Chapter 4 “Car 153, do you have a copy?”

Hi, folks... just wanted to let you know that there won't be any more posts until at least Monday next. I'm going fishing... gettin' the hell out of Dodge! Please make me proud in my absense... and that means no fighting! If I hear that any of you taunts, teases, berates, or in any way causes trouble for his brothers and sisters, there will be Hell to pay when I get back.

Peace...
Bubba

Everyone makes mistakes. No matter how well prepared we may be, life can, and often does, jump right up and bite us on our collective fannies. It happens to the best of us. In school, I usually scored among the highest in the standardized tests and my teachers continually carped at me for ‘not applying myself’ and for ‘failing to challenge my intellect’. The implication, of course, was that I was a lazy little bastard and would never amount to a hill of beans if I didn’t mend my ways. I, on the other hand, regarded a C+ average to be quite sufficient. I was capable of learning 83% of the assigned material without cracking a book, thereby staying eligible for sports while allowing sufficient time for back-seat tonsil hockey and mastering the art of one-handed bra removal.

What can I say? I’m a dedicated under-achiever. Therefore, my career choices fell a bit short of those my mother might have wished for me. No sooner had she gotten over the fact that I was never going to be the world’s finest accordion player, than I once again dashed her hopes for my success by being accepted into the Colorado State Police Academy. I can only imagine the sobbing and caterwauling taking place in my parents’ bedroom in the immediate aftermath of my decision… and I’m just talking about my father. I do seem to recall that Dad refused to talk to me for several months. I think he regarded my decision in the same light as if I’d notified him I’d decided to join the Gestapo or the KGB. I’d shown the disloyalty to ‘side with the enemy’.

But, all in all, my three-year soiree into the world of rural law enforcement was not without its share of entertainment. A good many folks crossed my path and a few found their way into my heart. Julie Weathers, the bride of Tom Weathers, the town marshal in the berg I was assigned to live in, Granby, Colorado, was one such person. She was a nice-enough lady, but she was a scofflaw. Since her husband was the marshal, she felt she needed to be accorded the same privileges that all law enforcement officers offer each other from time to time. Of course, this didn’t sit too well with some of the other ladies in town and they tended to regard her with a good bit of indignation. Let’s just say she may not have won first place in a popularity contest without stuffing the ballot box (which she most certainly would have done, if the occasion should arise). From the outset of our relationship, I knew that we would eventually butt heads.

Colorado Highway 40 contains a long, straight stretch approximately six miles in duration, immediately before coming into Granby. Given its 55 MPH speed limit, it was a good place to sit and track vehicles with my radar. Now, before you go calling it a speed trap, you should know I was never allowed to hide my cruiser and in the three years I lived up there, I wrote exactly three tickets on that stretch of highway, only one of which was for speeding. The other two were for a burned-out headlight (after the third warning) and failure to keep valid registration in the car, a heinous offense that required the perpetrator to appear at the Grand County Clerk’s office and produce said paperwork in lieu of fine or penalty.

Julie’s family lived in Denver, and she spent a fair amount of time traveling the ninety miles back and forth between the Mile High City and Granby, weather and road conditions permitting. Many times I had occasion to witness her distinctive, powder blue Mustang convertible motoring past me, the car always lurching forward as she attempted to slow down, having seen my cruiser. Julie’s accelerator foot was molded from pure lead. The other officers in the county spoke of her sometimes when we got together, alluding to her predisposition towards speed, and her lousy attitude if one of them stopped her. All of us were concerned, because the roads in our area were very curvy and in foul weather, treacherous. In deference to Tom, who was very well liked and respected, none of us had ever written her a ticket.

On a crisp October Saturday afternoon, I had occasion to deliver a summons to a rancher whose property was contiguous to Highway 40. I didn’t particularly like that aspect of my job, but it was part of the job description, so I made the best of it. Upon leaving, I was approaching the junction of the highway, so I turned on my radar unit in preparation. As I reached the entrance, a powder blue streak zoomed past and I glanced down at the red LCD numbers on my radar unit… 75!

Gotcha! A slight smirk came over my face as my fingers hit the button that flicked on my red lights. Before I had an opportunity to even hit full power, I saw her brake lights flash. She had picked me up in her rear view mirror, but it was too late. I had all the evidence I needed. By the time I drove up behind her, she had already pulled over and was getting out of her car. I put my hands out and motioned for her to stay in her car. Of course, she ignored me, continuing to run towards me.

I’ll never forget the look on her face as she began to speak. “Oh, Bob, I’m so glad it’s you. The reason I was speeding is because I’m trying to get to the Husky station…” her eyes dropped down and she wrung her hands a little… “you see… I have diarrhea.”

Well… I’m a duly authorized officer of the court, but I’m certainly not some unfeeling monster who would deny a lady during her hour of need, so I told her to get back into her car and proceed to the Husky station… safely!

By the time she walked out of the ladies’ room, I’d already started writing her ticket for violation of Colorado Revised Statute Number 1216, Subsection 1A, Speed Exceeding Posted Limit, expressly 65 MPH in a posted 55 MPH zone. When she saw my car parked behind hers, she was able to put two and two together and walked over to the driver’s side window of my cruiser.

“Officer, I thought you understood why I was speeding.”

“Yes, Ma’am, I certainly do.”

“Bob, it’s me… Julie Weathers… you know…. Tom Weathers’ wife…” There was something about her tone that just didn’t appeal to me at that point.

“Uh, yes, Ma’am… I know who you are, but I need the number off your driver’s license and I also need to see your registration. If you’d like to have a seat in your car, I think that might be a good idea. I’d hate to have anything happen to you while I write your ticket.”

“Look here, you little piss ant, if you think I’m going to sign a ticket from you, you’re sadly mis—"

A shadow appeared from behind her and she was suddenly looking up into the blue eyes of one Tom Weathers, Granby Town Marshal.

“Afternoon, Bob… is there a problem here?”

Tom was removing his sunglasses now and I saw a glint in his eye.

“Oh, no, Marshal, nothing serious. I just wrote Mrs. Weathers a little speeding ticket for 65 in a 55 out on Highway 40, and I think she took a little exception. I think she felt she was going a little faster than that, and she thought it should be more like 75 in a 55… Ain’t that right, Mrs. Weathers, you just didn’t want me to give you a break because you’re the marshal’s wife?”

Julie Weathers was looking a mite peaked at that very moment. I’m sure it must have something to do with her gastric distress. Nevertheless, she reached for the ticket book and said, “Where do I sign?”

As I handed the woman her copy of the summons, Tom gave me the ‘I owe you one’ grin. He nodded at me and I nodded back. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes when she made eye contact with her husband. As I picked up my microphone to report to the dispatcher I’d be back in service, I heard tires squealing and smelled rubber burning as a powder blue package of righteous indignation roared past me towards points unknown. Somehow, as Tom walked away, I foresaw his immediate future— sleeping in their guest room.

God, I loved that job. Yes, the weather was either wonderful or miserable with very little deviation towards ‘okay’, but I met a few people who defied the laws of natural selection by their very existence. Once such man stood above all others for his quirkiness.

I never saw the skinny little man when he wasn't wearing his black leather motorcycle jacket. I honestly don't know if he wore a shirt underneath. If he opened the top buttons of his jacket, a brillo pad of gray chest hair pushed its way to freedom, grateful for the chance to soak up some much-needed oxygen. It matched the hair on his head, at least the part we could see. A red bandana covered his dome, but I'd bet a week's pay he wasn't bald. Guys like him don't lose their hair. I always figured it was God's compensation for taking away most everything else.

Years broadcast across “Basket” Billy Neville’s face in a network of deep furrows, gouging a path in his skin from his forehead to the point of his chin, giving refuge to an accumulation of dirt that I took to be the permafrost of his being. All seven of his teeth showed whenever he grinned and a tattooed pair of red lipstick imprints emblazoned the area just below his left ear, his tribute to womanhood. Chronological age was never an issue, in Billy’s estimation, but certainly he was past sixty. I watched, listened and silently wondered if there were ever a time when he wasn't old or didn't have all the answers.

When one of the curious cadre of on-lookers asked him a question, like as not he'd pause and stare at the inquisitor. His ever-present black wrap-around shades hid his eyes, but an invisible laser still pierced through, burrowing directly into the victim's psyche until such time as Billy felt the suffering sufficient to warrant a response. I was never able to gauge if he was being contemptuous or if he was just the best damn actor I ever saw, but at some point, he'd give a gesture of recognition and begin to speak. Half sage and half bullshit artist, his words were pure magic. I liked him, and from all indications, the feelings were mutual, although he wouldn’t have uttered the words under penalty of death.

According to Billy, his life started on his sixteenth birthday, when he could legally ride his beloved Harley Panhead on the streets. He hadn't yet been crowned King of the Screw-Ups at such a tender age. This self-proclaimed honor would come later, commencing concurrently with the third revocation of the motorcycle endorsement on his driver’s license. The man was branded by society as that most onerous of ne'er-do-wells, Scooter Trash. His ordination as BasketBilly was the result of numerous hospital visits. The man simply could not keep a motorcycle shiny side up for more than a month without feeling the need to inflict damage on both his bike and himself. Oh, he could ride well enough under ordinary conditions, but in times of crisis, in that split second when common sense needs to kick ‘I’m goin’ for it’ in the pants, Billy could never seem to get the job done, and someone would find him laying in the barrow pit a few yards off the big curve on Route 40 or in the willow bushes going into Byers Canyon.

One hot summer night, I happened upon him in a saloon called The Scorecard. I lived in Granby, a small mountain town in the Middle Park area of Colorado. Granby was typical of many burgs in the area, a veritable boneyard in the winter and rife with camera-toting adventure-seekers when the snow wasn't flying. There was usually enough going on to pique the curiosity of most locals and this night was no exception. I found Billy relaxing in a secluded alcove near the back of the room, but I almost didn't see him. Immediately, I knew something was amiss. Under normal circumstances, by this time of evening he'd have been dancing or giving us his rendition of Joe Cocker’s song "You Know You Got Me Goin' Out Of My Head" along with the jukebox.

Normally, Billy was a world-class air guitar player, but not tonight. Tonight he looked more like Joe Cocker Spaniel.

Against my better judgement, I decided to ease my way back there and see if I could do something to lift his spirits a bit. I swear I could feel his gaze as I proceeded back to his table. I didn't sit down uninvited, Billy might have misconstrued my intentions. Instead, I waved my pitcher of Budweiser at him, offering him a refill. After his signature stare-down, he gestured for me to sit and pushed his glass across the table.

“Up to a little company, Billy?”

"Free country... sed'down."

"You okay?"

"Well, I guess that all depends on what you mean by 'okay', junior."
I wasn't about to bite on that one. He loved to make me the butt of his pranks. Once, he gave me a $20 bill and sent me to a bike shop in Denver owned by one of his cronies, for a chrome reflex assembly. Imagine my mood when the now-hysterical clerk with the words “Harley Davidson Forever” emblazoned on his forehead informed me that quite possibly Billy was yanking my proverbial crank. The ninety-mile drive back to Granby was uneventful except for the trail of expletives streaming from my mouth.

Tonight, my radar was seeing bogeys plastered all across the screen. I noticed he was using his left hand exclusively, preferring to leave his right on the seat, under the tabletop, making me wonder if it were injured.

"You're not left-handed are you, Basket?"

"Nope...why?"

Immediately, I was sorry I'd brought it up, but darned if I wasn't curious.

"Oh, no big deal, I just noticed that you haven't moved your right arm at all."

Again the stare. He picked the unfiltered Camel out of the ashtray and clumsily managed to get it to his lips and take a long drag off it, his sunglasses staring off into the distance.

"Aw, hell, you'll hear it soon enough.... I broke my hand and wrist."

Well, this certainly was no epiphany, he’d spent half his life in one medical facility or another.

"Fall off your bike again?"

I could see the end of his pink tongue as he reached to his mouth to extract a small piece of tobacco, and his head was shaking animatedly in the negative.

"No, I got involved in a little... 'skirmish'."

I saw the slightest flash of a grin and dropped my defenses a little. Bolstered, I felt brave enough to continue.

"Let me sign your cast."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Ain't got one."

This didn’t surprise me at all. I knew Billy didn't have a lot of cash. He worked at the cemetery, mowing lawns and pulling weeds, and what little money he had was usually dedicated to the essentials, beer and motorcycle parts. I also knew it would do absolutely no good to try to reason with him, so I tried to change the subject.

"Yea... well, how’s your bike running?"

"I smacked a priest."

For the next thirty seconds I couldn't breathe. There was no air in the room. I took my glasses off and put my hands to my face in an unsuccessful attempt to get my heart started by massaging it through my eyeballs. No matter how hard I rubbed, when I looked back, he was still there. I had to say something!

"Bill, I don't know if..."

"Weren’t my fault… he hit me first!”

The sound of his braying laugh brought a hush to the room. He was now up on his feet, dancing around, clapping his hands and whistling like the madman that he was, and half the people in the bar were pointing and laughing at me. Coughing and spitting beer out my nose and mouth, I grabbed the tabletop for support. Tears in my eyes, I spent the next few minutes trying to regain my composure as Trudy did her best to clean up the mess. Once again, I'd been had by the master. Suddenly, he was transformed into a dancing fisherman, as he went through the motions of reeling me in with his invisible fishing rod. Merciful sportsman that he was, he released me to sit and decide which way I'd bail out if the fool decided to hop over the table and kiss me on the lips... again.

Billy is gone now. His exploits are legends told wherever any of his brothers gather to share the camaraderie of the road. I was a young state trooper, expected to avoid “his type”. He knew what I did for a living and treated me no differently from the rest of his friends-- like a steaming pile of dog poop.

And they say there’s no God…

******

There is an accepted principle of thermodynamics that precludes the possibility of operating an internal combustion engine on any liquid void of hydrocarbon constituents. Therefore, water and urine are not acceptable substitutes for gasoline when one is confronted with an empty fuel tank. Running out of gas is embarrassing enough for any citizen, much less a trained officer whose motor vehicle is designed to function as a tool of protection for the motoring public.
Sadly, I was forced by circumstances, on one occasion, to try the ill-advised urine technique. The action itself was highly demeaning, even though the sun had set. To this day, I swear that little Mopar-Hemi engine gave it a noble effort on my behalf, and even ran for a few feet, in defiance of physics, before coming to rest in much the same position as it started.

For reasons I’ve never fully understood, I tended to be remiss regarding my reliance upon the tiny needle situated on the gas gauge. I always seemed to think that my cruiser’s fuel consumption was less than it was, so I overestimated the amount of time between fuel stops.
The Colorado State Patrol hired me to assume my post as promptly as possible after the designated time of my shift. Never was I late, and never was I out of uniform. Why should I be ostracized for a couple of little failures such as running out of gas while twenty-seven miles from the closest gas station? Admittedly, three times in one month might have pushed the envelope of believability a bit, but no one is perfect, and I always paid the delivery charges myself, even being sure to tip that loud-mouthed snot, Terry Swerdlow, a tidy sum in return for his silence. Of course, my monetary sacrifice had little effect except to possibly allow me to beat the little bastard back to Granby to tell my side of the story before the whole town heard about it. People are so judgmental!

Soon, I was branded as a screw-up. As a habitual slacker, I was forced to confront my inadequacies with extraordinary measures. Early on, I failed miserably in my attempts at memory enhancement. Strings wrapped around my finger had little effect except to cut off the flow of blood to the tips and post-a-notes located on my clipboard stating the obvious, "HEY, STUPID! STOP FOR GAS!”, were noticed only after the vehicle was sputtering and coughing along some lonely roadside in the most remote section of Muddy Pass.

In desperation I shared my misery with my brother officer, Dick Whelan, a legend in the western section of our district for the better part of twenty-five years. Dick was widely accepted in the state as the least productive officer ever hired by the Patrol, a status which he proudly acknowledged. He was totally dedicated to sloth, and once he took me under his wing, I, too, became almost totally unacceptable to my superiors. In some circles, I became known as Little Dick, a moniker that didn’t exactly thrill me, but I was powerless to stop it.

Dick suggested an entirely different approach. His method stated that if I could learn to associate the chore of petrol pumping with an activity that I enjoyed, I could learn to incorporate both activities into my daily routine, or do them simultaneously. After a short period of contemplation, ultimately culminating in my inability to think of anything suitable, Dick asked me to meet him in Kremmling the next day and warned me to come prepared to learn; that is, if I could manage to keep enough gas in the tank to drive the thirty-four miles. Then, after shaking his head sadly at me and muttering something about ‘rookies’ under his breath, he walked away.

Of course, the next day I totally forgot to check the fuel, but as luck would have it, I was able to make it to Dave’s Husky where Dick kept his patrol car. Dick, in keeping with his reputation, was fashionably late. As he stepped out of his car, he motioned for me to follow him. Instead of going into the garage bay where car #157 was housed, we continued to walk back to Dave’s mobile home located near the back of the property. After failing to either knock or even wipe our feet (there was no mat), we entered and Dick motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table as he routinely proceeded into the kitchen area and opened a cupboard door, producing a bottle of Jim Beam and two shot glasses.

He filled both glasses with the caramel-colored liquid. Staring intently at me, he picked up one of the glasses, threw his head back and swallowed the contents with one easy gulp. Then, he picked up the other and positioned it in front of my face.

“Little Dick, are you ever going to forget to put gas in your friggin’ car again?”

The gaze of his blue eyes stared through me with dogged insistence. I meekly reached for the glass, replying in my best John Wayne voice, “Hell, no!”

“Good! See that you don’t, I can’t afford to have people thinking you’re an idiot. If you’re going to be a member of this little fraternity, we can’t have you thumbing rides to town because you’re too stupid to fill your car up with gas. I’ve spent too many years building my reputation in these parts, and I’ll be damned if some little weasel from Denver is going to screw it up!” Then, he put the second glass to his lips and quickly sucked down that one as well, grabbing his hat as he walked out the front door.

I sat in the dim light for a couple of minutes and watched as he got into his patrol car and drove off. I never ran out of gas again, and I never once required a shot of Jim Beam, although I would never have admitted it. After all…now I had a reputation to maintain.

******

Under normal circumstances, discussion of a person’s physical abnormalities is, and rightly should be, considered tacky. But, when a certain characteristic is the hallmark of a particular persona, it can be difficult to avoid a blatant stare… or comment.

During the mid-1970’s, Kremmling, Colorado was about as close to being an old-west cow town as the citizenry would allow anywhere in the American West. Climax Molybdenum Company had several mines in the area, and there were numerous cattle ranches dotting the countryside. Miners and cowboys are the human equivalent of oil and water, a fact that was borne out every Friday and Saturday night.

Entrusted with public health and safety, the Kremmling town marshal, of necessity, resorted to some unique techniques in his efforts to keep the peace. But, that was in character for Dick Lemmon, for he was a unique man. Invariably he was up to the task, even if the ramifications of his actions sometimes fell outside the expectations that tavern-owners considered collateral damage. Once, when Dick received a phone call from the owner of The Hoof and Horn (the tavern the locals all called The Hide and Guts), stating that a massive brawl had broken out, Dick didn’t panic. He merely walked out to his garage, picked up several small vials of skunk scent (don’t ask how he got it), and walked across the town square to the establishment. Stepping inside the front door, Dick proceeded to hurl the glass vials at the concrete back wall. Within seconds, the place was empty and order was restored as Dick rounded up several coughing, gasping revelers and placed them under arrest. Of course, Shank Huxley, the proprietor, was forced to fumigate and stay closed for nearly a week, so he requested that Dick try more conventional means in the future. Dick merely smiled and looked God-Knows-Where.

Dick was tall and lanky, and the first time I met him, I immediately thought of two famous Hollywood deputies. Dick’s overall stature made me think of Dennis Weaver, the actor who played Festus on Gunsmoke, while his facial features resembled Jack Elam, the unshaven sidekick with the eyes that looked two directions at once. I had countless conversations with Dick, and I could never figure out which eye he was looking at me with! Of course, his blue jeans, long-sleeved cowboy shirt and haggard Stetson completed the repertoire, right down to the west-Texas twang he’d so carefully nurtured. Truthfully, I doubt the man ever stepped foot outside Grand County.

Dick’s choice of sidearm was a .44 caliber Ruger Blackhawk with an eight-inch barrel. Given the weapon’s ability to penetrate ¼” steel plating (not to mention its huge dimensions), it might not have been the choice of most law enforcement officials in this or any other jurisdiction. But, Dick loved that damn pistol more than any other single possession he had. He even made a special holster for it that incorporated a swivel, so that he could tie it to his leg and quick-draw without having to draw the weapon from the holster. I’m sure he had a perfectly well thought out reason for this modification, too. Truthfully, I was afraid to ask him, fearing that he’d actually tell me. Some things, a man is just better off not knowing.

We had a mild winter in ‘72, and one December evening, I was working west car (U.S. Highway 40 from Muddy Pass eastward to Granby) and I received a call on TACH-2 asking for me to 10-7 (go out of service) in Kremmling and meet him at the County gravel pit. I immediately knew why he wanted to meet with me. I had a stopwatch in my car, and he wanted to practice his quick-draw.

When I drove up, we shook hands and he immediately engaged me in conversation, as I unsuccessfully tried to figure out which eye to concentrate on.

“Bob, I got me a new holster, and I’m getting’ DAMN good!”

“Uh-huh…. Well, I don’t—“

“Oh, come on, just for a few minutes… I just need to hear some numbers… I think I’m quicker than Lucas Whitby, and if so, I’m going to the Quick-Draw Nationals next year!” Suddenly, he was grinning and shaking his head… the man was totally disarming.

Rather than spend the next twenty minutes trying to get out of it, I opened my glove compartment and pulled out the watch. “Okay, Dick, you’ve got six shots in that hog-leg… make ‘em count! You know the drill, same as always. I’ll say go and start the watch, and when I hear you fire, I’ll stop it. Ready?”

I purposely didn’t watch him to keep from laughing. I’d witnessed this performance before, and the way he stood with his hands to his sides, he resembled a b-movie extra Central Casting hired to stand-in for the star.

He’d be mad as hell if he caught me giggling.

“Go!” BOOM!

“1.2…”

“Let me try again, my hand slipped a little…”

“Okay…here we go…. Ready? GO!” BOOM!

“Well, a little better, Dick, .9 seconds that time.”

Dick let out a stream of expletives about how I wasn’t shutting the clock off soon enough, and how I had the reflexes of his 90-year-old grandfather. We tried it several more times, with the times being pretty similar, until he had one bullet left in his pistol.

“Okay, Bob, last try… I’ll betcha’ dinner that I’m under a half-second this time. Are you in?”

Let it be said at this point, that I was taught never to allow a fool to keep his money. The idiot was betting against my reflexes as well as his own. “Go for it.”, I replied, a slight hint of a smile sneaking out.

“Ready… BOOM! Go!”

I looked down at the watch, realizing, of course, that I hadn’t been offered the opportunity to actually click it on before he fired. Now, I fought to keep from rolling on the ground in laughter, my sides hurt from trying to keep it in!

“Jeezuz H. Kee-rist on a silver crutch, Dick, that is, by far, your best effort! I actually owe you two-tenths of a second.”

Dick didn’t move, so I walked over to him. As I approached, he looked somewhere in the vicinity of my face and said, “Get me to Doc Marino’s clinic… I just shot myself in the foot.”

I spent the next two hours helping Doc get Dick’s boot and sock off, then helped hold him down while he stitched up the tissue between his big toe and the next. The bullet missed the bones, but Dick was going to be pretty sore for the next couple weeks or so.

When we were finished, Doc walked me out to the front door and asked me what happened. I asked him whether he wanted the truth. He shot me a look I’ve never seen before and walked off. After about three steps, he turned, looked back over his shoulder and said, “For your sake and mine, I never saw you today.”

The last I heard, Dick was still keeping the streets of Kremmling free from scofflaws of all sorts, and I don’t think he minded the limp he’d acquired. I’m sure that if he’d owned a uniform, it would be emblazoned with a Purple Heart.

Sometimes I think we put too much emphasis on the facts. As any judge will tell you, everything is open to interpretation. Sure, truth is freedom, but the quest for truth can take some off-course junkets into a world that not everyone can visit. To those who can, I doff my cap in recognition of your special skills… I’m sure you’re having a whole lot more fun than some of us.

Why did I quit the Colorado State Patrol? A difficult question to answer, I assure you. I loved being an officer. I enjoyed the solitude of winter patrols complete with the majesty of the Rockies and the feelings of insignificance when dropped into the duality man shares with nature, buffered against an opportunity to serve in a meaningful way. Not a day went by that I didn’t assist a trucker out of a barrow pit, help an unprepared motorist put on a set of tire chains, or stop a motorist to remind him or her of the potential consequences of unsafe driving. I also liked getting calls from the Grand County Sheriff’s department asking for assistance; they reminded me of my brotherhood in blue. For a ‘thrill junkie’ such as myself, the excitement or potential for excitement made a difficult job easier when the adrenalin freely flowed.

Then, in August of 1972, two events occurred that conspired with a third to change the course of my life. Allow me to preface the account with a short explanation. Life as a police officer requires strong family bonds. It is shift work, pure and simple, and the shifts changed on a monthly basis, with very few weekends or holidays off. I worked two weeks of days, two weeks of ‘mids’ and two weeks of ‘third shift’. Plus, if I had a case in court, I was required to be there, regardless of whether it was scheduled during my shift or a day off. If you don’t have the unqualified support of a spouse, it is extremely difficult, if not impossible. My family life, at that time, started to fall apart.

Then, around sunset on August 12 (my wife’s birthday), a young man in a green Porsche decided that he’d rather kill me than accept a ticket for speeding on Berthoud Pass. He put three bullet holes in the windshield of my patrol car and sped off. I was unable to give chase because the safety glass of my windshield looked like a kaleidoscope and vision became obscured. They eventually caught him after he tried to run a roadblock set up on I-70, about fifteen miles from Georgetown. He rolled the car, got out and ran into the woods. He wasn’t seen again for two days until he tried to buy a bus ticket in Idaho Springs and the FBI picked him up.

A few days later, I lost a case in Hideaway Park that involved a drunk who killed a little girl on a bicycle. Eyewitnesses at the scene identified the car (complete with the number on his license plates), so I knew exactly who I was looking for. The driver owned several businesses in the area and held an appointed position with the Grand County Commissioners. He also drank lunch and dinner most days. So, I drove right to his house and found him closing his garage door. I arrested him, advised him of his Miranda rights and immediately took him to the Hideaway Clinic where I forced him to submit to a blood test for alcohol determination. He was quite combative and agitated, but I didn’t care because I had both physical evidence (blood and paint on the front bumper of his vehicle) and eyewitness testimony that he drove the car. I charged him with causing death while under the influence, reckless driving and vehicular manslaughter. Dick Doucette, the Grand County District Attorney, told me it would be a very easy case to prove.

When the case finally came to trial, all charges were dismissed when the judge (who happened to be a golf partner of the defendant’s) ruled that since he was too inebriated to understand the charges being brought against him, I violated his Constitutional rights by forcibly taking his blood, against his wishes, for alcohol analysis.

I didn’t take the ruling well. As soon as the judge completed the ruling, I unpinned the badge from my uniform shirt, walked up to the bench, and threw my badge at the judge. He was not pleased… he charged me with contempt of court and ordered the bailiff, Huck Henderson, to take me into custody. Huck was a friend of mine, but he did his duty.

Ten minutes later, Sgt. Crews, my boss, was allowed into my cell. He asked me to apologize to the judge and I refused. Without another word, he turned and walked out. Within thirty minutes, he brought the paperwork to me, and I resigned my commission as a Colorado State Patrolman. I figured that if that’s the way all cases are adjudicated, I wanted no part of it. Why should I get shot at, work every holiday, and watch my family life disintegrate around me for $660 a month? Bus drivers in Denver made more than that.

Within 30 days, my wife filed for divorce and my life, as I had known it, ceased to exist. By January, I lived in Phoenix, Arizona and enrolled at Arizona State University, using the G.I. Bill to help finance my education. It promised to be a long and arduous road.