The Funniest Cop Stories Ever

by Tom Philbin

  THE

  FUNNIEST

  COP

  STORIES EVER

  THE FUNNIEST COP STORIES EVER

  Copyright © 2006 by Scott Baker and Tom Philbin. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews. For information, write Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC, an Andrews McMeel Universal company, 1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, MO 64106.

  E-ISBN: 978-1-4494-1259-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006923315

  www.andrewsmcmeel.com

  Cover design by John Turnbull

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  Andrews McMeel books are available at quantity discounts with bulk purchase for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, please write to: Special Sales Department, Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC, 1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, MO 64106.

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  Thanks to Scott, a warm, sensitive, caring guy who also happens to be very funny, a great storyteller. I will always cherish those Sundays in Borders as we brought this wonderful (I think it is!) book to life and tittered, cackled, and howled and drank coffee that I always manipulated you into paying for.

  Much thanks to Dina for getting us together, and thanks to Chris Schillig for her sensitive and insightful editing of the book.

  Finally, thanks to “Brokejaw,” one of the people in this book. Existence of guys like you makes books like this possible.

  —Tom Philbin

  To my father, who was the most dynamic storyteller I ever knew. To my mother, who always encouraged my humor. Also to my good friend, Justin Doyle: I should have been there for you more than I was; thank you for your forgiveness.

  —Scott Baker

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank my dear friend Dina Masella-Frechen. Without her belief in me and her introduction to my coauthor, Tom Philbin, none of this would have been possible. While we are on the subject, I would also like to thank Tom Philbin, who was so much more than a coauthor to me on this project. He has been a true friend—I only wish I could have met him earlier in my life. I truly enjoyed getting together to discuss these stories with him and being forced to buy him his coffee; I will miss it. I would also like to give a very sincere thanks to my publisher, Andrews McMeel, and my editor, Christine Schillig. You took a chance on me and believed in this project, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Most of all I would like to thank all the police officers I have worked with, Ed Polstein and the NYPD Rant, and all the officers from all over the country who have contributed stories to this book. I had so much fun reliving some of these tales and appreciate you sharing them with me. It is special people like you that have the strength to find humor while putting your own lives on the line and protecting the lives of others. Thank you all.

  Scott Baker

  INTRODUCTION

  When I was a cop with the NYPD, I saw so many funny things happen on the street that I thought that one day I would collect and write them in a book. This is the final result. For several years I went around interviewing cops from all over the country, and I found that the stories in Baltimore, LA, and everywhere else were as funny as any in New York. Nothing quite prepares you for what you see on the street once you become a cop. It is one of the most dangerous jobs, but also the most fun as well. One minute you are shot at; the next you are convincing a woman that there are no people from outer space after her. In what other profession will you find yourself chasing a midget in a tuxedo down a fire escape? Cops meet some of the zaniest, wildest, craziest characters that ever walked the face of the earth. The things a cop sees in his career could not be made up by the most creative Hollywood writers. Add to that the fact that these grown men have the mentality of college frat brothers and you have some of the funniest stories that ever happened. One cop described it as “going to high school with legal guns.”

  These stories are all true, and told in their own words with some editing by the cops who experienced them or heard them from other cops and retold them.

  Cops are notoriously private people except when they’re talking to other cops—the brotherhood of blue is strong—so I quickly assured them that no real names would be used and that no specific information would be provided that would allow even the most dogged investigator to determine who was telling the stories. Though funny, the unauthorized actions that cops took in some of these incidents might jeopardize their jobs. Ordinary cops love to laugh—it vents the pressure they’re constantly under—but in general the brass approaches cop work with a stern and rigid interpretation of what a cop can or can’t do. They often turn molehills into mountains in determining a cop’s fate. Because the cops knew that they could not be identified, they spoke freely with no holds barred, and that led them to tell some very funny stories.

  The enormous stress of a cop’s job results in very unfunny 50 percent divorce and alcoholism rates. Many have developed a taste, as it were, for salty language—blue language, if you will. Most of that has been edited out because some people find it offensive, but excising curse words or obscenities doesn’t affect the humor of the stories. In some cases the word [bleep] or [bleeping] has been substituted for curses because they are an integral part of the story; to use bland language would dilute the effect.

  The stories have a single goal: to make readers titter, cackle, howl, and chortle as well as laugh their [bleeps] off. And believe me, you will. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed living them and collecting them. Remember, the stories are all true. Only the names have been changed to protect the insane.

  —Scott Baker

  MR. ROSENTHAL’S REGRET

  My partner and I go to an aided case (a person in need of medical assistance) on the north side of the expressway where a very old man is sitting in a lawn chair. He looks pale and weak. There are a few neighbors around, so I talk with one lady. “What’s the problem?”

  She tells me it’s a very sad story. His name is Norman Rosenthal, and his wife passed away six or seven months ago. He’s got diabetes and doesn’t take care of himself, and every once in a while he passes out. That’s what he did today. So they helped him into the lawn chair and called us.

  So I go up to him and say, “What’s the matter, Mr. Rosenthal?”

  He answers in a thick Jewish accent, “Ah, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Leave me alone already.”

  “Mr. Rosenthal, we called the paramedics and they’re going to come here and check you out a little. But can I ask you something, did you eat today?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I don’t need nothing to eat. I can take care of myself.”

  “Well, obviously not, Mr. Rosenthal. I heard you have diabetes, and when you don’t eat, your blood sugar level is going to drop and you’re going to pass out. So I want you to sit tight until the paramedics come and check you out. Meanwhile, I’m going across the street to the deli and get you something to eat so you’ll have something in your system—“

  “I don’t need anything from the deli. I can take care of myself. I don’t want to eat. I don’t need anything.”

  My partner keeps his eye on the old guy while I go and get him a roll and butter. When I get back, I say: “Listen, Mr. Rosenthal. You got to eat something.”

  “I don’t want to eat! Leave me alone! I’m not hungry!”

  “Just take this,” I said.

  “All right!” He takes the roll and butter, looks up at me, and says, “What’s the matter? You couldn’t get me a sandwich?”

  Ever Hear of a Door?

  Me and my par
tner are driving down one of the streets adjacent to McArthur Park one day and we see this tall, skinny black guy walking down the block with a TV on his shoulder. He’s got a big Afro, but the strange thing is that he appears to be a young guy but his hair looks white. When we get closer we see it’s some sort of powder, and his clothing has white powder on it too.

  We stop and ask him where he’s going with the TV and where he got it, but his answers are evasive. So we bore in on him, and he finally admits that he stole the TV.

  “Where from?” I ask him.

  “I’ll show you.”

  We load him in the car with the TV and he directs us to a private house a few blocks away. He gives us a tour. He explains that he noted that the windows and doors were alarmed, so he had to go in another way. “Through the back,” he says.

  We accompany him to the back of the house and there in the middle of the wall is a big hole maybe two feet wide and three feet high leading into what looks like the living room. What he did was remove shingles, sheathing, and plasterboard—the reason he was covered with white dust—and went through the wall. When he said he went through the back, he really meant it.

  MOVING BODY

  One day I was on a four-to-twelve tour in the Seven-Five precinct. It was February, cold as hell, and me and my partner, Danny, were nearing the end of our shift when we get a call from Central that there’s a body lying on the sidewalk on Van Sinderan Avenue, in a deserted, factory area.

  So we proceed over there and find this middle-aged guy lying facedown on the sidewalk. He’s frozen solid. He is wearing tattered clothing, his face has a scruffy look, and there is a shopping cart full of crap nearby. He is obviously a homeless person. There is no blood, no sign of violence. He just dropped dead.

  It is now about 11:15, so we figure that if things go the way they usually do, we’ll have to safeguard the scene and stay until the ME finishes his examination. We’ll be there for hours.

  Now the Seven-Five is separated in parts from the Seven-Three just by Van Sinderan Avenue. We get an idea. We look around. No one is in sight. So Danny grabs the arms, I grab the legs, and we pick up and carry the body across Van Sinderan and place it on the sidewalk. Then we call Central and say that we responded, but the case was unfounded—no complainant. Central says okay, and we drive to the precinct, turn in our radios, and go home.

  The next night we do another four-to-twelve and we get a call for the same area as the night before. We ride by, and sure enough, the body is back on the Seven-Five Side. Turns out the Seven-Three guys had the same idea as us! This time we waited for the ME. Who knew where it might have ended if we didn’t?

  CALL A MECHANIC

  I was walking a foot post in the Six-Eight, and I see some lady is on the street clutching her chest. I drop down and start CPR and a crowd gathers. I call a bus [ambulance], and as I’m working on her, some middle-aged mafioso wearing a sweat suit and a gold chain comes out of a storefront club and says, “What’s going on!?”

  Then a kid who looks like he should be on Growin’ Up Gotti answers the question in a thick wannabe accent. “Yo, this lady’s in Cadillac arrest!”

  I have to keep working on her, but I’m dying inside trying not to laugh as this woman is struggling to hold on to life. Finally, the bus comes and she ends up being okay. But as I’m getting in the bus to go to the hospital to fill out the forms, I can’t help being a wise guy to the kid.

  “Hey! Doogie Howser, M.D. Thanks for the help.”

  “Yo, no problem.”

  EYEWITNESS

  This drunken Spanish guy robbed a woman on Crestview Road. We caught him, and usually when we do this we have what is called a “showup,” where the complainant tries to ID the suspect at the scene of the crime. If you bring the suspect to the complainant when he’s already in cuffs and in the police car, it can skew the complainant’s judgment. They might automatically think that the guy is guilty and ID him. Of course, it’s not perfect, but a showup works.

  Anyway, they bring the lady to the suspect, who is still drunk. When he sees her pull up he looks at her and says, “Sí, that’s the one I rob.”

  The Violin Should Help

  Me and my partner, Nicky, get a call to go to a building on Church Street. A woman is calling for help, that she’s been assaulted. So we go to the building and the woman is leaning out a fifth-story window yelling, “Up here! Up here!”

  We go running up the stairs, and when we get there, we see that the old wooden door has been knocked in—it’s hanging on by a single hinge. Inside we find a heavyset, thirtyish Spanish woman. She’s very upset and she’s got a shiner. We ask her what happened.

  “My boyfriend,” she says. “He beat me up, then ran up the fire escape.”

  So we get on the radio and talk to Central and confirm a woman has been assaulted, and they should stand by for a description of the suspect. Then we ask the woman what the boyfriend looks like. “How big is he?”

  “He’s short, a little short.”

  “How short, approximately?”

  “Well, he’s less than four feet. Three feet ten inches. He’s a midget.”

  Both of us are trying to hold our laughter in, and we’re looking at the door and wondering how a midget could kick it in, and Nicky says, “How was he able to kick in the door?”

  “He’s a karate expert.”

  Somehow, Nicky is able to speak into the radio and he says, “Central, be advised that the suspect is three feet, ten inches, and is a midget, Hispanic, and he was last seen fleeing up the fire escape of the building.”

  Then voices start coming back over the radio from other units who are going to canvass the area. One guy says, “Well, is he a midget or a dwarf?”

  Nicky asks why it matters, and somebody says, “A midget has a small head that is in proportion to his body while a dwarf has a small body but a big head.”

  Nicky asks the lady, “Is he a midget or a dwarf?”

  “He’s a midget.”

  “Central, be advised he’s definitely a midget. Stand by for a description of what the suspect was wearing.” One of us asks the lady, “Ma’am, what was he wearing?”

  “Well, he was wearing a tuxedo and carrying a violin case. He was going to propose to me.”

  Me and Nicky are dying, but Nicky manages to say into the radio. “He’s three feet, ten inches, wearing a tuxedo, and carrying a violin case.”

  Central says okay and we get on the fire escape. Just as we reach the roof some rookie comes on the radio and says, “Central. What does the suspect actually look like? Do you have a physical description?”

  Nicky gets a strange look in his eyes and gets on the radio. “Dude,” he said, “do me a favor! Stop any [bleeping] midget wearing a tux and carrying a violin case. Who the [bleep] cares what he [bleeping] looks like!”

  A NEW PERSON

  About five years ago, I was in the robbery squad, and me and Detective Eddie Weeks made a robbery collar one Saturday night about midnight. It was a basic robbery, nothing special. The suspect was a Chinese guy. We take him back to the station, photograph him, and the guy gives us his pedigree information, including the fact that his name is David Wu. Eddie checks him out on the computer, gets no warrants, no hits.

  The next morning, our boss, Sergeant Costa, comes in and says, “What happened last night?”

  “Nothing,” I said, “just a robbery collar.”

  “Let me see the information.”

  So we give him the file and he starts thumbing through it and sees Wu’s photo and says, “This isn’t David Wu, this is David Gong.”

  Eddie says, “David Gong? This is David Wu. Who’s David Gong?” But we both realize that in the Chinese culture people change names like they change socks.

  “He’s wanted in the One-Twelve,” Costa says, “for the murder of a livery cab driver.”

  “Maybe,” Weeks says, “they just look alike.”

  “No, listen,” Costa says, “I’m very familiar with him. I talked
with him before—locked him up. I’m telling you this is David Gong. Where is he?”

  “In the interrogation room.”

  As soon as we walk in, this guy David Wu knows exactly who Costa is. So Costa says, “Hey David, how you doin’?”

  “Hey Sarge, how are you?”

  “So when did you change your name?”

  “Last night when I got arrested.”

  AND ONE COUNT OF STUPIDITY

  This guy Pat Colon tells me that he once collared this huge, muscle-bound guy on a robbery charge. The only problem is that this guy is mute, a statue. “I couldn’t get him to say anything,” Colon said, “no matter what I said. So finally I said to him that I was just going to book him on robbery two and that was that. Then he comes alive. His brow wrinkles with concern and his eyes widen, and he says, ‘Robbery two? I just rob one person!’”

  A NASTY PRANK

  One night around one in the morning, me and my partner, Jay, were in an unmarked car and we observed this black woman walking along. A couple of cars slowed down and stopped next to her. Whoever was inside exchanged conversation with the woman and then took off. But then a third car came along, a white Cadillac. It stopped, and after a conversation with the driver, the woman got in the car, which was the whole criteria for soliciting prostitution. So we stopped the car and arrested the woman.

  On the way back to the station we search through her purse and find a driver’s license for a man plus credit cards in the same name. The collar is looking better. We may get her for a CPSP [Criminal Possession of Stolen Property], or pop her on a robbery warrant. I ask her, “Where’d you get the ID and credit cards?”