by Lou Reiter
The sap, however, took a different place in American policing. Originally they were lengths of leather with buckshot sewn inside, featuring a thong that wrapped around the wrist. In Southern California during the 1960s, often a Gonzales sap was used. It came in three sizes—148, 245 and 187. Gonzales saps were in the Penal Code sections for resisting arrest, assault with a deadly weapon, and murder. Size mattered!
Other saps were spring loaded in the handle, but these usually just pissed off the suspect. On the East Coast they had the Convoy sap. This model had a flat piece of metal inserted in it, often referred to as a slapper. Then there was the palm sap. This was a strap of leather with a piece of metal sewn into it. The sap tightly covered the hand with the metal piece secured in the palm. Usually a suspect had no idea what hit him when one of these weapons was used.
Saps went out of vogue or were prohibited by nearly all police agencies by the 1990s. But, a few equipment vendors still try to bring back versions of the weapon.
Don and Ricky entered the wide alley between the rows of retail stores. This was where delivery trucks unloaded merchandise. Large dumpsters were stationed along the alley as if on patrol duty. The alley was well lit and several rear store entrances had motion sensor lights positioned over the doors. It was seven o’clock in the evening and the alley was empty. Generally store personnel wouldn’t appear until closing when the daily trash was thrown out.
Ricky tapped Don’s arm and pointed to a dumpster. A dark figure appeared to dip deeper into the darkness against the side of the building adjacent to the dumpster. Ricky and Don separated to twelve feet apart and triangulated on the crouching figure. Ricky activated his Streamlight high intensity beam on the figure. The bum was wearing dark clothes with a hoodie over his head, covering most of his features. His hands were tucked into the hoodie pockets as he looked straight into the blinding light.
“Turn it off! Turn it off! It hurts my eyes! Turn it off!”
“Show me your hands, scumbag,” Ricky yelled with an authoritative voice. “Show them now! I’m a cop!”
“You’re not the boss of me! Why are you doing this? What have I done?”
“Show me your hands, asshole,” barked Ricky. “You want to get shot?”
“Why, why, why? You’re not the boss of me! You can’t make me! Who are you anyway? I can’t see you!”
The dark shadow wasn’t moving and kept staring at the bright light as if transfixed.
Don crept closer to the edge of the dumpster. He could hear heavy breathing around the corner and knew he was only an arm’s reach away from the crouching figure. Don knew the flashlight had probably diminished any ability for the shadowed man to see what was behind the light, and certainly couldn’t see him approaching from the side. Don quickly turned the corner of the dumpster and charged at the shadow, grasping the hands still hidden inside the hoodie pockets. The shadow’s knee suddenly came up and caught Don with a glancing blow to his groin. Most of the force from the knee assault was dissipated by Don’s thigh.
“You fuckin’ asshole!” Don screamed as he slammed his gloved fist into the shadow’s face. That first blow struck the shadow directly in the nose, shattering the bone and splitting skin open, releasing a river of blood. In a flash, Ricky appeared at Don’s side and grabbed the hoodie, pulling the shadowed man off balance. He dragged the form into the open alley for a better look. The sudden movement threw Ricky off balance and his bulk shifted, causing him to fall back onto the pavement.
Don saw Ricky fall and thought the shadow had kicked him. Don struck down with his gloved fist into the shadow’s left eye. The blow was a full force attack and the shadow’s head bounced hard on the pavement.
The blow shattered numerous small bones in the orbital socket and detached the retina. Ricky was up and knee-dropped the shadowed man directly in the groin. Don struck two more times. The first blow was a direct mouth hit, breaking two teeth. The second hit found the left side of his jaw and fractured it in dozens of pieces. For the finale, Don slapped the shadow’s right ear with the back of his lead infused gloved hand. This blow perforated the eardrum.
The shadow wasn’t moving. His hands were still clutched in the pockets of his hoodie. Don and Ricky were kneeling beside him trying to catch their breath.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Ricky slowly uttered. “What the fuck was that? What happened, Don?”
“He resisted, didn’t he?”
“Fuck if I know!”
“He resisted, Ricky! You know the drill.” Don looked down at the crumpled shadow. “Is he alive?”
Ricky placed two fingers on the shadow’s neck, searching for the carotid artery. Without warning the shadow began to gurgle and vomited a gush of blood. Ricky fell back as blood splayed on his arm. Don grabbed one of the shadow’s biceps and rolled him on his stomach. Don pulled both hands from the hoodie and wrenched them around to the shadow’s back.
“Give me your cuffs, Ricky,” Don ordered as he glanced at his partner who was momentarily fixated on the blood covering his arm. He instinctively pulled out his cuffs and handed them to Don. Don began to pat down the shadow. Not feeling any large objects, he turned his attention to the rear pocket and pulled out a filthy stack of cards secured with a rubber band.
“Dennis Spencer,” Don announced, locating a driver’s license in the pack of cards. A St. Christopher medal rangled around the man’s neck.
Ricky put out the call for EMS and a supervisor to come to the scene. The sergeant would have to complete the on-scene use of force investigation.
The wail of sirens was soon heard and the alley became a whirling kaleidoscope of flashing lights. Two additional police cars arrived to add to the festive light show. Floodlights from motion sensors transformed the dark alley into a glimmering stage. An audience magically appeared from every rear door in the row of businesses. People had box seats for the show from condo balconies. Batman and Robin were the stars of this reality theatre.
“What the fuck happened, Ricky?” Sergeant Evans asked as he got out of his car.
“Sarge, Don got this call from the squeeze at the Gap. Some creep was hassling her when she was emptying trash into the dumpster. We came around to investigate and the guy jumped us. Caught us completely off guard, Sarge.”
“I think he might have had something in his hand,” Don piped in. “Piece of pipe or something. We just used reasonable force to overcome his resistance. He was a strong bastard for his size.”
“Guys, his face looks like a fucking piece of meat. What shit did you do to him?”
The ambulance was leaving the alley, siren blasting. The sergeant ordered one of the responding police officers to follow the ambulance to the hospital.
“You guys okay?”
“I got a shitpot of blood all over me, Sarge,” Ricky said.
“How about you, Don?” The sergeant noticed Don taking off a pair of gloves. “What you got there? They look like they’re soaked in blood.” The sarge reached over and grabbed the glove that wasn’t wet.
“Don, what the fuck kind of glove is this?”
“It’s a security glove. To protect me.”
Evans looked at Don and threw back the glove.
“Come here, Batman and Robin.” He pointed up to the edge of the buildings. “There are cameras placed everywhere in this alley. Whatever happened back here, be aware that it was captured on TV. Come on, it’s time to take you prima donnas to the hospital for a blood sample.”
“Sarge, you’re gonna help us? Ain’t ya’?” Ricky sputtered, suddenly realizing what could be coming down.
“Huh? You fuckups got yourself into this shit storm. Nothing I can do. You guys are on your own. You gotta hope the State Attorney is in a good mood.”
Don glanced at the back door of the Gap. Heather was pressed against the door jam with her hands over her mouth. She seemed to be hypnotized by the lights. When her gaze turned to Don, she circled her arms around her body and quickly turned, retreating inside the store.
Taylor Sterling landed at the Ft. Lauderdale airport on a stifling, muggy afternoon. The facility was modern, well lit, and its white walls were brightly accented with tropical murals. The place was relatively quiet, with the exception of canned TSA announcements periodically blaring warnings to travelers. It was only two in the afternoon. The business evening rush to fly wasn’t on yet.
More and more travelers, particularly business fliers, were using the Ft. Lauderdale airport rather than fight the mad masses (often with horrific body odors) carrying boxed remnants of mainland shopping sprees who loaded the planes at Miami International. The airline boarding kiosks lining the confusing Miami terminals often resembled the United Nations. Taylor knew the agony of being in Florida in July would hit him the moment he exited the terminal.
Taylor got his call to action from Ben Jackson, an adjuster for the Florida League of Cities insurance pool. Ben related there had been an in-custody death in Playa Diablo, an upscale community in Dade County, and things seemed to be getting out of control. Taylor happened to be walking by the newsstand as he moved down the concourse and caught a glimpse of the Sun Sentinel.
Mentally ill man beaten to death by Playa Diablo officers calling themselves Batman and Robin screamed the above-the-fold headline.
Taylor grabbed a copy to read on the van jaunt to the rental car lot. It had been a week since the incident which resulted in Dennis Spencer’s death. Dennis had hung onto life for only two days, never regaining consciousness. FDLE, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, was still investigating the matter.
Taylor figured the investigation would take at least another month, time mostly spent waiting for the medical examiner’s report and lab work to return from Tallahassee. He figured the State Attorney was not doing much other than holding press conferences as he waited for all the facts to come to light. Of course, every local advocacy group for the mentally ill was active sending press releases, holding news conferences, rallying on local talk radio, and marching in a continual circular protest in front of the Playa Diablo Police Station.
Taylor Sterling circled the block housing the town’s police station. It was a two-story building, stark white, as were most new Florida police stations. At least it wasn’t like the fortified police stations constructed in the ‘70s and ‘80s. Those monstrosities still carried echoes of the urban riots of the late 1960s. Older police stations often resembled armed jails. The Playa Diablo office looked more like a financial institution.
He noticed a small group of protesters camped on the front lawn of the building. Their hand lettered signs indicated they were associated with a mental health advocacy group. Most were obviously homeless people, but minus their shopping carts. Their clothes were tattered and dirty. Most had a cigarette hanging from their lips. Shaking fingertips were stained mustard yellow.
Taylor approached the group. No one stood, but one shielded his eyes from the sun to look up at him.
“Hey, buddy, what’s going on?” Taylor asked.
“Man, we’re protesting Batman and Robin killing our bud, Dennis. They had no cause to do that. Cops here cater to the rich folks. Fuck us up.” The speaker was a white guy around 40, Taylor guessed, but it was always hard to figure the age of homeless people. Poor hygiene and bad lifestyles aged them beyond their chronological years.
“You know Dennis?” Taylor inquired.
“Nah, I don’t.”
“How come you’re out here protesting then?”
“Shelter asked us to. They brings us out here in the morning. Gives us some money for snack food. But, it’s a good thing to do, even if I don’t know Dennis. Cops fuck all us homeless. Like we got no place to go without gettin’ hassled. We may be fucked up, but we still got rights, don’t you think?”
“What shelter is that?”
“The one down in Miami. The one at the church. I forgets its name.”
“What’s the bucket for?”
“Donations, whadda think? We use money to buy water, sodas, and things. No booze—not allowed. Bless you, my brother,” the homeless man praised as Taylor dropped a $20 bill into the bucket.
The police station lobby was crisp, clean, and open. A uniformed female officer sat at the desk welcoming anyone coming inside.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m sure you can. Name’s Taylor Sterling. Your chief is expecting me.”
She glared at Taylor, stood up, and said, “You still a cop?”
“What gave me away?”
“The assuredness and pointed comments. No nonsense. Still squared away for an older guy. Am I right?”
“Yep, except for the older guy part. Let’s say I’m a somewhat senior seasoned guy.” Taylor smiled as he extended his hand. He liked her firm grasp.
“Officer Gates, Jenny, here.”
It’s really difficult to see what a female body looks like in a police uniform. Once a female officer puts on her equipment belt and bulletproof vest, her figure is somewhat obscured. Officer Jenny Gates was tall, as female officers go. She had cropped blond hair and a fair complexion, something tough to pull off in South Florida. Her smile was infectious. Taylor noticed she was wearing a wedding ring, but that really didn’t say much these days.
“Things getting a little hectic around here?” he asked.
“You mean the Batman and Robin thing?”
“Hey, where’d they get that nickname?”
“Picked it themselves. Apparently the dynamic duo thought they were the vigilantes at The Gathering, that’s an upscale shopping and condo place here in Diablo. They were really proud of their names. I thought it was kind of stupid myself, but that’s Ricky and Don. Not that they’re stupid, they’re just kind of goofy. You probably know the type. But, they were the boss’ boys. No one dare say anything against them. Say, you still a cop?”
“No, been retired for years. Call myself a police consultant now.”
“Which do you like better?” Jenny asked, perching herself on the edge of the desk.
Taylor had been asked that same question many times. He really didn’t have to think about it. He loved being an active cop, but when he got into management, things changed. It seemed politics and budgets became the most important pursuit, usually at the expense of good policing. The brass, the guys with stars on their collars, kept pecking at each other and jockeying for better assignments, newer take-home cars, bigger offices, or a parking space closer to the chief’s. This stuff never concerned Taylor. Most brass wore coats and ties daily and put on their formal dress uniforms only for special events or funerals. Taylor would always wear his street uniform, even the bulletproof vest. He might leave the metal plate lining the back of the vest off sometimes, for comfort’s sake. He knew staying in uniform pissed off his contemporaries. Taylor continued to ride the streets one night every week with a patrol grunt or field sergeant. He never wanted to forget what the job was really all about.
“Consulting!” he offered without hesitation. “But I’ve got to catch myself all the time. Seems now all I get involved in is cop trouble, like this thing here in Playa Diablo. I could become pretty jaded and begin to think all cops are dirty.”
“We just call our town Diablo,” Jenny added with a smile. “Well, if you need any personal help while you’re here, give me a call.”
“I’ll do just that, Jenny,” Taylor answered as he took her business card, noting the cell phone number written on the back. He purposefully didn’t look back as he headed down the hallway to the office of the Chief of Police.
Chief Thompson greeted him as Taylor entered his office. The room would have been more suited for a corporate executive. Nothing covered the chief’s smooth wooden desk top. A stately glassed credenza held current police texts, IACP reports, PERF studies, and Police Foundation publications. The glass enclosed CALEA emblem was prominently displayed in the center next to a nameplate: Tommy Thompson, Chief of Police.
Most police chiefs try to belong to as many profession
al organizations as possible, that the city is willing to pay dues for. IACP stands for International Association of Chiefs of Police, the largest organization of police agencies spanning the globe. The association publishes model policies and an assortment of studies when they can find funding for them.
PERF is the Police Executive Research Forum. This group caters to police agencies employing more than 200 cops. Consequently, PERF represents a much smaller portion of the police population. PERF receives most of its funding from grants, studies, and executive search contracts for new police chiefs. Not surprisingly, most selected chief candidates come from their members. Once candidates land a job, their new agency awarded PERF a lucrative consulting job. Some might consider this a kickback for getting the job.
The Ford Foundation originally created the Police Foundation. It also receives most operating funding from governmental grants and studies. CALEA, Commission on Accreditation for Law Enforcement Agencies, was established in 1984 and is the national group that provides accreditation to local police agencies.
Obviously, Playa Diablo had jumped through the required hoops for accreditation. Accreditation is something a police agency is proud of and represents true achievement.
“Chief Sterling, glad to meet you. Jackson at the League told me to expect you. But I thought it would be another week or so before you’d get here,” Chief Thompson said as he rounded the corner of his desk.
“Taylor is good, boss. Don’t use that Chief thing anymore. Gets in the way more than it helps.” They moved to one corner where a small round conference table and four chairs commanded space.
“Just what do you do for the League, Taylor?”
“Trouble shoot, most of the time. I’ve done investigations, helped agencies do their own investigations, and sometimes worked with or against the Chief of Police. In your case, the League seems to be concerned about damage control and, of course, liability. They carry your excess coverage, don’t they?”