Cold Case In Ellyson

Of the funerals I’ve attended, one is most memorable: the service for a fellow police academy grad who was killed in a car accident off duty. Police funerals are full of strangers. Officers from neighboring counties, cities and sometimes states make the trek to honor one of their own. That was the case this spring day years ago. I couldn’t get over the number of cars lined up in that procession. I am sure his widow was comforted by the outpouring of compassion that day. We are all a part of some community, but the police force particularly takes care of its own.

It’s true. I walk. And I walk on streets. Ergo, I am a streetwalker. We have to be careful with our words. What means one thing to me is another to you. When I wrote Cold Case in Ellyson, I began the book by painting a picture for those of you who know little of the South and it’s small towns. I chose words I hoped would evoke some type of memory from your mind, even if it wasn’t one of first-hand knowledge. From there I used the dialect and slang from the area, trying to capture the language for you to hear. The South is unique as is all areas of this country. From what I’m told, I have done the South proud.

Part of police training, is, in fact, physical training. Dressed in dark blue sweats from head to tow, we would often run laps at night, high steps and all you would expect from a paramilitary organization. Nervous beyond words our first time outside, instructors barked out orders at us to run, jump and finally to do push ups. On the sandy hill we dropped to our knees and heeded the order. I noticed immediately that I was in a crop of sandspurs. Afraid to say a word, I pushed on through and did what was asked in some higher level of discomfort. Heck, for all I knew, the instructors knew the sandspurs were there, and they were testing my toughness and resolve. When we were finished, they must have noticed the look on my face, which I now could see was shared by my fellow students, or saw us trying to remove the tiny needles from our hands and knuckles. Whether or not they knew the sandspurs were there is irrelevant. What mattered was we pushed on through.

So if my law enforcement gene pool started with my grandfather, from whence did the literary gene pool bubble? My father’s a scientist, his father a builder, dad’s mom a secretary, my mom had no artistic talent, but my sister both writes and paints…when I look at my children, I wonder from which pool they will draw…the science side, the literary side, the law enforcement angle, or maybe none or all of these…I don’t want them to be our clones, but I hope that their fountains bubble with the best of us all.

When partners are able to contribute their strengths equally, something special happens…whether that be at the house, on the court or on the streets…but as often the case in life, none of us are all-on always. The ebbs and flows affect how much and often we can share of ourselves. In tennis, particularly, the output is easy to read in games won and lost. Not so much in life, however. We don’t have a daily scorecard to rate our effort and production. And on the streets, some times they get away, and some times they don’t, and, as was in the case of the K9 chase in Cold Case in Ellyson, some days the animals get all the glory.

For my readers who don’t know me, I am also a tennis player – hard core, competitive, most of the time pretty good. Heck, I’m even ranked as a singles player nationally. But today, today I was wild – crazy – erratic – a poor excuse for a doubles partner. I have learned through living that you’re partnership is only as strong as the weaker partner, and today that certainly was me. If I had only failed myself, that would have been easier to swallow, but letting someone else down, now that’s something very different. So in thinking about my book, it occurred to me today on the court why Kathleen did what she did. She didn’t want to take someone else down with her. I understand, Kathleen, I really do.

For a long time after I quit working for the police force, I continued to blade. Know what that means? It’s how an officer stands with his gun-side leg slightly behind the other, angled back, to keep the weapon shielded from the person you’re interviewing…so as I’m right handed, my left leg was always in front of the right. It was an important habit to build and a harder one to break. Police officers also hate having their back to a door. Go into any restaurant, and when possible, the LEO will be facing the front. That habit continues today. I like to know what’s coming. Wonder what’s ahead this week…

Having little or no warmth. Not affectionate, cordial or friendly. Lacking in passion, emotion, enthusiasm. Chilled. With complete competence, thoroughness, or certainty, as in he learned his speech cold. It’s a complicated word. Four little letters with a multitude of meanings.

In my book, Cold Case in Ellyson, the word “cold” has a double meaning…cold case, as in an unsolved mystery and cold case, as in a person without warmth or compassion. Florida in February, and it’s been quite cold.

Texting while driving is dangerous. We all know that. But for a moment, consider what a cop has to manage on the road: obvoiusly driving at a sometimes high rate of speed, lights, sirens, MDT (multi-display terminal, or laptop), radio, spotlight, oh, and the person they’re pursuing…you can understand that dangers of managing so much. As drivers, we have to be aware of what’s in front of us and what’s behind us, and if that happens to be an emergency vehicle, do us all a favor and pull to the side and give a wide berth to someone who really needs it.

I fell in love late in life, with baseball. I’ve been an athlete of some sport all my life and today play competitive tennis, but baseball was just a mere blip on my sport radar. But as is often the case, when you love someone, you love what they love. That love began to beat with my oldest son’s declaration five years ago that he was going to pitch for the Yankees when he grew up, and today I still believe him. I watched David Cone’s perfect game on the MLB channel recently. I can’t imagine that feeling of absolute perfection. Trying to put myself in Cone’s head during that game, was he thinking about it or was he trying to NOT think about it, did he grow more nervous with each inning or less? Most of the time, love isn’t perfect. But some days, it just is.