We Don’t Get Paid Enough For This

I arrived at the economy hotel after a request from the road sergeant for additional units to help sort out whatever debacle they had going on over there. And when I say ‘economy,’ I’m being generous. It was the kind of hotel that smelled like an ashtray, had furniture from the Carter Administration, and whose tagline should be, “We’ll leave a crack pipe out for you.”

After making my way through the lobby I walked down the hall and up to the door of the hotel room to which I had been summoned. I knew I had found the right room because the door had been split in half from top to bottom, folded like a piece of origami. That was something I hadn’t seen before. My first question was to find out who did that so I could congratulate them on some fine handiwork. My second question was, What the heck happened?

The Mule

I poked my head into the stereotypical low budget hotel room that boasted two double beds, a dresser with a TV on top (cable included!), and a mini fridge (they must have upgraded). The room looked like Motley Crue had a slumber party because it was a complete and total disaster. Four people who personified an after-school special on why kids shouldn’t do drugs lined one side of the bed closest to the door with their hands handcuffed behind their back. Two men and two women whose late-night weekend plans had gone suddenly awry.

Apparently a 911 call had come from the room to report an overdose but when the police arrived they refused to open the door, hence the splitting of the door in two. After making entry the officers dealt with the overdose first and the drugs second. Everyone was separated and interviewed and two of the four occupants fingered one of the guys as being the source of the drugs, and more specifically, the mule. They were adamant that a large amount of drugs were currently being stored in a dark, warm place, squarely between the guy’s cheeks — and I’m not talking about the ones on either side of his face.

The Short Straw

Once I was up to speed on all the happenings I was then assigned the consequential task of booking the mule and, unfortunately, of recovering the drugs. My sergeant tried buttering me up with a pep talk that went something along the lines of, “You’re the guy I trust…I don’t want this screwed up…I know you’re the guy who can get this done, blah, blah, blah,” which was code for, “There are drugs in this guy’s butt and I don’t want to get them so I’m making you do it instead.” If we had been drawing straws that night I most certainly had drawn the shortest of them all.

The whole ride back to the station I strategized a non-invasive way of handling the drugs-in-butt situation. I figured if I put on my black belt in Verbal Judo I could talk this guy into handing them over and avoiding any unnecessary sights or smells. Surely, this man would recognize the gravity of the situation, understand that he had run out of options, and therefore listen to reason.

Into The Drunk Tank

After the Wagon dropped my latest project off I walked him into the Drunk Tank — the largest multiple-person cell we had — sat him down, and had a man-to-man talk. I told him I knew he had drugs on him, that I knew where they were, and that no one wanted to embarrass him. All he had to do was hand them over. Simple. With a slight forward lean from off the edge of the bench and his hands still handcuffed behind his back, he lifted his head, looked me in the eye, and told me he didn’t know what I was talking about. I let out a big sigh and told him I was going to check, so this was his opportunity to avoid the humiliation of a strip search, and to just come clean. Please? Pretty please? He said I was wrong, that he didn’t have any drugs on him. This process repeated itself at least three times and always had the same results. So much for my brilliant strategy to avoid being mentally scarred.

And so, it came time to do the job that most Americans won’t do.

Brace Yourself

I gave him a thorough pat-down and one last chance before taking the handcuffs off. Then, I stepped back, way back, and told him to turn around, drop his pants, and spread ‘em. This was not exactly the picture of police work that I had painted for myself or what I had envisioned serving and protecting to look like. This was far more horrifying. So, with those words, I held my breath — quite literally I might add — and braced myself like I was about to get smacked in the face with a 2×4 as he followed my instructions to the letter.

Much like looking down the barrel of a loaded shotgun, with one eye pinched shut and the other eye barely open enough to see what I was looking at, I spotted the bag of drugs, or the bag of drugs spotted me, I couldn’t be sure. It was white, wrapped in plastic, and roughly the size of a golf ball. It was like one of Kermit the Frog’s eyeballs looking for a way out.

Scarred For Life

The shock and the horror was almost too much for me. I had secretly hoped that we were wrong, that there wasn’t going to be any there there, but oh, there was a there. I was mad and verbally lashed out, yelling, “C’mon, man! What’s your problem?!” and began yelling about the fact that this whole awkward situation could have been avoided and now I was scarred for life. I was furious.

Through gritted teeth I told him to, “Take. The. Drugs. Out.” He popped out the golf ball-sized bundle like a cork out of a wine bottle, tossed it onto the bench, and stepped away. Alternating between mouth breathing and not breathing at all I shuffle-stepped over to the bench, turned my head to the side in a defensive posture, and with a gloved hand pinched a little dangly corner of the baggy, lifted it, and dropped it into an evidence bag. Holding it at arm’s length I retreated from the cell, slammed the door shut with my free hand, and stomped my way out of there like a pouting child.

Two Things

Sure, the intel was good. Sure, the drugs were recovered. And sure, the bad guy was charged, but sometimes the juice just isn’t worth the squeeze. That experience convinced me of two things: One, a police officer’s job description in recruitment ads is severely incomplete. And two, whatever we’re getting paid is simply not enough.

__________________________

Thanks for reading! Do you have a story that you think we could learn from and that you’d like to share with Johnny Tactical nation? Fill out the contact form and include your name, rank, and department, or email it to [email protected] and follow these guidelines:

– It must be a firsthand account
– True
– Have a lesson, principle, or tactic to apply
– Cleaned of names, dates, and places
– Include your call sign

If your story is selected and published in our blog you’ll get the credit using your call sign and we’ll send you a free Live Tactical t-shirt!