Allegedly True Police Stories – Series
Made For Speed
State Trooper Michael Leroy Smyth sat in his cruiser on US Route 301 just outside Sassafras, waiting for southbound Delaware or New Jersey cars to blow by him. It was the last day of the month, and he needed one more ticket for his unofficial quota. Not that State Troopers have “quotas,” but ….. Michael was celebrating his first anniversary, something that most of the instructors in the academy said would never happen. It was 10 am with a cloudless sky, a soft breeze off the Chesapeake, and the temperature just hit 65 degrees. It was a gorgeous day on the Eastern Shore if there was ever one.
As Trooper Smyth sat waiting for his next ticket, he casually glanced down the northbound lanes of US Route 301 when he spotted a vehicle moving towards him at a high rate of speed, maybe eighty or better. Michael turned the ignition key, started the engine, and waited to confirm his suspicions.
Headed North on US Route 301 just south of Sassafras was a 1975 Gold ( dirty yellow) police Plymouth Grand Fury driven by Detective Gerald Mentor. Riding shotgun and drinking an RC Cola was Don Brown. The two were headed to Atlantic City, New Jersey, for an interview with a witness in multiple shootings, two dead and four wounded to various degrees. The witness, a seventy-nine-year-old disabled veteran of the Great War, had witnessed the shooting while visiting a relative. However, before being interviewed, he returned to his hometown, Atlantic City, the crime capital of New Jersey, in the 1920s through the ’30s, where he had never witnessed a shooting or any other type of crime.
Mentor and Brown had obtained permission to travel to the New Jersey resort to interview the vet. Approval for the one-day round trip was given against his better judgment by twenty-five veteran Samual Hanson. Before the two left on the road trip, Hanson told them to do everything by the book and not cause a problem. “Understood?” Hanson mumbled. “Understood,” both said in unison.
Mentor, the driver on this venture, took the scenic route, down US Route 50 to US Route 301 north, into Delaware to the Delaware River Bridge, and then east to Atlantic City. Less traffic that way, Mentor told Brown, who didn’t care as long as he didn’t have to drive. Brown liked riding a shotgun.
Mentor was a cautious driver, having won three Department Safe Driver Awards, but things can change. After they took the 301/50 split and had been riding for a while on 301, Brown suggested that Mentor pick up his speed since they were “the only ones on the road.” Much to Brown’s surprise, Mentor pushed down on the accelerator just a bit, and they were going seventy miles per hour, fifteen over the limit.
Mentor shouted, “I love to go fast.”
Brown shouted above the engine noise, “Go faster, we’re the police, who’s going give us a ticket? We got five miles to Delaware line.”
Again, Mentor accelerated. This time to over ninety mph. They were moving faster than both had ever gone and loved every second. The Grand Fury they were now flying in was a four-barrel V8 with 318 horses and, at its slowest, only took 40 seconds to reach 100 mph.
Trooper Smyth saw the blur pass him at about ninety to ninety-five. When what looked like a brown Plymouth passed northbound, he reeved his cruiser engine and was in pursuit with lights going, not turning on the siren since they were going too fast. He somehow managed to get the tag number. His Plymouth Fury was just a slant six with 318 horses and topped at 100 mph. Within seconds, Smyth knew he would never catch the speeder. Smyth pulled off to the side of the road and just sat. Shit, he thought.
Mentor looked in the rearview mirror and shouted, “He’s not going to catch us.” Before Brown could reply, they were crossing the State Line, and Mentor started tapping the brakes to bring the Plymouth down to sixty or so.
The interview with Franklin Massey went well. The old vet remembered every little bit of the details. His body was slightly wrinkled, but his mind was sharp. By late afternoon, the two were headed back. Both agreed that taking 301 back might be a mistake, so they drove south to the New Jersey Turnpike and turned south.
When they arrived back at Major Crimes, the lights were still on, and the front door was unlocked. The door was usually locked after the Major Crimes Unit Commander left for the day. Besides the lights and exit, both trained detectives noticed a State trooper cruiser parked in the Assistant Commander’s cherished parking spot. They both approached the entrance very reluctantly.
On entering the general office area, they found Mrs. Roberta April, unit secretary and general overall bitch, who disliked them equally. Since mustering out of the Army Air Corps in ’46, Mrs. April was a secretary with the Department. It was rumored that the war ended not with the Bomb but when the Japs heard she was on her way. No one was sure there was a Mr. April, and nobody asked. Why risk fate and the wrath of Kahn or, in this case, April? Mrs. April had a husband who often thought of suicide but was afraid he might not complete the deed and piss off Mrs. April.
“You two have done it now. I’m glad I was here to see both of you bend over and have your just rewards shoved all the way up your asses. The Commander is waiting for you two in his office,” she said with a shitty grin, and then she laughed so hard and loud that she could be heard in downtown Duluth, Minnesota. Both thought Bitch!
As they entered the inner sanctum, they faced a Department Captain ( whom they had never seen before ), their now pissed-off Lieutenant, their equally pissed-off Sergeant, and a very tall and mean-looking State Trooper with Major insignias on his shoulders. Before a word was said, Brown said in an almost squeaky voice, “Mentor was driving.” Then the shit hit the fan.
At 0800 hours the next day, Mentor and Brown stood before the entire Eastern Shore State Trooper Detachment. Trooper Smyth was front center next to the still mean-looking Major. The Detachment had formed to hear the two Detectives apologize for their conduct in unison, but the real reason for the apology started just over three years prior.
The two law enforcement agencies had not gotten along for three years since the State Police Superintendent decided to paint all new and existing State Police cars bright yellow. Yes, as hard as it is to believe bright yellow was once the official State Police vehicle color. The Superintendent had gone to the annual conference of State Police Department CEOs held in Colorado Springs four years ago, where all matters of things are discussed, some including law enforcement issues. At this annual meeting, the Nevada Highway Patrol Chief proposed color-coding different types of police agency vehicles.
At the time, there were over fourteen thousand police agencies in the United States, and every Department painted their police vehicles whatever color they liked, from black & white to a lovely shade of light baby blue. His once-in-a-blue-moon idea was to paint all police cars from different levels of departments the same color nationwide so citizens could quickly identify what type of police department was, for example, giving them a ticket. The conference voted 49 to 1 to approve the idea to be implemented at the State Department level within two years, picking yellow as the state vehicle’s color. Then, of course, the other departments would follow. The only state that did not approve of this was California, but California is the exception to every rule.
The Maryland Superintendent loved the idea so much that he began coloring his new vehicles. When the first yellow state police car hit the road, it looked like a ‘Yellow Cab.’ Detective Brown received credit/blame for being the first officer in the state to hail down a “Yellow Car” for the ride. After Brown, every officer in every law enforcement agency, not including the State Police, started hailing down State Police vehicles whenever they saw one. Somehow, the State Police Department found out Brown was to blame. Someone dropped a dime, no doubt.
Within 6 months, the state police cars were being repainted with their usual shitty brown and black colors that everyone knew and loved, and the Governor asked the Superintendent to retire.
Years after retiring, Brown was still blaming The Almighty for being caught by State Trooper Michael Leroy Smyth.
