Hartford Blue

By Jones

I was pointing my service revolver at him and ordering him to drop the machete but suddenly he charged me, swinging the machete at my head. I fired one shot and saw the bullet make a hole in his shirt and blood start to trickle out. When the gun went off it sounded like a cannon! I couldnt believe how loud it was.

The guy never even staggered, he just stood there! The look in his eyes scared the hell out of me! He said now youre dead! as he charged me a second time. I was able to get another round off, which also struck him in the chest, as we both fell to the ground.

I was now in an all-out fight for my life and was acting on pure adrenaline. I was in a zone; everything became silent around me and I was focused on one thing only; avoiding the blade of that machete! When we fell I dropped my gun on the ground and we were both struggling to reach for it but before he could grab it his body convulsed and it was over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491862704

Jones

Second time author, “Popeye” Jones, was born in Hartford, Connecticut and presently resides in Vernon, Connecticut. He is a graduate of Windsor Locks High School and Morse College and is the father of four sons. He entered The Hartford Police Department in 1970 as a Patrolman. He was promoted to the rank of Detective in 1978 and assigned to The Crime Scene Unit. Two years later he was assigned to The Vice & Narcotics Division. He has received several citations during his career, including The Distinguished Service Medal and The Medal of Valor. He retired from The Hartford Police Department in 1990.

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© 2014 Popeye Jones. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

While the events in this account are true, to the best of my memory, names and identifying details have been altered to protect the privacy of all concerned.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/06/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-6272-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-6271-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-6270-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014902486

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Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1   My Career Change

Chapter 2   The Brotherhood

Chapter 3   Learning The Street

Chapter 4   High Speed Chases

Chapter 5   Signal Ten-Zero

Chapter 6   A Brush With Death

Chapter 7   Fighting For My Life

Chapter 8   The Right Place At The Right Time

Chapter 9   Promoted To Detective

Chapter 10   An Apple Solves A Murder

Chapter 11   The Vice Squad

Chapter 12   Working Girls

Chapter 13   Giving Up My Gold Shield

Chapter 14   The Hot Dog Girl

Chapter 15   Moving On

Chapter 16   My Prayers are Heard

Chapter 17   The End of the Line

To Nancy, my editor, confidant, and biggest fan. Without your encouragement and guidance, this book would not have been written. I am deeply indebted.

To my four sons, thank you for your technical support and advice during this long process.

In Memory of our Fallen Brothers

Officer Thomas Knevet

Officer Thomas Knevet killed in the line of duty November 27, 1919

Officer Henry Jennings

Officer Henry Jennings killed in the line of duty May 25, 1964

Officer Harvey Young

Officer Harvey Young killed in the line of duty August 25, 1967

Officer Francis Fenton

Officer Francis Fenton killed in the line of duty March 28, 1969

Officer John Daley

Officer John Daley killed in the line of duty July 29, 1977

Detective Edward Cody

Detective Edward Cody killed in the line of duty April 16, 1979

Officer Thomas Toohey

Officer Thomas Toohey killed in the line of duty May 15, 1996

Introduction

I have always enjoyed writing. As a Detective it often became necessary to write very detailed and accurate reports. I got a lot of satisfaction from this phase of Detective work.

Oftentimes an investigation would require many days or weeks of work. Interviews were conducted, evidence collected and cataloged, and lengthy surveillances were often needed. All of the pieces of a complicated investigation needed to be woven into a clear, convincing, report.

There is a lot of me in this book. It required very little research, as nearly all of the stories are from my personal experiences. I attempted to take the reader into the streets, to give some insight into the hearts and minds of those who put their lives on the line every day. I want people to understand that it’s not all about cracking heads and locking people up, it’s that feeling of satisfaction a cop gets knowing that you were able to help some poor soul who was down and out.

In writing this book I hope to inform, to educate, to astonish, and to entertain the reader. I have attempted to convey the good, the humorous, the sad, and the horror that is sometimes perpetrated on people.

I have interjected my personal opinions regarding several subjects that I discuss in the book. I witnessed many events during my career, some tragic, some moving, and many emotional and uplifting. My opinions were formed based on my personal thoughts and experiences.

Chapter 1

My Career Change

Most calls for Missing Persons are for teenagers who have run away on their own free will and are not actually missing at all. The officer will interview the parent, make out a report, enter the person’s name into the international computer system called The National Crime Information Center and, barring any suspicious circumstances, clear the call after conducting a brief search of the neighborhood.

Things are not as routine when the call is for a missing child; especially a young child. Several cruisers are dispatched and a thorough search of the neighborhood is conducted under the supervision of a Sergeant.

It was a very hot and humid July day and I was sent to an address in the North End on a report of a missing 3-year-old boy. As soon as I pulled up in front of the building I was met by the boy’s hysterical mother who informed me that her son had apparently walked out of the apartment door on the third floor unnoticed. The door had been wedged open with a brick to allow some air into the stifling apartment. I called the District Sergeant, Jim Connelly, and advised him of the circumstances. He told the Dispatcher to send four more units to the address and said he would be responding to coordinate the search for the missing boy.

While awaiting the Sergeant’s arrival I obtained the pertinent information from the mother and broadcasted the boy’s description citywide on all radio channels.

When Sergeant Connelly arrived, I met him in front of the building where he set up a command post and assigned each officer a specific area to search. The mother informed us her son’s name was Troy and he was wearing a blue shirt, red shorts, and black sneakers. She said he had a brown teddy bear with him that he took everywhere.

Four other officers and I spent about thirty minutes searching the immediate area of the boy’s home with no success. Realizing that darkness was fast approaching, Sergeant Connelly called for every available unit in the North End of the City to respond to assist in the search. We reorganized and set out again looking for the boy, who had been missing for about two hours at this point. I was starting to get real worried because we had in excess of 20 cops out looking and interviewing people and we still could not find the boy or even anyone who had seen him. All I could think of was that some pervert had the kid and when we found him it would be too late.

It was just starting to get dark when I entered the cellar of one of the many vacant buildings in the neighborhood. I hadn’t gone ten feet when a huge rat ran across the floor in front of me, scaring the shit out of me. I started to turn around to check under the stairs when the beam of my flashlight hit an old refrigerator lying on the floor in the corner. In the 70’s refrigerators were built with latches on the doors and could not be opened from the inside. When I walked closer and my flashlight lit up the outside of the closed door, my heart sank as I could clearly see fresh little handprints in the dust on the door. I paused for a minute, said a prayer that I would find an empty refrigerator, and opened the door.

Troy was curled up in the fetal position, had a small amount of blood near his nose, and was hugging his teddy bear. He had been dead for several hours.

This was one of the saddest sights I saw in my 20 year career and I can still see that kid’s face today, as if it was yesterday, not twenty years ago.

On another occasion I was working the midnight to eight shift and was sent to an apartment building in one of the projects on a report of a baby not breathing. I had been to several of these calls in the past and they usually came in at about six or seven AM when the mother got up to check her baby and found it to be unresponsive. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 6:30 as I turned onto Main Street; lights flashing and siren wailing as I flew toward the address.

The agony on the face of the father as he opened the door to let me in, the scared look from the four-year-old as he clings to his father’s leg and the sobs from deep inside the apartment confirm my worst fears. The father is trying to talk to me but the words won’t come out. He pointed to the rear bedroom and I ran past him carrying my portable oxygen bottle.

As I got to the bedroom I found the infant cradled in his mother’s arms. She was standing next to the crib, gently rocking the tiny, still form. I can see the pleading in her eyes as I dropped the oxygen and reached for the baby. I took the infant from her and placed him on the bed and realized he was not breathing. I gently blew into his mouth in an attempt to resuscitate him but he was cold and obviously dead.

The paramedics hustled into the room with their equipment and I quickly suggest we transport the baby to a hospital and get him out of there to which they agree. I follow the ambulance and at the hospital get the information I need for my report, offer my heartfelt condolences to the parents, and try to put it behind me and move on to the next call.

Although these types of calls filled me with great sadness, I realized early on in my career that if I wanted to survive in this profession that I chose, I had to find a way to handle it. I always made a conscious effort to not internalize my feelings; to get them out, talk about them, even joke about them on occasion. A cop cannot bury these feelings because it will come back to haunt you if you do. I tried to view things from an analytical point of view and not let my personal feelings get in the way.

I majored in Business Administration in college and after graduating I got a job at Aetna Life and Casualty working in the Actuarial Department. The money wasn’t too great but enough to afford the rent on an apartment on Sumner Street and the payments on a new Mustang.

Shortly after starting my job at The Aetna I met a very cute blond co- worker named Patty Kane. I wasn’t very happy in my job but looked forward to coming to work every day to see Patty. We dated for about a year and married. We moved into an apartment in Vernon and our first son, Patrick was born a year later. A couple of years later our second son, Seth was born, another handsome Irish boy.

Things were great at home but I was still struggling along at my job at The Aetna. I sat down one night after the kids had gone to bed and had a long talk with Patty. I realized that joining the Police Department would be a major move and would require sacrifices and changes in our family life. I think Patty saw how excited I got every time I would talk about the Hartford Police Department and gave me her blessing. To this day I thank her for having the faith in me and for going through the inconveniences that she did.

This was during the late 60’s and the City was subjected to annual civil disturbances during those years which got extensive press coverage. I used to sit at my desk at the Aetna, bored out of my mind, reading about the previous night’s riot in the North End and think to myself, Man, what a great job it must be to be a cop in Hartford with all this action.

At night I used to smell the smoke from my apartment and hear the non-stop sirens and finally one day I went to City Hall and filled out an application for the Police Department.

I got a mixed reaction when I announced to my family that I wanted to be a cop. My mother thought the job was much too dangerous and said I should request to work only the day shift and only in the downtown area. My father was very happy and proud. He was a former Hartford fireman and my uncle was a Connecticut State Trooper.

A couple of months later I had completed the testing process and was anxiously awaiting word on whether I would be accepted into the next recruit class. It was becoming more and more difficult to concentrate on my job at the Aetna and every day I couldn’t wait to get home to see if I got my letter from the City.

Finally one day I opened my mailbox and saw an envelope marked City of Harford – Personnel Dept. I said a quick prayer and opened the envelope. The letter read, We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the next Hartford Police Department recruit class which commences at 0800 hours on September 19, 1970. I was thrilled and filled with excitement and anticipation, knowing that I had made the right decision to leave The Aetna and begin a new career.

On day one of the Hartford Police Department Training Academy my 28 classmates and I were issued our brown khaki uniforms, notebooks, and Code of Conduct. Other than during our physical training classes each morning, we would be wearing those uniforms every day for the next 5 months.

We spent most of the first couple of weeks in the classroom learning first aid, the Connecticut Penal Code, and the Hartford Police Department Rules and Regulations. During week 3 the physical part of our training became more interesting, which we all welcomed. There was a large gymnasium on the 4th floor of Police Headquarters and this is where we had self- defense training. We were taught various ways of subduing violent people, proper use of nightsticks, and hand to hand fighting techniques. There was a standard size boxing ring set up in the gym and all of us had to get into the ring with a classmate.

We wore padded protection that covered our head and part of our face as well as protection over our groin area. We put on these huge padded boxing gloves and went at it. There wasn’t much technique involved; basically two guys would get in the ring and beat the hell out of each other. I think the instructors just wanted to see how you would react when you got punched in the face a few times. I was a skinny kid growing up and in the beginning a lot of the bigger kids in the neighborhood tried to establish their reputations on me. I was in my share of fights and took many punches in the face but once the word got out that I would not back down the fights ended. The instructors would decide which one of your classmates you would get into the ring with. We never knew what went into the selection process. When my turn came to put on the gear and get into the ring I was of course hoping to get the smallest guy in our class as my opponent. No such luck- they decide to put my skinny little ass in the ring against Pedro Cruz, a bodybuilder and the biggest guy in the class!

I knew I had no chance but I just figured, What the hell. I might as well throw everything I had at him right away and maybe it would be over sooner. I went right at him throwing punches as fast as I could, landed one or two, and got hit with a shot to the head that felt like a sledgehammer. I was on my back trying to get up and as soon as I did I got flattened again. I was trying to get up to go again but my legs felt like rubber and the instructors mercifully counted me out. Pedro and I became great friends during the remaining months we spent together in the Academy and throughout our careers at HPD.

After several weeks in the Academy it was time for firearms training. We were all instructed to report to the HPD Firing Range on a Monday morning at 0800 hrs. The range was located on the outskirts of the City in a remote fenced in area. The Sergeant in charge of the range addressed the class, explaining some of the rules in place to insure everyone’s safety. We were then issued our assigned weapons; brand new Colt .38 Caliber revolvers and a box of shells.

The Sergeant went over some basic firearms techniques with us, (with a very strong emphasis on safety) and then it was time to shoot! We went to the range every day that week for 8 hours a day, practicing and gradually improving our marksmanship with both our side arms as well as a 12 Gauge Shotgun.

The