In this section, I want to entertain the reader with some of the crazy stories and misadventures of my 22-year career as a Walton County Deputy Sheriff - Investigator. Unless you are extremely bored, know me personally, or knew me when I was a cop, you will probably want to skip this page.
I will be very careful not to offend or embarrass anyone. And rest assured, I will spare the reader from the not-so-funny memories that are deepest in my heart, and are the most troubling to my soul.
I will be very careful not to offend or embarrass anyone. And rest assured, I will spare the reader from the not-so-funny memories that are deepest in my heart, and are the most troubling to my soul.
But before we delve too deeply into my own experiences as a law enforcement investigator, I need to release a skeleton from my closet. Please allow me to introduce you to a relative of mine - the notorious serial killer from London, England - John George Haigh. As proud as I am of my English heritage, it is very possible that Haigh was my half-brother.
The two adjacent YouTube videos tell the shocking story, parts 1 & 2, of the Acid Bath Murders in London. John George Haigh was born very near Selby, Yorkshire - my father's hometown. My dad, George Ernest Haigh was 60 years old when I was conceived, and I am certain he fathered one child in England long before I was born - perhaps more than one . . .
The two adjacent YouTube videos tell the shocking story, parts 1 & 2, of the Acid Bath Murders in London. John George Haigh was born very near Selby, Yorkshire - my father's hometown. My dad, George Ernest Haigh was 60 years old when I was conceived, and I am certain he fathered one child in England long before I was born - perhaps more than one . . .
Meanwhile, as villain Jack the Ripper was terrorizing the citizens of London, my dear old dad was preparing to migrate to the United States. For some reason, he chose to travel to America on the RMS Queen Elizabeth, rather than the awesome new RMS Titanic in April 1912.
Oddly, my hero Sherlock Holmes and his companion, Dr. Watson, were also very busy puttering around London during that time, solving many intriguing mysteries. But, draw your own conclusions: Did my connections to England, John Haigh, and my own interest in the magnificent abilities of "Consulting Detective" Holmes influence me to change my career path, from Deputy Sheriff - Investigator, to that of Private Investigations? Good possibility, my dear Watson!
Oddly, my hero Sherlock Holmes and his companion, Dr. Watson, were also very busy puttering around London during that time, solving many intriguing mysteries. But, draw your own conclusions: Did my connections to England, John Haigh, and my own interest in the magnificent abilities of "Consulting Detective" Holmes influence me to change my career path, from Deputy Sheriff - Investigator, to that of Private Investigations? Good possibility, my dear Watson!
The Real World - circa 1989
My First Roadside Sobriety Test - You've all seen it on "Cops" and other TV shows. You get the impaired driver out of the car and ask him to walk the white line, touch his nose, etc. I was a raw rookie in 1989 when I stopped my first drunk driver on Interstate 10 just outside of DeFuniak Springs. The driver was completely plastered. When he opened the driver's door and tried to step out of the car, he fell face down in the grass. This poor guy thought he was in Jacksonville and he just wanted to go home. As it turned out, his nose-dive was the only "sobriety test" that he needed. I dragged him into the back seat of my patrol car, and began to wonder why I wanted to be a cop.
Another DUI Traffic Stop - I observed a car weaving on the roadway and initiated a traffic stop just north of Freeport. It was late at night when I cautiously approached the driver's door. The driver was a man, wearing a dress, stockings and high-heels. Hmmm...what to do? I radioed dispatch to send me a backup officer. In those days we didn't have many back-up officers, but luckily our only female deputy came to assist me. I really wanted to watch this guy walk the white line wearing his high-heels, but before my backup arrived he slipped some jogging pants over his dress and changed his shoes. At the jail, he/she failed the intoxilizer test and was booked for DUI. I'm not sure if my guest was placed in the male or female holding cell?
Dude - During the early years, Dude was my drug sniffing K-9 partner. He was as big as a horse, but gentle as a lamb. He was not a patrol dog. He certainly was not an attack dog. Just a big, lovable, drooling Rottweiler that was trained to sniff out marijuana, cocaine and crack cocaine. (This was before the meth-heads took over.) Dude wouldn't hurt a fly, but he scared the hell out of a lot of people who didn't know that. Our midnight shift stayed busy one night, chasing a car-stealing burglar all around the county. When my zone partner and I came to work the next morning, we found this poor guy walking down the railroad track near Argyle. He was all bruised and scratched up from running through woods all night, and so tired he could hardly walk. I had Dude in the car, and I said to my zone partner, "If that guy starts to run, just open the back door of my car and let Dude out." The car thief didn't move a muscle when he learned that a Rottweiler was going to have him for breakfast. He gladly surrendered and begged to go to jail. Several weeks later, I talked to the car thief at the jail, and he wanted to know if I really would have sic'd my dog on him. I responded, "Well, since you didn't run - I guess we'll never know. . ."
More about Dude - Dude and I were a team. We worked together. We played together. His favorite toy was a bowling ball. Dude was my personal guard dog at home, and my companion at work. He was always eager to search any teen-aged boy's car who had the nerve to come to my house and date my daughters. The Sheriff's Office had three dog-handling teams back then, and we spent a lot of time stopping and searching cars. And old Dude was top-dog! One of the memorable arrests we made was an elderly woman who was visiting her grandson at the local state prison. The corrections officer caught her trying to smuggle drugs into the facility. Dude alerted on her car and we found her stash of cocaine. Grandma soon joined her grandson in the slammer. On another occasion, Dude sniffed a guy's crotch and found his baggie of marijuana carefully hidden away in a private area. Dude was with me one day when a I flagged down a good Samaritan to help me get my patrol car out of a sandbed. What the nice citizen didn't know, was Dude and I were waiting to stop him on a drugs tip. He had marijuana bagged up for sale, but he made no profit that day. After thanking him for his help, I did my sworn duty and took him to Hotel California. I found Dude dead in his kennel one morning. I don't know if one of the local druggies tossed him a tainted treat, or if the summer heat did him in. I laid him to rest in my back yard, along with his bowling ball. Rest in peace, my faithful friend.
Walking Under the Influence - While patroling near Mossy Head, I noticed an adult female standing dangerously near the roadway. She was swaying back and forth as if she was about to fall. I stopped to check on her and found her to be staggering drunk. She could easily get hit by a passing car, so I had to do something with her. She was mouthy and combative, but I finally convinced her to take a seat in the back of my patrol car. Then she refused to put her feet inside the car, so there she sat, half in - half out of the car. I finally grabbbed her by the ankles and flipped her backwards in the caged back seat, and slammed the door closed. At last, I was able to transport her to the jail under the Myers Act (later known as Marchman Act) for her own safety. While asking for her personal info at the booking desk, she insisted on showing me the tattoos on her chest. As witnessed by the female booking officer, I declined her offer and tried to convince her that I did not need that information. But this lady was persistent. As she lifted her shirt, I could tell she was bra-less. I quickly spun around and just missed getting an unwanted eyefull. I dunno if the booking officer was laughing hardest at me, or my drunk guest?
Hocking up a Loogie - Here's another drunk female story. What is a loogie? According to Dictionary.com, it is "a thick quantity of spit, usually containing phlegm". That is a pretty accurate definition. Now, I've yet to meet anyone who wants to be spit upon, and neither do I. As a cop, you face many uncomfortable situations, but being spit on would be very hard to take. I was assigned the task of transporting a frail old grandma to Bridgeway for psychiatric evaluation - Baker Act. This old gal was as mean as an acre of rattlesnakes and as mad as a swarm of hornets! She fought and kicked at everyone that was trying to help her, and she had no intentions of getting into the back seat of my car. I was helping to wrestle this lady, trying not to hurt her, when we came face-to-face beside my back door. I suddenly heard her reach way down into her trachea and hock up a big, fresh loogie. That nasty blob of germs was perched on her lips and she was just about to launch it into my face, when I reached up and covered her mouth with my bare hand. It's a thousand wonders that she didn't bite my hand, but I somehow blocked her attempt to spit in my face. I don't remember if this hurt her mouth or teeth - I seriously doubt that she had any teeth. But we somehow made it safely to Bridgeway without further incident. As I recall, I soon began carrying hand sanitizer in the trunk of my car. (FYI, in a patrol car, the section of the cage right behind the driver's head is usually made of plexiglas. It is designed to keep the prisoner from spitting on the driver.)
My First Roadside Sobriety Test - You've all seen it on "Cops" and other TV shows. You get the impaired driver out of the car and ask him to walk the white line, touch his nose, etc. I was a raw rookie in 1989 when I stopped my first drunk driver on Interstate 10 just outside of DeFuniak Springs. The driver was completely plastered. When he opened the driver's door and tried to step out of the car, he fell face down in the grass. This poor guy thought he was in Jacksonville and he just wanted to go home. As it turned out, his nose-dive was the only "sobriety test" that he needed. I dragged him into the back seat of my patrol car, and began to wonder why I wanted to be a cop.
Another DUI Traffic Stop - I observed a car weaving on the roadway and initiated a traffic stop just north of Freeport. It was late at night when I cautiously approached the driver's door. The driver was a man, wearing a dress, stockings and high-heels. Hmmm...what to do? I radioed dispatch to send me a backup officer. In those days we didn't have many back-up officers, but luckily our only female deputy came to assist me. I really wanted to watch this guy walk the white line wearing his high-heels, but before my backup arrived he slipped some jogging pants over his dress and changed his shoes. At the jail, he/she failed the intoxilizer test and was booked for DUI. I'm not sure if my guest was placed in the male or female holding cell?
Dude - During the early years, Dude was my drug sniffing K-9 partner. He was as big as a horse, but gentle as a lamb. He was not a patrol dog. He certainly was not an attack dog. Just a big, lovable, drooling Rottweiler that was trained to sniff out marijuana, cocaine and crack cocaine. (This was before the meth-heads took over.) Dude wouldn't hurt a fly, but he scared the hell out of a lot of people who didn't know that. Our midnight shift stayed busy one night, chasing a car-stealing burglar all around the county. When my zone partner and I came to work the next morning, we found this poor guy walking down the railroad track near Argyle. He was all bruised and scratched up from running through woods all night, and so tired he could hardly walk. I had Dude in the car, and I said to my zone partner, "If that guy starts to run, just open the back door of my car and let Dude out." The car thief didn't move a muscle when he learned that a Rottweiler was going to have him for breakfast. He gladly surrendered and begged to go to jail. Several weeks later, I talked to the car thief at the jail, and he wanted to know if I really would have sic'd my dog on him. I responded, "Well, since you didn't run - I guess we'll never know. . ."
More about Dude - Dude and I were a team. We worked together. We played together. His favorite toy was a bowling ball. Dude was my personal guard dog at home, and my companion at work. He was always eager to search any teen-aged boy's car who had the nerve to come to my house and date my daughters. The Sheriff's Office had three dog-handling teams back then, and we spent a lot of time stopping and searching cars. And old Dude was top-dog! One of the memorable arrests we made was an elderly woman who was visiting her grandson at the local state prison. The corrections officer caught her trying to smuggle drugs into the facility. Dude alerted on her car and we found her stash of cocaine. Grandma soon joined her grandson in the slammer. On another occasion, Dude sniffed a guy's crotch and found his baggie of marijuana carefully hidden away in a private area. Dude was with me one day when a I flagged down a good Samaritan to help me get my patrol car out of a sandbed. What the nice citizen didn't know, was Dude and I were waiting to stop him on a drugs tip. He had marijuana bagged up for sale, but he made no profit that day. After thanking him for his help, I did my sworn duty and took him to Hotel California. I found Dude dead in his kennel one morning. I don't know if one of the local druggies tossed him a tainted treat, or if the summer heat did him in. I laid him to rest in my back yard, along with his bowling ball. Rest in peace, my faithful friend.
Walking Under the Influence - While patroling near Mossy Head, I noticed an adult female standing dangerously near the roadway. She was swaying back and forth as if she was about to fall. I stopped to check on her and found her to be staggering drunk. She could easily get hit by a passing car, so I had to do something with her. She was mouthy and combative, but I finally convinced her to take a seat in the back of my patrol car. Then she refused to put her feet inside the car, so there she sat, half in - half out of the car. I finally grabbbed her by the ankles and flipped her backwards in the caged back seat, and slammed the door closed. At last, I was able to transport her to the jail under the Myers Act (later known as Marchman Act) for her own safety. While asking for her personal info at the booking desk, she insisted on showing me the tattoos on her chest. As witnessed by the female booking officer, I declined her offer and tried to convince her that I did not need that information. But this lady was persistent. As she lifted her shirt, I could tell she was bra-less. I quickly spun around and just missed getting an unwanted eyefull. I dunno if the booking officer was laughing hardest at me, or my drunk guest?
Hocking up a Loogie - Here's another drunk female story. What is a loogie? According to Dictionary.com, it is "a thick quantity of spit, usually containing phlegm". That is a pretty accurate definition. Now, I've yet to meet anyone who wants to be spit upon, and neither do I. As a cop, you face many uncomfortable situations, but being spit on would be very hard to take. I was assigned the task of transporting a frail old grandma to Bridgeway for psychiatric evaluation - Baker Act. This old gal was as mean as an acre of rattlesnakes and as mad as a swarm of hornets! She fought and kicked at everyone that was trying to help her, and she had no intentions of getting into the back seat of my car. I was helping to wrestle this lady, trying not to hurt her, when we came face-to-face beside my back door. I suddenly heard her reach way down into her trachea and hock up a big, fresh loogie. That nasty blob of germs was perched on her lips and she was just about to launch it into my face, when I reached up and covered her mouth with my bare hand. It's a thousand wonders that she didn't bite my hand, but I somehow blocked her attempt to spit in my face. I don't remember if this hurt her mouth or teeth - I seriously doubt that she had any teeth. But we somehow made it safely to Bridgeway without further incident. As I recall, I soon began carrying hand sanitizer in the trunk of my car. (FYI, in a patrol car, the section of the cage right behind the driver's head is usually made of plexiglas. It is designed to keep the prisoner from spitting on the driver.)
Stories to come:
As I challenge my memory to prepare this list, I
realize that some of these stories (*) may never
be told.
As I challenge my memory to prepare this list, I
realize that some of these stories (*) may never
be told.
- The Elusive Emu (R.I.P.)
- Bad Guy Asleep at the Wheel
- Cop Asleep at the Wheel
- Shooting the Tires Out
- Trying to Shoot the Tires Out
- Freezing the Dead Cat
- I'll Pay for Breakfast
- You Pay for Hotdogs
- Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning
- The Missing Head *
- The Other Missing Head *
More stories to come:
- Whipped by a Woman
- Shortie Porkin' a Pot Roast
- Bad Time to Die
- The Hawk-bill Door Handle
- Time for a Diaper Change
- Fun with Pepper Spray
- Stop! or I'll Shoot!
- Stop! or You'll Sh*t!
- The Night I Cried *
- The Day I Cried - "Butterfly Kisses"
- The Hard Days When We All Cried *
- The Singing Sheriff
- The Hangman's Noose *
- Just Hanging Around *
- Tree Trimming on Easter Sunday *
- Creative Law Enforcement
- Changing Sides
- A Most Fearful Night
- Drawing the Last Breath *
- 1000 Ways To Die
- Hitchhikers & Sawed-off Shotguns
- And many, many more . . . .
