Spirit Of The Badge

Spirit Of The Badge Page 15

by Ingrid P. Dean

  What happened next I absolutely attribute to prompting from God. Instead of waiting, I got out of the car. I don’t know why other than I felt a strong need to get out of the car when David told me to stay. As he walked to the passenger side of the Jimmy, I walked up to the driver’s side. The rear door window was rolled down about eight inches. As I walked by it, I looked into the car. The rear seat was folded down, and sticking out from underneath it was an object. It didn’t immediately register what it was. After I looked at it more closely I could tell it was wood and that it had been cut. I immediately said to him, “Hey, can I look in your car?” David said I could. I opened the door and pulled out a sawed-off Rueger 10.22 rifle. The barrel had been cut off, a hose coupling had been placed on the barrel, and attached to that was a lawn mower muffler!

  I’ve been asked how I feel when I get messages from the Holy Spirit. I can only say they just come to me. I only know that God is talking to me and that He has helped me solve many cases.

  I held up the sawed-off shotgun and said, “What’s this?”

  He replied, “It is what I keep in my car. I take trips downstate, to Bay City and Ann Arbor, and I keep it in my car for protection.” I spotted another box in the Jimmy and asked what it was. He said it was for silencing guns.

  I went back to my patrol car and called for a marked unit. I wanted a warrant to search the Jimmy. My intention was to take David back to the VFW, leave him there, have the marked unit stay with the Jimmy and secure it, while I went to the Prosecutor’s Office to get a search warrant. Before driving away, though, I took a short taped statement from David about the ownership of the rifle, the box and what he did with the box, and why these items were in his vehicle. I figured at some point I would need to deal with the gun being sawed off and the silencer being affixed to it. These facts were getting in the way of solving the murder since I knew we were looking for a .380, not a .22, but it was suspicious that he had the gun when he had earlier assured me he owned none. On the other hand, David was convincing about having the gun in his car for protection. He said, “I know I’m in trouble for that” and he nodded at the .22, “but I didn’t do the other thing,” which I took to mean the murder of Bill Brady.

  It was a sunny day and David was wearing eyeglasses that darkened in sunlight so I couldn’t see his eyes clearly, though it looked to me like there were tears forming in his eyes. I thought, Are his eyes tearing up? Are they actually? It seemed like they were, so as sympathetically as I could I said, “You know, Dave, a good man like you must have really had your back up against a wall to have done something like this . . .” He nodded his head affirmatively. As soon as he did that, I “mirandized” him. Technically, I didn’t have to read him his rights, because I hadn’t arrested him, but I obeyed the urge. I’m glad I did. I turned on the tape recorder and took another taped statement from David. He admitted shooting Bill Brady. He took me to the murder weapon and the silencer box that was used and showed me the ammunition he had hidden in another vehicle in the garage at the house where he was a caretaker. The victim’s blood was there, too.

  Later, when we inspected the filing cabinet, I learned that David had embezzled a significant amount of money from the VFW and that Bill had figured it out and was going to turn David in.

  Later, David’s attorney said that my being so adamant about getting the keys to the file cabinet and finding the .22 and silencer were probably the turning points in our case and led to his client’s confession. I have to believe he was correct. There were .380 casings inside the silencer box I had seen and David probably figured they would link him to the case.

  Whether you call it intuition or being led by the Holy Spirit, unexplained urges led me to solve this crime. It wasn’t great police work. I just listened.

  The Flying Snowmobile

  Houghton Lake is a large, beautiful inland body of water in central Michigan that freezes over in the winter and enables snowmobilers to “shanty hop” all over it. The wide-open space allows them to accelerate at high rates of speed.

  In January of each year, I brace myself for Tip-Up Town, U.S.A., an annual ice-fishing festival that attracts hundreds of snowmobilers to Houghton Lake.

  One late afternoon, I was dispatched to a lakeside residence. It was a seasonal home that the year-round neighbors were watching over. The homeowners were not due back until spring. The house sets back about one hundred feet from the shoreline on a slight hill, with a large oak tree between the house and the lake. The tree is about forty feet from the water and adjacent to the house.

  When I arrived, the neighbors were scratching their heads. A snowmobile that was still running, was bucked up against the oak tree. None of the neighbors had approached the idling snowmobile. There were no footwear impressions in the snow leading up to the snowmobile or walking away from it. I thought this was weird. There was some damage to the front end of the sled, but no apparent damage to the tree.

  My partner and I began to look for the driver. We imagined all the possibilities. Footwear impressions should have been evident—yet there were none. Thinking the worst, we walked down to the lake. Maybe the driver had hit thin ice and fallen through. I noticed an obvious snowmobile track that stopped just at the shoreline where there is a slight rise on the terrain, like a small snow bank; but nothing indicated the driver fell through the ice. We walked a huge circumference around the lake and the house, thinking the driver must have been thrown from the vehicle.

  I walked back to the shoreline, looked at the tree, and then at the house in the background. I thought the snowmobile could have gone airborne after hitting the rise in the shoreline, especially if it was running at a high rate of speed. Then I saw damage on the tree trunk about ten feet up.

  Suddenly I felt a small breeze brush across my face and happened to look up again at the house. The vertical blinds in the window appeared to move and I saw movement inside the house. It was strange that the blinds moved with the wind. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone home.

  I walked up towards the house and saw a window was completely busted out. I moved a few blinds with one finger and peered in. Shattered glass was everywhere, but more noticeable was a man! He was dressed in snowmobile garb, lying half-unconscious underneath the dining room table!

  I quickly climbed through the window to check his condition. He groaned and moved as I made my way to him. I asked, “Are you okay? What’s your name?” He had an injury to his head, there was blood dripping down his face and his helmet was noticeably cracked. I gently shined my light near his eyes to check his pupils. When he groaned again I smelled intoxicants on his breath.

  I immediately called Central Dispatch to send an ambulance. Then I asked the man, “Do you even know what day it is?” I also urged him to stay still.

  “Memorial Day,” he groaned, rather indignantly.

  Our accident re-constructionist said this was one of the strangest, most miraculous incidents he’d ever worked on. The snowmobile was, indeed, travelling at a high rate of speed. It went airborne at the rise in the shoreline, hit the tree, and then landed at its final resting place at the base of the tree. The driver separated from the snowmobile, probably at the rise of the bank, flying approximately one hundred feet through the front window of the house, blowing all the glass inside, and finally landing underneath the kitchen table.

  Apparently, the driver entered through the window horizontally and parallel to the ground. His head hit one window edge while his feet hit the other edge, fracturing his skull and crushing both limbs. The blood, his condition, and damage to the house showed this. It was amazing he didn’t hit the eaves and get his body slicked in two or hit a smaller front window that was in his line of travel. He was lucky to have survived.

  Skunked

  Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said after I punched line
three. “How can I help you?” It had been a busy evening. The phone was ringing off the wall. I was alone at the desk—with the exception of the desk sergeant, who was sitting behind me reading the newspaper. For some unknown reason he felt above picking up the phone and answering it. All six of the lines were lit up.

  Earlier in the day, a fourteen-year-old kid had raped and murdered an eighty-five-year old lady on the city’s west side. They picked him up southwest of Lansing but not before he killed a policeman. The cop had pulled him over and the kid just shot him in the face. Dead. A fourteen-year-old kid. A cop killer. It’s hard to figure.

  “Just where in the hell have you been? That phone rang more than twenty times. Is that why I pay taxes?” came a male voice from the other end of the line.

  I listened to the man vent his frustrations. “What can I do for you, sir?” I asked when he finally took a breath.

  “Well, you can start by giving me your name. Someone’s going to hear about this! This is bullshit. The money I pay for taxes and I can’t get you bastards to even answer the phone!” He wanted me to apologize but that would never happen. Never apologize to a fool. He continued to ramble on and on.

  “Hey, Anderson,” came the dispatcher’s voice over the desk monitor. “There’s a lady on line six with a problem you can take care of. I told her we didn’t have any cars to send her. See if you can handle it over the phone for me, will ya?”

  I flipped the button on the console and said, “Yeah, sure. You might tell her there are five lines ahead of her.” The dispatcher didn’t respond.

  “The name is Anderson, Richard Anderson. Badge #324,” I said. “Now, how can I help you?” There was silence. “Hello, you still there?” I asked. I still had five lines flashing.

  “I want to talk with your supervisor,” he bellowed.

  “Sure, no problem.” I put him on hold.

  “Sergeant, line three is for you!” I went to line four.

  “Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said. “How can I help you?”

  “Who’s on line three? What do they want?” asked the sergeant, looking over the top of his newspaper. I ignored him. Several minutes passed, much advice was exchanged before I finally got to line six.

  “Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said. “How can I help you?” The lady on the other end sounded old. Her voice was shaky.

  “Well, officer, I have a problem. It was such a nice day that I decided to open up the house and air it out. I opened all the windows and both the front and back doors. I saw it scamper across the back foyer, where the kids used to keep their boots when they were younger. Now they are all grown up . . .” There was a long pause. “I wish Harold was here; he would know what to do. I just don’t know what to do,” she added.

  “Well, where is Harold? When will he be back?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s been dead for fifteen years now.”

  All the lines were lit up again. “Anderson, who’s on line three?” demanded the sergeant. “It’s not my ‘ol lady, is it?” I cupped my hand over the phone and turned around to look at him.

  “It’s some asshole who wants to complain about the way I’m answering the phone, Sarge.” The sergeant was well into the sports section of the paper.

  “Well, I don’t want to talk to him. Tell him something. Tell him to call back in an hour. Tell him anything.”

  I turned back around and returned to the old lady on line six. She was still rambling. “He took sick in the shop, Harold did, and he wouldn’t leave to come home. Said he only had about two hours left. That was the way he was,” she reminisced.

  “Ma’am. Ma’am.” I interrupted. “Listen, I need to find out what your problem is. Why did you call the police?”

  “Oh, it’s that thing in the basement. That thing that scampered down the steps,” she advised.

  “Well, what is it? Is it a squirrel?” I asked. “Just go down there with a broom and chase it back up the steps. It will run outside just as fast as it ran inside.” I hung up the phone and pressed another line.

  “Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said.

  “My husband just beat me up! Send me the cops!”

  “Anderson, did you take care of line three yet?” asked the sergeant.

  “Hell, no! He wants to talk with you!” I responded.

  “Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said into line five. “How can I help you?” It was the old lady again. She had moved from line six to line five.

  “I wish to speak with Officer Anderson again, please.” She remembered my name.

  “This is Officer Anderson,” I said.

  “Sir,” she began. “I’m afraid your idea is not going to work. I do wish my Harold was here. He would know just what to do. He was such a great man,” she added.

  “Ma’am, we just don’t have a car to send over to take care of a squirrel in your basement. There are simply too many pressing emergencies going on right now,” I advised. “I’m sorry, but that is just the way it is.”

  “Officer, officer,” she interrupted. “This is not a squirrel. It’s a skunk!” Shit. A damn skunk!

  “Anderson!” demanded the sergeant. “Did you take care of line three yet? It’s still blinking!”

  “No, sir, I sure didn’t. I haven’t had a chance,” I answered.

  “Well, take care of that asshole,” he demanded. “I’m not going to talk to him.”

  “A skunk, huh?” I questioned. “Are you sure it’s a skunk and not a cat?”

  “Well, officer, I certainly know the difference between a skunk and a cat,” she reprimanded. “If only Harold …”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Harold would know just what to do, but he’s not here,” I said. “How about taking a can of something, like cat food or sardines, and make a trail from the basement up the steps and outside the house? Maybe the skunk will eat his way up the steps and outside. Then, just close the door behind him when he goes out.” There was a pause on the other end of the line. All of the other lines were flashing.

  “If only Harold were here, he would know what to do …” repeated the old weak voice.

  I took a chance on line three again. “Patrol desk, Anderson,” I said. “How can I help you?” The same gruff voice was on the other end. He had been on hold for over ten minutes now.

  “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to your supervisor! I told you that an hour ago!” I put him back on hold and advised the sergeant of the call. This time the sergeant ignored me.

  The hectic pace continued for two hours or more. One call right after the other. It was crazy. There must have been a full moon out that night. I punched line three again. “Patrol desk, how can I help you?” I asked.

  “I wish to speak to Officer Anderson,” said the old lady.

  “This is Anderson,” I said. There was another long pause.

  “Your idea didn’t work, Officer Anderson. I did just what you said and now there are two skunks in my basement.” Two skunks. Shit! Now what? I was starting to wish Harold had been there because maybe he would have known what to do.

  “Can you hold the line for a minute?” I requested and then put her back on hold.

  “Hey, Sarge, you’re a hunter, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Sure, never miss a chance,” he answered.

  “Well, I was just getting ready to go grab a sandwich with Gillis. Can you
take care of the lady on line three for me? It has to do with wild game.” He agreed. I grabbed my hat and headed for the elevator.

  “Yes, Officer Anderson is a fine lad,” came the sergeant’s voice from behind his desk. “Harold? Well, where is he? When will he be back? Oh, I’m so sorry.” I had just reached the elevator door when I heard him say, “Sardines?” Then he yelled, “Two skunks?! Did you say two skunks?! Hey, Anderson!! Come back here!!” The elevator doors closed. It started down. I was on my way to lunch. I smiled.

  Gillis was parked out back waiting for me. We checked out of service with dispatch and went to a coney island restaurant for a sandwich. “Would one of you be Officer Anderson?” asked the young waitress. “There is a phone call for you in the kitchen.” I followed her through the swinging doors and picked up the phone. It was dispatch. They wanted Gillis and me to drive to a sheriff’s department one hour away to pick up the fourteen-year-old cop killer. We were to take him directly to the juvenile facilities where they would be expecting us.

  I’ll always remember the lad’s face. You would have never guessed he was that young. He looked like a hardened twenty-year-old. He reminded me of a caged animal. He was sitting in a cell on a bench with a straitjacket on.

  “What’s the deal with the jacket?” questioned Gillis.

  “We can’t keep him in handcuffs. If you put them on, he’ll hand them to you in about thirty seconds,” said the desk sergeant. “I don’t know how he does it but he does.”

  We kept him in the straitjacket and delivered him to the juvenile facility. The lady on duty at the detention home opened the door for us and was shocked when she saw the boy was strapped into a straitjacket. She ordered us to remove it at once. I reminded her who this kid was and that he had killed two people. My response fell on deaf ears. She assured Gillis and me that our supervisor would be hearing about this matter.

 

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