by Matt Delito
‘Grab him!’ I shouted at Syd.
Syd leapt forward and caught hold of the man’s arm. He attempted to pull it backwards to meet the man’s other hand, but our new friend DiCaprio turned out to be deceptively strong. He resisted fiercely, tugging his body this way and that.
‘Hey!’ I shouted at the man, ‘Stop struggling right now or you’re going on the floor.’
He screamed several incoherent sentences loudly enough to bring a couple of nearby shop workers to the break room. Syd was having problems holding on to him.
‘Stop struggling NOW,’ I shouted, but DiCaprio did exactly the opposite. He arched his back, and put all his power into wrestling his arms back from Syd.
I swore, pulled back and jabbed him sharply in the stomach, aiming roughly for his solar plexus. Immediately he doubled forward and crashed to the floor. Once down, Syd was able to wrench the man’s arm behind his back, where his left wrist met his right and clicked into the handcuff. Then, together, we pulled DiCaprio back to his feet.
I pushed him up against a wall. He was breathing heavily.
‘Two choices, mate: we can put you back onto the ground and get more officers in here or you can calm the hell down, all right?’
DiCaprio relaxed a little – realising he had lost the fight.
‘Fuck off,’ he said, making one last stab at rebellion.
Syd took up a position behind the man, and grabbed him firmly. I nodded to him and Syd took his handcuff key off the quick-release holder on his duty belt and double-locked the handcuffs so they were on their tightest setting.
‘You all right?’ I asked Syd. He nodded his reply, and shrugged, as if to ask, ‘What happened then?’
‘If you take a close look at that screwdriver, you would have noticed that it has been altered.’
I turned to DiCaprio.
‘Why are you carrying a screwdriver?’ I asked, repeating Syd’s question from a few minutes ago. ‘No kidding around. Not in the mood.’
‘To fix radios.’
‘Really? You fix radios?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When did you last fix a radio?’
‘Er … Last week?’
‘Were you planning on fixing any radios today?’
‘Yes?’
‘When?’
‘Later today?’
‘For whom?’
‘A friend of mine. His radio broke.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Er …’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Er …’
‘Do you always use a sharpened screwdriver to repair radios?’
‘…’
‘That’s what I thought. I suggest you were carrying that thing as a weapon, and that you may have used it as such at some point in the past.’
When it comes to weapons in public, they generally fall into three categories. A ‘made offensive weapon’ is any weapon that is specifically made to cause harm: swords fall under this category, as do things like throwing stars, guns (although guns are obviously covered by other laws as well), knives designed especially for fighting, knuckle-dusters, etc.
The next category is an ‘adapted offensive weapon’; this is any item that has been specifically adapted to be used as a weapon. A large nail with cloth wrapped around it becomes a shiv, for example. Fifty-pence coins that have been sharpened so they can be inserted between your knuckles or thrown, or bottles that have been broken to be used as a stabbing weapon also fall into this category.
The final group are ‘intended offensive weapons’. These can be absolutely anything, provided that someone intends to use them to harm somebody else. One particularly bizarre example I encountered was a knitting needle that a 70-odd-year-old lady, who was suffering from paranoia, had held up whilst shouting, ‘I will stab you in the throat if you come any closer.’ With those words, her intention became clear, and the needles were taken from her and entered in evidence as intended weapons. Of course, it’s difficult to prove whether somebody who carries a screwdriver or a corkscrew around with them intends to fix radios, open wine bottles or stab somebody in the eye, but if you carry a screwdriver into a crowded nightclub without being dressed as a workman, I’m probably going to assume the worst and nick you for offensive weapons – unless you have a good and reasonable explanation, of course.
‘Syd, re-arrest him for the new offence, and throw in an assault charge for that little fight there as well,’ I said.
He looked at me, wide-eyed, shaking his head slowly. He’d frozen.
‘Right, DiCaprio, or whatever your name is, I further arrest you for assault, and for being in possession of an article intended to cause injury. You are still under caution,’ I snapped.
‘Have you got him?’ I asked Syd. He nodded.
‘Technically,’ I said, continuing my pre-tangential sentence, ‘it’s not just an intended offensive weapon. Since it has been sharpened, it’s an adapted offensive weapon. Easier to prove, so that’s a bonus.’
I flicked my radio to the support channel.
‘Mike Delta receiving five-nine-two?’
‘Stand by, five-nine-two, you’re in the queue,’ came the reply, before the CAD operator returned to dealing with dispatching a couple of cars to another incident in progress. When they finally finished, it was my turn.
‘Five-nine-two, are you still on this channel?’
‘Yeah, receiving.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Have we got space for an adult male in custody, please? Shoplifting, assault, and Off/Weap,’ I transmitted.
‘Let me check, five-nine-two, stand by.’
They returned a few seconds later: ‘Five-nine-two receiving?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Yeah, we’ve got a space reserved for your guest. Need a van?’
‘Yes please.’
‘On the hurry-up?’
‘Yeah, that’d be good, we’ve had a bit of a struggle with him,’ I replied.
A flurry of radio traffic followed, while CAD tracked down an available van. Meanwhile we radioed in some more details: no, we didn’t need an ambulance. No, nobody was injured. Yes, Mike Delta five-one-one-two was the arresting officer. No, we weren’t sure whom we had arrested, as he had refused to give his name.
The van arrived, and we loaded the prisoner into the cage.
‘I’ll follow behind in the Panda,’ I said to Syd. ‘See you there. You stay in the van; keep a close eye on him, all right?’
‘Sure thing.’
We arrived at the police station to find a queue of people waiting to be booked into custody – two were being processed inside and a third was in the cage outside, so we decided to leave our prisoner in the cage in the back of the van whilst we waited.
‘That all happened very fast,’ Syd said, after a long pause.
‘Yeah, it usually does. It’s quite dangerous to ask someone to empty their pockets. Chances of someone having a gun, for example, are quite low, but not impossible. I’d much rather one of us found it, than risk inviting a prisoner to take his own gun out of his pocket.’
‘Shit, didn’t think of that,’ Syd replied.
‘No harm done. As it turned out, he probably wouldn’t have volunteered that screwdriver anyway. But I’m much happier that you found it than letting him stand there with a sharpened piece of steel in his hands, if you know what I mean.’
‘Yeah, definitely …’
‘Do you know what happens next?’ I said.
‘We book him into custody?’
‘Yeah.’
Part 3: Behind bars
I looked over at Syd. He had just completed his very first arrest – a male shoplifter – and we were waiting outside the custody suite. It was time to introduce Syd the Special Constable to the dark art of presenting a prisoner to a custody sergeant.
‘You’re going to take the prisoner through to custody, and you’ll have to present him to the custody sergeant,’ I explained. ‘Then, you’ll have t
o give details of what you arrested him for, and the grounds for your arrest, along with answers to a load of other questions. You’ll know all the answers, but just take it easy. This custody skipper is a good guy and he’ll help you out.’
Syd shot me a quizzical look.
‘Some of them can be complete jerks, and try to catch you out,’ I said. ‘Quite unprofessional, if you ask me, but it’s their call, really; they’re the kings of the custody suites, and they have to be sure that only people who need to be detained are placed in the cells.’
‘All right,’ Syd said.
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ I asked.
‘I could murder one,’ he said.
I flashed Syd a huge, mischievous grin, and saw a look of panic cross his face. Despite this being our first shift together, he could recognise my ‘I’m up to something’ look as well as anyone.
I left for the cafeteria and returned a couple of minutes later with two freshly brewed mugs of tea. He gratefully accepted one, but then, remembering my grin, asked if I wanted to swap cups with him.
‘What do you mean?’ I said, innocently.
‘Well, I know you’re up to something … and I don’t want to drink it if you’ve put something in my tea,’ he replied.
‘Hah, paranoid much?’ I asked, and handed over my cup of tea instead, watching him take a sip.
‘Of course, maybe I thought you’d demand to swap the mugs, and so I put something in my own mug instead,’ I said casually.
He looked at me, mouth half open, before staring at his tea.
‘I just want some sodding tea,’ he said, suddenly looking exhausted. ‘Seriously.’
I laughed.
‘Mate, don’t worry, both cups are exactly the same,’ I said. ‘Which really means that both are pretty disappointing, given that they came from the mess hall in a police station …’
He smiled, and gratefully tucked into his brew.
A good 20 minutes later, we heard a gruff voice from inside the custody suites. ‘Next!’
‘You’re up,’ I said to Syd.
He walked over to the caged van, and let DiCaprio out, leading him into the custody suites.
These suites can be pretty imposing places at the best of times. The custody sergeants sit on a small podium behind Plexiglas walls (people have a nasty habit of assaulting the custody skippers), with computers and banks of CCTV monitors that cover every corner of the room. When we walked in, Syd was met by a pretty harrowing sight indeed, and the real punchline to my little prank.
Syd was about to fall victim to one of the oldest traditions we have in the police force. Whenever you bring in your first arrest, every other officer who isn’t busy with something else comes to look at you presenting your first prisoner to the custody sergeant. In my day, you’d complete your booking-in procedure and then go on the lash with your colleagues. It is a rite of passage, and hell, since I was there to help Syd with his first body, I wasn’t going to let tradition fall by the wayside.
I’ve got to hand it to Syd. Even when met with a room full of 30-odd officers, he didn’t miss a beat.
‘Afternoon, sarge,’ he said.
‘Good afternoon, constable,’ the skipper said. ‘What have we here?’
‘A prisoner, sarge.’
‘Reeeeeally?’ the skipper said, his voice so laden with sarcasm I swear I could feel irony-juice filling the custody reception.
‘Well, you’re in the right place then, aren’t you?’ the skipper added to much laughter. ‘Well … Go on.’
‘At around fourteen-hundred we received a message over our radio that a shoplifter had been detained at the Central Super Market on the high street,’ Syd started. ‘When we attended, we heard that a shop security officer had seen this gentleman take several cans of beer and attempt to leave without paying. He was stopped, and detained in a break room. We arrived at about fourteen-fifteen. I questioned the man briefly, and arrested him for shopl—’
Syd swallowed, before proceeding: ‘I arrested him for theft. Upon searching him, I found a sharpened screwdriver on his person, and he started resisting. When we were able to handcuff him, I further arrested him for assault and Off/Weap.’
‘Off – Weap?’ the sarge said. ‘And what’s that, then?’
‘Er. Offensive weapons, sir,’ Syd stammered. ‘He had, I mean, he …’
Syd paused briefly to compose himself, and looked over at me. I gave him a double thumbs up just low enough that the custody skipper couldn’t see my hands. Syd smiled, before returning to serious mode and responding to the sergeant.
‘Possession of an offensive weapon, sarge. Specifically, an article adapted to cause injury.’
‘Good,’ the sergeant said, leaning forward to take a closer look at the prisoner.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what was the necessity of the arrest?’
‘To facilitate a prompt and effective investigation into these allegations,’ Syd said without a pause.
‘Very well. You look familiar,’ the sarge said to the prisoner. ‘What is your name?’
The prisoner remained silent.
‘What’s his name, officer?’ he asked.
‘Well …’ Syd said, and fell quiet. I could see he was blushing.
‘He claims to be called Leonardo DiCaprio,’ Syd finally responded. The other officers in the room replied with laughter. ‘But I have my doubts, sarge.’
‘Did he have any ID on him?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, we’ll get to the bottom of this. Mr DiCaprio, I am authorising your detention so you can be interviewed on tape about this matter. You will also have one more chance to tell me your real name.’
Again, not-DiCaprio remained silent, merely shrugging and fidgeting.
‘DiCaprio,’ the skipper said, ‘have you taken anything? Drugs?’
More fidgeting.
The custody sergeant turned to me.
‘I think Mr DiCaprio here might be under the influence of some type of substance, and to ensure we haven’t missed any drugs on his person, I authorise a strip-search of the prisoner at this time.’ He took a quick glance at the whiteboard behind him. ‘Please use cell M-five to do the search’.
As I led DiCaprio towards the cell, the rest of the team came over and started patting Syd on the back; a few clapped their hands quietly, and he got more than one more thumbs up. The sarge had authorised the detention of Syd’s first prisoner, meaning he had passed his test. There was still a lot of work to do, though …
Starting with the strip-search.
If you’re taken into custody, you’re going to be subjected to a thorough search to make sure you don’t have anything on you that could be used to hurt yourself or others, or any items that could be evidence in a crime you’ve committed. There are three different levels of search: a regular search involves a more thorough search than we can do on the street; the next level up is a strip-search, which means that we remove one or more items of clothing from the prisoner; and the top level is an ‘intimate search’, which is every bit as unpleasant as it sounds for everybody concerned. Luckily, you have to do a special course in order to be authorised to do intimate searches, and I’ve been able to avoid doing that course so far.
‘Right, let’s get this search out of the way,’ I said to Syd.
Syd had assisted on strip-searches before, so I let him take the lead. First he asked our prisoner to take his sweatshirt off; DiCaprio passed the item to me and I went through all the pockets and the lining. We repeated the procedure for the T-shirt. Next, his shoes and socks. Then his jeans; I checked the linings, pockets and stitching in detail. I found a crumpled-up £5 note that Syd had missed in the first search, but other than that we didn’t find anything.
DiCaprio was now standing there just in his boxers; Syd asked him to put his T-shirt back on before taking his boxers off. There’s no reason to make someone be completely naked for a strip-search: it’s not necessary in order to complete the search, and there’s no po
int in demeaning people. Once DiCaprio had taken his boxers off, Syd handed them to me for a closer inspection. It pains me to report that they should probably have been washed a few weeks earlier. I didn’t try, but I’m relatively sure that if I’d placed the boxers on the floor they would have kept their shape and stood up by themselves. Most unglamorous.
Once de-boxered, Syd asked DiCaprio to squat down, turn 180 degrees and squat down again. He then asked DiCaprio to hold his testicles out of the way, and do the same again. We took a good look, and concluded that whilst DiCaprio could most definitely do with learning a few lessons about personal hygiene, he certainly wasn’t keeping any drugs clenched between his butt-cheeks.
‘Here you go,’ Syd said, and gave him his clothes back, minus his sweatshirt and shoelaces. ‘I’ll be keeping these,’ he said, ‘or I can cut the cord out of your sweatshirt and take it out, if you like, but it’s unlikely you’ll be able to get the cord back in there if I do.’
DiCaprio muttered something that sounded like an invite for Syd to do something anatomically unlikely, so we figured he didn’t want his sweatshirt cord cut into slices. We placed his £5 note and the items we had taken off him into evidence bags.
‘He’s clean,’ Syd said, as we returned to the custody sergeant.
‘Well …’ I said with a smirk. ‘I’m not sure about that. But at least we’re pretty confident he doesn’t have any drugs on him.’
‘Right-oh,’ said the sergeant. ‘Go play with DNA and Livescan, and go get me some beauty shots of him,’ he added, before returning to his telephone call. I overheard him saying something about a detective into the receiver.
Syd and I took DiCaprio through to the room that keeps the Livescan machine. It sounds posh, but really it’s just a digital fingerprint scanner hooked up to a central database. It’s not very hard to use (unless the prisoner doesn’t want to be fingerprinted. It’s just about possible to fingerprint somebody against their will, but to do so requires half a dozen officers and generally results in a lot of bruises all round). It’s one of the better pieces of kit we have available to us. It took the machine all of 20 seconds to spit out our prisoner’s real name and some details; it appears he had, in fact, been arrested before. Jackpot.