Dave Case's Blog - Posts Tagged "crime-fiction"

Why Real Cops Don't Watch Cop Shows
Reality vs. Not-Reality

Note: No offense to any officers who actually work somewhere named Hollywood.

I was watching a TV “cop show” the other day and saw an officer tuck a Glock, a striker fired weapon, into the front of his pants without a holster. I let out a breath, rolled my eyes, and shook my head.

Why do they have police technical advisors if they’re not going to listen to them? Or perhaps they have the wrong advisors? Or maybe their advisors have outlived their experience, or at least their tactical knowledge? Or maybe, it was their day off when they filmed that ridiculous scene. This is why the real police often hate, or don’t watch, “cop shows.”

One simply does not put a striker fired weapon in one’s waistband without a holster. If any cop does so, they’re an idiot and I’ll be happy to tell them so. It’s as dumb as shoving a cocked and locked 1911 .45 caliber handgun that doesn’t have its safety engaged into your pants. Bad idea. Stricker fired handguns do not have safeties or decocking levers and their triggers are engaged rather easily. One definitely wants to cover the trigger guard in a holster, especially if it’s tucked into the front of one’s pants, pointing at the family jewels.

Now, for the record, I do not want to be a technical advisor, and am not vying for a position as such. I just wonder about the quality and veracity of their advice.

Which brings me to early in my writing career. I was advised by bestselling author, John Sandford that I should “be careful to not let reality get in the way of entertainment.” Sandford (whose real name is John Camp) said he understood much of police work hour-by-hour was boring, he knew because he had served as a police reporter for many years in the Minnesota Twin Cities area.

As much as I love John Sandford, and/or Camp, and his books, I disagreed with this premise, primarily because I understood the rules well enough to manipulate them to my advantage, that is to say, the advantage of my story. I believed then, and still do, that I can make a story exciting and realistic at the same time.

For instance, spoiler alert if you haven’t read, Out of Cabrini, and shame on you if that’s the case, lol, but I wanted a one-on-one battle between the hero, Stacey Macbeth and a secondary antagonist, Antwan “Boo” Simms. I didn’t want Macbeth to have his radio as the scene unfolds, because in real life, a cop would call in a foot chase and more officers would descend on the area and search until they found the bad guy. It would probably culminate with twelve guys tackling Boo into submission, or at least it would have back in the day in which the book is set, when every community had more cops on the street than we see today.

What I did, is have Macbeth begin to chase Boo, but he is sideswiped by a responding squad car, sending Macbeth into a group of plastic garbage cans, breaking his fall. He gets up, more or less unharmed and commences to chase Boo. After a short period of time, when Macbeth recognizes that it’s going to be an extended foot pursuit, he reaches for his radio to call for reinforcements and discovers his radio is no longer in his vest. He is faced with continuing the chase by himself or going back to the scene and getting help, thereby giving the guy he knows has probably killed several people the chance to escape.

Of course, our protagonist would never allow such a thing as an escape to happen and continues on by himself, thereby setting up the story’s climactic one-on-one battle. I know the rule and was able to engineer a reasonable way around it. Ta-Da! Reality 1, Not Reality 0—or in iterary terms, Realism 1, Not Realism 0. And just for the record, all of the cop’s handguns in Out of Cabrini were in department approved holsters—not tucked in their waistbands! Score another point for Realism!

Out of Cabrini

"Man, you white boys is crazy."

Zito shook the CD at the arrestee.
“‘Ame a sog. ‘Ame a sog, assole.”

Macbeth pushed the prisoner back toward the store, as sirens blared in the distance. He shook his head, spun the prisoner to face him and
stopped.

“What my partner’s so eloquently trying to say is that if you can sing one song off that CD, you can go free.”

The guy stared at them, his breathing still hard and labored. He looked away, toward the store and car.

“Man, you white boys is crazy.”

FREE CHAPTER DOWNLOAD!

Ever wonder where the legend begins? Meet Stacey Macbeth on his beat—where crime rarely rests and danger lurks around every corner.

Chapter One of Out of Cabrini is available now—FREE at www.davecasebooks.com

Start reading today. The streets don’t wait; you shouldn't either.

#MacbethMonday
#OutOfCabrini
#FreeChapter
#DaveCaseBooks
#CrimeFiction
#ChicagoThriller

Buy the book now: Out of Cabrini

The countdown begins . . . Chicago Justice drops June 28th!

In just three days, return to Macbeth's world in a thrilling sequel that proves that sometimes, danger really is around every corner.

That means there is still time to read the first in the series, Out of Cabrini

Free "Out of Cabrini" Chapter download: www.DaveCaseBooks.com

Justice is coming . . .
Out of Cabrini's sequel Chicago Justice debuts in two days - June 28, 2025!

Stacey Macbeth lives for fast-paced chases and even a brawl or two. But when an old foe re-emerges on the scene, he remembers just how perilous things can become.

How quickly do you read? Read the saga from the beginning: Out of Cabrini

Free "Out of Cabrini" Chapter download: www.DaveCaseBooks.com

Justice will be served . . .

In less than 24 hours, the long-awaited Macbeth thriller “Chicago Justice” launches. Dave Case continues the “Out of Cabrini” saga bringing to the page the heart-pounding realism one can only get from patrolling the streets of Chicago and dealing with the gangs of Cabrini Green and their spreading influence.

How quickly do you read? Read the saga from the beginning: Out of Cabrini

Free "Out of Cabrini" Chapter download: www.DaveCaseBooks.com

"The First Time a Gun Was Pointed at Me."

Police work is a dangerous job.

Grown men and women running around the city with guns pursuing men, and a few women, who have chosen to prey on people of our communities is fraught with risk.

I honestly don’t know how many times in my career I had run into situations where I pointed my weapon at another cop, or had another copper’s weapon pointed at me. I spent a lot of time running around after criminals and predators on the south and the west sides, and the north side, too, for that matter. Those pursuits being in both uniform and plainclothes.

(Note: for those not familiar with Chicago, there isn’t really an east side, other than a little slice of the city (neighborhood) that hugs our border with Indiana on the far south side.)

When I came out of the Chicago Police Academy on November 19, 1986 (why that date sticks in my mind I have no idea), I remember wondering if I’d ever find myself on the wrong end of a gun being pointed at me. I remember thinking what it would be like facing down that yawning black hole that promised death and/or great bodily harm?

I know . . . I wasn’t too bright back then, some, well, plenty of people would argue I’m still not too sharp today.

How would I react? Would I react?

In the academy, we had some recruits freeze in training when faced with having a gun pointed at them. Some ducked. Some looked to hide.

What would I do?

You couldn’t help but wonder. Post academy, I was self-aware enough to know that I didn’t really know. Sure, we’d been trained and hopefully I would revert to my training and respond accordingly.

But, I asked myself, will you ever really know until it happens?

I imagine there are plenty of Chicago cops who never have had to discover how they would respond. In fact, maybe its most of Chicago’s finest haven’t looked down the barrel of another person’s firearm. I hope that’s the case.

I am in no way casting any aspersions on those officers who haven’t had the experience. It’s not like we go looking for it, I know I didn’t. But I tended to be . . . assertive and worked with aggressive officers who were assigned to districts with the highest violent crime rates and/or trends and shootings. There were always, and still are, shootings.

All of that said, I found out what it felt like and what I would do when faced with having a gun pointed at me. But it wasn’t anything like I’d imagined it would be. Sometimes that’s the trouble with imagining ahead of time. . . Playing the “What if?” game. Regardless, I still highly recommend playing, “What If.” It’s saved my hide many times.


The Beach Watch Party

Which brings me to the indelible memory that’s stuck with me for several decades.

I was still on probation, not long off my field training, when an academy classmate, who worked in a different district than I did, invited me to a watch party. It was spring, and his watch was having a party on the beach in their district, the Twenty-first, which has been shuttered for years now. Watch parties could be rambunctious affairs hosted when the men and women of the watch about to rotate off of afternoon shift for the day shift would get together to blow off some steam. This occurred once every three months.

Billy assured me this was going to be low-key, just a few of the straight afternoon officers that didn’t rotate had decided to get together. They called it a watch party, but he said it wouldn’t be twenty people all together.

Having lived in the city less than a year, and working a lot, I wanted to get out and meet more people. My circle of friends was pretty small and somewhat limited compared to how many I had in Minnesota, where I primarily grew up.

I arrived at the beach, it was dark, and chilly, and so a fire had been built in the sand. I saw Billy and we spoke, but he got pulled away for some reason or another and I found myself alone amongst a group of strangers, cops, but strangers nevertheless.

I had on a jean jacket, but was still a little chilly with the breeze coming off Lake Michigan, so I stepped up to the fire. I was by myself, but people were all around me.


The Confrontation

As I stood there, frankly thinking maybe I’d made a mistake because, other than Bill, I was the youngest person there, someone spoke.

"Who are you?”

It was a guy sitting with his back to a low concrete wall, his arm around a woman’s shoulder, their feet stretched toward the fire.

I looked around, not sure if he was talking to me.

“Yeah,” he said, “you. Who are you?”

Now, I have to admit that I was perhaps a little cocky. I worked in Englewood which was a fast district, full of gung-ho coppers and they had rubbed off on me . . . maybe, a little. I detected an edge to the seated cop’s voice and I found myself getting irritated. Didn’t he know I was a cop?

I guess I wasn’t answering fast enough, because he stood.

“I asked you a question,” he said.

He was short, like five foot seven or eight, and was heavy, carrying most of his weight in a pear shape and his breath was redolent with booze.

“I’m the fuckin’ life guard,” I said, admittedly not helping the situation.

This cop pulled his snubbed nosed revolver from his waistband, and pointed it at my face.

Only a few feet separated us.

I saw the deep darkness of the barrel, the silver colored hollow point tips of the rounds in the adjacent chambers of the one in battery. I saw the hard eyes of the man holding the gun out at arm’s length. He was wearing a jean jacket too.

And I felt the heaviness of my Smith and Wesson .45 caliber semi-automatic, having not purchased an off duty weapon as of yet, weighing down the back of my jeans (How I hate to admit wearing denim over denim, a fashion faux paw to be sure, especially in the big city, maybe not as much in 1987 as now, lol).

But this was a cop pointing a gun at me. And I knew he was a cop. I don’t remember thinking about getting shot. I only wanted to get my hands on this asshole who had the audacity to pull a gun on another officer of the law.

He pulled the hammer back on his snubie.

The ominous click sent a chill up my spine. The revolver was in single-action mode now, and only the slightest pressure on the trigger would cause it to discharge.

“I fucking asked you a question, smart ass. Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?”

Somewhere off to my right, a woman screamed.

Apparently, this little drama had caught her attention. Maybe his companion was used to his behavior, maybe she was shocked, I don’t know, but she’d been quiet.

People started yelling at him to put the gun away. His drunken expression slackened slightly and his hand with the gun slowly lowered.

I was flooded with relief and a boiling anger.

As I started around the fire to break the son of a bitch’s neck, I felt arms circle my waist and Billy was talking to me and trying to hold me back, with little success. I’m Six three, two hundred twenty-five pounds, NFL tight end size.

“It’s not worth it,” Billy said. “He’s not worth your job. You’re on probation.”

Like a beacon cutting through a fog of anger, I managed to take a breath and allowed myself be led away. My blood was boiling.


Years Later

This was many years ago, but the memory dwells inside my skull and occasionally resurfaces. It’s something I’ll never forget.

Be careful what you wonder, because sometimes you get thrown a curve.

I’d had my first experience of having a gun drawn and pointed at me, and by the grace of God I got through it.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be my last, but it was a life-lesson that kept me on the right road.