When You’re the Only Cop in Town . . .: A Writer’s Guide to Small Town Law Enforcement

When You’re the Only Cop in Town

A Writer’s Guide to Small Town Law Enforcement

by

Debra Dixon

and

Jack Berry

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-723-6

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2002 by Debra Dixon, Jack Berry

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

A hardback edition of this book was published by Gryphon Books for Writers in 2002

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

Visit our websites

BelleBooks.com

BellBridgeBooks.com

ImaJinnBooks.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Cop (manipulated) © Maxutov | Dreamstime.com

:Eywo:01:

Dedication

For every hero who protects us, there is a quiet hero at home, taking care of the kids and waiting. This book is for all the spouses and children, who send their loved ones out to protect us each day.

Jack’s Foreword

WHEN I WAS FIRST approached about a book of my experiences, I was hesitant. With good reason. The publisher who’d approached me published books for writers. I’ve toyed with the occasional story idea, but I’m not and have never been a serious writer. What does a working cop for almost thirty years know about the craft of fiction writing? I deal in facts.

For the first twelve years of my career, I worked at a large Sheriff’s Department with a partner—six years in the patrol car and the last six as a detective. During my tenure as a detective, I worked first in theft division, then in the narcotics unit. Needless to say, the jump from city cop to small town chief was a big one.

For the last seventeen years, I’ve been the only cop in town, and faced with the realization that I would be responsible for the safety of its citizens. More importantly, I’ve had to handle that responsibility alone. Backup is usually five to ten minutes away at best, and the pressure is always there. But I’ve enjoyed every year, made a lot of good friends, seen their kids grow up . . . go away to school . . . and come back with their own children.

It’s been a good life, but a life of facts—not fiction, which brings me back to my point. I’m a cop. That’s what I do. The idea of writing a book was foreign.

To overcome my reluctance and perhaps to prove their sincerity, the publisher offered to pair me with an experienced and established author. They promised an author not only with a unique understanding of the writer’s trade, but also an author with a better than average understanding of me. The co-author so carefully picked by the publisher is my daughter—Debra Dixon. She assured me that writers are a tolerant group and promised to see me through.

What follows is the result of her relentless questioning and prodding for my honest recollection of events. We’ve done our best to include the tools of the trade that most small town cops have available and to give you a feel for what it’s like when you’re the only cop in town.

While this book is in no way intended to be a definitive manual, I hope that it will give writers some helpful insight into small town policing. The equipment listed is what I have. Some towns will have more; some will have less. Not that it matters. My daughter constantly reminds me that writers are interested in more than lists and facts. I’m supposed to simply tell it like it is and let her worry about the rest.

I hope you enjoy your trip to Small Town, USA.

Deb’s Explanation

Getting The Details Right.

WE ALL AGONIZE over them. We all double-check them. And we all want them to be realistic, to ring with authenticity.

So, what’s the problem?

The devil’s in the details!

Even after agreeing that details are critical, no two writers will agree on precisely which details are important. We constantly search for a sense of realism that will transform our books into fiction that lingers in the mind of a reader. We relish the chance to corner an expert and ask all the questions that are vitally important to our plot. From the moment we decide to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, writers begin to build a network of resources and a library of research books . . . because we never know what we’re going to need to know.

When the publisher approached Jack and me about doing this book, the instructions were simple: Figure out what writers need to know and then tell them.

Easier said than done.

There existed a fundamental problem in following our publisher’s instruction. While putting this book together, my interviews with working writers consistently revealed that they wanted to get inside the heads of small town chiefs and officers. They wanted to understand the emotions, motivations and backstory of the men and women who ultimately chose Mossy Creek over New York. Working writers felt that they needed more than lists and facts to write a compelling book. When they go looking for information they want more than by the book answers. They want a conversation. They want a feel for character and philosophy.

Consequently, the book you’re holding attempts to offer a great deal of information and a great deal of conversation. As Jack has pointed out to me more times than I can count, much of what you’ll read is his experience and perception. He doesn’t speak for chiefs everywhere. This is a window into the world of one man, one law enforcement officer who’s spent more than thirty years protecting and serving the people—over seventeen of those years as the law in small town America.

He’s answered questions patiently, pointed the direction toward information, drafted copious pages of manuscript, and dredged his memories for anecdotes. I’m not sure he understood the vampire-like nature of writers when he began this project. He does now.

Co-authoring this book has also introduced him to the joys of word-processing. When pressed to name the most important advance in law enforcement in the last half of the century, I’m pretty certain he’d say, Spell check. In and of itself, that comment ought to tell you a little bit about the trials and tribulations of running a police department in small town America.

I hope the balance of this book will deliver everything else you need to know. Of note is the fact that Jack retired from active duty during the course of writing this book. Consequently, you’ll find an interesting approach to telling his story. Forgive us our verb tense and time line inconsistency, but delivering the true experience of a continuing conversation with Jack took precedence over forcing the material into a grammar straightjacket.

Chapter One

Thank you, but no. There’ll be no headline made tonight.

WHEN YOU’RE THE only cop in town, you don’t clock out at the end of the day. Everyone in town knows your home phone number, and no one thinks twice about dropping a dime. If the phone rings at night, you go. To be perfectly honest, when a call comes in during the dead of night, I’m not a happy camper, but I’ve made peace with that part of the job. After all these years, I don’t even waste time grousing. When the phone rattles me out of a dead sleep, before my hand begins reaching for the receiver, my brain is already in cop mode.

One particular call served as a defining moment in my new job as Chief of this lovely, bucolic retirement community.

2:30 a.m.

A woman called from a phone booth in the middle of town. She asked for help, complaining that her husband had gotten violent, choked her, and slapped her around. I took her basic information and told her to wait at the phone booth until I arrived, which would take a few minutes, as I had to grab some clothes.

I’m sure she would rather have heard that a squad car was around the corner and would be right by to pick her up. But in a one-cop small town—if it’s the middle of the night—the squad car is never around the corner. The fully-equipped squad car is parked in the cop’s driveway. My driveway. Otherwise, I’d have to make a trip to City Hall every time I took an evening call. Those extra minutes are usually minutes victims don’t have to waste in the middle of the night.

As soon as my butt hit the seat of the car, I radioed the Sheriff’s Department dispatcher. You never make a dark-of-night scene without letting someone know what’s afoot. I told them the location of the victim, classified the situation as a family dispute, let them know who was involved, and asked them to run a check on the husband/suspect. Family disputes are messy, dangerous and unpredictable. Best to have a game plan before you get in the game.

Some nights, the police gods make it easy for you. The dispatcher came back fast. The husband had a warrant on file for bad checks. And that made me happy. There would be no endless he said/she said tonight. No wife who suddenly realized she’d have to press actual charges if she wanted the husband gone for the night. No tearful pleas begging me not to arrest the husband as soon as the situation calmed down. Tonight the police gods had smiled on me.

I fully intended to arrest the husband on the check warrant and call a county car to carry him in to lock-up. (After all, it was their warrant.) I’d be back in bed in forty-five minutes, and everyone would have time to chill out. I could handle the formal paperwork tomorrow—if the wife hung tough and pressed charges.

With that plan in mind, I requested County send a car to the location and transport my guy. The dispatcher came back with an affirmative. My night was definitely looking up.

On arrival, I talked with the wife to get her version of the events. She was obviously banged around, late thirties, and just this side of knee-walkin’ drunk. As it turned out, she’d gotten off work about 11:00 p.m., hadn’t come home until around 2:00 a.m., and she’d been drinking. Seems that’s when and why the disagreement started. Seems this wasn’t the first time the couple had disagreed over her habits.

The house was across the street. It was cold out, but I asked her to wait in the phone booth until I’d had a chance to speak with her husband. Despite the cold she agreed. At least she’d had the sense to grab a coat before leaving the house, and I was confident she had enough anti-freeze percolating through her system to keep her warm.

I pulled across the street in the patrol car and was met by the husband as I got out. His complaint was what I’d expected to hear. The wife had been laying out after work. (I’m always amazed how earnestly these explanations are offered, as if the explanation excuses the action.) He was also in his late-thirties and in a surprising twist . . . as sober as I was. I let him know I’d be arresting him on the bad check warrant and asked him to get his coat. He did, and then we sat down in the front seat of the police car to wait for the county car.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the wife slip back into the house. She probably thought it was safe now that I had her husband in the car. It was cold. I understood. If I’d had my choice, I’d have been home where it was warm, too. I checked my watch. The county car would be there any minute. I was right on schedule.

Until my tidy little plan disintegrated.

The first rule of small town police work is Murphy’s Law of Scheduling. Whatever can screw your schedule up, will screw your schedule up. The next thing I knew the woman came flying out of the house with the apparent intention of jerking open the passenger door to scream at her husband while he was trapped.

Better safe than sorry has always been my motto. In this situation the only safe course was to send her back inside the house pronto. I was out of the car before she reached the door. As she yanked it open, I was rounding the trunk. That’s when I discovered she had a ten-inch butcher knife in her left hand.

Raised in the striking position.

Time does slow down in situations of imminent death. It slowed down enough for the next morning’s headline to flash through my mind. Local Cop Stands By While Wife Stabs Husband To Death.

This did not appeal to me in the least.

Thank God for adrenaline and playing it safe. I caught her arm on the down swing, took the knife away from her, and tossed it on the hood of the car. My actions were all instinctive; I can’t give you precise details. At some point I’d grabbed the front of her coat below the collar and lifted. I’m a tall man. The woman couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. Her feet were dangling at least four inches above the ground.

I know this because the county car was kind enough to arrive just at that very moment and put two headlights on the situation. More than enough light for judging distances. As I let her down, the deputy bolted out of his car, ready to help me subdue the tiny woman I’d just strung up by her coat. I thanked him but told him to get the guy out of my car and transport him on the warrant. I’d be following with the wife, whom I was arresting for assault with a deadly weapon and public intox.

They both went to jail that night, despite the scene created by the twenty-year-old daughter demanding to know what was going on and pleading with me not to put her mother in jail. When I pointed out that I had yet to determine if I was going to need to call the Department of Human Services to deal with the smaller children I could see peering out the windows, the twenty-year-old discovered urgent business inside the house.

While there was no headline about this incident in the morning paper, word did get around town that I’d had two citizens hauled off. Word always gets around. Folks want to know what goes on in their town. Most of them make it their business to know. So they asked me. Folks are friendly like that.

I politely answered their questions by letting them