I don't talk about it much but I actually began my law enforcement career with the local Sheriff's Department. Like most such agencies, rookie deputies started by working in the county jail. Hey, it's a job not too many love and they have to staff it so...
Among the wonderful jobs I had was working in the wing dedicated to sentenced prisoners, those doing county time. We had to keep them separate from the unsentenced folks because we had outside work parties and some prisoners doing weekends and work release and some jokers always thought they could beat the system and smuggle in contraband. Every prisoner who left the facility, even those on supervised work parties (think roadside trash pickup details) had to be strip searched. Those of us who were new invariably got the task and a lovely task it was. "Hey rookie. Guess what time it is."
This story caught my eye. Really? A .38 revolver with a 6 inch barrel? I mean, I've seen some things 'keistered' (in the parlance of those who are unfortunately knowledgeable about such things) that I thought was painful but a 6 inch revolver? Knives, drugs, razor blades (yes, really) but that takes the cake. I loved this part;
The gun was not loaded. However, the gun was test fired by the OCSO CSI to determine its functionality and it was in operational condition.
I can't help but wonder who they got to do that. You know it was a newbie. "Hey Rook. C'mere a minute".
Of course, this being a cop story and me being a retired cop and all, it brings to mind a recollection about my motivation for finally getting out of the Sheriff's Department just as quickly as ever I could.
I was doing my rookie duty and strip searching a particularly slovenly individual just back from a work detail. The guy must have had a particularly painful encounter with a bath sometime in his childhood because he hadn't stood closer to soap and water than a drive past the car wash in a very long time. If you get my meaning. The funk was eye watering and as he disrobed it actually became visible. Waving your hand in front of your face does nothing more than stir it around so as to penetrate your clothes to an extent where cleaning is accomplished only with a liberal application of gasoline and a match. Still, it was my job and I'm nothing if not thorough. Looking back I'm now fairly certain he was counting on that very malodorousness to put off my game. My job no. My lunch very much.
So, off with the clothing and on with the search. All done and routine so far. Until the bad part. Really, I don't how how you ladies can stand us. I hate to admit this here, where just anyone at all can stop by and read these words, but I've seen a lot of naked men. A lot. Unwillingly it must be said lest anyone think me light in the loafers (not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not how I roll). We're gross. Lumpy and hairy and smelly and frankly ridiculously horrible looking. Naked men = bad. Enough said.
So, it's time. Here's the words. Remember, I didn't invent them I just had to say them. "Turn, squat, spread your cheeks apart and cough hard". Man, that still gives me the heebie jeebies. So Prisoner Funk complies. But do I espy something untoward? Is that the corner of a cellophane baggie I see just protruding from an inner recess, peaking it's head out like a mouse from it's hole in the wall seeking the whereabouts of the cat? Being the police officer that I am, and having amazing powers of observation, I deem that it is in fact contraband of one stripe or another (Get it? Stripe? I kill myself). I tell PF "Either you take it out or I will and you won't like it if I have to do it." It was a complete bluff of course. At that point I wouldn't have touched that baggie with two pairs of gloves and some magical tongs. But PF was of another mind.
He reached around, grasped the baggie firmly twixt thumb and pointer and pulled it forth. Inside I saw a fairly minor amount of a green, leafy substance I immediately recognized as Suspected Marijuana. I grabbed an evidence bag and moved in to have him deposit it therein. Only to see his hand moving toward his mouth. In the baggie went followed by noisy and noisome mastication. I can't emphasize enough here the level of this man's lack of basic hygiene. He reeked. He was Orcs living in mountain caves for centuries without bathing ever nasty. Knock a buzzard off a black plague dead cart at 50 paces filthy. It was not good is the basic idea I'm trying to convey here.
And yet, into his mouth went the offending object to be chewed with furtive relish (as far as I could tell. I was busy trying desperately not to be sick). I said "Screw it. If you want it that badly go ahead and finish it." And at that moment the future path of my career was laid out before me in all it's shining glory. Never, never, never again will I do any job that requires me to look at naked men and watch as they eat items that they have pulled from their rectums.
I watched as he gagged and chewed and painfully swallowed the baggie. Dry of course. He croaked a request at me for a drink but by I figured he knew full well that no water was to hand when he made his culinary decision and besides, what wine goes with ass grass anyway? I rolled him up, moved him to an isolation cell and removed him from the outside work detail. Then I sat down and filled out an application to the police department where I eventually retired. Never again seeing another man's nether regions.
So I read the story of the keistered gun with both morbid fascination and a certainty. There's at least one deputy in the Onslow County Sheriff's Department who is even now filling out an application for another police department and making a vow to himself regarding things he will just no longer do.
I feel you brother. I really do.