Broken Badges: Cases from Police Internal Affairs Files

by Lou Reiter

  Within five years the lofty vision of the Mann family and the developer was realized. Isle of Mann attracted most of its new residents from Oklahoma City. They liked the upscale planned community, especially the gated limited access offered to protect privacy. The development soon became its own city and Uncle Cliff Mann became the first and only mayor. As promised, Andrew Martin became the Chief of Police and within ten years the department had grown to twelve officers and part-time dispatchers working 24/7. By this time, Andy no longer lived at the Tumbleweed, but was living in fine style in Isle of Mann. The Mann family built a smaller house adjacent to the new City Administrative Center and provided Andy with his own place at no charge. Life couldn’t be better.

  Over the years Andy had grown to like the Tumbleweed Motel. It had “character,” as the locals liked to say. Amazingly, the Tumbleweed became known as a historical relic. When the owner died suddenly, his family wasn’t interested in keeping the old motel. None of them lived close by and had no ties to the area. With the help of a no-interest loan from the Mann family, Andy was able to buy the Tumbleweed. With Uncle Cliff and his City Council working for him, Andy was able to get Isle of Mann to annex his property to the city proper. Andy hired Cedric Jones, one of his OSU baseball buddies, to be the permanent manager. Cedric was a muscular black man who had lost one leg in Desert Storm from an IED. Andy allowed his new manager to use one of the motel units for his living quarters. Within a year there were no longer any available units at the Tumbleweed Motel. All were occupied by “independent contractors,” meaning ladies of all ages and desires. Cedric ensured their safety and made certain the beat deputies from the sheriff’s office were kept happy.

  Andy loved his job. Isle of Mann was now his city. He was an important person in this thriving community and that made him proud. With free access to the golf course, coupled with his innate athletic ability, Andy was soon a scratch golfer. He supplemented his income with what he won on the golf course. Andy was a happy man, a very happy man.

  *****

  Joe Jackson grew up in Edmond, Oklahoma. During his teenage years Joe seemed to do the wrong thing at the wrong time, always. He got caught more than his friends ever did, even though they pulled the same stunts. Maybe it was his size. Joe was only five feet and a couple inches tall. He was also overweight by at least 80 pounds. In short, so to speak, he was round and roly-poly. Maybe his problem was he couldn’t run as fast as his friends could. Joe had a pretty extensive juvie record with the Edmond PD. Nothing serious, but he seemed to be the kid who never did anything twice, but got involved in everything bad once. Luckily for Joe, the court sealed his juvie record.

  Joe Jackson tried a lot of jobs. Fast food joints. Car washes. Most of the time he worked the oil fields. The money was good, but he was bored silly. He ended up with the jobs others didn’t want to do—a lot of gofer stuff. Someone left a copy of the Edmond Sun in the breakout room one morning. Joe was looking for something to read before entering the men’s room. He ended up reading the classified section and the ad for a cop with the Isle of Mann Police Department caught his eye.

  At the Isle of Mann City Administrative Center, Joe found the Police Department housed in the far reaches of the first floor. The chief’s secretary gave him an application form and asked if he had time to fill it out before he left. The application didn’t ask anything about juvenile arrests, so Joe didn’t offer that information. After turning it in, his application form quickly disappeared into the adjacent office. Within minutes Chief Martin appeared in the doorway. He was wearing the uniform he had personally designed for the department: starched jeans, brown Western boots, and a dark blue police shirt. His weapon equipment belt was fashioned of tooled brown leather. Weapon of choice was the .45 Model 1914, the old version. When outside, a light grey Stetson completed his uniform.

  “Joe, come on in,” Chief Andy ordered as he turned and reentered his office. It was a rather small room consumed by a large dark mahogany desk flanked with two chairs in face-off positions. Several framed photographs hung on the walls, all depicting action on the golf course. In the corner a full set of golf clubs hugged the wall. The only police item in evidence was a framed Oklahoma City PD badge.

  Chief Martin started the conversation, “Joe, I see here you never did any actual police work.”

  “Nope, really never thought about it. But I’m getting tired of working in the oil fields. I’d like to try something with a solid future.”

  “Joe, got to be honest with you. You don’t look like a cop. I’m not sure we could find a uniform to fit you!” Andy laughed loudly. “Just jerkin’ your chain. The police job here in Isle of Mann is different than Edmond or OCPD. We’re more focused on security. We are also the eyes and ears for our Permit and Architectural office. Kind of like environmental cops. We’ve got no crime to report. We don’t like to write traffic citations, particularly on our residents. Now the others, construction workers and service people, they’re another matter. We usually fine them or revoke their permit to work in the city.”

  “I don’t know anything about being a cop, so learning new procedures wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “The other thing is, we would hire you as an armed security guard. That way you only have to attend 72 hours of CLEET training.”

  In Oklahoma, the state controls police officers, security guards, and private investigators through CLEET (Council on Law Enforcement Education and Training). This unit determines the standards for hiring, training, and decertifying positions within these career areas. It establishes the mandatory training required. If somebody wants to be a cop in Oklahoma, he or she would have to be employed by a PD and then attend a live-in academy for fourteen weeks. Security guards and private investigators can be licensed with less training, depending if they would be armed or not.

  Chief Martin continued. “We haven’t had many problems doing it our way. One time CLEET tried to say we were doing actual police work, but the mayor was able to convince the board members that we were different and only worked within our private gated community. We call our cops “Security and Environmental Enforcement Officers.”

  Within a week, Joe Jackson was outfitted with a uniform, equipment, and badge. By the end of the month he was patrolling Isle of Mann during the evening hours, usually with another officer, in a patrol unit. The only real issue Joe had was with the police car. The original seatbelt wouldn’t fit around his middle. The PD bought him an extension belt, but he never used it. He figured there wasn’t much area to cover and he couldn’t go over 45 mph anyway. Chief Andy and the Mayor didn’t want anyone racing around the Isle with lights and siren on. Created the wrong image. Any they didn’t want any wrecked police cars. Another factor, the streets in Isle of Mann were all private and the usual traffic laws didn’t apply.

  Joe knew his job wasn’t really a cop job in the strictest sense of the word. Oh, he had a gun and a car fitted with emergency lights and a siren, but the town didn’t want or expect him to use them. He noticed the other guys usually brought their meals from home and heated them in the breakout room of the admin building. Joe was single. He’d usually stop at the Flying J Truck Stop on his way to work and load up with chips, Twizzlers, boxes of small chocolate covered doughnuts, and a six pack of strawberry soda. Fitness wasn’t his thing.

  Policing, or “security and environmental enforcement,” wasn’t that tasking. Just driving around waving at this person or that person. Getting out of the cruiser from time to time to help somebody drag their trash can up the driveway and into their garage. The big offense in Isle of Mann was letting mud escape a lawn and drain into the street. That was a big time FELONY in this town! Joe was told that if anyone wanted to report a crime, whatever it was, Joe was to call Chief Martin first.

  *****

  Butch Grayson was involved in a contentious divorce. Ten years of marriage down the drain. He believed his estranged wife was still having him followed, trying to get more dirt on him. That’s what got him into this
mess in the first place. He should have known better. You don’t mess around with a honey in your office, particularly if your wife works there, too. For Butch it was a case of lust, simple lust. His brain lived in his crotch. Now it had been too long between sex escapades since his wife kicked him out of the house. He was living in a dump his landlord called an apartment. The place smelled like lard. Butch heard a whole family of twelve Mexicans had lived in the place before he rented it.

  Butch had heard stories about the Tumbleweed Motel for years. One of his bowling buddies said he visited the motel at least once a month. Butch took his time driving out to the motel to seek his pleasure. He followed a circuitous route and backtracked several times. He felt sure he wasn’t being followed, or hopefully lost any tail. Arriving at the Tumbleweed, he wasn’t sure how things worked so he went into the manager’s office. A large black man looked up at him.

  Cedric Jones asked, “What can I do for you, buddy?”

  “I’m not sure how this works. Is this still a…” Butch stumbled over what to call this God-forsaken place.

  “Depends what you want.”

  “I want to get fucked. That’s what I’m looking for!”

  “Well, you came to the right place. First time here, huh?” Cedric pulled a photo book from beneath the desk. “Take a look. You pick the lady you’re interested in, and then I see whether she’s available. You make your own arrangement with the lady. That’s what they are here, ladies, and don’t forget it.”

  Butch opened the book and methodically turned the pages. The “ladies” were photographed in skimpy lingerie. He guessed most were in their twenties, some in their thirties, and two quite a bit older. One attractive black woman graced a page, and two ladies of the evening appeared to be Latinas. Butch picked one of the younger blondes who reminded him of cheerleaders he had known in high school. The girls every guy said they were fucking, but everybody knew they were simply telling bald-faced lies.

  Cedric picked up the phone, dialed a number, and then told Butch to go to Unit #6. There were quite a few cars filling the motel parking lot. Butch figured each “lady” owned one so there must be four or five visitors “searching for love.” Butch knocked on the door and was met by a woman wearing a scarlet shortie. He could see she wore panties under it, but he wasn’t sure if she was wearing a bra. He was relieved to see the efficiency unit was clean and free of cooking odors.

  “What do you charge?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Half and half.” Butch offered. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he remembered the line from an old movie. He thought of the star of that movie; Jane what’s her face… Hanoi Jane?

  “That’ll be $100. If you come in my mouth, that’s all you get. You lose your fuck. Got it? Now you got to wash your cock over there in the bathroom sink.”

  “You gonna wash your cunt?”

  “You want it, or not?”

  Butch finished washing up and noticed the blonde had turned back the covers on the bed and was lying on it wearing only her panties. She pulled a condom out of the nightstand drawer. After they were finished doing the double deed, the blonde went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Butch heard the sound of running water. She came out wearing a light robe that touched her knees. Apparently the party was over. Butch went to his pants and got out his wallet, pulling out two $50 bills.

  “What, no tip?”

  “You gave me a half and half, not half and three quarters, honey!” Butch went into the john and washed up. There were no hugs, kisses, or longing goodbyes.

  Butch drove the couple miles to the I35 interchange. A Comfort Inn, Hampton Inn, Chevron station/convenience market, Waffle House, and Denny’s crowded the four corners of the interchange. Butch picked the Denny’s for his dinner.

  When he went to the cash register to pay his bill, he opened his wallet. There were ones, fives, a couple of tens, and three hundreds. He was sure he had four hundreds in his wallet. That bitch!

  Butch spied a couple sheriffs’ deputies in the far booth and started toward them, then stopped in his tracks. Shit, I’ve just been to a whore house and then quickly turned around.

  Butch peeled out of the Denny’s lot and sped back to the Tumbleweed Motel. He made his way to Unit #6 and began pounding on the door. He was pissed and he was going to get satisfaction from the bitch. No one fucked Butch Grayson, at least over money. Suddenly he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. It was Cedric, the motel manager.

  “You gots a problem, bud?”

  “Yeah, the bitch ripped me off. She stole a hundred out of my wallet when I was in the john. She wasn’t much of a fuck at that!”

  Cedric spoke into a handheld radio device. Within a couple minutes a white Ford Crown Vic pulled up. On the door was a decal reading “Isle of Mann Security Environmental Enforcement.” Joe Jackson struggled out of the driver’s seat and then hoisted his gun belt into position by sticking his thumbs under the belt and tugging it up over rolls of fat. Of course the belt fell back into place, sinking slowly like a wounded caterpillar. He methodically put on his Stetson, probably to appear taller.

  “What’s going on, Cedric?” Joe asked.

  “This bubba says one of the ladies stole a hundred bucks from him. No one ever says that about any of my ladies. And, he talked disparagingly about her, too. Called her a bitch, yes sir, he did.”

  “Say, what’s your name before we begin this investigation?” Joe asked Butch.

  “Why do you need to know that? I’m not the thief! I don’t see why you need to know who I am. I’m the victim here!”

  “Maybe you are, maybe you ain’t. I got to investigate, and that means I need your name and ID.”

  “Shit, you’re not even a real cop. You’re nothing but a security guard, and a fat one at that.”

  Butch suddenly was yanked backward off his feet and thrown to the ground. Chief Andy Martin appeared out of nowhere and dropped his knee directly into Butch’s gut and grabbed his crotch with a twisting motion.

  “Don’t you ever accuse one of these ladies of being a thief! And then I heard you insulted her, too. Then you insulted my officer. You’ve never been here before, huh? You’ll never be here again, hear?”

  Andy struck Butch in the center of his face, immediately causing blood to rush from his nose and upper lip. “I’ll bet if you check your wallet you’ll reconsider what and who you been accusing. You probably either miscounted or spent your hundred somewhere else.”

  Butch nodded and crawled to his car. He left without saying goodbye.

  Andy turned to Joe Jackson.

  “And you! What did you do? Wanting to investigate? What’s that bullshit? You don’t ever investigate any of my ladies. You protect them! You protect me and Cedric. You piece of shit. Don’t let me see you again. Turn your stuff in to my secretary in the morning. Get the fuck out of my face and out of my town!”

  *****

  “Taylor, Ned Jenkins here from the Oklahoma Intergovernmental Risk Management Association. Got a project for you if you’re interested in traveling to Oklahoma.”

  “Always am. You guys have great Western art museums. I really like the Gilcrease in Tulsa. Those huge sculptures in the National Cowboy and Western Heritage in the city are spectacular. Maybe I can squeeze in extra time to see them again, if the job is close by.”

  “This one is a little different from assignments in the past. It’s more of a liability assessment, which I think you’ve done for us before. We’ve got a small police department, and I use that term loosely, that has caused the pool recent losses.”

  “Why the hesitation?”

  “Well, to start, I heard rumors that the Chief of Police runs the local whore house. Next, none of his officers, again I use that term loosely, are police officers. They’re armed security guards, apparently playing cop. We settled two strange lawsuits just this year. Now I hear the chief fired one of his men, who now is suing us in retaliation. I’d like you to take a look-see and give me feedback.
We’re thinking about dropping the city’s insurance coverage.”

  *****

  Taylor decided to start off at the top. He had the insurance pool call the mayor of Isle of Mann and clear the way for his visit. Chief Martin was expecting Taylor at ten in the morning, but Taylor’s flight to Oklahoma City was late. He didn’t arrive at the Administrative Center in Isle of Mann until nearly noon. It was obvious that Chief Martin was perturbed.

  “Thought you’d be here at ten. I’ve been sitting here figuring whether I should do something or wait for you. You’ve got only thirty minutes to talk to me, Mr. Sterling. I’ve got a standing tee time at 1:00 p.m.”

  “Glad to meet you too, Chief Martin,” Taylor said as he extended his hand. “Sorry for the delay, but bitch at Southwest, not me. I don’t fly the plane.” Taylor noted Chief Martin did look like a younger version of James Caan, as he had been told. Maybe a little less drinking showed around his gills.

  “Listen, you got everything open to you here. Just clear things with Sandy, my secretary. I…” Andy stopped suddenly and turned to the plate glass window that looked over the garden skirting the Administrative Center. A Hispanic worker was beginning to clean the window. His squeegee was making an audible searing sound as it waved across and down the window.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Sterling,” Chief Martin muttered as he bolted out of his chair and stormed out of the office.

  Taylor saw him appear on the other side of the plate glass window and confront the window washer. He was obviously yelling at him while he viciously poked his finger in the man’s chest. Chief Martin’s face was turning a ghastly shade of purple. He picked up the wash bucket and heaved it aside with a vengeance.

  “Sorry about that,” Andy apologized as he reentered his office. “That spick should have known I was having a meeting.” The chief looked at his watch and said he had to leave, but he planned to be in around eight the next morning. He was gone before Taylor could even get out of his chair.