ALLEGEDLY TRUE POLICE STORIES – SERIES

First Call – Not A “Rookie” Any More

Mrs. Jean Heywood, nee Michaels, dialed 911. Sounds easy, but Nee Michaels was blind as a bat and had no radar. She lost sight on her 91st birthday; she thanked God and kept ticking. The phone was oversized, but she still had trouble finding 9 on the dial. For some reason, the 1 was a snap. After completing three complex motions, the arthritis in her hands and fingers was killing her, and the phone started ringing.

“911, your emergency?” Mr. Olson answered in his usual monotone voice. Mr. Olson was a retired plumber whose wife didn’t want him home for more than 10 hours a day, eight of which he slept, so he got this neat gig of being part of the criminal justice system as an emergency telephone operator.

“They are making all sorts of noise next door. They got that damn TV blaring again. You got to do something, so I get to sleep. I’m 94 or 95, forgot which. Can you hear them?” she yelled into the phone.

How many times had he taken a loud TV or radio call in the 3 years he had been on the job? “Okay, Miss Heywood we will send someone out. What is your address?”

“I don’t want someone. I want a police officer,” nee Michaels responded.

A nut, thought Mr. Olson. So he asked again, but this time substituted policeman for someone.

“I don’t know. You should know. Aren’t you the police? Let me see, I moved here in 1912, right after I got married to Tom. He was a Major in the Marine Corps. He was so proud of being a Marine. You know he never was the same after returning from that war. Never could hold down a job. Good thing I was a bookkeeper and made halfway decent money. I lost my two girls in 27.” 

Olson interrupted her, “Mrs. Heywood, what is your address?” He was now tapping his left index finger on the console. A sure sign his patient’s level was eroding.

“My address, that’s right, my address. Well, when we moved in it was right next to his mother’s placed and she lived at 7142 Bunker Road, Mount Rainier. She died in ’42 and I sold the house years later to a guy who now rents it out to those awful people. I don’t know their name but they are from some mountain state.”

“Mrs. Heywood, is there anyone else there I could speak to?” Mr. Olson asked, tapping two fingers.

“No, just me, Tom passed in ’49. My girls lost their lives on the S.S. Easterland. They were so small. I lost my sister with them.” Mrs. Heywood went silent. Mr. Olson thought he heard her crying. 

Less than a minute later, “Mr. Policeman, I just told you. The address where the noise is coming from is my mother’s place. Do you have a hearing problem?”

No, Mrs. Heywood, I will send a policeman right out. Thank you for your call.” With that, Mr. Olson disconnected the call. 

Brian Williams walked up the station steps, pushed the entrance/exit door open, and stepped outside on a chilly October night. It was his first ‘day’ as a police officer. Well, he had spent 5 months in the Academy and 3 months on the Road with an FTO before being cut loose on the last night of the evening. So this made his official first ‘day’ unbelievable, whether it was just after 11 pm or not. Here, he was a natural, for goodness sake, policeman. He continued to the back parking lot and got into what was the oldest cruiser at the station. The official Rookie’s car, but just sitting in it without someone else there was a thrill. He spent a good five minutes arranging ‘his’ things.

After settling, he placed the key in the ignition and turned on the cruiser,’ that beautiful’ cruiser. He slowly edged the cruiser forward through the parking lot to the exit. His assigned beat was B-6 ( Baker Six ). As he slowly turned the cruiser onto Rhode Island south, he grabbed the Motorola and went Ten-Eight ( 10-8 ) “Baker Six 10-8 ID 4219.”

A nanosecond later, the dispatcher broadcast, “Backer Six, take the loud party call at 7142 Bunker Road. Baker Six?”

“10-4,” Williams responded for the first time. His official first call. With no one else on the Road in either direction, he pushed the accelerator down just a little, and that beautiful machine picked up speed.

As Williams slowed in front of 7142, he heard loud music coming from the house. “Baker Six, 10-6 scene.” Williams exited his cruiser and walked up to the front door. On his first knock, the door moved slightly open. Before he said anything, he pecked through the door and saw horror.

The horror was a man kneeling over a screaming girl on her back while a woman held onto the girl’s feet. Two other men were fighting just feet from the girl’s head. Stunded Williams drew his service revolver and yelled, “Police freeze, or I’ll shoot.” Of course, he didn’t know who to shoot, but he would shoot.

The three men and older woman froze quickly, putting their hands in the air. The girl started to rock back and forth on the floor, screaming. Williams screamed at the five to “shut up and lay face down on the floor, NOW.” Four complied while yelling at the Officer. He couldn’t determine what everyone was saying but knew they were all under arrest. For what, he would have to figure out who and for what.

The brand-new Officer had three problems: his radio was in the cruiser, he had one pair of handcuffs, and he couldn’t see a phone from the middle of the front room. Just as he started panicking, Michaels walked through the front door.

The TV was still blaring, “Officer, please turn that machine so I can go to sleep.”

“It’s right next to you; you turn it down.

“Are you stupid? Can’t you see that I’m blind? Lost my sight a couple of years ago,” she replied.

Williams couldn’t believe he had four or five people under arrest for something and a blind woman who had just wandered into the house while he was making an arrest. He yelled at the woman, “Where’s the phone? These people won’t tell me?”

“Well, I remember my mother had the phone hooked up in the kitchen right behind you. You want me to hold your gun on them while you find it?”

The Rookie didn’t respond, just started slowly walking backward, gun still sorta trained on six people. Once at the living room kitchen doorway, he reached behind to find a counter and, low and behold a phone. He grabbed at the receiver. Just then, the old man who had been previously trying to have intercourse with the young brunette made a sudden move. Williams, startled, almost pulled the trigger, but an angel must have intervened. He stopped and almost dropped his service revolver to his side. “Stop right there,” he said now in a frenzied tone.

He briefly looked down to dial 911, and the old man rushed at him. This time, Williams pulled the trigger twice, hitting the old man twice dead center in the chest. The old man fell to the floor, his head hitting the floor inches from William’s feet. The old woman started screaming unintelligible words; one man rushed to the dead man, and the other went to the floor and grabbed the young brunette. Nee Michaels stood there silently, wondering what had just happened – were those gunshots?

Mr. Olson answered the 911 call. It was his night to be the first pick-up on the 911 calls. “911, your emergency”?  

“I just shot a guy; get me some help now,” Williams yelled into the phone and then, for some unknown reason, slammed the receiver back down into the cradle.

“Shit, what the fuck” is all Mr. Olson said. Since all the channel one cars, going on and going off duty, were not on calls, he guessed correctly it was Baker 6.

Three tones and then “Signal 13, Signal 13, Shots Fired, 7142 Bunker Road.” Dispatcher Davis said into his mike.

The first unit on the scene, Baker 7, rushed into the house and found everyone in a circle over an obviously dead man, with Baker 6 pointing a shaking service revolver at them.  

When the dust settled some 40 minutes and 13 police officers, 2 sergeants, 1 lieutenant, 4 homicide detectives later, the facts came out to Justin Marrs’, the lead homicide detective on the scene, satisfaction. The Burnett and second young man, just married a week before, were visiting the young man’s parents and brother from Romney, West Virginia. At some point, the two brothers decided to walk over to Mount Rainier Liquors to get some more beer for their impromptu wedding reception. While the brothers were shopping, the new father-in-law decided to have sexual relations with his new daughter-in-law. After consulting with the new mother-in-law, the matter was decided, and they both jumped the daughter-in-law while she sat on the couch. The girl was a fighter.

Nee Michaels was dialing 911 at this point.

The two brothers returned home, four six-packs in hand. The new husband went to his wife’s rescue, and the older brother defended the parents. Good family get-together.

Detective Marrs, a 30-year veteran who had seen his fair share of the world’s hate and discontent, told the young Rookie in the roll call room that Homicide would take care of the paperwork and he could cut loose for the shift. “But, I got two hours to go, Sir. I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can, son; you have done more in your first 15 minutes on the job, on your own, than 99% of the officers will do in 20 years. You saved a girl from being rapped and possibly murdered; you have done enough. Now, go home; you have ten days off for the shooting and will have to be at Internal Affairs at 1pm tomorrow for an interview. So get going.”

At that, Williams started to cry. He tried to stop, but his emotions flowed out over him. “I was so scared, Sir. I didn’t want to kill anyone. When he lunged at me, I just shot him. I never thought I would kill anyone. God will never forgive me!” He said through the tears.  

For the first time since the battle of Palua in World War 2, when Marrs hugged one of his men after two days of hand-to-hand combat with the Japs, Marrs gave the Rookie a hug. “You’ll be okay, son; cry as much as you want; you deserve it. You are not a Rookie any more.”