'The true Soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because He loves what is behind him.' -G. K. Chesterton

07 June 2010

Hey Taxi!

From time to time I get asked for war stories. I generally shy away from such. Since most of the good ones involve violence and injuries or death I either come off as either arrogant or cold hearted. I'm both of course. I just don't want anyone to know.

However, there are those times when cool or funny things happened and no one got hurt or dead. Well, things I think are funny anyway.

The following is a true story. It happened many years ago. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Dun Da Dun Dun Daaaa! (That's supposed to be the Dragnet theme music. I'm kinda lame that way. It probably easiest to just go with it.)

So. One bright and shiny day I got a call to respond to a local motel where an Assault with a Deadly Weapon (ADW) was happening at that very moment in their parking lot. The weapon was vehicular in nature. People were ducking and dodging, fist fighting had occurred, hair was removed in large, fluffy clumps. Yes, blond hair was wafting in the breeze. It was that kind of scene.

As we responded we were advised that the perpetrator had taken flight and subsequently was involved in a spectacular crash immediately adjacent to the ADW site.

Upon arrival we found two totalled cars, one shaken but uninjured driver and a subject newly follicularly damaged. The suspect, a female (women are definitely catching up with the guys where felonies are concerned. Go gals!) has fled the scene on foot. The motel manager is screaming. The victim is screaming and the driver is comatose (His deductible is apparently quite painful). Yeah, it's that kind of scene.

A perimeter was established and a foot search was initiated.

I stayed at the scene to begin collecting information for what was shaping up to be a rather lengthy crime report when a taxi drove into the motel parking lot and honked. He waited a few minutes and then, no fare having emerged to procure his transportation services, drove off. I continued writing and sympathizing. Blond hair wafted in the breeze.

A couple of minutes later the same taxi being shepherded by the same driver pulled up for a second time and honked.

I am by nature and training an inquisitive and suspicious man. A nagging thought had occurred to me and by now to you as well.

I approached the driver and inquired as to his intended fare. He got on the radio to his dispatcher and we were informed that the caller was female and calling from a cell phone. Hmmm. The specific instructions she had given to the cab company were to drive to an address on a street near the motel (not actually at the motel) and honk. Dispatch being what it is the message had been garbled, twice, and the driver had ended up at the motel. Twice. Hmmm again.

Now I am also a man who never looks askance at providence. I'm always looking for new and innovative means in fugitive apprehension. A plan formed in my fertile (or maybe febrile) mind.

I gave the driver strict instructions to drive to the location, honk and do nothing else. If gunfire erupted he had my permission to flee for his life, either afoot or ataxi. His choice. Then I got in the back, hunched my 6 foot, 240 pound frame (with gear, can't forget the 25 pounds of gear)into the rear floor area and concealed myself as best I could. By craning my neck in a particularly painful and humorous way I could just manage to see out the passenger rear window.

With a word to the rest of the officers not to screw this up, off we went.

Everything went smoothly except for the driver, who apparently thought he was heading to his imminent death. We never got above 2 miles per hour. Talk about walking that last, long mile.

We arrive, the driver honks and I watch. Can't you just feel the excitement and tension building?

A few seconds pass and I see a female approaching the passenger door. She's come out from in between two houses and is sweating and casting nervous glances over her shoulder. She has scratches on her face and hands. Her gang tattoos were just ruined. She still has strands of hair dangling from her meth thin fingers.

Ah good. She hasn't seen me. No, Lex Luthor's smarter sister she is not.

"Psst" I whisper. "Roll the window down." Not a hair on the driver's head moves as he slowly reaches for the switch. As the window descends she starts talking a mile a minute to the driver who has a death grip on the wheel, staring straight ahead and uttering nary a word.

"My car broke down. My baby is asleep and that's why I was waiting outside. I just washed my hair and I can't do a thing with it. Blah, blah, blah, lies, lies and more lies." You know, felonious chick jabber.

She's at the door now, her hand reaching out for the handle and I can see the satisfaction at an imminent escape, both well planned and perfectly executed, cross her face. Almost there. Almost there. Freedom, sweet, sweet freedom is only inches away.

Now. Now is the time. This is my moment. I open the door, step out and introduce myself.

"Hi. My name is Officer Six (Not my real name) and you're under arrest. Heh, heh."

If you were waiting for the Keystone Kops part of the story where I catch my equipment on the door and fall on my face and she runs away laughing and casting aspersions on my parentage I'll have you know that only happened to me a couple of times and in every case all the witnesses have been either bribed or threatened into silence so good luck proving anything. Anyway.

Felony Girl (FG) freezes like I did with that cute girl at the Prom that one time. I can only describe the look on her face as Priceless. I could actually see all the air leaving her body. I have my handcuffs in my hand. I take her seemingly boneless arms and cuff her without so much as a muscle twitch.

"If you don't mind miss I believe we'll be taking alternate transportation." Remember kids, never miss a chance at a truly unforgettable line when the opportunity presents itself.

The driver has by now stopped all movement, voluntary and involuntary.
"Hey buddy, you can breath now, it's over. You can go. Thanks for the help."
He puts the car back into drive and lays two black skid marks as he fishtails away, probably to find a less stressful career. Like motel manager. Never saw him again.

Oh, the car FG was driving when she committed attempted gross bodily and actual scalpal injury and totalled that nice, brand new MBZ as she tried to flee the scene? It was stolen. And she was a wanted parolee. She was identified by all parties and later pled out to a nice, lengthy stint in prison.

Yeah, it was a good day.



Ed Rasimus said...

Sexist brute! Picking on that poor petite woman and a possibly illegal immigrant taxi driver both in the same incident. Have you no remorse? Clearly a case of entrapment of the female and kidnapping of the taxi driver. You didn't leave a tip either.

Six said...

Heh heh.
Clearly I am in need of serious reforming Ed.
I wonder if Dr. Johnny Walker can fit me in for a session.

dick said...

Okay, I laughed out loud. Crack ho's make the world go round.

My cop buddy (he's a shift sergeant) here in Dallas took me to a suicide call a few years back.
I'm still laughing from that one. Guy shot himself three times before he died, and we got to listen to him dogcuss us and his life from the room next to him before he left the building.

What I love about your gig is that everybody (the perps) always seems so damn desperate.

Six said...

I hate to admit it Dick but the funniest stories almost always involve self inflicted dead or badly injured.

And crack ho's are indeed society's clowns. The world would be a sadder place without them.