An LA Cop. John Bowermaster
stale beer emitted from the drunk as he stood swaying back and forth trying to maintain his balance by holding onto the side of his car.
The driver responded with an expected, “No, I ain’t had nothing.” Paul instructed the drunk.
“Pal, look up and down the street, in both directions.” Just then a car passed. Paul pointing at the car. “Look at that car passing right now. Tell me, how many white faces you see in that car?”
After what seemed an endless amount of time enduring the stench of stale beer on the drunk, trying to maintain his balance. He broke his silence. “There aren’t no crackers out here nowhere!”
Paul said, “That’s my point!”
“The reason we stopped you is that you’ve had way too much sauce tonight. You’re an accident looking for a place to happen! You’re under arrest for driving under the influence!”
The drunk slurred, “You haven’t given me my test yet. I want my test! Okay, I’ll give you a test. Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?”
“I don’t know—who the hell’s Grant! You failed your test! Put your hands behind your back!” After cuffing the drunk, Paul informed the suspect. “Now I’ll tell you the real reason we arrested you. If I made one more arrest tonight. I make my quota and I win a brand-new craftsman tool box with a screwdriver set. Isn’t that great!”
“This is bullshit. I knew this was a roust! I didn’t get a fair test or nothing!” When X-96 arrived at the station, the drunk was sound asleep in the back seat.
Ed and Mike responded to a traffic accident between a semitruck and a motorcycle. Paul received the call. The semitruck and trailer, traveling westbound, approached an intersection with a green light. The biker and his companion were traveling southbound, approaching the same intersection against a red light.
The passenger was holding onto the biker’s jacket with his fingers in the chromed metal belt rings on each side of his jacket. By the time, the biker realized he was running a red light. It was too late.
When the biker entered the intersection, the semi’s trailer was already in the middle of the intersection. The biker leaned forward, trying to duck underneath the edge of the trailer. The passenger couldn’t bend forward enough to clear the edge of the trailer. It hit him in the middle of his chest, ripping him off the back of the bike.
The biker wedged himself with his motorcycle underneath the trailer’s tire rack. The trailer continued westbound down the street. The passenger landed on the asphalt, sliding on his back southbound underneath the trailer.
As the trailer passed over the passenger, the right rear tandem wheels of the trailer ran over his head and upper body. The trailer dragged the biker and his motorcycle wreckage another hundred feet down the street entangled in the trailer’s tire rack before the truck driver realized what happened and stopped his rig.
Ed and Mike walked over to Paul, standing by the dead passenger in the street. Paul smiled as they walked toward him.
Ed, looking at the accident scene told Paul, “This is some shit you got here!”
Paul said, “I think he’s dead.” Paul pointed toward the semitruck. “The truck dragged the driver to death under the trailer.”
The passenger’s body was lying face up on the asphalt with both his arms extended out from his side. His fingers were still clutching the two metal belt rings he ripped from the driver’s leather jacket when the trailer tore him off the bike. It crushed his head and upper body. A bloody pool of brain matter, hair, broken bones, and internal organs covered the street.
Ed asked, “Paul, are you sure he’s dead? Have you checked his pulse? Maybe he only needs CPR!”
“Well, if he does, he sure the hell isn’t getting it from me! It looks like you’ve got this bucket of worms under control. We’re taking off. When you guys clear, get a hold of us. We’ll hook up and get something to eat!”
Paul and Bill, working 7-A-91, responded to a racing motorcycle call near the oil fields in the Baldwin hills area. The biker had just bought his new Triumph motorcycle earlier that day. He was racing around the streets at 3:00 a.m. near a residential area, causing several residents to call the police complaining about the excessive noise of the racing motorcycle. A-91arrived westbound on Stocker toward Fairfax, looking for the motorcycle where he was last reported.
Paul heard a motorcycle somewhere in the distance to his rear. From the sound of the motor, it was traveling at high speed coming toward them. Paul saw a single headlight approaching them in his rearview mirror.
“He’s traveling at a good clip. This guy has to see our police car sitting here! He’ll slow down or try to turn around to get away.” The biker flew past the officers, doing over 90 mph.
The rider wasn’t wearing a helmet or leather jacket.
The biker hit his brakes, slowing down for the next intersection, attempting to make a left turn southbound onto Fairfax Avenue, leaving the officers in his dust. They were watching the bike as he approached the intersection. Paul looked at Bill, telling him, “Tell control we’re in pursuit.”
Excitedly, Bill pointed, “Look, look, he’s not going to make it!” Paul looked back in time to see the motorcycle skid sideways in the loose gravel while the rider was trying to break for the left turn.
The Baldwin hills area off Stocker had oil trucks traveling in and out of the oil fields, tracking dirt and gravel onto the streets. The motorcycle hit the loose gravel, causing him to slide toward the curb.
There was an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter of the oil field on the southwest corner. Setting back ten feet from the street. The officers learned the damage to the fence occurred earlier that day. One of the oil truck drivers maneuvering on the property caused the damage when he backed into the fence bending the fence poles over facing the street.
The poles were bent almost parallel to the ground, about three feet high. When the motorcycle hit the curb, the biker flew airborne over the motorcycle’s handlebars. The bike tumbled toward a different area in the field.
“My God, Paul, did you see that?”
“Yeah, that bike bounced right over that fence!”
“No, I meant the driver. No, I was watching the bike to see if it was going to cause an explosion. Where’s the rider?”
Bill was staring at the rider. “I don’t believe it! Look at that!” Paul pulled their unit up to the scene; the bike came to rest without exploding in the oil field. Bill grabbed the radio, advising Control they were code-6 at Fairfax and Stocker on a traffic accident, requesting tow and an RA unit for a fatality.
The biker flew off the motorcycle straight toward one of the two-inch metal fence poles that was bent over facing the street. The biker’s face hit the end of the pole right between his eyes, impaling him. The fence pole traveled through the victim’s head, his neck, and exited out his chest.
His body compressed the chain links fence, forcing it toward the base of the pole. By the time they exited their car and got to the victim, the compressed fence had recoiled.
Pushing the victim’s body back off the pole, tossing him on the ground like a rag doll.
They stood there amazed at what happened. Taking a page from Ed’s play book, Paul told Bill to check his pulse, telling him the post could have missed the vital organs. “He could still be alive! I’m the senior man in this car, if he needs CPR, you’re doing it!” Bill stared at Paul without comment.
Paul walked over to check the motorcycle, making sure there were no pending fires. Paul checked the motorcycle’s speedometer. It showed forty-nine miles on the meter! He returned to Bill and the victim. Bill was staring at the victim’s body, Paul told Bill he changed his mind. “Using his SWAG method, I’ve determined the guy is probably dead!”
“What the hell are you talking about? What’s