Diary of a Northwest Cop

By Ron Coffman

This book is a compelling collection of a fictional cops reminiscences, which really captures the essence of what it was like to be a police officer in a small northwest town, spanning a fascinating period of time . . . from back in the 1960s (when they still used typewriters and carbon copies of reports), through the 1970s and early 1980s (computers and, horror of horrors, women officers). The authors voice, sometimes down-and-dirty, other times tinged with appealingly macho humor, rings completely true as he tells the tale of Ron OShea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524644918

Ron Coffman

Ron Coffman was in law enforcement for twenty-eight years prior to his retirement. He has been married to his wonderful wife, Peggy, for fifty-seven years. Their son, Michael is a Doctor of Optometry in Bend, Oregon, where his parents also reside. Ron is very proud of his career as a police officer. This novel is a work of fiction. In instances where names of people in “real life” have been used, permission was generously granted. Though the stories may appear to be true, the author reserves the right of creative license and embellishment. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Except for obvious historical figures, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. “I sincerely hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it” (Ron Coffman).

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Beginning

M y name is Ron O’Shea. As you may have guessed, I am of Irish descent. My career started out in a small town called Blue Water Falls, Oregon, a city with a small police department. At that time, I was fresh out of the Navy, six-foot-three, and weighing in at a whopping one hundred-fifty pounds. After discovering that there was not a future for radio operators in the private sector, I had answered an ad in the paper that wanted recruits for a police department in a nearby city. They must have really been desperate for officers, as they hired me after my first interview. I had barely returned home when the phone rang. It was the Lieutenant Fisher, the man who had interviewe d me.

When can you start?

As soon as I can get back over there, I replied.

When I returned, Fisher outfitted me with a uniform and badge, but told me that the officers were required to buy their own weapon. He took me gun shopping at a local gun store and suggested a .38 cal. Colt Trooper as an all-around good pistol. I didn’t have the money to pay for it, so he advanced me the cost and said it would be deducted from my first pay check. He then set me up in one of the hotels in town and I was to report for duty the following morning. Full of excitement and enthusiasm, I just knew that once that badge was pinned on the chest of Ron O’Shea, that crime (as the world had known it), was going to disappear. It would not take me long to realize just how stupid that was.

The city was near an Indian reservation and the Indians would come into town, get liquored up, and it seemed like every one of them thought they were still at war with the paleface officers, and the fight was on whenever we arrested them.

The department was a small one and, during the day and evening shift, was manned by three officers and a sergeant. Graveyard shift was manned by only three cars, North, South and Downtown. The downtown car was always a paddy wagon on all three shifts.

One night, I was working the South side and was headed back into the station, when I encountered a rather large, intoxicated Indian. I knew both of the other cars had checked out on calls in their districts, but seeing as how being intoxicated in public was, at that time, against the law, I checked out and contacted the guy. When I told him he was under arrest for being drunk, he looked down at me and said, No I’m not. Having no desire to get physical with this guy, I spent what seemed like an eternity trying to talk the guy into being arrested, all the while hoping against hope that a cover car would come by to check on me. None came.

Finally, I summoned up all the courage I could and said, Look, I’ve already put you under arrest, and I can’t un-arrest you, so if you don’t come with me one of us is going to get hurt and I don’t want that to happen. I knew full well which one of us was going to get hurt if it turned physical. To my relief, he said, Okay. I told him that ‘seeing as how he was such a nice guy, I wasn’t even going to handcuff him’.

Thanks, he said, and got into the back seat of my car. The book-in officer, Jack Caulfield, said, I was beginning to get worried about you, Ron, but there were no other officers free to send to check on you. Have any trouble with this guy? He asked.

Naw I said, I just used some of my natural charm on him and he agreed to be arrested. Jack and I became good friends and I could always count on him to have my back in dicey situations. We would get together off duty and I would meet him and his girlfriend, Jan, on occasion for pizza at a place called the Ye Olde Knight’s Inn.

I was working the graveyard shift on the south end one night when I saw a car speeding down the road with no lights on. I immediately gave chase, calling it in to Station One. The car did not stop when I activated my red light and siren, but sped up instead. I told Station One that I was now in a high speed chase, as I attempted to overtake and pull the suspect vehicle to a stop. The guy behind the wheel turned a sharp corner and, as I followed, he suddenly disappeared. I slowed my patrol car, scanning any possible paths he may have taken, when I spotted the driveway into a local lumber yard. I pulled into it shining my spotlight into every nook and cranny of the yard. Then, there it was, sitting behind one of the pallets. It was Jack, laughing his ass off for sucking me in like that. I radioed in to Station One to call off the cover cars, as ‘I had lost sight of the car’. We were always playing pranks like that on each other, when the bars had all closed for the night and all the activity had died down presenting no danger to any of the citizens of the city.

I got my first taste of undercover work while there. Because I was not only new to the department, but also new to the city as well, I was called into Lieutenant Gregory Sylvan’s office one day when I was off duty. Sylvan was a rough looking, no nonsense officer, who commanded respect and got it from everyone on the department.

How would you like to work an undercover assignment? he asked.

I said, Yes, I guess so.

I was instructed to come back that evening in civilian clothes, and not to tell anyone else on the department about this operation—an order I was a little leery of at the time, but later learned the reason: there was a possibility that word might somehow get to a woman named Betty about the impending raid on her illegitimate establishment.

Later that evening, I returned to the station in civilian clothes and met with Sylvan and (one of the two detectives on the department) Don Flowers. Flowers handled the criminal cases, while the other detective worked with juvenile offenders. I was given the marked money, received a final briefing about what my objectives were. I was to gain entry into a house known only as Betty’s place and once inside, I was to see if there was any evidence of illegal gambling, illegal liquor sales, and most importantly, prostitution. I was to take some marked money and, upon obtaining the services of a prostitute, I was to watch where she put the money, so it could be retrieved later, allow her to remove an article of clothing that would indicate a consummation of the deal and then place her under arrest, and get the money back. This sounded as simple and as straight forward as it could be. I mean, what could possibly go wrong? Sylvan and Flowers then drove me down and dropped me off near Betty’s place. They assured me that they would be right outside in the unlikely event that I would need help.

The house was somewhat run down and fit well in the neighborhood on Broad Street. It consisted of a glassed-in front porch, which led into the front room, and the main kitchen area. Next to the kitchen was a small room just large enough to hold a couch. From there a door led into the bedroom area that was just past a small bathroom.

So there I was, still wet behind the ears, as far as law enforcement was concerned and, I might add, not too well experienced in the ways of the seedy side of life. I was wearing a brand new white fleece jacket and I must have looked like a student from the local community college, because when I knocked on the door, a black woman, whom I later found to be Betty, and several black males came out. Betty said, Whatchoo want, boy?

I replied, Is this Betty’s place?

Betty looked at me quizzically for a moment, then one of the males said, I think I know this boy. I ‘seen’ him out at the college at one of the basketball games.

I said, Yeah, I was there. Of course, I had never been to the college before in my life, but I was thankful for the introduction, and because of it, I was invited in.

Once inside the kitchen area, I saw three men, two white and one black, sitting at a table playing craps and drinking what looked to be whiskey. The two white guys were later identified as Lou Archer and Bill Carley, and the black was Eddie Fields, who afterward, would always claim to have saved my life. As I stood there, Archer offered to buy me a drink, which I accepted, then reciprocated in kind. So, there I had witnessed two of the three objectives: the illegal sale of liquor, and gambling.

Betty told me, I don’t know you, but if you would like to go into the back with one of my nieces, it would be alright. At this point, a black gal with red hair stepped out of the small room with the couch. She took my hand and we went into the room she had just come out of.

How much? I asked.

Twenty for a regular, thirty for a blow job, she said. I agreed, and we went into the bedroom. I handed her the twenty and watched carefully as she placed it on top of the dresser. Then to my surprise, she quickly removed her pedal pushers, and underneath where there should have been panties, there was none, revealing to my already suspicious mind that she wasn’t a natural redhead.

Recovering from my shock, I quickly pulled my badge that I had placed loose in a front pocket, as I didn’t have a badge case to put it into yet. Put your pants back on, you’re under arrest! As she put them back on, I retrieved the twenty from the dresser. Taking her by the arm, I led her back into the kitchen area, and showing everyone my badge, in a clear and loud voice said, The place is surrounded and you’re all under arrest!

Betty reached for my badge. Let me see that, she screamed, and it was at that point, the niece, whom I had the best case against, broke free from my grasp and headed back into the small room with the couch. I pursued her and managed to catch her as she headed for the couch. We both fell onto the couch, with me on the bottom. I have no idea where she came up with the claw hammer, but she did and proceeded to hit me on the head with it. I managed to get it away from her, but she wasn’t done yet. She actually bit me on my side, leaving bite marks that would stay there for a good six months. After regaining control of her, (I later found out her name was Carla Louise), I again led her back out, through the kitchen area that was still full of angry, albeit confused people, both black and white.

When I reached the front door, to my dismay, it was locked from the inside and would not budge. I told the nearest black guy to me, Open the damned door!

I don’t have the key! About then, Carla Louise broke away from me again, and headed for another couch in the corner of the front room. On my way to again retrieve her, I calmly put my foot through the front window, letting the lieutenant and detective outside know that I was in need of urgent assistance.

I landed on top of the determined Carla Louise who was now on the couch. The next thing I remember was what seemed like several of the males piling on top of me, while another, whom I later found to be Carla Louise’s boyfriend, grabbed me by my hair, started hitting me in the face and yelling, Let her go, let her go! I would have gladly complied with that request had it not been for the other guys who were still pinning me down on the couch.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the cavalry finally arrived to save my ass.

As the front door was being kicked in, it put a hold on my being pummeled. I saw that the first one through the front door was Detective Flowers. Upon entering, he ran right into the arms of the biggest black guy there, who promptly wrapped his arms around his chest and squeezed. I swear I could hear the cracking of ribs, as the detective fell limp to the floor. The next through the door was Lieutenant Sylvan, who was confronted by yet another black guy who had a knife drawn in a threatening manner. From my bloodied haze I saw the lieutenant put his had in his pocket, simulating a gun with one of his fingers. Drop the knife or I’ll blow your fucking head off! I recall thinking at the time, ‘Lieutenant that is not a gun; that is just a finger’. For reasons I will never know, the black guy dropped the knife.

Most of the suspects had escaped out a bathroom window by the time the other cars arrived on the scene. I don’t know why, but Sylvan and Flowers were not armed. I had not been permitted to carry a weapon myself, for fear of being discovered as an undercover, so that made three officers who were not only unarmed, but out manned. I was taken to the local hospital, where I received a tetanus shot and stitches in my scalp where the hammer had opened it up. As I said before, the teeth marks stayed with me for a good six months. I also sustained a broken nose as well, and, of course my brand new white jacket was ruined beyond repair, since the blood stains could not be completely removed. The city declined to buy me a new one either. Besides leaving a bad taste in my mouth about undercover work, I also had a bad feeling about the corruption in the city government that I had suspected went far beyond the police department. As I said earlier, Eddie claimed to have saved my life, telling me that while I was being attacked on the couch, Lou had started toward me with a butcher knife and Eddie said he was instrumental in stopping him.

CHAPTER 2

Back On The Street

A fter The Broad Street Massacre, as the undercover debacle came to be known, I returned to my patrolman duties. I was working the south end again on graveyard when I heard Officer Brad Wilson inform Station One and the other two cars on duty that he was in a high speed chase. The vehicle was heading southbound at speeds of up to eighty miles an hour. I positioned my car across two lanes of a four-lane road, fully expecting the suspect to either stop, or go around. He didn’t do either. Instead, he struck the right rear fender of my patrol car, spinning me around in the street. He kept going, but the collision had damaged his car more than mine, which slowed him down consider ably.

While I was repositioning my patrol car to get back into the chase, Wilson went flying by me. I was able to catch up in time to see Wilson force the suspect to the curb. The suspect jumped out and ran into a lumber yard. I could see he had a weapon and all at once he turned and fired at Wilson. The bullet hit Wilson in his right shoulder, spinning him around and to the ground. I was out of my car by then and hollered for him to drop the gun. He responded by aiming the pistol at me, and I fired two rounds center mass, and a third at his head. He dropped like a sack of cement thrown from a high-rise. My firing range training had paid off big time. After checking on Wilson, I could see he was bleeding a lot from the wound. I tore off a piece of his shirt and pressed it against the wound, telling him to hold it there tightly. I hurried back to the patrol car and called for an ambulance and a command officer. A high speed chase is usually just some punk kid who is in illegal possession of alcohol, or has a suspended license, but occasionally it will turn out to be a stolen car or a felon on the run. In this case it was the latter. He was wanted out of Washington State. He was suspected of murdering a family of three during a botched home invasion. We didn’t have bullet proof vests or portable radios back then, but where Wilson was hit a vest wouldn’t have helped anyway. Wilson made a full recovery, but shortly after the incident, he left police work. We kept in touch for awhile, but he began drinking heavily, and of course, his wife left him. He moved back to Arizona, where he was raised and I never heard from him again.

Working the south end on graveyard shift, I received a call from Station One that there was an alarm activated at a local market in my district. I was only about a block away and sped toward the market. As I approached the glass front door I saw that it had been broken out and, damned if there wasn’t a guy in the process of exiting through the broken door. I ran the car right at the door, stopping just shy of the guy coming out. He was so startled that he rose up from his crouched position in the doorway, cutting his back on the broken glass. I hooked him up and we made a stop at the hospital before I booked him in. He said he was a transient who was just looking to score some food and his name was Rodney Dingwall Jones the III. With a name like that I almost felt sorry for him. I guess it was just a combination of bad timing that made this a bad day for him.

The desk officer was in charge of the front counter, the incoming phone calls and booking in prisoners brought in by the field officers. There was a Plexiglas window separating them from the front door public and another Plexiglas window right behind for booking in prisoners. I had just finished with booking in a prisoner I had brought in when another officer, Jim Davis, brought in a guy he had just arrested for being drunk in public. I noticed right away that the guy was not in handcuffs, something that was against department procedure, but something that I, myself, had done on occasion. Davis and every other officer on the department had arrested this guy many times before and he had always been docile. This time however when he reached the book-in window, instead of quietly going through the usual routine, he drew a .25 automatic from his