Authors: Len Norman
The Lieutenant and the Prostitutes
1984
L
ieutenant Walt Chapman was a son of a bitch to the nth degree. His fellow officers detested him with a passion and his own family despised him. He was rotten to the core and had never done a kind deed in his life, at least on purpose. Most police departments had someone like Chapman, someone the troops could focus on with real animosity. If the officers were busy hating him, it took the pressure off the Chief of Police and to some extent anyone in a command position.
Chapman looked down his nose at everyone on his platoon and could’ve cared less for any of them; he was narcissistic and didn’t like to be questioned. He occasionally tried to establish the usual things most cops hated: ticket quotas, leaving unnecessary horseshit reports, and plenty of ass kissing.
One day he handed Calvin a subpoena and told him to serve it by the end of his shift. The subpoena was for Herb Wixom on a neighbor code enforcement dispute and when Calvin saw the name, he said, “Really?”
Herb Wixom was nuts and he had all manner of guns. He owned several handguns and long guns and was rumored to even have a machine gun. Herb was due to go on trial for criminal sexual misconduct and the victim was his niece. He’d made several statements that he’d like to kill some cops. The information was received by a couple of very good informants and all of the Riverside officers were as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
Calvin said, “Herb Wixom has guns and he made threats; he wants to kill cops. He’s due in court next week is what I heard…as a defendant in a criminal matter, couldn’t we give him this here subpoena after he goes through the court metal detector?”
“NO! And I don’t care about his silly-ass threats. I told you to deliver that subpoena and you damn well better do it, or else.”
Calvin left the station and met up with Quentin. They were both driving separate marked cars. “Chapman wants me to deliver a subpoena to Herb Wixom,” he said.
“Is he out of his fucking mind? Who would expect a cop to walk up to Wixom’s front door? That asshole Wixom is better armed than we are, and he’s probably twice as nuts as Chapman, so that makes him really crazy.”
“What should I do?”
“I’ll go with you and this is how we’ll handle it,” Quentin said. He drew a diagram on the back of a napkin darkened with coffee stains.
They approached Wixom’s house from opposite directions. Quentin drove in from the west and Calvin from the east. They both slowly drove their patrol cars over the curb and stopped directly in front of the sidewalk. They were parked on an angle in front of the broken-down ramshackle house.
Both officers opened their front doors and slowly got out. Quentin keyed up the microphone on the radio’s public address system and said, “Herbert Wixom, this is the police! Step out of the house and show us your hands!”
A minute or so later Wixom walked out and said, “What the hell is all of this about?”
Quentin replied, “Keep your hands where we can see them and slowly walk toward the sidewalk.”
Wixom did as asked and Calvin stepped out from behind the car door and handed him the subpoena. “There you go dickhead, you’ve just been served.”
Wixom stared at him incredulously and said, “You’ve got to be shitting me!”
“Nope, it’s a real subpoena and you better show up.”
Before Quentin and Calvin got back into their patrol cars Quentin said, “Go spear us a couple of coffees and we can discuss what just happened.”
“Sure, Quentin. Anything you say.”
They sat in the cemetery and drank their coffee. “I sure appreciate your help. Why would the Lieutenant tell me to do something like that? Everybody knows Wixom wants to shoot a cop. I don’t get it.”
“He’s half brain dead is all. The last decision he made that showed an ounce of common sense was whether or not he should put cream in his coffee. The Chief should give him a box of crayons and a pair of rounded scissors so the dumbass can find something constructive to do…something in his wheelhouse. I want you to pay attention, OK?”
“Definitely. Whatcha got for me?”
“Wixom will call the station and complain about the method in which the subpoena was served. You were told to deliver it but not how. When Chapman asks you why we served it in that fashion, tell him it was my idea. Are you clear on that so far?”
“Sure.”
“He’ll call me in and raise hell and I’ll tell him that everyone on his platoon admires him and would never think of going around a direct order, but he never said how it should be delivered so I thought we should play it safe. He’ll be unable to discipline you and his anger will be directed at me.”
“I hate that fucker. Truly!”
“Everyone hates him. I happen to think Chapman hates himself,” Quentin said.
They finished their coffee and went back on patrol. Calvin checked his rearview mirror frequently, half-expecting to see Herb Wixom driving behind him with a machine gun outside the driver’s window.
Wixom did in fact call and complain. He spoke with Chapman and told him that he was embarrassed by the way he was called out of his house and the manner in which the two patrol cars were parked, and the way the subpoena was served. He said, “I never wanna see those two cocksuckers on my property again.”
Chapman replied, “I’ll discuss this with the officers, and I can assure you this will not happen again.”
“You better. Next time just might be a bloodbath!”
Chapman called Calvin into the station. As soon as he was in Chapman’s office, Chapman began shouting. “I told YOU to deliver that subpoena. Why in the hell did you involve Quentin?”
“Wixom is dangerous and poses a threat. I didn’t think you’d mind if I had backup with me. The subpoena was served, just like you wanted.” Calvin handed the lieutenant the proof of service.
“The next time I give you an order; you goddamn better ask me first before you start involving others. Get the hell out of my office.”
When Chapman called Quentin in for a chat, things went a little different. When Quentin walked into Chapman’s office he immediately sat down.
“What can I do for you, Chappie?”
Chapman hated it when others shortened his last name to Chappie. “I’ll tell you, Quentin, I worked hard to become a lieutenant, and you need to call me Lieutenant Chapman.”
“I guess.”
The Lieutenant stared long and hard at Quentin and ended up breaking his gaze. Chapman was actually intimidated by Quentin. He found Quentin’s piercing eyes disturbing. Chapman wished he would’ve ended all of this after speaking with Calvin.
“If I ever find out you serve a subpoena like that again, I’ll have your ass in front of the Chief.”
“And if you ever ask any of us again to visit a crazy gun-wielding fuck like Herb Wixom for no good reason? I’ll personally ruin your life! What in the hell were you thinking about? Everyone on the department knows that sumbitch has a machine gun. For Christ sakes, we were briefed on it. We’ve been watching out for him. If you had a brain you’d be dangerous. If I didn’t need health insurance, I’d probably kick the shit out of you right here and now!”
Chapman’s face was beet red. “You can’t talk to me like that. I think its insubordination or something; maybe we should go see the Chief.”
“Suits me fine, asshole. I can’t wait to tell him about the stunt you pulled with Calvin and the subpoena. Maybe the Chief needs to know what a dumb ass you are.”
Chapman began to rethink his position. “I happen to think the information on Herb Wixom is a crock of shit, is all.”
“Really? Maybe you should’ve gone to the front door with Calvin. Everybody knows Wixom is flakier than two shithouse rats. I think you used Calvin for bait, and to what end? All of this because of a subpoena on a code enforcement violation?”
Chapman shouted, “I’m ordering you to respect my authority or we’ll see the Chief before the end of your shift.”
“Works for me shithead. I can’t wait to tell the Chief how you screwed those two prostitutes after forcing them to do those things or you’d arrest them for the drugs you planted on them. You sure are smooth. Nice foreplay, Chappie. Can we go see the Chief? Please? He needs to know what a fucking idiot you really are!”
“Those are serious allegations. Who told you that?”
“Half the department knows about it, and I heard the hookers had you taped on a recorder for state police undercover officers. Those guys have been investigating you for months and you never knew?” Quentin was making stuff up and enjoying every minute of it. The hooker part and planted drugs by Chapman were true but no way were the prostitutes wearing a wire. He figured Chapman was stupid enough to believe him about the sting operation. He could see it in his eyes. Quentin thought it would be a good idea to give him something to really worry about.
“I think maybe you and I should have a cooling-off period. I suppose I can overlook your insubordination this time. In many ways, we’re not all that different,” Chapman said. “While we’re at it, I believe I can approve that vacation you requested.”
Quentin was happy to hear that news. He didn’t expect it to happen, but it was a happy consequence.
After Quentin left the office, Chapman closed the door. Before calling a friend that worked for the state police, he opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out Polaroid pictures of the two prostitutes. He’d miss looking at them but figured it was better to be safe than sorry. He took the pictures home with him that night and burned them in his basement incinerator.
“Motherfucking” Billy Roberts and the Stolen Car Caper
1984
Q
uentin was assigned to front-desk duty after an off-duty injury involving alcohol, his vehicle, a phantom deer, and a ditch. He was evasive as to the actual details, but the Sheriff Department wrote it up as deer running in front of his Chevy pickup. Quentin hated desk duty but didn’t want to burn his sick time, and besides it was December and walk-in traffic wasn’t usually that bad. He was reading a true crime novel when “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts walked into the station.
Billy was reputed to be one of Riverside’s most prolific professional hoodlums. He was in his early fifties and had been breaking the law for forty years but hadn’t spent a single day in jail. He dressed like a pimp, but only because he had no attention to fashion. Billy was believed to be an active participant in loan sharking. He owned a few blind pigs that appeared to be apartment houses but actually catered to illegal after-hours gambling and drinking places. He was also a burglar, car thief, and ran a fencing operation that was several counties wide. Riverside police officers had tried to interview with him throughout the years. The results were always the same: wasted time and endless frustration. It was virtually impossible to understand what Billy was even talking about. He muttered in ways the Dick Tracy character Mumbles had never dreamed of chatting. Billy made Dick Tracy’s Mumbles look like a professional dialect coach.
One of the frustrating things about “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts was the way he seemed so sincere, almost as if he wanted to answer those questions posed to him more than anything in the world. His murmuring always included endless babbling with the occasional, “…‘Motherfucking’ Billy Roberts,” thrown in some parts of his lengthy discourse. A Riverside police detective once told the prosecutor that for all he knew, “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts had confessed to murder.
They actually held annual “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts contests at the police lodge. The contestants would dress up like Billy and mimic his speech. Victor usually won top honors. His facial expressions and the way he said, “‘Motherfucking’ Billy Roberts” in mumble jive speak was legend. Ivan suggested that they put Victor and Billy in the same room while detectives question them both.
“Motherfucking” Billy Roberts was with another man when he looked at Quentin and began his usual incoherent nonsense. Quentin was bored to tears until the other man amazingly said, “Mr. Roberts would like to report the theft of his brand-new car.”
“You actually understand what he’s saying?”
“Yes I do, officer. I’ve known Mr. Roberts for years and we converse on several topics.”
“You gotta be shitting me!”
“I can assure you, I’m not. As I said, Mr. Roberts would like to report the theft of his car.”
“Ask him what kind of a car.”
“You may ask him any question you like. Mr. Roberts has excellent hearing, and you should know he’s highly intelligent. He speaks several languages, although English is his primary language.”
Quentin looked at “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts and said, “What kind of car was stolen…what year?”
Billy spoke at length and Quentin was clueless as to what he was talking about except for the sporadic, “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts.
“Mr. Roberts said he parked his 1984 Cadillac in front of the Bijou Theatre where he watched a 1915 Silent Film, Birth of a Nation, directed by D.W. Griffith. He said he was offended that white actors portrayed the parts of black men in the film. He mentioned that he took exception with the way black men were depicted as unintelligent and the Ku Klux Klan as heroes. When Mr. Roberts left the theatre his car was missing.”
“He just told you all of that?”
“He most certainly did.”
“Ask him if he knows who took the car.”
“Ask him yourself.”
Quentin looked at Billy and said, “Any idea who took your car?”
Billy spoke at length and once again Quentin was clueless as to what was said. The man interpreted. “Mr. Roberts just told you that contrary to the opinions of others, he does not associate with unsavory characters. He has no idea who stole his Cadillac.”
Quentin was getting good at interviewing “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts and this time he looked at Billy first and said, “Did you miss a car payment? Maybe the car was repossessed?”
Billy responded and Quentin remained oblivious until the “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts interpreter translated. “Mr. Roberts paid cash for his vehicle at the dealership. He pays cash for everything. The car wasn’t repossessed and he just told you he never gave anyone else permission to drive his car. He said he has only one set of keys.”
Quentin looked at Billy and said, “I’ll file a stolen vehicle complaint on your behalf and enter the car as stolen in the state and federal database. If the Cadillac is returned, please stop in with your friend and let us know the vehicle is no longer missing.”
Quentin completed the report and purposely left out the part about the “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts interpreter. He was already looking forward to the others asking him how in the hell he was able to understand Roberts.
The Cadillac was eventually located in South Carolina. The car was set on fire after most of the parts were stolen. Quentin wondered if “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts bothered with insurance. Even if he had, the insurance would’ve never covered the trunk full of fur coats. That was something Billy never told Quentin about.
Around the time the stolen Cadillac was located in South Carolina, “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts decided to move his operation out of Riverside. He was sick of Riverside’s inclement weather and was ready to downsize and semi-retire in Florida. He was already a self-made millionaire. Billy thought of himself as an entrepreneur even if it was a result of his illegal enterprises. It was a crazy-ass world and getting a whole lot crazier. He figured if the police couldn’t keep someone from stealing his car it was time to move on.