“Yes, sir, Sergeant.”
“Well, why are you still standing? Do you have your notebook?”
Mike panicked as he thought, oh, fuck, I left my notebook on the counter. Nervously, he replied, “Um . . . no sir, I left it at home.”
At this point, most of the guys were laughing at Mike. Memories of middle school came flashing back into his mind.
“For Christ’s sake, what kind of an idiot did they hire? Can someone help Princess out?”
Now sitting nervously in the back of the room, Mike noticed the deputy next to him lean over. “Here ya go. I have an extra. Got a pen?”
“Dear Lord, I forgot my pen too. SHIT!”
Smiling as he handed Mike the pen, the deputy said, “Got you covered, bro. Here ya go, F-N-G.”
Mike whispered, “Thanks. I’m sorry . . . F-N-G?” “Fucking New Guy. Get used to that for a while.” Mike slid a little lower into his seat.
“He’s good, Sarge! He found his stuff.”
“Well, thank God for small miracles! Can we begin, F-N-G? I’m talking to you, new guy!”
Mike nodded affirmatively.
“Thank you very much!”
At the end of roll call, Sergeant Constantine once again turned his attention to Mike. “Okay sweet lips, you got a name, or do you prefer F-N-G?”
Again, the scornful laugh from others that he had despised as a kid echoed through the room.
Nervously, Mike responded, “Michael, sir.”
“Michael what? Are you the damn archangel or something? You got a last name?”
Mike was feeling a bit humiliated by this point, but dared not express it. “Carson, sir. Michael Carson.”
“Michael Carson, huh? Okay boys and girls, everyone say hello to Michael Carson.” In unison, the whole group responded, “Hello Michael Carson, F-N-G.”
“Okay, which one you unfortunate souls gets to ride with this dumb ass?”
Everyone in the room looked around as if there was a big surprise about to be revealed.
Finally, from the front of the room, the corporal, Corporal Oren said, “Don’t everyone jump up at once.” Corporal Oren was a tall, lanky man in his late thirties. His uniform was too baggy on him. He was balding with a horseshoe hair ring that circled his shiny dome.
Feeling like he did in elementary school as the last kid picked on the kickball team in the school yard, Mike thought, this is not starting out like I had hoped. These guys are assholes.
“All right, ladies. Gather around. We’re going to have to draw straws to see who gets the F-N-G.”
A groan of disgust resonated throughout the room, as all the other deputies lined up to get their straws.
Mike sat passively in his chair. For some reason, everyone made it a point to walk past him and he heard, “This is bullshit!” “Fucking new guy!” “God, please don’t let it be me!”
Mike, for a moment, wanted to run back to his empty latchkey kid house, fly up to his room, hide under his sheets and cry. But he remained stoic. He told himself, Relax, you’ve endured worse. Don’t show any weakness. He recalled the days when The Moose would whale on him for no reason, and how helpless he had felt. “Okay. Everyone got their straws?” It was time for the big reveal.
Corporal Oren shouted, “Okay! Hold up your straws!”
From across the room, “This is bullshit, Sarge! Not again! No fucking way! C’mon, can’t we do best two out of three?”
“Okay, and the loser . . . er . . . I mean, the lucky winner is Deputy
Barber. Everyone give Paul a big hand.”
Everyone began clapping and whistling for Deputy Paul Barber.
“C’mon Sarge, I got stuck with the last idiot.”
Sergeant Constantine replied, “Sorry Paul, that’s the luck of the draw.”
“SHIT!”
Mike looked back to see it was the same deputy that had given him the notebook and pen.
Everyone in the room looked at Mike, who was sitting motionless. The pen in his large hand was trembling and his grip was straining the limits of the pen, then “snap”, and the pen broke.
Paul then walked up to Mike laughing, “Take it easy rook, we’re fucking with you.”
The whole group, including some of the command staff that had entered the back of the room to watch the fun, laughed out loud.
Mike was relieved and smiled.
“How ya doing, buddy? I’m Paul. I’ll be your Field Training Officer. Congrats, we can usually break people long before you. Good job! Were you told your radio number yet?”
“No, I haven’t been told much yet.”
“Your radio ID number is four-forty-two. As you move up in seniority, your radio number will lower. My number is four-sixteen.
Got it?”
“Yeah. Thanks Paul.”
One by one, the rest of the squad came up to Mike to shake his hand and introduce themselves. Some remembered him from his college days, and told him how great he was and what a tough break he got.
Lastly, Sergeant Constantine approached and shook his hand. “Welcome to the agency, Mike. Sorry—I couldn’t resist setting you up a little. I hear a lot of good things, and I’m going to expect a lot from you. But, seriously, don’t be late again,” he said with a smile.
Mike’s first day of field training was fairly uneventful, mostly traffic-related calls and a burglary. When Mike got home, he remembered the bloody mess he had to clean up in the bathroom. When he went in to clean it up, he noticed a set of smudged, bloody fingerprints on the mirror while he was wiping out the sink. He could not recall touching the mirror, but then concluded he must have done so at some point that morning while he was rushing around bleeding like a stuck pig.
He finished cleaning up the bloody mess, and relaxed the first evening at home. He called Frank and Nancy to share about his first day, then went to bed early. He would make sure he was not late again.
Over the course of sixteen weeks, Mike worked with a total of five different Field Training Officers. He excelled at the job and was well-regarded by his peers and supervisors.
By special request, Mike was assigned to Sergeant Constantine’s squad. Constantine was the most senior sergeant in the department and pretty much got what he wanted. Mike enjoyed working for Sergeant Constantine, and was grateful to work and learn from someone he respected as much as Constantine.
FORGING AHEAD
D ECEMBER 1998. Mike finally graduated from FTU with his Bachelor’s degree in Philosophy. Because of his work schedule, he did not attend the graduation ceremony. There was little fanfare with his graduation because he didn’t think it to be that big of a deal. He was only half the way to achieving his goal of graduating law school.
FTU had a renowned law school, one of the best in Florida. Mike immediately applied and was accepted based on his academic achievements as an undergraduate. He could continue his studies part time; however, he was required to drive to Jacksonville periodically for mandatory lectures and proctored exams. Though the distance proved to be a hardship, he was on his way to completing his objective. It would take longer than he had originally hoped, but at least he was able to work in a career that he enjoyed, and it allowed him to reach his ambition without relying on the help of anyone else.
Mike worked hard and was now one of the top-performing deputies in the Sheriff’s Office. His supervisors asked him to become a Field Training Officer. He accepted the responsibility and was well liked and respected by the junior deputies he trained. Mike enjoyed training the younger deputies and molding them.
By early 2001, he had been decorated multiple times. He was awarded Deputy of the Year in 2000 and Deputy of the Quarter on three separate occasions. He became antsy and was eager to try something new. He was looking for a challenge. Mike had developed a reputation as a perfectionist and became quite adept at testifying in criminal cases. There was an opening in Major Crimes, a special detective unit that handled the most serious of crimes, from rape to murder. This position was usuall
y reserved for people who already had experience as a detective, but Mike was asked to apply for the position. After serious consideration, Mike applied for the opening, as he believed it was just the challenge he was looking for.
Lieutenant Robert Peterson, in charge of Major Crimes, called Mike on the phone one Sunday afternoon. “So, Mike, you think you’d like to be a detective?”
“Yes, sir. I know I don’t have experience, but I’ll work hard for you if selected, and I am definitely looking for a challenge.”
“Challenges are what we specialize in, Mike. We have no shortages of those around here. I know your reputation and have no doubt that you’d be an asset to our team. Your success in trial is enviable, and your education level is higher than anyone else applying for the position.
That reminds me, aren’t you working toward your law degree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much longer do you have to go before you finish?”
“Well, sir, I’m going part time, so it’s going a little slower than I had hoped. But I should be done in another three to four years.”
“Well, nothing official mind you, but I think it’s safe to say that you can expect to receive a call from me next week sometime. Of course, we still have to complete the selection process, but I believe it’s just a formality. How do you think you’ll feel about wearing a suit instead of a uniform?”
“I do love the uniform, sir, but the idea of wearing a suit and tie kind of appeals to me, also. It might help with the transition to the courtroom in the future.”
“I agree. Okay, then. I’m sorry to have called you on your day off, but I just wanted to touch base with you. We’ll know by Friday.”
“Sounds great. Thank you for the call, sir.”
It was time for the next shift rotation from days to nights. At 5:51 p.m., Mike reported for work. During the Friday evening roll call, Sergeant Constantine, looking over the same now scratched and smudged dime store readers said, “Damn it, Carson! You’re late again. It’s nine minutes till!”
“Sorry Sarge, my watch is slow.”
“Well, apparently you won’t be my problem much longer. Listen up, everyone. It seems that Deputy Carson will be leaving us. He wants to be a dick.”
The squad all laughed in unison.
“He’s leaving us to become a Major Crimes Detective.”
Deputy Lou Praft called out, “Won’t that make him a Major Dick, sir?”
Deputy Melissa Glanz continued, “So what you’re saying is he’s making a lateral transfer then?”
“Yeah. Once a dick, always a dick,” said Lou.
Mike laughed along with everyone else. He was going to miss the squad. He had become close to all of them, and loved the camaraderie and banter.
After roll call, Sergeant Constantine called Mike into the office. “Congratulations, Mike. I remember six years ago when you walked through the doors of the squad room.”
Mike interrupted and said, “Oh yeah, me too!”
“Anyway, I told you not to let me down, and you haven’t. I’m gonna miss having you around. I was hoping you’d see me into my retirement in two more years, but you gotta spread your wings. I’m proud of you, son.”
“I appreciate that, Sarge. I can’t thank you enough for sharing all your knowledge and experience with me. You’ve been a big part of why I’m getting this opportunity.”
“You can thank me by being as good a detective as you are a deputy. I worked as a detective way back. Always wanted Major
Crimes, but I got promoted instead.”
“Well, I’m glad you did, sir.”
“All right, that’s enough of that. Get the hell out of my office. My ass can only handle so much kissing! Jesus, do you want me to propose to you now, or what?”
The two shook hands and with mixed emotions. Mike continued on to work his final shift on the road, his last shift in uniform. He was hoping to slide to the finish line with an uneventful day.
There’s an old saying… wish in one hand and shit in another, see which fills up first. It became readily apparent that Mike’s day would be full of . . . well, not wishes.
His first call of the day was a burglary. He had worked so many burglaries before that day that he had lost count. Two hours later, he completed his first call. Immediately afterward, he was dispatched to a domestic in progress. Mike arrested the husband, who was drunk and had smacked his wife because she didn’t have dinner on the table for him when he got home late from work. Mike had no sympathy for wife beaters, and always got a particular pleasure when he incarcerated a wife-beating dirt bag.
After leaving the jail, he made a traffic stop. It was intended to be a simple stop, a warning for having a driver’s side headlight out. He called into dispatch and advised that he was pulling over a red 1978 Camaro at the corner of St. Mary’s Ave and Fruitland Road. He illuminated the driver’s mirror with his spotlight. As he got out of his patrol car, the hair stood up on the back of Mike’s neck. Something was off. Something was wrong.
Mike hesitated for a moment and said, “Dispatch, four-twenty-two, send me a backup unit. Everything is 10-4 for now.”
“10-4, sending backup.”
Something about the demeanor of the driver sent red flags up for Mike. He could see through the back window that the driver was nervous and fidgeting around. Mike approached from the passenger side window. As he drew near the open window, he was horrified to hear what sounded like a child crying in the trunk of the car.
“Help me . . . help me.”
What the fuck!? Mike thought.
Immediately, he drew his gun and pointed it at the driver. From the vantage point on the passenger’s side of the Camaro behind the door, Mike yelled, “DRIVER! TURN OFF YOUR ENGINE AND SHOW ME YOUR HANDS! DO IT NOW!”
Rather than complying, the driver quickly pulled a large caliber, chrome revolver from his lap and managed to get one round off simultaneously as he depressed the gas pedal. Mike immediately started firing his nine-millimeter semi auto at the driver. The tires spun and smoked as they made a horrific squeal. The rear of the car slid to the right. Mike tried to jump out the way, but got hit by the back end as it sped away.
He wasn’t hurt. “Holy shit, I’m alive. I’m not shot . . . oh my God, a kid!”
He sprang up and ran back to his car, shouting into his radio, “FOUR-TWENTY-TWO DISPATCH, SHOTS FIRED, SHOTS FIRED!
I’M IN PURSUIT! BE ADVISED IT SOUNDED LIKE THERE WAS A CHILD CRYING IN THE TRUNK OF THE CAR!”
Calmly, the dispatcher replied, “10-4, four-twenty-two, all available units respond to assist four-twenty-two in pursuit of suspect with a firearm, shots fired, possible victim in the trunk of the vehicle.”
Anxiously, he continued on the radio, “DISPATCH, WE’RE NORTHBOUND ON FRUITLAND ROAD! SPEEDS IN EXCESS OF
100 MILES PER HOUR!”
“10-4, four-twenty-two, northbound Fruitland, 100 miles per hour.”
Then in the kind of calmness only age and experience can afford, Sergeant Constantine called on the radio, “Four-hundred to four-twenty-two, are you hurt?”
Now bringing himself under control, Mike replied, “Negative, Sarge. I’m not hit, but I think he has a kid in the trunk!”
Suddenly, he cried out over the radio, “FOUR-TWENTY-TWO, DISPATCH, THE SUSPECT JUST CRASHED INTO A TREE! SEND EMS!”
“Four-twenty-two, what is your location?”
“FRUITLAND AND MAIN! FRUITLAND AND MAIN!!!”
Mike jumped from his patrol car with his gun drawn. At the same time, the suspect exited the Camaro with his gun drawn. The driver was a skinny white male in his early twenties, with long black hair in a ponytail. He was covered with tattoos. He wore a bloodstained white t-shirt and blue jeans. The suspect raised the shiny tool of death to take aim at Mike. Mike immediately opened fire, striking the suspect four times in the chest and once in the head. The driver collapsed into a heap next to his smashed-up car.
“FOUR-TWENTY-TWO, DISPATCH, SHOTS FIRED
. SUSPECT DOWN, NOT MOVING!”
Mike could hear the other units approaching. His attention immediately turned to the child he had heard in the trunk. He darted to the suspect, secured the suspect’s weapon, and checked his carotid artery. “No pulse. Good, you piece of shit!” “Four-twenty-two Dispatch, suspect is signal seven!”
“Dispatch copy, suspect signal seven.”
Mike grabbed the keys from the ignition and dashed back to the trunk. His hands were trembling, fearing what lay in wait for him inside. It was not normal procedure to go any further without a backup unit, but if this was a child, there was no time to waste. Mike opened the trunk and his heart sank. Before him lay the motionless, crumpled up body of a small, blonde-haired little girl. She appeared to have been slammed up against the back seat, apparently as a result of the violent crash. Her tiny body was tangled up among the spare tire, jumper cables, some tools and other trash. She was bleeding profusely from her head and appeared to be unconscious. She looked as if she was only three or four years old and was wearing a pink nightgown with the word “Princess” in silver glittery letters emblazoned across the chest. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape, and a single piece of tape had been placed across her mouth to keep her silent, but looked as if it had come loose.
Mike straightaway checked her carotid pulse. “A pulse! Thank you, God! It’s weak, though. She needs an ambulance right now!”
“FOUR-TWENTY-TWO, DISPATCH, I HAVE AN APPROXIMATELY FOUR-YEAR-OLD GIRL, UNCONSCIOUS WITH SHALLOW BREATHS AND THREADY PULSE, ADVISE
EMS TO EXPEDITE!”
“Dispatch copy . . . EMS is three minutes out.”
While waiting, Mike continued to monitor the girl. As he watched her, she stopped breathing. Mike carefully pulled her from the trunk to start rescue breathing. His emotions were on overload. He didn’t bother to get his CPR mask. Who cared? This was an innocent little girl.
Mike was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t even notice other units arrive on scene. The next deputy on scene, Lou Praft, came running over to Mike, seeing he was doing CPR.
Epistle of the Damned Page 12