Evidence 101

EVIDENCE 101...Wherever you go, there you are...

Monday, February 8, 2016

Movin' On Up... To That Deluxe Apartment In The Sky!

Blotter Highlights

Superbowl 50: 

How many of you were watching the Super Bowl? Come on. It was number 50. Did you tune in for highlights? Catch the news? It was nice to see Peyton Manning end with a win. I think he is going to retire even though he said he wasn't going to make an emotionally charged decision right now. He truly does Pey It Forward. Catch the new article in the Indy Star (link provided.) 

Did anyone catch his plug for Budweiser? It was subtle. 

I wasn't really thrilled with the weird commercials, like the puppy-baby-monkey which disturbed the hell out of me. 

I think I watched it with my mouth gaping open. But some made me smile...like the Prius 4 ad. 

And then there were the Budweiser ads: I particularly liked the ones with Helen Mirren and a new take with the Clydesdales. 

Who doesn't love Helen Mirren? She is a bomb shell and a role model for all women. I adore her. Here is her famous bikini shot of 2008 at the age of 63 on holiday on an Italian beach: 

Photo: Mario Brenna 
She didn't want to be defined by that picture and refused to brand herself as a sex symbol. 

"You write your life story by the choices you make. You never know if they have been a mistake. Those moments of decision are so difficult."

Classy British dame. I lurve her. 

And the 2016 Budweiser Superbowl ads:

So there was that. 

Fisher, IN Thrill Killer Sentenced

Photo: Hamilton County

Maxwell Winkler was sentenced to 80 years in prison, but the announcement went virtually under the radar being published right before the big football weekend. He was 17 when he shot an elderly man in Fishers, then sliced his throat. For what? Not a robbery. He had been plotting a kill for a long time, wrote about, and planned for it. It was labeled by media as  "thrill kill". The homicide rocked the affluent community of Fishers, Indiana. His father was the economic development director of Anderson, Indiana. Maxwell was living with his mother in Fishers. Oh, yeah. You can tell by his eyes that something isn't connecting right upstairs. It's the same story over and over. Disconnected kids, broken homes, dysfunction junction, whites of the eyes, no friends-loners, pale or grey skin, etc. I could be a profiler for future youth homicidal maniacs. 

 He was sentenced without parole for the murder with a change of plea to "guilty but mentally ill". He can get out in 60 years.  I am sure to be dead by then. 

Fargo Becomes An Out of State Rookie

Sometimes you have that one rookie from another state who bad mouths the current place of residency or constantly says, "Well, it isn't that way back home." Those FNGs are annoying as hell and we often would tell them, "Shut the fuck up. You aren't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy." Yeah. We weren't very nice training officers. 

We all compare. It's just human nature. I should have been more compassionate. But then...no...it was annoying as hell and I didn't want to here it. Shut up. Adjust. 

I have really been homesick lately and I was asked why I don't just move back. There was nothing keeping me here. They said. Then, I got told that all I do is bad mouth the area anyway. 

I was a rookie. Poop. Shit. 

Bug Grows Up

This happened this weekend. Where did the time go? At least she got my blue eyes.

Fargo Falls

My alarm went off at 4:45 am EST. I woke up, swung out of bed and the world started spinning. Boom. I fell right into the door jamb of my closet with no way to stop myself. It was the big one, Weezy! (Yes, that is a snork on Obama when he mixed up Sanford and Sons with The Jeffersons) 

I grabbed my chest...er...abdomen...because my chest had fallen. Old age, you know. 

Mind you, the house is 125 years old so the door jamb is 6 inches of the hardest hickory. It didn't feel so great, but I brushed off that sensation because something was not operating properly.  It felt as if I were passing out but I didn't go out. I must have gotten up too quickly. That is the sign of a bad heart issue coming on.  Lawdy, me, don't take me now. I'm not ready to go.

I realize we don't have a choice, but why not plea with God. Everyone else does. 

Nope. My legs did not move. They were folded up underneath me like a clown doll. Holy dragon ballz, did I turn into a paraplegic? Weird. I am not that limber. My legs do not go that way. I must have broken every bone in my body on the way down. Good thing I can't feel a thing. 

I club crawled (what you do when you are way too drunk and caught out in da club) myself to my phone but no one I called answered. What to do? 

Bug was all the way across the hallway and to drag myself over there was going to expend all my energy. This is quite the dilemma. I climbed up my log bed (thank you, 13 year old solid Aspen frame) and tried to get my bearings. I love wood. Especially hard wood. 

Then it dawned on me. It was not the big one, Weezy! My legs had fallen asleep. Snore. It took a moment or a hundred for them to come back and I got around for a few minutes like a Parkinson's patient. Needless to say, two hours later, those missed calls were returned. Of course, it didn't matter that I would have already died by then. People. Cell phones. I think natural selection just worked better in the old days. 

Friday, February 5, 2016

Prostration Blows and Other Man Cop Nonsense

"Let me be blunt and lay it all out there for the world to see." That was my intention when blogging took off. No longer was it a super secret journal or haven to record my daily encounters. It began that way for me as, Momma Fargo, the anonymous cop blogger. There were several us who somehow found each others' blogs and created a small cop community. Then it all exploded. Then came..."the others." The others are those watchful citizens who enjoyed reading about our fodder and left comments, then joined our blogs, then subscribed and came back for more. Silly peeps.

If you build it, they will come. 

We LEOs could finally express ourselves without repercussion until the Internet technology grew and it became easy to discover an author's true identity. That's when everyone fell off the Internet and went back into seclusion. Policies changed and social media was regulated. But what about blogs?

They, too, were part of the policy changes. I really started to seize up during this time and milled around several ideas of whether to shut down the blog or keep going against policy. The policy allotted for a personal blog but had restrictions on work information. I began to blog about my daily life off the job which bored even me. I was really unhappy. 

Social media killed the fun of our network but exploded a new outlet. We could network around the world like a gang in secret Facebook groups, websites, or chat rooms. Nope. They can find us there, too, those damned admins. Then you have the tattle tails. 

I belong to several networks and I am always amazed at the different perspectives and discussions. Not all cops think alike. Not all are Type A personality, but all have egos and arrogance of some kind. I posed that on social media one day and got a heated discussion that it was not true and cops are courageous and have confidence, not arrogance. I beg to differ. There are egos. There is arrogance. There is over-bearing sense of pride. Not all of it is the offensive arrogance, but that too tags along at times. I don't think everyone is immune. I  believe I had some negative arrogance a time or two.

Now is not the time to ostrichsize. What is that word, you say? Let me refresh your memory with visual aids:

Putting one's head in the sand and ignoring, denying, or hiding from reality.

I worked with a great bunch of LEOs and in a clean run department. Sure, we had our set of problems or disagreements, but they were mild. Lately, I really am learning the disparity between two sides of the earth. Departments all have different atmospheres, cliques, and attitudes. They are not the same. Let me tell you more.

This last week I have been questioned about my legitimacy. A local cop actually told me that when he tells his friends about my past and coming to Indiana, they tell him, "Something is up with that one. That story doesn't jive." I was told point blank: "Kathryn, you can tell me if you are in the Witness Protection Program and hiding from some mobster or gangster. I think we would all rather know now."

"I was just on fucking television. On a national network. Are you serious?"

This was a serious topic, but I was really about to bust my guts. I didn't mean to pass off as rude, but seriously, folks, if I can act this part, then what a fun story this would be!

Even after stating I am all over the internet and if I were truly in WITSEC, I was the dumbest client that ever entered the program, I still was questioned and not believed. I was treated differently- like I was a liar. It had no effect.

I throw my hands up. What do you do? You be gangster.

"Ok. I am in WITSEC. It was either here or Albuquerque. "

"I would just like to know. You just have to be upfront with us. No one believes you just left your job during a successful career to come here."

I couldn't find a brick wall fast enough to bang my head on. I had to change the subject before I pulled my hair out and channeled my inner Sinead O'Connor.

The cloud of doubt continued...then I got this from a bunch of veteran man cops: 

"All the pictures of you in your books show you having an intense look on your face."

"Yeah," I said, "That's how I was. I was intense and wound tight."

"We don't know any white girls that listen to your music. It's hard core. Like Bone Thugs, Eminem, some of that street rap. It's really alarming. It was almost a deal breaker. We don't get it."

Well, that struck up a conversation which got me on my girl bandstand.

"If you went west, you would find a bunch of people that listen to rap and other music. Especially, Eminem. We grew up with him. What the fuck? And who gives a shit about some person's musical preferences. It's not like I make you guys listen to it."

"It's just weird."

It got weirder.

The boys said they don't like female cops because they are "hard" and they try to be like the boys. Additionally, I was told they have no use for them and they think girls should be soft and wear frilly dresses. Oh, and they added I dress manly. Whee...doggies! That was the wrong thing to say to Fargo. Manly? I dress like a business professional. Off work, I wear lace tops and other girly things. The spittle which came thereafter from me being frustrated and hot to trot was not attractive. Everything came out between gritted teeth.

When I told them the females were prepared to back them up just like their linebacker buddies, they pshaw-ed me off, stating that they didn't need backup and certainly didn't wait around for any girls. This was not just said to get under my skin. It was what they really feel and think. I got that they aren't a close department when I did ride alongs. Everyone is cordial but not all friendly like as was my department.  I just didn't get they were working with Fred Flintstones and wanted Wilma to stay in the rock house tending to the fire.

This is Fuck You Barbie Cop. She was created by a man. Ten ways to tell this is a fake: 1. NOT anatomically correct. 2. Hair is not high and tight. 3. No duty belt. 4. High water pants. 5. Low top shoes are not worn by real cops. 6. Hand me down uniform. 7. Santa Claus belt is not issue approved. 8. Gravy train tie. 9. Karate chop hands are staged ninja hands.10. She is smiling. 

You can imagine my head spun around backwards and I went off about their version of a girl looking like a "ho" and being at home on the mattress. It did not go over well. I continued, trying to pry if that was the true opinion or just men trying to get me to twist off.

Push, push, push. "You guys really don't think that way."

"Yep." "Yep." "Yep."

Well fuck you, mutha fuckahs!

Really, was I in the stone ages? I thought we had all gotten past this? If they truly feel that way and are only telling me because I was out of the biz, how did they treat their female coworkers? This I needed to know. I am sure they put on a front so they didn't get in trouble, but were HORRIBLE behind their backs. Fuckers. It made me start talking like a truck driver.

"See. That's another thing. Real girls don't say 'fuck'. Hard girls who are cops and are jaded say 'fuck'."

"Yep. Fuck you, mutha fuckahs!"

"That really wasn't necessary."

The hell you say.

Did my coworkers feel the same about all of us? Was I just in lah-lah land thinking I was respected and we worked together well?

Who knows.

All I can say was that conversation blew. Square box, round pizza, triangular slices. I can make no sense of it. It hurt my head to think any more on this subject so I had to cease and desist.

And then I had to quickly phone my handler about moving me again. Maybe they will put me in a warm, tropical environment for the rest of the winter...

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

FMITA Moments By Fargo

Last night I almost got swallowed up by a phenomenon. That is a lot of consonants followed by some vowels followed by more consonants. First, I must preface this that it was a dark and stormy night with 60 degree weather and pouring rain and cemeteries and no visibility on the roadway.


Going to a school function in a nearby town, I drove balls to the walls because I got off work late. As I drove toward the town, I was receiving texts that I was about to miss the event.

"I'm going to make it! I'm going to make it!"

Moms and dads beware, Fargo is en route, mach 12. I kept driving and my anxiety level was escalating with each moment.

When I arrived in the town which was an average population small town, my cell phone lost service and my GPS quit working. I shit you not. It was straight out of a damn horror show.

To top that, only two businesses were open...a small grocery and a pizza joint. No one was in the pizza joint, but maybe they were out back smoking. I didn't have time. I saw the carry out boy in the parking lot of the grocery and hustled to his side. Well, I drove like an asshole and slid to a stop. To the lady's horror, there I was. She was a fat customer, about 30 getting assistance from a carry out boy who resembled Harry Potter's mother mating with the Schwan man. They did not smile.

Literally, no one was milling around in town. Ok, so it was pouring rain. That might explain it.

"Excuse me, sir, could you direct me to the high school?" I asked with a desperate smile. He looked at me like I was an alien.

But he gave me directions to go way down there and turn a right on Raider Road and go way down that road and turn left. Well, I went miles, couldn't find a Raider Road, ran into farms and many cemeteries and got hell bent. Cell phone and GPS still were not working to my panic and demise. I drove around and around, finally reaching cell service on a hill in fucking nowhere. I have parents on speed dial. It's the school way now. I am actually sociable. Somewhat. But distant. I sniffled and sounded like a freak, but explained my dilemma. Boy, did I sound like a freak.

To my dismay, no one could give me directions and only found the school by happenstance. Well, fuck me in the ass. I got off the phone and screamed. This was really stupid. I made up new curse words.  A grown adult lost in Area 51, screaming in her car, no cell service, and no GPS. Picture that.

I mean my car fell off the screen and the voices stopped and there were no roads. The yellow arrow was in a field of black. I should have taken a picture of the GPS screen. If I left the hill, I would have no communication with real people. Ever again. I was certain.

I was certain I was being set up to be serial killer bait.

Ima Gonna Killa Bitch

I had to drive back to the desolate and empty town. Fifteen minutes later, I tried the pizza place screaming in the back for some assistance. Startled, a pizza dude came out and helped me. He was quite nice. His directions were spot on.

Apparently, 3rd street was Raider Road. Well, fuck me in the ass. Who would know? There weren't even any signs pointing to a school. Taking 3rd street, I reached an intersection where the school sat... 2.4 miles later. Did it ever dawn on the makers of this building to put school signs along the way if they were going to put it in butt fuck Egypt? No. Why? Because that would make sense. Or why not extend the 3rd Street name for the next 2.4 miles so people don't get confused. Streets should not turn into roads. Just saying.

I need to be an urban planner. I could really straighten up this mess for dummies.

To top it off, I found out if my GPS hadn't taken me on a ghetto Garmin cruise, I could have reached the school by back way in 20 minutes on a new highway, bypassing Creepytown.

I didn't make it. I arrived for the last 10 minutes.

I really am trying to be a good mom. I don't know if I am going to be able to hack it.