Elbow Creek Pd: The Real Story

By Bobby O'Roark

I thought being a police officer was all about catching bad guys, but here I am getting cats out of trees, buying ice cream for six-year-old runaways, and shooting at rattlesnakes in someones back yard; where is the glory in that?

I wonder what ever happened to that part of the Police Officers Code of Conduct that says, As a law enforcement officer, my fundamental duty is to serve mankind; to safeguard lives and property; to protect the innocent against deception, the weak against oppression or intimidation, and the peaceful against violence or disorder; and to respect the Constitutional rights of all men to liberty, equality and justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503576773

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

HOW DID THIS ALL HAPPEN?

I suppose that many young boys and girls at some point in their childhood develop a desire to become a fireman or a policeman when they grow up. Well, I was not one of them, at least not when I was still a child. It wasn’t until I was a senior in high school that I became enamored by the prospect of becoming a policeman; actually, it wasn’t just any old policeman -— I wanted to be a California Highway Patrol Officer.

After serving four years in the U.S. Navy, I came home and tried to get hired by the CHP (California Highway Patrol) but because of poor economic times they were not testing or hiring that year, so I went to work for a pest control company, killing bugs. I had only worked there for a few weeks when, in what I thought must have been a twist of fate, I got a job with the Elbow Creek California Police Department.

Now let me help you understand something here, the city of Elbow Creek, originally settled by a group of Irish immigrants in the early 1800’s, was then and is now primarily an agricultural community. At the time of this writing it only had a population of about 7,000 people. The police department was very small, with a chief, a captain, three sergeants, and eight officers. The police department building contained a three-cell-jail, very much like the television series, Andy Taylor, Sheriff of Mayberry.

Chief Jarvis was a typical overweight, gray-haired, old man who spent most of his time drinking coffee and socializing with his cronies at the local drug store soda fountain. Captain Fowler was the whole department rolled up in one man. He was intelligent, experienced, responsible, and a very good, true-blue, died-in-the-wool, police officer. I looked up to him and respected him very much. He taught me more about law enforcement than all my later acquired academy training. The regular beat-officers were really great guys too. They were brave men who kept this little farming community under control in spite of being overworked, underpaid, and unappreciated.

I mention a twist of fate in being hired due to what I considered the very unusual circumstances of that interesting day. It was a Monday morning in mid-spring of 1963; I did not have to work for the pest control company that day so I decided to prune a long-neglected sycamore tree in my front yard. I had just climbed up and was snipping off some small limbs when I noticed a black-and-white police car pull up in front of my house. A fat, nearly bald, gray-headed old man got out and stood on the driver’s side of the car. He just stood there, with his hands on his hips, chewing on the stub of a cigar, and looking over the top of the car in my direction. Perplexed, I leaned down to a space where he could see me through the tree limbs and yelled, Hello Officer! Can I help you?

He immediately shouted back, Are you O’Roark?!

Startled that he was asking for me by name, I stammered back, Yea, uh, that’s me. After a couple of seconds, he yelled back, You wanna be a cop?

When I heard that, I nearly fell out of the tree. As I was climbing down through the limbs and branches like some big ape, I peeked through the foliage again and saw that he was now leaning over the top of his car; I managed to yell back, Yes I do!

I watched as he took a big drag on his cigar and then, with smoke puffing out with each word, he yelled back at me, Well, get down out of that tree and come on!

I landed on the lawn, dropped the shears and trotted over to the patrol car. I stood there for a few seconds, not really sure if I had heard him correctly; but as he was getting back in, he yelled at me again, Well boy, get in! We’ve got things to do!

He took me back to his office at the police station where we signed some papers, swore me in, and then, through the ever-present blue cigar smoke, he finally introduced himself. I’m Chief Jarvis, and in the same breath, he asked, Why do you want to be a police officer?

That caught me a little off guard. I sat there a moment, watching the smoke slowly drift up to the ceiling, creating a smelly inversion layer, while I tried to put my thoughts together. I nearly let it slip that I didn’t know why, but on second thought, that sounded pretty dumb. I jumped a little when the Chief broke the silence. Well, why do you want to be a cop? he fired at me again.

Thinking quickly now, I thought it prudent to be honest and straightforward. I have wanted to be a CHP officer since a job fair at my high school in my senior year had a couple of officers there recruiting, and I still want to be one, I explained in one breath.

The Chief stopped puffing on the cigar, sat forward in his chair, and looked at me through squinted eyes. I sat there looking back at him, thinking, Oops, I put my foot in my mouth this time. A couple of minutes went by while the Chief sat there staring at me. In the stifling silence, I began to imagine that he was probably using some sort of police interrogation technique on me to see if I was telling the truth.

After what seemed like forever, he finally leaned back in his chair, took another quick puff on the stogy, and asked, O’Roark, why did you answer yes when I asked you if you wanted to be a cop? Again catching me off guard, in exasperation I answered bluntly, Because I do. The CHP is not hiring right now and isn’t this the same thing? Without waiting for his response, I continued, It may be years before they start hiring again, and I want to be a police officer now.

Then I surprised myself by asking him why, out of the blue, did he come to my house and ask me if I wanted to be a cop in the first place. Apparently catching him off guard, he cleared his throat, readjusted his position in his chair and I watched as his perpetual scowl softened just a little. In a much softer tone he said, Your wife mentioned to me that you wanted to go into law enforcement, so I thought I would give you a call.

All of a sudden, red lights began flashing in my brain. So how did that come about Chief, and how do you know my wife? I asked accusingly.

The Chief, barely mumbling now explained that just about every day he meets with his friends at the local drugstore for coffee, which happens to be where my wife has worked for several years. Now raising his voice a little, and looking directly at me again he said in a very deliberate tone, I probably know your wife better than you do.

I felt a sudden adrenalin flush sweep up the back of my neck at the implication, but then the Chief began to chuckle. Don’t get your hackles up son. Your wife is like a daughter to me. I have known her since she was in grammar school.

I settled back a little in my chair as my heart rate slowly returned to normal, but I still wasn’t sure how all this was going to work out. Just then, one of the dispatchers knocked, opened the door, and blurted out, Chief, there is a 415 (disturbance) at 214 West Front Street, (a local dive). Two units have been dispatched.

The Chief, rising quickly from his chair, uttered an expletive and speaking to the dispatcher said, That’s probably old Frank again. Last time he cut-up the bar tender pretty bad. I had better get over there. With that he was gone, leaving me sitting there all alone, wondering what I should do next.

CHAPTER 2

THE FIRST DAY

M y first day on the job was a blur, but a few things stand out in my memory. I recall putting on my brand new uniform. It was all dark blue, and made of heavy gabardine material. It was hot and itchy and because it had not been washed or cleaned yet, it had a very strong chemical odor to it. I had on a brand new set of leathers, which means, the typical black, basket weave, three-inch-wide, leather belt with silver buckle, ammo-pouches, handcuff cases, flashlight-holder, belt-keepers, baton holder and key holder. All this, in conjunction with all the equipment that goes with it probably weighed about 35-pounds when you include the wild-west, fast-draw holster and the six-inch Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver. All of these items had a strange chemical odor to them too. On top of all that, I was required to wear a fiberglass helmet, which felt like it weighed about three or four pounds. I thought, Just surviving a day wearing all this stuff would justify my meager pay.

That same day, the Chief took me out to the firearms range for shooting skill evaluation. The range was a small pound on the edge of town. It had an embankment to act as a backstop, and some tin cans were set up as targets. The Chief said, Okay son, shoot those cans. I drew my brand new six-shooter and began blasting away. When the smoke cleared and we could see that all the cans were still standing without nary a hole, the Chief said, Hmmm, I guess we’ll have to work on marksmanship, won’t we?

I couldn’t believe I missed them all. Give me a rifle and I’ll plug every one of them Chief. I blurted defensively. He just grunted and mumbled something about me not being in the Army anymore. I started to mention that it was the Navy–not the Army, but thought better of it.

Back at headquarters, the office staff showed me how to work the fingerprint files, the radios, the dispatching procedures, and gave me a map of the town and said, Memorize that. I was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed and thought that I had taken on more than I could handle. I looked down at my handful of notes, communication codes and commonly used penal code and vehicle code sections. How could I ever learn all this stuff; I thought all you had to do to be a cop was carry a gun and arrest bad guys. Next they showed me the jail and explained how the booking procedures were handled. Like everything else, the jail area had a very strong, unique odor; it smelled something like a strong mixture of Lysol, vomit, excrement, sweat and blood–not a pleasant place to be.

There were two men locked up in one of the cells, one was moaning that his stomach was hurting, swearing loudly and demanding to talk to his lawyer (not his doctor, I noted). The other man was apparently passed out, lying face down on the floor with one arm hanging in the toilet bowl. I wanted to ask; This isn’t where I will be working, is it? But then, I thought I had better not ask because I didn’t want to put that idea into their heads.

My attention was drawn to Sargent Kasfeldt, who was in the process of fingerprinting a slightly less than cooperative individual. I noticed that he had the man positioned behind him and slightly to his right while he was attempting to place the man’s fingers on the inkpad and then on the finger print card. Each time he did this, the man would jerk his hand just enough to smear the print. I could tell by the pinched lips on the Sarge that his tolerance level was wearing thin and I wondered how he would handle this. I heard the Sarge, speaking rather softly, say, Sir, I need your cooperation to complete this process. Then he would try again.

I was just about to turn and rejoin my orientation tour when I learned just how situations like these should be handled. The Sarge, holding the man’s right hand with his left hand, released his right hand and gave the arrestee a quick elbow jab to the jaw. I could see that it really stunned the man as his knees nearly buckled and his eyes rolled around like marbles. The Sarge was quick to apologize with, Oh gee whiz! My hand slipped when you jerked away. I hope I didn’t hurt you– but you really need to be more cooperative.

The man, now holding his jaw with his left hand mumbled something that I couldn’t quite understand, but I noticed that he was now standing up straighter and allowing the Sarge to operate the fingerprinting process much easier now. I smiled as I took mental note– that was an excellent example of learning from the benefit of experience. I was interested in the fingerprinting methods and knew that I definitely needed to learn more about this fascinating aspect of the criminal justice process.

There was an interrogation room next to the booking area. I was surprised at its austerity. The room was about eight feet square with two plain, wooden chairs without armrests, positioned in the middle of the room. There was a single light bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling, just like in the movies. This room also smelled strongly of vomit, urine and Lysol. There was a mop and bucket over in the corner with suspicious looking dirty water in it. It gave me a very uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I remembered seeing scenes like this in movies but never thought they really existed. The officer giving the orientation explained that this was the place where suspects were detained for questioning and that it needed to be a place free from all other distractions and furnishings that could possibly be used as weapons against the officer. Sometimes, the officer explained further, the persons being questioned are ill from drugs or alcohol abuse or sometimes they are just plain scared to death; they get sick all over the floor and sometimes slip and fall in the mess, making it nearly impossible to continue a line of questioning.

I went home late that night with my head spinning from trying to absorb the vast amount of such important information that I desperately needed to retain as usable knowledge in my little brain. When I got home, I found my sweet wife waiting up for me with comfort and food, and thankfully, not too many questions about what I had learned that day. I was so tired I soon dropped off to sleep, mumbling something to my wife about watching out for that lecherous old chief.

I awoke Tuesday morning, still groggy from the heavy sleep and my head felt like it was stuffed with wool but then my bleary eyes fell upon the Sam Brown (duty belt) hanging on a hook by the closet. I jumped up quickly, reaching for the alarm clock, wondering why it hadn’t gone off. As I stumbled toward the shower, Mona, (my wife) stuck her head around the corner and cheerfully said, Good morning, OFFICER, (over-emphasizing the word officer) How would you like your eggs?" Wow, what a sweetheart she is.

I began the second day with excitement but still feeling a little apprehensive. I think I was beginning to realize how little I knew about being a police officer. These days, only the larger departments had training academies. Small departments like Elbow Creek relied primarily upon a probationary status of interdepartmental training, assisted by the FBI until judged to be competent. (This is commonly referred to as being a ROOKIE).

I headed for the department fully expecting another day of orientation and training. I was shocked as I walked into the Squad room and found that the shift briefing was already underway. Sergeant Westfield, paused in his presentation, looked directly at me and without even a hint of friendliness said, Good morning Officer O’Roark, we are so glad you could find time to attend our briefing. Could we offer you a chair? All eyes turned toward me without a trace of a smile among them. Oops, this is a real briefing. These are the real men and women of the department, most of whom I had not met.

I gave a little nervous laugh and mumbled as I was sitting down, Gee, I didn’t know I was invited.

I was immediately set upon by Sergeant Westfield. O’Roark, he barked with authority, Are you back-talking me?

I jumped to my feet and blurted, No sir, I just didn’t know I was supposed to be at this briefing.

Again the Sergeant snarled, Are you a member of this department?

With only a slight hesitation I responded Uh–yes sir.

In the future you will make yourself available to be present at all required squad briefings on time. Then he shouted, Do you understand?!

Yes sir, I replied, almost reverently, and then stupidly added, But perhaps in the future I might be made aware of when and where these meetings will be held. (It was more of a question than a statement, and totally sincere).

With booming voice, the Sergeant once again zeroed in on me, Are you back-talking me again Oooo’Roark? He asked, over-emphasizing my name and sounding very much like the drill sergeant I had when I was in my military boot camp. Then he quickly turned toward Officer Rinehart and with bulging veins and a red face shouted, Rinehart, go get the Chief. This man is insubordinate. He turned back toward me and angrily ordered me to sit down.

All was silent in the room; I could even hear the wall clock ticking off the seconds and I was beginning to feel a little nauseous, wondering what in the heck was going on. We waited for what seemed like a half hour. Everyone was just sitting there, silently staring at me with solemn faces; then the door bursts open and Chief Jarvis strode in with Rinehart tight on his heels.

What’s this all about?! the Chief thundered, with eyes flashing and cigar smoke spurting from his nostrils. Sergeant Westfield snapped to attention, along with all the other officers in the room. He saluted the Chief smartly and reported, Sir, Officer O’Roark was a full three minutes late to the briefing this morning.

The Chief turned his gaze on me, long and hard, as if I was some sort of germ. I was feeling extremely uncomfortable right now. My mind was reeling, wondering if I should get up and run or make a plea for mercy. I had no idea what to expect. I had just been honorably discharged after four years in the US Navy, where discipline was extremely strict, and never experienced anything like this. A thought flashed through my mind, Everyone liked me when I was in the Navy, so what’s going on here?

Then, from somewhere in the back of the room, a small older man in a gray flannel suit, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, stepped to the front. Where in the heck did he come from? I wondered. He swept the room with his eyes, which were largely magnified through thick lenses, and then focused on me. In a squeaky but surprisingly friendly voice he said, Well done Officer O’Roark. As Mayor of the City of Elbow Creek, I welcome you as the newest member of Elbow Creek’s finest. The men and women of the Elbow Creek Police Department and I officially present to you your badge, with the full support of your department, the City of Elbow Creek and the State of California; May you always wear it with honor and dignity. Now totally confused, I closed my gaping mouth and hesitantly stood to accept the presentation.

At that moment, the Chief, without his stogy for once, ceremoniously stepped forward and removed the temporary badge from my shirt and fastened the official brand-new, shiny badge in its place. He shook my hand and then stepped back as the room erupted with shouts, little air horns blaring, confetti flying, and everyone slapping me on the back and shaking my hand. Introductions were quickly made around the room and everyone was helping themselves to fresh doughnuts, coffee, hot chocolate and cookies that mysteriously appeared on a table in the corner of the room. I was flabbergasted, but relieved that I was not going to be keelhauled (thrown over-board and dragged under the ship) after all. I grabbed a doughnut and hot chocolate and started to relax and enjoy the celebration. But as I went back to my chair, I noticed that now, there was only the Chief and the Sergeant still present in the room. The beat officers had all disappeared, hurrying out to their assignments, the Mayor was busy at the front desk talking to some citizens, the dispatchers were all back at their posts, and the Sergeant was handing me a set of keys.

You take Unit Two today and patrol beat six, he said."

My mouth dropped open again as I stammered, Beat six! I don’t even know where that is yet.

The Sergeant glanced sharply at me and then gruffly stated, Officer O’Roark, are you back-talking me again? Then, a quirky little smile spread across his face, he gave a quick little wink, stepped closer and whispered loudly, Here’s a beat-map– Go find it.

CHAPTER 3

TO SERVE AND SERVE AND SERVE

I can’t believe this, I mumbled to myself as I headed out the back door to find Unit two. It is only my second day and they put me in a patrol car and send me out on a beat? After a few minutes of studying the beat maps I found Beat six and began driving around, listening to chatter on the police car’s radio from the other officers and anxiously awaiting a murder to happen or at least an armed robbery. All I saw however was a bunch of dorky looking citizens, who upon seeing a brand-new rookie in town, were smiling and waving at me, as if I were in a parade or something. I would glare back at them with my most don’t mess with me look, but that only seemed to amuse them more and they would grin and clap their hands. Don’t they have any respect for a man with a badge? I thought sullenly to myself.

Later in the shift, I did answer a couple of calls; the first was to see the man at 1423 Gaither Street. (A residence on the north side of town). While scrambling to answer the call I dropped the mike a couple of times and then grabbing it form the floorboard, I yelled, 10-4. The radio went curiously silent. That must have sounded like a rookie, I chided myself. Then the thought came to me, I should congratulate myself. That was the first 10-4 of my new career. I crunched the gas pedal to the floor, flipped on the red lights and siren and raced across town to the address given. I had not learned yet that this kind of call did not authorize emergency lights and siren, but it was my first time and very exciting to see traffic pulling over for me, and people running wildly across the streets to get out of my way.

Upon arrival, I jumped out of the car, forgetting to turn off the lights, and ran up to the door of the residence. I didn’t know what to expect; there had been no details with the call, so I took the my back to the left side of the door stance that I had seen them do in the movies. I banged forcefully on the door. From within, I heard a faint, Come on in. I thought, Yea, come on in and get shot; Not likely mister. I banged on the door again, and this time the voice was a lot louder. An obviously male, gruff, voice said, Well open the dang door and get your butt in here.

Well, I thought, if he’s going to talk like that, I’ll just go ahead on in. I quietly opened the door and slithered in, sneaking stealthily around inside the dark house; you know, like they do in the movies, until I was able to peek into a bedroom where I saw someone lying on the floor beside a bed. Red lights flashed in my mind. With gun in hand and heart in throat, (I couldn’t believe I had to draw my weapon on my first call), I quickly scanned the room and finding it empty except for a man on the floor, I cautiously stepped forward, holding my weapon at the ready. The man on the floor turned to look up at me, and with an exasperated expression on his face he yelled at me; Would you put that stupid gun away before you shoot someone, and help me get back in my gosh-darned bed; can’t you see I need some help here!

That startled me; I discovered that my tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth and I couldn’t think of anything to say. The old man, glaring at me, repeated himself, word for word, but louder this time, emphasizing the expletives. I decided he must be delirious; you just don’t talk to police officers in that manner, and maybe the wisest thing for me to do was to run back outside and try to look at this from a different perspective.

When I got back outside with my back to the wall next to the door again, I took a long breath, and after a moment of running through the protocol in my mind, I concluded that there was no other way to approach this; but then there were all those bystanders gathered around to see what was going on. This, I concluded, was probably due to the flashing lights still blinking on the patrol car that I forgot to turn off. At this point, I decided I had better check in with HQ. (That’s cop talk for Head Quarters). I radioed in for clarification of duties, and the Chief, apparently, was summoned to respond to my call.

Chief, I blurted into the mike, there’s an old man in this house lying on the floor by his bed. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he keeps telling me to put him back in his bed. What should I do? The Chief yelled back, loud enough for all the good bystanders to hear, and I think he outdid the old man in his choice of expletives, Well put the old fart back in his **** bed, what do you think we are paying you for!

I was chagrinned, I couldn’t believe my ears, and from the expressions on the faces of the bystanders, they couldn’t believe it either. Here was my chief yelling ear-burning expletives at me to pick up this old man and put him back in his bed, like I was his nursemaid or something. I thought my job was supposed to be catching bad guys, not babysitting senior citizens.

Well, as it turned out, I found myself putting old man McDuffie, as I called him, back in his bed about once a week for the next three years. We got to know each other really well. Sometimes, if I didn’t have another call to respond to, I would stop by and we would just sit and talk for a while. He was actually a pretty nice old geezer with lots of interesting stories to tell about his younger years back in Ireland. That second day on the job was quite an eye-opener for me. I began to understand the wording of the popular slogan plastered on most police cars, To Serve and Protect, with emphasis on TO SERVE.

A couple of weeks later, now considering myself a seasoned officer, I received another call to see the man. I hurried to a different address this time, but in the same part of town and just like before with siren blaring and lights flashing. Again I jumped out of the car and forgot to turn off the flashing lights, (one would think I would have learned something by now) but this time I could see a man around the side of the house acting somewhat suspiciously. When he saw me, he came running toward me, hands up, pale as a ghost, proclaiming that he had been chased by a big rattlesnake. At first I thought the man had lost his marbles, but he was finally able to explain that he had been up in the mountains getting firewood, and as he was off-loading the wood in his back yard, a rattlesnake dropped out of the wood and crawled under a board a few feet away. He knew it was a rattlesnake, he said, because it rattled when he approached it. By now, the bystanders had gathered again, probably because of the flashing lights or maybe because they knew it was me answering this call. I could see the anticipation written all over their faces. I was sure they were thinking: what’s the rookie going to do this time? Well, I knew just how to handle this situation; after all, I was seasoned officer now, wasn’t I? In my most official voice, I told everyone to stand back as I took out my trusty revolver and slowly circled my way around to the board where the cowardly snake was hiding. With both hands firmly gripping the gun, I cautiously kicked the board over and jumped back. Sure enough, there it was, a real live rattlesnake; I could tell this because its tail was rattling. It was at least two-feet long, and all coiled up, just staring at me with those mean, beady eyes and flicking his tongue at me menacingly. His rattles were buzzing like crazy. I knew this was a time for drastic action. It was either him or me. I took careful aim from about three feet away, and let him have it. The powerful revolver boomed loud enough to be heard in the next county. The bullet, however, completely missed the snake. It struck the ground next to the snake, splashing sand back in my face, and as the smoke and dust cleared, I could see that the snake had begun to slowly crawl away in an obviously disdainful manner. He probably couldn’t believe I had missed him at such close range, and I couldn’t believe it either but there he went, nonchalantly slithering away. I guess I still needed more firing-range time. I was sure that the muzzle of my gun was nearly touching his head when I fired. This was even worse than the first day at the range, I grumbled mournfully. I glanced over at the bystanders. They were all standing there like statues, not making a sound, eyes as wide as saucers. I was so embarrassed I shoved my gun back into my holster and tried to think of something to do to save face. Acting on impulse, but with deliberate boldness, like I knew what I was doing, I picked up a stick from the woodpile and placed it right behind the snake’s head, pinning it to the ground. I then reached down and picked up the snake, holding tightly behind its head. I heard an obvious Ohhhhh! from the group of bystanders. Then I had the man who called about the snake fetch me a sack which I put the snake in. Again,