I got a call from my boss advising me that my victim was dead. I told him he was mistaken, because I just saw him, talked to him and found out that none of the stab wounds was life threatening.

I did that Candid Camera thing and looked around and out the window to see if maybe my pals were outside of my home looking in for a gag during my dinner. But no one was there. The tone of my voice changed and I said, “You’re not kidding, are you?”

The next call came from my friend, Coroner’s Investigator Pam Carter. I asked her what happened. She told me that as a result of the surgery and the stabbing, the victim had a heart attack in the ICU. All of the stress on his body from the event caused his demise. That, my friend, equals murder. Guess who ended up going back to work, minus dinner?

I arrived at the police station around 7PM and re-read the report. I knew the suspect and victim from past contacts as a street cop and thought I could use that familiarity to get a statement. I took a partner with me and drove to the Marin County Jail where he was housed for the stabbing. As far as this guy knew, he was there for ADW, assault with a deadly weapon.

Now this guy is intimidating. Not because he wants to be intimidating, he is just a big guy with a really big stomach. He had bright red hair and a scraggly beard. His hair was all over the place, frizzy and it was falling out on the top.

I made nice with the bad guy when he came in. I am not big on handshaking murderers or prostitutes for that matter, but I gave him a complementary bottle of water, courtesy of the County of Marin, and sat across from him. This guy was weird. He acted like some bad “B” list movie character I had seen, but did not have the smarts to pull it off completely.

He tried the “tough guy” stuff on me. Amateur crooks and the kids always try this. He was not a kid and had been around, but I think he had been kicked in the head maybe one too many times to be an effective with his Hannibal Lechter act. He tried to lead the conversation, so I let him. Some good comes from that. I love it when these guys use stuff they have seen in the movies to try and get me to believe their story.

I liked doing the Colombo thing and I acted like he was in control, until I had enough to slowly pick his story apart. My favorite move was to ask suspects to be the cop. Then I would present the case to them and ask them what they would do. Many would arrest themselves. It’s beautiful when they say this clearly over the audio and video tape recorders. It’s pretty cool when you get to play that in front of 12 jurors. I tell ya, Perry Mason can’t help them of that little courtroom drama.
This guy was not making a move. He was not buying my sales pitch and frankly I was starving and wanted this game of cat and mouse over. I finally had enough and told him those life changing words: “Brother, you’re under arrest for murder…he died. That - (pause for emphasis…) is murder.”

What happened next was spooky. He looked me in the eyes and started to grind his teeth. I am telling you, I expected him to spit out a dozen teeth. This guy was literally chewing his molars. I would not have been surprised if someone later told me the jail had to call out their dentist that night. My fillings started to get sore watching this guy.

This guy gave me the creeps. I remember I pushed back away from the table and prepared for a fight. I was waiting for this guy to flip the table over and squeeze my neck. Instead, he took the plastic cap from his water bottle and bent it in half with two fingers. Try that some day. It is not so easy. All of this as he stared in my eyes and never made a statement. The only two things he moved on his body were his jaws and his right thumb and forefinger. He did not say a word for what seemed like an hour, but was only maybe 3 minutes. Seriously-freaky!

When he was done doing his homeopathic dental work, he said “OK” and we were done. I wanted to get the heck out of that room and go to a church. This guy seemed possessed. It was a new kind of anger for me. I needed to light a candle and say a little prayer to whatever patron saint handled the “weird events” department of heaven. I left the jail at about 11PM and drove back to the station.

I now had a date at 8:00AM with the autopsy surgeon and another visit with my victim. This guy had a few too many knives in his life in the last 24 hours. It was time for him to finally get that peace he deserved, of course after another appointment with yet another knife.

I ate a bag of chips out of the police dining facility (vending machine) on the way home. I remember I had classical music on in the car and tried to crunch my corn chips to the music and maybe come up with a beat. I sometimes listen to classical tunes to decompress or to help me think. I also went over the events of the last 24 hours.

Morning was a few hours away and I needed to start to plan my case for the next day. Sleep would not come without a little help from a handful of my friends, Tylenol PM’s. I don’t mind telling you that sometimes, I play war with them. They never seem to stand up, but that’s ok, I act like Godzilla and eat them as they scream all the way down to my stomach.

Stay safe. See ya around the block. Ralph.

Really??? By Lt. Pata

2010-06-25T14:15:00.001-07:00

No, I’m not kidding…...All of this is true.

I have been doing this now for 25 years. It’s a great job. I tell the new kids coming out of the academy that there is a reason they have TV shows about this job and to not mess it up by doing dumb things. I used to never believe the stuff I saw on TV until now. You really can’t make this stuff up.

Don’t believe me? How about the time two of our officers went to talk to a person about his loud birds. The officers get there on what should have been a simple call. The officer’s knocked on the door and were greeted by “Hello, who’s there?” One of the guys said “San Rafael PD.” Nothing happened. No one came to the door. The other officer knocked. A voice called out “Hello, who’s there?” The other officer said “San Rafael Police can you come to the door?” Nothing. The officers became agitated and thought perhaps the person inside could not hear them or were trying to avoid contact. So, they knocked again. “Hello, who’s there?” This time the officers responded loudly “San Rafael PD come to the door!” Nothing. The officers were beside themselves. This time one of the officers pounded on the door with his fist and shouted at the occupant. The other officer looked through a window and saw the subject inside. When the officer pounded on the door, the parrot inside replied “Hello, who’s there?”

Right after the horrible 9-11 attack, our dispatch center started to get calls that were not typical. My brother, Nick took one call from a concerned citizen about their purchased drink. The call went something like this: “San Rafael 9-1-1 what’s your emergency?” ‘Hi, for years I have been going to this juice place in town…they always get my order wrong. Always! Today, they got it right. I think you should check it out because they never get it right, something is funny about this…’ really.

Or how about this one; “San Rafael 9-1-1 what is your emergency?” ‘There is a plane way up in the sky that is spraying white stuff…there are four trails of white stuff coming from the plane.” Of course it was the vapor trail from a plane at 33,000 feet. Desperate times caused for some suspicious calls. Sometimes it’s a balancing act to educate our callers. We don’t want them to feel bad for calling, but it’s not so easy at times to keep your mouth shut and not editorialize or maybe even chuckle. Our dispatchers and records people are saints.

From time to time we get some interesting customers that walk into the PD for assistance. One such call was an older couple who came to the police department. Actually, if I knew better, I’d say the husband dragged his wife in the station…” He proclaimed loudly in our front lobby “I want my wife arrested for adultery!” He had a pretty heavy Italian accent. I met with him outside and recommended a priest or counselor, because we don’t arrest people for that kind of stuff. He was amazed that it was not a crime in America.

I remember when Officer Blair Auld and I responded to a “fight in progress” in the Terra Linda part of our city. Both of us were downtown at shift change, so we were the closest cars to respond. We drove with our lights and siren’s on, risking our lives to get to this call. I remember pulling up to the home, our brakes glowing from the heavy braking; we dove out of our cars to rescue the person in need. Like all good cops, you always “look before you leap” so we stopped and listened before knocking on the door. We heard nothing, then knocked and announced ourselves “San Rafael Police.”

An occupant came to door but he did not look like he was in a fight. We walked in and asked, “Where’s the fight?” The man was the father of his 13 and 17 year old boys. He said the fight was over, but asked us to counsel his children. Apparently the frantic call for help was to mediate an argument over who had more Frosted Flakes cereal in their bowl…

Finally, how about the woman who called 9-1-1 for an unspecified emergency in the middle of the night at her apartment complex? I drove their quickly and ran up two flights of stairs with my partner – not an easy task when you have a Mediterranean body like mine. When the woman opened the door she said “Oh hi, thank you for coming, my smoke detector needs the battery changed and I can’t reach it.” I asked her if she called 9-1-1 and hung up. She told me she did because she knew we would come fast and she wanted to get back to sleep.

You can’t make it up, and never forget them. There are hundreds of these stories. This little walk down memory lane is one of the reasons I take blood pressure pills.

Before you call for us to change the oil in your car or maybe bring you a shake, please remember -We are the police. We come to bad things and make them better. Now we do lots of jobs, like quality of life stuff. It is not always a gun battle, like on TV or the movies – and we have had those. We like to solve problems, but changing smoke detector batteries, when there is a chair nearby or an apartment manager…may not be what you want your officers to do. Of course, it if is a person who really can’t get to it or is bed-ridden, well, then of course, we will be there for you. But make cookies.

More later. Stay safe. Raffaello

The Good, The Bad, The Tragic -- Reality. By Dispatcher Anndora

2010-06-22T18:39:00.000-07:00

Last time I posted, I blogged about being hooked and the "firsts." There are calls that bond the "team" together. Great arrests, great police work, great out comes - high fives and all. Then there are the calls that break your heart. From the house fire that kills a family to that stuff happens to, but shouldn't happen to, kids or the elderly.

Now, let me warn you, if you are looking for a happy, high five kind of ending, stop reading now. This blog entry will be about the Tragic - about the side of law enforcement and public safety that can or will hit home and make you cry. It also make you second guess your actions...It's heavy. The names and locations of those involved have been purposely omitted or changed to protect those involved.

The date was March 21, many, many years ago. The day was supposed to be a happy one, for it was my 25th birthday. I had a cake, great co-workers (who are actually part of an extended family), lunch plans with a friend and plans for after work, not to mention the weekend. I don't remember the exact time but I do remember seeing, through the security camera, my friend waiting, in the police lobby, to take me to lunch. One partner was, a few minutes late, returning from her lunch break and the other one had to run to the restroom. Just as the latter was headed out the door, a single 911 rang. I said, "no, worries, I've got it." Famous last words, right?

In the background of the call, I heard this earth shattering wail. A kind of moaning, a sound of sheer grief and heart ache. The male caller (a neighbor), appeared to be in shock and said something like, "help...you need to get out here...help!" I had to prod, poke and invade to figure out what was going on and determine what kind of help they need. I was able to hear "baby" and "pool." Many of you have figured it out by now... there was a baby found in the pool. I made sure the baby was pulled out of the pool and connected the call to the San Rafael Fire Dispatcher so they could start paramedics and give CPR instructions.

As I listened to the Fire Dispatcher, I started my two only units on the streets. The baby incident was in East San Rafael. The Fire Station responding was also in East San Rafael. I knew that in order for the Medics to be able to, hopefully, provide life saving actions, they needed to be able to work on their tiny patient without interference from the parents or other bystanders. My officers would need to help ensure this. My two units were motor officers. I think they heard it in my voice and knew some thing was going on. [I've been told that the units on the street can tell when I'm about to give a "major" call out because my voice drops an octave. We are taught to use our voice to calm, to be clear and concise, to not add to the level of chaos because we are "jacked up."] The units went out, Code 3 (lights and sirens), without any question or comment.

My guys arrived to find the Medics already working on the baby. Trying to breathe life back into her tiny body as she was being strapped to a gurney so that she could be transported to the hospital. My motor guys, eventually, rode ahead of the Medics, stopping all traffic, in upcoming intersections, so the transport of the baby could be expedited. The Medics didn't have to worry about cross or on coming traffic; they could focus on the baby and getting her to the doctors. The coordination between the agencies was flawless. This was my first time, I had witnessed and been apart of such a high level of coordination. This little child had all of us working towards saving her life. We were trying to give her all the odds we could. Maybe, just maybe our efforts would be rewarded.

I was unaware of the comings and goings of my co-workers. I didn't know until later that someone gave a heads up to my friend as to what was going on and that as soon as the baby arrived at the hospital, they were going to kick me out of Communications for a breather. [Most dispatchers are pretty territorial about their calls, and will not leave the the "major" ones til it's done.] My friend would keep an eye on me for the next hour. What I didn't know was that my co-workers and supervisor were working on covering the rest of my shift. They knew I wouldn't go home but they also knew that I wouldn't be in any condition to work, no matter how much I protested. Lunch was less than celebratory. My friend and I tried to make small talk but everything ended up circling around to this last call. We ended up calling lunch early and headed back to the PD.

Upon my return, I learned the baby's name was S*(name omitted - she will be refered to as Baby S through the rest of my blog). Baby S was ultimately transported to UCSF Medical Center. Here, she would have the best care and best chance of recovery. I also learned Baby S was fascinated by the pool and water. There was a fence around the pool but someone left the gate propped open. Baby S was left under the care of a family member. The family member had put Baby S down for her nap and ultimately fell asleep himself. While he was napping, Baby S woke up and left her bedroom, eventually ending up outside and then in the family pool. She wasn't discovered missing until her mother came home on her lunch break. Her mother found Baby S lifeless in the pool. Someone pulled her out. No one in Dispatch knew how long she had been in the water.

Shortly after my return, I was called into the Captain's office. He wanted to know how I was doing - I didn't know. Looking back, I was in shock. I remember saying I was fine. I remember trying not to cry. I remember willing Baby S to pull through. I also remember telling God that the best birthday gift I could ever have would be for Baby S to live. I also remember feeling numb. The Captain told me about how this critical incident would effect me. He made suggestions to me on what I should do to take care of myself. I'm not sure of the what else the Captain said except that he was making me come back in two days to talk to the a police psychologist. I told him I didn't want to go but I wasn't given the choice. But he did say I didn't have to talk, I could just listen. And it would be good for me. He went on to explain that he was going to have the two officers there and invite the responding fire personnel. It was something called a debriefing. He then told me Baby S was in very, very critical condition. They don't know if she was going to make it or not. He gave me the number to call at UCSF, if I wanted to check on Baby S, over my weekend.

Back in Dispatch, one of my co-workers had left and returned, bringing her young daughter in. I'm not sure, to this day, what the daughter was told. But she came up to Auntie AD and gave me the biggest hug she could. That is something I will never forget and my healing process began.

Baby S never made it to the next morning. She became an Angel sometime during the night, while I tried to sleep. Once I found out that bit of information, I was ANGRY! Angry at the person who was supposed to be watching Baby S. Angry at the person who propped the gate open. Angry that I was angry at God, at the world; angry that the sun was shining or wasn't and angry that, once again, work succeeded in ruining my personal plans. Then the "what ifs" and feeling of doubts took over the emotional anger. I remember wondering if I caused Baby S's death...When that call came in, I answered it, in the middle of the second ring. What if I had answered it on the first ring? What if I had been able to get information from the caller a bit quicker. What if this...what if that...what... A person could drive themselves crazy what if-ing every little thing. BUT, what if?! Eventually, some of the words the Captain had said came flooding back. Stuff about wondering, if you did everything you could to the best of your abilities, if you do make a difference, about life, about career choice. I remember hearing him say stuff like you do make a difference but sometimes, no matter what you do, things don't turn out the way you want them to....it's life.

The next day, I remember reporting to work as ordered... not wanting anyone to know my part of the call because I was still dealing with the what ifs....was it was my fault?...Did I somehow delay her getting the help she needed? My Captain drove me to where the debriefing. He introduced me to the Psychiatrist and handed him a cassette tape. When everyone else arrived, at the Doctor's request, we introduced ourselves and described what our role was. Nurses, paramedics, firefighters, cops, the Doc and lil ole me were here to talk about the incident. The Doc explained that we would go around the room twice to first explain what we did and the next time what we were feeling or felt. We were told that what was said in this room, stayed in this room and no ones administration would be told what was said.

Doc chose me to go first because I took the 911 call. I told the group, I answered the 911 call, finally determined what was going on and connected the call to the FD and started my motor officers. Everyone else relayed their roles. It was soon my turn again. I remember I started to cry again and mumbled that Baby S would still be alive if I had answered the call quicker, got the information quicker and transferred the call quicker. Everyone protested my remark, but I knew the truth. To my surprise, everyone else relayed the same sentiment regarding their own roles - the what if's - they were all around us. At the end, the Doc played the cassette tape. It was a copy of the telephone and all radio traffic related to this incident. Someone timed it and told me it took less that 30 seconds for me to answer the call, figure it out, connect them to the FD and dispatch my units. I was astounded - it seemed so much longer. The Doc ended the debriefing by relaying that we were thrown together to try and stop a set of motions. We each did our job valiantly and heroically but we could not change the direction of the action. We were told about post traumatic stress, we were told what we were feeling (and probably continue to feel) was normal. I left feeling emotionally exhausted but lighter, as if a 10,000 pound boulder was lifted off my shoulders.

We were also told that our respective agencies would welcome us to attend Baby S's funeral, if we felt we needed to or wanted to. None of us committed to going to the funeral at that point but we were given the information for the services. On the day Baby S was laid to rest, we all showed up, filling a pew in the back of the church. A line of navy blue - our last goodbye to this little one, who brought us all together. I don't remember the services. I remember feeling safe among the blue line. I remember the two figures in navy blue sitting on either side of me, each holding one of my hands. The last thing I remember seeing was her tiny white coffin and the tiny flowers, the rest is just a blur.

Within 30 seconds of picking up that 911 call, my life would be forever changed. Time does help and heal. Talking about this event helps too. Usually, around the anniversary of the event, the memories sneak back up, and fortunately, I know how to deal with it. The first few years after this incident, I would get a bit moody and down, right around the anniversary. I thought it was because I was dealing with getting older, but after becoming a member our the PD's Peer Support and Critical Incident Debriefing Teams, I learned through training, the stuff I was dealing with still had to do with Baby S's event. It made sense. Since this revelation, the emotions don't tend to haunt or bother me - too much. I acknowledge them and am able to put them back in place.

The best way for me to explain this is to imagine your brain is a parking garage. Each emotion, each event, is neatly packaged in to a car. Some of these cars are pristine while others, have seen more than their share of dents and damage. Every so often, the something disrupts the parked cars and triggers one (or more of them) to pull out of their space. The cars drive aimlessly around. The trigger can be something little or something major. My triggers are not necessarily your triggers, but what ever it is, the garage attendant (your psyche?) is trying very desperately to get everything parked again to restore order. Acknowledging and dealing with the "cars" and everything that's packed into them is key. It helps to normalize the things we see no matter how abnormal things are. Avoidance only makes things worse.

In recent years, I really haven't thought about this event. When I thought about sharing some of the 'not so pretty' side of my job, this call came to mind. I didn't remember too many of the details, at first, but as soon as I started writing, the details and feelings came back. The reliving of this call, eventually brought on the waterworks. I cried thinking about the call, I cried during the writing of this blog and even the proof reading of it. But it's a cleansing experience, I guess. I had my little cries, acknowledged them and they're all parked, for now, until the something triggers something else. But hey, it was a good cry and proves, I'm still human and not a jaded call taking machine, right?

I don't know what happened to Baby S's family but I hope they got all the help they needed. I'm thankful for the support my co-workers and I got from the Department. Way back then, it was relatively still new to talk about feelings and the emotional side of the job. Very early, SRPD embraced and recognized the aspects of critical incidents, peer support and post traumatic stress disorder. Today, we have an active Peer Support and Critical Incident Stress Debriefing team that quietly keeps an eye out on the rest of our PD family and have even responded to help others within the city, county and North Bay region. We actively support a County wide team and have a working relationship with Sonoma County's team and have resources to help our people when the time comes.

I know I make a difference. I know I'm damn good at what I do and sometimes, things are just out of my control, no matter how hard I try to change it..and that's life.

Thank you for staying with me this long, it's been kind of therapeutic. Now, be safe out there.

Hooked by Dispatcher Anndora

2010-06-19T18:37:00.000-07:00

January 2, 1991 is a day I will always remember. It was my first day at SRPD as a Records Clerk - I had survived a hiring process that started with 80-100 applicants. The process took over a year to complete (from application to interview to background investigation). My first 3 days were spent in "orientation" with another newbie, Officer Wanda Spaletta (she's now a sergeant with us!). We met various people in the department and learned their responsibilities. I remember being wide-eyed, fearful of what was coming my way, excited, ready for a challenge and oblivious to how this job would change me.

My life prior to SRPD was spent in retail. I had held multiple positions with a now defunct department store chain. My responsibilities ranged from sales to Customer Service Supervisor to Bridal Consultant. I guess I interviewed fairly well because they hired me and I knew nothing about law enforcement! All during the orientation and training process, I was told to make sure I kept my friends outside of the department because it's healthy to not eat, sleep and breathe police work. [Okay, easier said than done, when you find yourself working when others are sleeping and missing parties, family gathering and holidays.] Yes, they did warn me of shift work and the chance I'd have to cancel plans based on the needs of the Department and City. Sometimes, I thought they were trying to scare me off.

I vividly remember during the orientation process, wonder what I had gotten myself into. Working in law enforcement meant I had to learn the jargon, the codes (and there are lots of them!), a new city and see people not necessarily in the best light. Remember, I came from a world where "the customer is always right" even if they weren't, to a world where folks didn't necessarily tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. My two main trainers, while I was in Records, were great. They took this kid under their arm and patiently trained me on how to take calls, cut to the chase and data enter the copious amounts of reports into the records keeping system. They challenged me, helped me deal with difficult people (and some of them were co-workers!) and helped me grow and challenge myself. I fell in love with the job. It was something or someplace where you never knew how a hot call would end, let alone the day!

I remember hearing my first police chase on the radio, during training and not understanding what was being said, therefore not understanding the gravity of the situation. I just knew by looking at my co-workers, this was something major. The situation, to our relief, would end with no officers getting hurt and the bad guys in custody. Later in my career, I was given the nick name of "S--t Magnet" because it was guaranteed if I was working with a certain Sergeant or if I said a certain word, the shift would be rocking and rolling. Looking back at it now, maybe the foundation for that nick name was established during my first year at the PD - because we had 7 homicides (I was told it was an anomaly) and everyone worked long, long days.

All I knew was, I was hooked!

During December 1992, I tested for and was promoted to Communications Dispatcher. After I completed the training process, I was challenged and tested by the field units. Some of it was in good nature, some of it was that they wanted to make sure I "had their back" when the going got tough. There are always calls that you will always remember. It's usually the "firsts." Granted, during training I handled a variety of hot calls and in progress calls, but there's the security of knowing your trainer is there, listening and guiding you through the toughest situations. The first real "oh shit" call I had I still remember vividly - it was within my first week out of training. My supervisor let my partner leave a few minutes early because she had an appointment. The supervisor told me I'd be fine and she'd be right there if something happened. I remember watching, from a security camera, the tail lights of my partner's car drive out of the back parking lot. I also remember the security camera switching to another view - allowing me to see my supervisor leave the Communications Center and walk into the main part of the department. There are two security coded doors that separate the Comm Center and the main office.

As fate would have it, my friend Murphy would wave his magic wand. As I watched that 2nd security door close, the 911 phone bank lit up! I was taking non-stop 911 calls of shots fired with a man running down the street. It was up to me and only me to get the information from the callers and the units dispatched on the radio while keeping myself and everyone else calm. I remember a "feeling" coming over me an instant before I hit the transmit button. I remember my voice was calm sounding but I was having the hardest time typing because my hands were shaking. I remember my supervisor trying to get back in, hearing her fumble the codes for the door. I remember one of my trainers from Records helping me answer the copious 911 calls that were still coming in. I remember her calling in and saying I had to pick up this certain 911 line because it was the victim. AACK! I took a deep breath and picked up the call. Meanwhile, my supervisor finally makes it in and asks what she needs to do, I gesture for her to pick up the phone calls!

While talking to the victim I learned a lot of new information, including the suspect's name and address, and kept the officers updated to what was going on. The victim stayed on the phone with me until I got officers to her. She acted as my eyes, reporting and relaying information and I was her safety line. While the 911s stopped ringing, we were fielding request for information from officers, detectives and everyone else from the radio and other phone lines. The first scene was controlled and now the officers were forming their plans and looking for the suspect. We were searching background information on the suspect, including cars, weapons and prior criminal history.

One of the officers got on the radio and said, "I know you are busy but are you clear for Channel 2?" Channel 2 was an auxiliary channel where radio traffic was less formal. I said I was. He said, "You did an awesome job, you did it exactly like you were supposed to! Fantastic!" I was stunned, that officer was the one who would test me, the one that sometimes made me feel like I had failed because I didn't have the information he, and only he seemed to want. I was floating! I guess that's when I knew I had made it as a Dispatcher! It wasn't until years later, I had the guts to reveal to him how, he was the one who always made me nervous and unsure, until that major impact moment on Channel 2. It was his turn to be stunned. I remember him saying, something like, "Really? I always knew you'd be a good dispatcher!" Remembering the Channel 2 interaction still makes me "warm and fuzzy" :) . It's funny how I can remember the events of this call vividly but probably can't tell you too much about the calls I took just yesterday.

I've mentioned before, this job is not for everyone. I know between all my "extra" duties in the Department, I've seen, smelled, touched and heard lots of things I can't share with my family or friends outside of the "business." Not because they don't want to know, but because they most likely won't understand or it's simply too frightening for them to hear the whole truth. This job does change you. Most of the time you don't deal with best of society has to offer. You learn to quickly size up situations and to read people. You develop a sixth sense, in order to survive. You learn to follow your gut instincts and to realize the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up for a reason! As a dispatcher, I've learned to listen to what's going on around me and what's not being said. Whether its on or off duty, at work or in a social situation, I've learned to listen conversations around me. I guess it's kind of like eavesdropping but for a dispatcher it's an awareness and a skill that can't be necessarily turned off.

Almost two decades later, you'd think I'd have seen, heard or done it all...nope, not in this field. You never know what the next 911 call will bring. My crystal ball is officially broken and I'm not a mind reader. But, I'm still hooked. I love what I do, where I do it and the people I do it with!

Working Undercover by Lt. Pata

2010-06-15T05:53:00.000-07:00

Undercover work is fun, but it’s not as sexy as what you see on TV. For a while I was fortunate enough to be selected and worked with a very talented and dedicated group of people in the Marin County Major Crimes Task Force. Back in 1989 it was just that, a group of detectives from San Rafael PD, Novato PD, Sausalito PD the Sheriff’s Office and the CHP, whose job was to hunt down major drug offenders, work some murder cases, roll informants and provide surveillance for other agencies that needed people to fit in better. We worked hand in hand with the DEA, State Narcotics the local and US Attorney, not to mention the US Marshal’s and Customs Agents. Our leader and biggest supporter was then Lieutenant Walt Kosta from San Rafael PD.

The whole surveillance – stakeout thing is equivalent to hours of boredom, highlighted by minutes of anxiety. Following drug dealers to their massages, their lunch and dinners, not to mention a variety of encounters, waiting to see a deal or identify the “source” was tiring. Some of that anxiety was as simple as having to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night while you are watching a bad guy’s house. They don’t show you that stuff on TV. How do you step out of the car and not activate the interior light in your car – giving you up to the world? Well, you use what you have…in my case it was climbing out of the sunroof! That only happened once. I got wise and took out the light after about a month on the job.

For most of my life I have been in uniforms, so this was a departure and an adventure on a couple of levels. I was a nice Italian - Catholic boy with very traditional parents who decided how my hair was going to look – all of my kid life. They were pleased when I became a cop, because I think, in part; they knew I would not become one of those “American’s with long hair.” I’ll never forget the day, when I was a kid; I parted my hair down the middle. My dad responded, in Italian, “What are you a sheep?” “Only sheep comb their hair down the middle. What’s wrong with you?”

The Task Force was kind of a coming out party for me. I grew my hair long. Then I colored it. Yes, I grew a mullet, once. I did all kinds of things with my face. I grew a “biker” moustache, then a goatee. All of that was disturbing to my parents, which I sinisterly enjoyed. My dad’s antacid intake increased exponentially. The big day for me was when I decided to put blonde streaks in my hair AND, an earring. I was so intimidated by this little act of defiance, that I could not show my dad in private. So, I picked the next best place, church. I will never forget my father shrugging when he saw the streaks, and then shouting “Oh my God!” When he saw the earring. Needless to say, it attracted a little attention. But he got over it.

Undercover work can be intimidating and scary at times. The funny thing is that there is an armada of back-up to bail you out of trouble, normally, and you usually have a gun concealed and are wearing a wire, but for some reason, there is this fear factor built in to buying drugs. You are not supposed to do it, and in narcotic’s school you see video after video of cops getting shot in drug deals. I especially remembered the one where the undercover was accidently shot by his own partners. Nice.

One time I was buying crack cocaine in a southern Marin city I was in a bright red car and I totally stood out. I pulled up to this corner and there were at least 5 crack dealers across the street. They came over and I ordered up. Buying street drugs is kind of a trick, you don’t want to give the money before you get the product and they don’t want to give up the product until they get the money. So it’s kind of like a quick trade. You also don’t want to buy a $20.00 piece of Styrofoam or gravel instead of the real deal. The problem was on this day these guys didn’t want my money…they wanted to rob me and take my car.

I remember during the robbery there were all of these hands in my driver’s window holding me back against the seat as another set of hands turned off my car. The problem was that when they did that, the microphone in my car turned off so my back-up could not hear me. My gun was under my thigh and now I was not worried about the money or the car, I did not want them to get my gun and I was busy fighting these jerks off, so I did not have a hand to spare. While I was being restrained, the bad guys were also trying to open my door and the passenger door to get to me. I had a brief flash before my eyes of these guys taking my pants and I was going end up running away, down the street, in my boxers… that little image gave me some extra strength to fight harder.

I went for the hand that was on my ignition key and I twisted it as hard as I could. I was able to get the car started and drove away with one of them stuck in my window, for a few feet. I was proud that they only got half of my $20.00 bill as they tried to rip it from my hands. When my radio kicked on, I called out, my voice now about 5 octaves higher – that I had been robbed. Unfortunately for the criminals, the whole thing was on video tape, kind of a police candid camera event for them. They were all identified, caught and some went to prison. I on the other hand, went directly to a bar! Robbery is not my idea of an extreme sport. It was a once in a lifetime experience for me.

In the 1990’s there was a murder for hire case I was working on with my team. I had to watch the “money drop” for the murder at a gas station in Oakland. The crook was an older man. He and his paramour hired a group of amateurs to kill the woman’s husband. Well, they did, but it was not like a TV scripted hit. The murderers made lots of mistakes. As it turned out, the good guys at the Marin Sheriff’s Office figured out who the bad guy was. He rolled on this pals and set up the money transfer.

My team of heavily armed, long-haired partner’s and I set up on the surveillance spot. I was, pretending to work on my car at a gas station in a very bad part of Oakland. I had a nice Chevy Camero. I had the hood up, when along came a group of not so nice citizens. They made a couple of passes.
I had my gun in the engine compartment, just in case…I did not want to be disturbed because I needed to witness the money drop. The group confronted me with “Nice car – want to sell it?” I said no. They then said “How about we take it! (Expletives deleted.)”

I told them it didn’t work, but if they wanted it…to come and get it. The hood-up should have been a clue for these guys. (Of course my bravery was driven by my annoyance that these guys were bugging me during a real important moment and the not-so optional equipment lying in front of me on the air filter.) I was thinking this was not going to be good and I did not have a radio with me, it was inside the car. So, it was tense for a few minutes, and then the drop happened. I was able to do my job and leave as quickly as I got there. All of the bad guys and the woman were arrested for murder and conspiracy to commit murder. So it had a happy ending for us.

I really enjoyed my time in the Task Force. I felt like I was making a difference and it was during a time where we had some pretty big drug dealers in Marin, to include a member of the Cali-Cartel. Our time in the Unit also introduced us to the largest LSD manufacturing ring in the world, based out of a west Marin community with operators all over the globe, and it was the birth of asset forfeiture, where we took away illicit property from drug dealers. It was a great time to be a narcotics agent. .It was also a time where I became “one” with my hair. The ponytail is gone, but the memories live on.

You can’t make this stuff up.

More another time. Stay safe. Ralph.

Safety Tips from Lt. Dan

2010-06-08T05:52:00.000-07:00

Good morning to everyone! I am back at work after a week of training in beautiful Folsom, Calif. That city is getting way bigger than I remember it. I enjoyed my class entitled, "Critical Incident Management" and feel like I am ready just in case.....

So, I pledged to throw out some tip of the week stuff and have failed to deliver for a month or so. One of our faithful readers of this blog reminded me, so here we go...

First off, as far as home safety, I spoke to someone who, for the safety of their family, put padlocks on their gates at home, so no one can simply open their gate and have access to their back and side yards. I understand the concern but remember in case of an emergency such as a fire, you need to be able to get out of there as quickly and safely as possible. The last thing you need to worry about is a combination or a key to unlock a padlock. This is very dangerous and I am guessing in violation of a fire code or two. Think about other crime prevention tools such as motion lighting for the areas near your gates. One of the other things that I recommend is a "Beware of Dog" sign. It really doesn't matter if you have a dog, does a burglar want to take the chance or move on to another house? I am guessing the latter.

The last safety tip for today will be about ATM awareness. I cannot think of a more vulnerable time to be a potential victim. During the day time, be very aware of your surroundings. Make sure there is no one too close to you to either harm you or steal your PIN number. At night, make sure you use an ATM that has good lighting and is not in an isolated area. There are two main points I would like to drive home here. First, your money is not worth your safety. If confronted by a criminal, give them your money. There is no amount of money that is worth your safety. One of my favorite lines, "Your ego is not your amigo!" Lastly, if you think the ATM you want to use might be in a bad spot, if you think someone might be watching you, do not use that ATM. There must be hundreds of ATM's wherever you live, pick one that you feel comfortable using!

That's it for now.....be safe and have a great day!

Lt. Dan

Drawn to police work. By Lt. Pata

2010-06-02T06:24:00.000-07:00

My composite artist career started at San Rafael PD in the mid 80’s. I have always been a doodler and wise guy with a pencil and pen, but composite art was actually an opportunity to do some good with my pencil, instead of evil.

I was not a bad kid. But I certainly found the edge of good and bad and usually stayed on the right side. When I tipped into the dark side, I usually had my trusty pen with me to document the event. Of course that form of documentation would be expressive and usually found on what I called urban canvass, or bathroom walls. Like any artist – especially a teenage boy artist, who relied on his cartoons to ask girls on dates, I had to blab about my conquests. I got the wrong kind of notoriety and found my self on more than one occasion washing the toilets or scrubbing the walls at school.

I learned my lessons from grade and high school and kept my mouth shut about my drawing abilities. But it was hard to keep the pencil holstered. I was surrounded by temptation. Beautiful temptation. You know those desk pads adorned with quite lovely white paper….well; those were the snake in my garden of evil. I was attracted to the desk pads like a moth to a flame. In a short time, you could find me in the middle of the night at the station drawing on the desk pads - on my lunch break, of course.

One day, a scribble of mine was seen on the desk by then Detective Harold Hutchinson. “Hutch” suggested that I do something with my illicit talent and told me “You should be a police artist.” I was a young officer, just out of the academy and I had no clue about how to find out about being a police artist. I would later discover that the work and contacts would come to me, once the word was out.

About a week later I was called in from the street by Det. Hutchinson. It’s a big deal getting called in by a detective or administrator when you are a rookie. The last time they did this to me, I got to kick in the door of a guy wanted for shooting his neighbor, and so, I was excited. When I pulled into the station, Det. Hutchinson pulled me aside and told me that he volunteered me to draw a sketch for another police department.

I was blown away and nervous at the same time. I had never done this before and had no training. Just bathroom walls and, on occasion, the upper arms of my old high school pals who wanted a fake tattoo.

I responded to Hutch with a resounding “I don’t think I can do it.” What I quickly learned was that it was a done deal. I was going to draw this picture. I remember like it was yesterday, scrounging up paper and some #2 pencils. I asked Hutch what kind of case it was and where was my victim. Hutch said the 4 words that lead to a huge change in my life and would make me nauseated. “It’s a double murder.”

I was a mess. I was completely panicking in my head. If I could have faked a seizure I would have, to get out of this. I came to some resolve that it was just as good to burn up on a big case as it is a little one. I figured that if I was successful, it would be a good thing. If I failed, well, then I would fail in the first couple years in my career and maybe people would forget by the time I retired.

I remember getting a ride to an advocacy facility in the city. I was told by Hutch that many people knew the suspect, but no one had a picture of her. She did not have family and no one had a picture of her. This, in the composite world, is like walking a mine field. There were so many opportunities to fail here, but, again, it was worth the try.

I completed the sketch of the woman in a couple of hours. It was my first. I was in a room full of people who knew her and were arguing about the placement of a mole. Some saw it on her left cheek, others on her right cheek. So, I put one on both cheeks. When all was said and done, I was right.

The sketch was released to the press and shown on local TV news at 11PM. I was called shortly after 11:30PM and congratulated by Hutch. The suspect was caught. She was with her boyfriend, the actual trigger-man. A motel clerk saw the sketch on TV and called SFPD. Both were arrested about 30 minutes after the sketch was put on TV. Both suspects were later found guilty and sent to prison.

The novelty of my first “hit” would wear off soon. Now the phone was ringing off the hook and I would have to try to live up to my last case. With the help of my friends (retired) Detective Frank Reed at Sausalito P.D. and Special Agent Liz Castaneda with the FBI, I was sent to the FBI Composite Art School at the Academy in Quantico Virginia about a year later.

Composite art, for me, was a life-changing skill. I have interviewed close to a thousand people over the years from all walks of life just for composite drawings. I have drawn in strange places. Once I created a sketch in a grocery store break room because the police department I drew for was so small it did not have a conference room. I have drawn in hospital rooms with gravely injured people and sometimes, I have just talked to people and not drawn any pictures.

What happened over the years was I developed a gift of asking the right questions and hearing what people are saying to me. As a result, I met some of the most courageous people I have known. People who have seen and been victims of horrible events.
Their strength has helped me grow, its’ given me some faith and perspective. It also built some life-long relationships, both with victims, witnesses and their families and with other detectives. Composite art also solidified my affair with graphite and paper for life.

More another time. Stay safe. Ralph.

Sometimes it is a Dark World by Lt. Pata

2010-05-28T08:09:00.000-07:00

I have been all over the public safety employment world looking for what could further my art habit and maybe help pay the bills too. I figured out long ago that there was no security in art and my last name was not Rockwell. The start for me was as a dispatcher for the San Rafael Fire Department, then as an ambulance driver for a private company, a Coroner’s intern in Marin County and a Deputy Driver for the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s Office. I’d like to say I have seen all sides of this business literally, from birth to death.

I am one of a distinguished list of men and woman who can actually say that I literally worked the graveyard shift. While the Coroner jobs were unbelievably interesting and provided me with a unique perspective, and personal growth, I learned something about myself. I learned that “the big tough guy” I tried to be all these years, was defeated by way too many incidents involving children.

Some officers have safety valves and filters to help us through very difficult calls, and it’s usually never really a problem when the adrenaline is going and you are deep into the call, it’s the stuff that happens after the call, when you’re alone, that will “get you” if you don’t have a good support mechanism.

I am grateful that after all of these years, I never lost the grace to understand that tragedy is supposed to bother you. Its grounding. Guys like Officer (Doc) Joel Fay, our families, friends and our Chaplains help us navigate through the days when you don’t want to come to work.

Our department has a peer support team that keeps an eye on our people and they help plug in and offer resources or just a cup of coffee when we need it. Life can be hard enough sometimes without the complications or distractions from the job. Like many people, we also have off-duty issues, like providing for your family, helping our kids with their school or sports while keeping some of the horrible stories and images far away from them. Its funny, one day a pal asked me what I was going to do when I retired. I didn’t even think about it, and I responded “Something normal, like working at a winery.”

Our little microcosm of police work way too often is tossed upside down or shaken, kind of like a snow globe. When an officer is killed in the line of duty, or when and officer is accused of committing a crime, it is devastating to the entire law enforcement community. A death like the horrible events that lead to the death of the Oakland Officers is, not something that happens everyday. We train for it, but no matter how hard you train, sometimes the suspect will have the upper hand and fate takes over. The impact of an officer’s death, no matter where it is- can be like a pebble in the pond, the reverberations of that loss flow from the center outward to all of us.

Think about it, our lives depend on our partners; their courage and valor drive them into danger to help out their fellow officer or citizen. We spend most of our time at work with our teams, so it only makes sense that we sometimes are hit hard by these events.

So this little uplifting blog was really designed to share the dimensions and the depth of character of our officers. Anyone could have typed this because may of us have similar experiences and feelings. TV and movie cops don’t go far enough to plug their audience into the reality of our lives. Maybe it explains why we sit in restaurants with our backs against the wall.

Stay safe. Ralph

I'm Back with a FULLER Plate!

2010-05-27T06:19:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've neglected you guys! Lt Dan caught me in the hall, the other day, and basically said, "Blog, blog!" so, here I am!

Since my last post, as Lt Dan mentioned, I was asked to be a guest blogger for the International Association of Chiefs Of Police's site Discover Policing which provides, "career advice, personal perspectives and insightful information about the law enforcement profession." They can be found at discoverpolicing.org. It was an honor to be asked! I'm not sure how often I'll be able to contribute or how different my blogs will be from here but who knows where you'll find me next!

Remember, I said I love to be involved? If you've been following the headlines for San Rafael, you know we've been busy. We, everyone and I mean everyone, has been busting their tail to solve crimes and arrest the bad guys and gals! I've had to wear my CSI hat on more than one occasion during the past few weeks - which can make for some extremely long days and no days off. BUT I'm not complaining, I love being able to get "out there" to use different skills than I do in Communications. Dispatching can cause mental fatigue - especially when things are rocking and rolling and you barely have time to use the restroom! CSI work usually causes physical fatigue - you're hauling, lifting, crawling, and even tearing down walls.

Especially when our workloads increase, like any profession, it's tricky balancing our home and professional lives - and keeping all those involved happy. It's a give and take and eventually things settle down but sometimes it can be a roller coaster ride. It's not healthy to just live and breathe work so many of us pack our days off to capacity which can lead to burning the proverbial candle at both ends. And then you get sick...like I did! I've learned it's my body's way of warning me that if I don't listen something worse will happen - yes, I had to learn the hard way and yes, I am stubborn. So, I spent this last weekend, in bed, catching up on much needed sleep with the help of NyQuil. I rebounded pretty quickly which is a good thing cause I'm the on call CSI this week!

On the personal side, my photography class has ended and I learned some new stuff while rediscovering an old passion. (Now, if I only had time to go out and take some "knock your socks off" photographs.) So, with that cleared off my plate...I had to add something new. I decided to join The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's TEAM IN TRAINING. I'll be raising funds to help find a cure for blood cancers in exchange for professional coaching and mentoring. I've chosen the San Francisco Nike Women's Marathon as my endurance event but I will be running the half (13.1 miles!) in October. I'm probably a little crazy for doing this (especially after several surgeries on both knees) but I'm psyched, excited and proud to be part of this group. GO TEAM! If you want to find out more about TNT or donate, visit my fund raising page at http://pages.teamintraining.org/sf/nikesf10/alees2 - I hope to be constantly updating my progress there.

Be safe out there! and remember, you can always reach me at 391@srpd.org.

Hello From Lieutenant Pata

2010-05-26T05:15:00.000-07:00

My name is Raffaello Pata. I am the Lieutenant responsible for night patrol operations along with a nice assortment of collateral stuff like our Hostage Negotiation Team, Foot Patrol, Police Artist and bunch of other things that are not so exciting. I am also now a contributor to this blog.

My contributions will come from a different perspective. It will come to you as a guy that never really wanted to be a cop. I went to the police academy so I could become a Coroner’s Investigator. It wasn’t long after joining the SRPD that I got the “bug.” The bug is what takes over your desire to do anything else in the first couple of years on the job, but eat, breath and perspire police work.

After nearly 20 years of patrol and detective work I decided to test to promote. Luck and hard work paid off and I was promoted from Officer, to Corporal, Sergeant and now Lieutenant. I’ll try not to come off like some stiff administrator who is bent on counting how many paperclips we go through each year, mainly because it's not who I am. I really want to share some of my observations of what it’s like to do this job and now what its like to work with the next generation of people in this service.

My goal is to inform, maybe entertain a little, and give you a peak into one of the best jobs in the world. I admit that I have been seduced by the adrenaline and the challenge of the chess-game that is law enforcement. I’ll introduce you to some of the most interesting people you have met, and share with you some stories of great police work

Talk to you soon. rp

PS: My e-mail is 326@srpd.org if anyone has any comments.

The Week is Starting

2010-05-11T05:59:00.001-07:00

Good Morning everyone. I hope all of you were excited to see the blog from Dispatcher Anndora. She is awesome and the next day after her blog was posted a national law enforcement organization asked her to blog for them too. So let me get this straight, I blog like 5 times and no one cares, she blogs once and is an immediate star....hmmmm.....okay just kidding, congrats to her. I look forward to hearing more from her on here. Also, thanks to everyone for the kind words and donations for Officer Sabido and his journey to Haiti. He was very appreciative and wanted me to send everyone his regards.

So got to my desk extra early this morning (about 0515 hrs) after a quick stop at Peets. I have a pile on my desk that I need to get through because I am also in the process of finishing up a grant application. This grant is from the Feds and will be used in conjunction with the Marin County Sheriff's Office to increase gang enforcement in the county. The San Rafael City Council will be considering the grant on May 17th and the application is due June 30th. With all the approvals and such, if it all goes well I hope that it is funded sometime in the fall. That doesn't mean that we won't pay for our own extra gang enforcement this summer, it just means that we may get a little financial relief for some of the costs in the fall. Okay, enough about that I am probably boring you all with finance talk. This is a good example though that not all police work involves going on the street and taking bad guys to jail Administrators like me have that extra responsibility for more paperwork and the constant threat of a nasty paper cut if we are not careful! Anyways, have a great week and be safe out there!

Lt. Dan

Help Send Officer Sabido to Haiti

2010-05-06T12:15:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone......please read the below letter from Officer Tom Sabido. He is going to Haiti to help out and is looking for some help.

Lt. Dan

Help send Officer Tom Sabido to Haiti

A unique opportunity has come my way and I am hoping to go to Haiti on a short term Humanitarian Relief trip from May 21-28. I need your help to make it happen. The cost of the trip is $2500.00. This opportunity just came up recently for me and a small group of men from BayMarin Community Church in San Rafael. We will be partnering with Homes for Haiti/RMI ministries which will involve erecting transitional homes in Port-au-Prince and surrounding areas.

Thanks to generous donations from the San Rafael Police Officers and Mid-Managers Association, from the San Rafael Firefighters Association, and from individual City of San Rafael employees, I have nearly reached my goal. But more help is still needed.

One of the other men on the trip is a teacher at a local grade school, When he shared this opportunity with a 3rd grade class today, one 9 year old girl asked if she could "start a lemonade stand to help."

If you can help in any way please send a check (address at the bottom) payable to "By Faith" with my name (Tom Sabido) noted on the check. By Faith will issue a tax receipt at the year end. No donation is too small.

Checks can be mailed to:

By Faith

C/O Gregor Gregory
4408 Pierce Street
Hollywood, FL 33021

Note: 25% of the proceeds raised will be a direct donation to supporting the projects that we will be involved in. This will include the purchase of food for the poor.

Haiti is still in need. You can help! But you need to act today. Will you help?

God Bless,

Tom Sabido

There's a New Blogger in Town!

2010-05-05T05:54:00.000-07:00

Hey, everyone!

Since this is my first blog, ever, I thought I'd introduce myself to you. My name is Anndora (but most folks call me A.D.). I've been with the Department for 19+ years, which is actually a bit frightening realizing that I've been here for most of my adult life. I have a BS in Emergency Management with a minor in Public Safety Telecommunications (which is a fancy way of saying Dispatching). I also teach at POST Public Safety Dispatcher's Academy. While my title at the Department is "911 Police Communications Dispatcher," I actually wear lots of hats - Peer Support, Honor Guard, Tactical Dispatcher, Crime Scene Investigations, Communications Training Officer and probably a few more but in a nut shell, I like to be involved. I'm thankful to be part of an agency that allows me, the dispatcher, to venture out of the Comm Center to become a vital part of the department - cause, trust me, most other agencies don't.

No, I don't live and breathe SRPD but I'd be lying if I didn't say I truly care about the people I work with and it's an important part of who I am. We are a family and sometimes we spend more time with our work family than we do our home families. Experiences I have heard, smelled and seen can only be understood by someone who's been there before. It's hard to explain but hopefully, you'll get to know where I'm coming from through my attempts at blogging!

My life outside of SRPD - my family and friends are another important part of who I am. While I don't have kids of my own, I'm great a spoiling my 3 nieces much to my sister's chagrin! I love traveling. Trips to Florida and Hawaii are planned for this year (and hopefully I'll be visiting the Galapagos Islands, next year) but I also like exploring the Bay Area. Last year, I learned to scuba dive and hope to get my Advanced Open Water certification this summer. It's amazing and truly is a whole new world under the water (one of my nieces always asks if I've meet Ariel yet!). I'm taking a digital photography class and having a ball at it. I've owned my D-SLR for a few years and I've finally gained enough knowledge and confidence to take it off the automatic setting. It's fun finding the creative side.

I think I've babbled, I mean blogged, enough for now. You've gotten, just a glimpse of who I am and what I do. But, it is just a glimpse...you'll be hearing more about life as a 911 Police Dispatcher at San Rafael PD and then some.

Thanks for reading and be safe.

Dispatcher AD

PS - If you want to contact me and let me know you've read this far, here's my email.... 391@srpd.org Thanks!

My New York Trip and Department Update

2010-05-04T05:39:00.000-07:00

Good morning everyone! It is nice to be back home and although a little tired, it is nice to be back at work. I had a great time in New York and enjoyed seeing all of the various places that I had seen in movies over the years. I fulfilled my pledge to eat my way through the NYC. Wow, they have some excellent restaurants there! I think the toughest part of the trip was going to ground zero. I truly felt the negative energy or heavy air when I was there. It was hard to believe that I was staring at the spot where the towers used to stand. There were a large amount of people there and the memorial was jammed. I brought an SRPD patch with me and placed it on the memorial next to a number of police and fire patches. It was a very emotional moment for me and the crowd was so nice and supportive when they discovered I was in law enforcement. It was such a weird feeling of being proud of my public safety brethern who lost their life and being so sad for the familes of my public safety brethern who lost their life. I always remember those pictures of the police officers and firefighters going up the stairs of the towers while massive amounts of people are going down the stairs to safety. Anyway, I know we always hear people say, "Never Forget" and after going there I truly believe in that statement.

The night I got back home, I learned that we had a gang related homicide. Our Detectives are working on this case and as usual are showing a tenacious attitude to solve cases and bring suspects to justice. Last night, Chief Odetto, Capatain Starnes, Captain Franzini, and I attended the San Rafael City Council Meeting so the Chief could make some remarks regarding the recent spike in violent crimes. I was very happy with the Chief's synopsis of what has been going on and equally as pleased with the support of the City Council. All of us are doing everything we can to continue to keep this beautiful city safe! That is all for now, I have to start going through my piles of stuff!

Specialty Assignments and Vacation

2010-04-21T05:47:00.000-07:00

Good morning everyone! I thought I would write a little bit this morning because as the title eludes, yes, I am going on vacation! This is my last day for a week or so. The Citizen Academy class graduates tonight, so I planned a vacation immediately after it ended. I will be off the the big apple for the first time and am very excited. I plan on eating my way through New York and just happened to be there during the last day of the NFL draft. I am going to go check it out because if you know me, you know that I put the FAN in fanatic. Sorry Niner and Raider fans, but it is the Tennessee Titans all the way! Okay, so off to department stuff.

Today, we are holding interviews for a Detective position. Unlike what most of you see on TV, Detective positions at most departments are not permanent positions. The big agencies like LAPD, SFPD, and so on have permanent Detectives. Our assignments are typically 3 years and we have a variety of Detective assignments. We have Crimes Against Persons, Crimes Against Property, Child/Adult Sexual Assault, DPU (Narcotics, Vice, Gangs), and the one we are testing for today, School Resource Officer or SRO. The Detective in this position was recently promoted to Corporal, so he needs to rotate back to uniform patrol. Corporal is a street level supervisor here, so it is important for him to go back to the street to obtain experience in supervision. We have three excellent candidates for the SRO job and I am confident that whoever is selected will do an excellent job! When I get back from vacation, I will have some news on who was selected and who will be the new SRO for the next three years.

Everyone have a great weekend and be safe. I will be back in a bit.

Lt. Dan

Tip of the Week

2010-04-19T06:27:00.000-07:00

Good morning and happy Monday! Although I do not usually work Mondays but I am attending a Rotary luncheon with the Chief, so here I am. I thought it might be nice to have a tip of the week or something like it.

One of the things that I know annoy me when I am at home is door to door solicitors. I know everyone has to make a living but we often get calls about what we can do about them. I think more importantly I wanted to give some tips to keep yourself safe. I am a strong believer in the "No Solicitor" sign. I place it right next to my doorbell so they see it (which causes me to get knocks at the door instead). First off, yes it is illegal for a solicitor to come to your door if you have a "No Solicitor" sign but it is a civil violation, not criminal. I do believe that more often than not, door to door solicitors understand and respect the sign and they do not come to your door. If one does come to your door, first off, you are under no obligation to answer it. If the solicitor becomes aggressive with their knocking and you are fearful, please call the police. If you do answer your door, be careful. You really do not know who are you are dealing with. Take your phone with you to the door and please be safe. As I said above, if at anytime you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, close the door and call the police. We appreciate these phone calls because I guarantee you that you are not the only resident in your neighborhood that is concerned.

I hope that little tip helps you out! Have a good day and be safe out there!

Department Participation

2010-04-16T08:51:00.000-07:00

Good morning everyone out there. Happy Friday! So, it seems that we have some department members who are interested in helping me out with our blog. I love this because I really want all of you to hear different stories and get different perspectives than just mine. So far, Dispatcher Anndora, Lieutenant Ralph and Officer Leslie have volunteered. I will let them fill you in on who they are once I sit down with them and talk to them about the blogging experience.

I received a couple of questions about why can't comments be made on the blog. To be honest, at this time, I would prefer to not have public comment on the blog. I have seen many occasions (and maybe some of you have to) where the comments sections get out of control with either off topic discussions or down right mean and nasty. I want this to be a positive experience and do not want to get in any trouble with my bosses either! If you have a suggestion or comment, I am always willing to chat. E-mail me at 447@srpd.org

I hope you all have a very safe and fun weekend.

Lt. Dan

Citizen Academy Tonight

2010-04-14T12:06:00.000-07:00

Tonight is the 9th week of our Citizen Police Academy. Next week is graduation for the class. The topic for tonight is narcotics, vice, and gangs. This block is taught by our Directed Patrol Unit (DPU). The DPU team has a Sergeant and two Detectives who work primarily in plain clothes and unmarked cars on a variety of quality of life issues in the City.

The Citizen Police Academy is a great program and is grant funded by a Recovery Act Grant, so there is no charge to attend. The next class starts September 15th and ends November 17th. The classes are every Wednesday night from 6pm to 9pm and are generally held at City Hall in the Council Chambers. If you are interested, please call 415-485-3114 or e-mail Peggy.Ruge@srpd.org The only requirement is that you are a resident of San Rafael or work in San Rafael.

8 Juveniles Arrested for Robbery

2010-04-14T07:01:00.001-07:00

This being my first blog posting, I thought about what to say. I guess I figured we might as well jump into it and tell you all about the arrests from last night. First off, I am the Investigations Lieutenant. That means that I have some responsibilities that cause my phone to ring at night. Last night was one of them. The Detective Sergeant called me at about 9pm (or 2100 hours) to let me know that the patrol division has eight in custody for a street robbery. We have had a few in the Canal area and have been actively trying to investigate these cases to see if we can identify any suspects. As with lots facets of police work, the right place at the right time has a lot to do with being successful. We had marked patrol units in the area when the call of the robbery came out and found the eight people nearby. Long story short (since it is an active case), we now have identified suspects and will be continuing our investigation. I was able to fall asleep after speaking with Sergeant until that alarm sound at 0430 hours.......lets see what today brings!