One of the things I liked about being the police, was that every day was different; everyday had the potential for adventure. One summer day I got the call that an ambulance needed assistance entering a house. I activated my lights and siren, and headed, full speed, into the unknown.

Upon my arrival, I saw that the ambulance crew had broken into the house to attempt save the elderly woman lying on the living room floor. Talk about bad breaks; she had already died from a heart attack hours before the EMTs were notified by a neighbor. All that was left to do was to clean up the area, secure the house, and notify the next of kin.

In this case, that was going to be the challenge.  It seems that the daughter had gone to Germany on a two-week vacation. While she was vacationing, her father had also succumbed to the wounds of life, and passed on. There were no other relatives in the area, and no other siblings to contact, she was an only child.  The neighbor told us that the daughter was to arrive home from her trip that evening.

Talk about a challenge. Well, since I was told that the daughter still lived at home, I at least knew her final destination, so to speak. The first I needed to do was find out what flight she was on, where, and when, she would be arriving.  I noticed the answer machine flashing, patted myself on the back, case closed. Obviously, the daughter was calling mom to let her know when to expect her home.

Of course, when I hit play she was speaking German. German? I did not panic, there was a deputy on the force that spoke German. I would simply call him, he’d translated, and I’d be out for coffee and donuts in less than half an hour. Little did I know that there are different types of German; much like there are different typse of English. You know, there’s American English and the Queen’s English. There’s a whole different language in New York, then there is in Biloxi, Mississippi. Need I even mention Pittsburghese? I should think not yinz guyz.

So, plans A and B were shot. WWIC do? (What would Inspector Clouseau do?) It would seem the daughter would have left a note, ticket information, or a phone number for her parents, given that they were at death’s door. I begin systematically searching the living room, kitchen, and dining room looking for anything that might ease my pain. Nothing.

I headed upstairs; bathroom, clean. Guest room, clean with a 60” HDTV I took a five-minute break, to think. After watching a little NCIS, I continued my search. Small office, nothing; daughter’s bedroom, nothing, well nothing I will discuss here, it was a thorough search. Into the parent’s room. Jackpot!!

There, next to the bed a mahogany jewelry box. Where else would you stick important papers? I scurried around the king sized, poster bed, and skidded to a stop in front my pot of gold. I gently picked it up, looking for a door, drawer, or lid. Nothing. It was weird. It was smooth, impenetrable. I stared at my reflection in the dark brown mahogany, perplexed, and noticing I needed a shave. I began to poke, push and pull, looking for a secret latch to open the mysteries of the box. Nothing.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my feet dangling six inches above the floor, confounded by that silly box. After several minutes, I jumped to the floor and grabbed my tormentor, pulling ferociously at the top of the box. I pull that son of a gun off with my bare hands. Suddenly, the lid gave and black smoke engulfed the room. I began choking on thick smoky ash. What in the world?

There to my right, on the floor, under the bed, an envelope. Finally; I reached down, grasped and opened it, with soot covered hands. I was wearing the remains of Wolfgang Schmidt, who had passed into the Fatherland two weeks ago, and now had the company of his recently departed wife. Don’t they put people in urns anymore? Well, what’s an officer of the law to do? Right. Vacuum, and dump the bag into the box, super glue it back together, and sit outside and wait for the daughter to arrive, and give her the bad news.
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Strange, when she pulled up several hours later, she told me she had a dream about two coffins, and thought of her parents. The both died during her two week stay in Germany. It was funny, she also dreamed her dad had put on some weight while she was gone. If she only knew… 

            I used to live in an apartment, and the stories I could tell, but today I want to address one of my pet peeves about my wonderful, former, apartment complex, Stoney Creek. To say that parking is limited in my world would be an understatement. Often after returning home from a late night working, I’ve had to walk a quarter mile to my building.  While this is frustrating, it is not what has gotten under my skin.

            We often hear of the wonders of the Americans with Disabilities Act, better known as the ADA, and how it is helping the disabled.  I guess my landlord is still living in the 1940s; granted that’s how old my carpet is, but really, join the rest of the world.  My friend had a stroke and has difficulty walking and using her arm.

            We asked the landlord to designate a parking spot near her building, to make things a little more manageable. They did and painted the internationally recognized symbol for the disable in a parking spot. Granted it was blue, on black asphalt, and the size of a pizza pan, but what the heck. Problem solved, right? Not quite; no one could see it, and we spent much time contacting the landlord about the issue. The police were, well more about them later.

            I learned that to get a “real” handicap parking space for her, we had to buy the sign, which I did.  When it arrived, she took it to the office for them to put up.  She was informed she also needed to buy the hardware and pole to place it on. (I should mention that this is a standard at Stoney Creek if you need handicapped parking.) After purchasing that, it was grudgingly put up. Problem solved, right? Not really. You may find this hard to believe, but people are lazy and ignorant. I know, shocking!

            So you have a group of disabled apartment dwellers, each with their own purchased sign that has the parking permit number displayed for the entire world to see.  Recently, the situation has gotten worse, the allegedly normal people either can’t read or don’t care, or both, and have been parking in the disabled parking spots. There is nothing quite like watching someone with a disability struggle with a wheelchair through the snow covered lot, or a stroke victim trying to carry groceries a quarter mile to their apartment, while a healthy person hops out of their car and jogs into his apartment building. FYI-handicapped parking is not there to make your life easier, but for those who actually have a disability.

            Enter the protectors of the downtrodden, enforcers of the law, the Bethel Park Police Department. At first they would come and write a ticket for a sign violation, but after the second time down, things changed. First it was a private lot, and then it was the sign didn’t post a warning of being towed or fined, and then finally, it was the fact that the symbol on the ground wasn’t the correct size.  Basically, they couldn’t be bothered to “serve and protect.”

            As a result, if you come at the right time of the night, thanks to an ever caring landlord too cheap to put the “correct” signage up, and the less than zealous Bethel Park PD, you can watch a re-make of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, as the disabled struggle to get to their apartment buildings over a snow covered, icy, pothole filled, uneven parking lot.
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            As for the police, of which I was one of years ago; if I hear I need to be understanding or sympathetic to their plight and difficulties of the job; all I’ll say is this, you’re only as good as the criminals you protect.

(My attorney assures me that the statute of limitations has passed.)

A long time ago in a distant land . . .
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I spent a year as a Metro Transit Officer in Washington, DC.  Then I spent time as a Deputy Sheriff in the Land That Time Forgot.  Culvert County, Maryland.  It has gotten bigger and more modern since I left; in fact, just last year they got streetlights.  I remember one conversation I had with a local; in which we discussed the lack of a mall, only one movie theater, and how upsetting it was that they took, “Green Acres,” off the county’s PBS system. The highlight of the conversation?

“You know there isn’t one escalator in the entire county,” I stated.

“Escalator? Escalator? What’s an escalator?”  

“Moving stairs…”

“Oh.”

Sorry for the digression…

After a year in DC, I left to become a Deputy Sheriff. I had to take some extra training as when I was with the Metro Police I rode the subway, in Calvert I’d be in a car, or, as they like to call it a MOP, Mobile Observation Platform.  Once I had completed my intense training of driving around, finding the good places to eat, sleep and hide from the general public, I was cut loose.  On my own cruising, the mean streets of Calvert County.

Well, there I was in my Mobile Observation Platform, on Rt. 4, looking for speeders.  Now there are several ways to do this, for the big boys, there’s radar, for others VASCAR, but for me there was pacing.  Pacing is when the deputy, me, follows a speeding vehicle for about 2/10ths of a mile, pacing their speed.

After pacing a blue 2 door Chevy for 2/10ths of a mile I activated my emergency equipment, lights and siren for those of you not familiar with cops.  The vehicle pulled over to the shoulder of the road, I got out of my Mobile Observation Platform, and things went bad.

As I was exiting my vehicle, my mace canister bumped the door lock. Ever notice how life becomes a slow-motion sequence at times?  Unfortunately, I had already given the door a gentle push and watched the door slowly click shut. I stood there, listening to the traffic pass by, and prayed silently, that through some magical intervention, that my door was a jar. So, there I was, vehicle running, lights and flashers on. Undaunted, and deep in prayer; I turned and introduced myself to the driver of the speeding Chevy.

Hello, I’m Deputy Parks of the yada-yada-yada, you were traveling at yada-yada-yada, license and registration please.  I slowly walked back to my car, this was the moment of truth, my defining moment as a deputy and, yes, my friends, it was locked.

What to do?  Call for assistance? Let the entire county know I’d locked myself out of my car?  Be fodder for harassment for the rest of my career?  What would Inspector Clouseau do?
I calmly walked back to the driver of the Chevy.

“Ma’am there is a sight problem.  I need you to drive me to Headquarters.”

Fortunately, the station was only a minute away.  I snuck into the station, grabbed the extra set of keys, snuck out the door and had the lady drive me back to my deserted car; on the side of the road, with the lights still flashing.

I unlocked my car, gave her my thanks, swore her to secrecy, and a warning always make sure she exited her car with the keys.
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