Knock, knock...

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       While writing “Nekked” I started thinking about where I was going to go next. I mean, how could I top a nude werewolf? I have a couple of Taser stories (which I might get into later), but I wanted to do something that you can’t get from your favorite morning radio talk show. I wanted to follow up with something unique, something that nobody else has written about or would think to write about. It had to be something with a bit of excited tension but funny as well…

          How about doors?

          You heard me, I said doors.

        But Graham, I thought you were going to write “cop” stories. What do doors have to do with police work?

    Well, a lot actually. For starters, there’s that whole “Fourth Amendment thing” that rambles on about searches, seizures, warrants…blah-blah-blah. Not to mention the fact that every day, cops are faced with situations in which their lives and careers hinge (sorry) upon the existence of doors.

       So what is a door? According to the World English Dictionary, it’s defined as a movable barrier used to open and close the entrance to a building, room, closet, or vehicle, usually a solid panel, hinged to or sliding in a frame.

         I think we can all agree on that, right?

        What if I told you they are also malevolent entities sent forth from the netherworld whose sole purpose is thwart the efforts of certain people wishing to traverse their sphere of influence?

         That got your attention, didn’t it?

         But Graham, how can you say that? A door doesn’t have malicious intent... does it?

       Ok, maybe not actual intent, but in my opinion; doors are dangerous. When they’re closed, by design, you can’t see beyond them. When they’re open, that’s a possible indication that you might be walking into some bad shit. In SWAT, we even had a cute little name for them; “the fatal funnel”, for obvious reasons. Whether a situation might call for a dynamic or slow and methodical entry, tactical teams train for hours on how to navigate these potentially lethal chokepoints as quickly and safely as possible.

        All that being said, there’s a bit of a “pucker factor” when dealing with doors; at least in my experience. Maybe that’s what makes the next couple of scenarios so amusing…

      Patrol, the basis of law enforcement. The frontline of justice separating society from the dregs of humanity, all for less money than your local street sweeper. Anything can happen out on the streets and oftentimes does. That’s the life of a cop, that was my life. My name is Saturley and I (used to) carry a badge… dah-ta-dun-dun.

         St. John Louisiana, Andouille capitol of the world. A suburb of New Orleans, it’s the only place along the Mississippi River where shit runs up-stream and settles.

     On xx/xx/xxxx at approximately 1435 hours, I, Deputy G.E. Saturley along with Corporal Joseph A. Shmoe were dispatched to 1234 South Rat-hole Avenue in response to a domestic disturbance. Upon arrival, both myself and Cpl. Shmoe heard the sounds of a physical altercation taking place within the residence in question.

    Approaching the front door of the residence, Cpl. Shmoe knocked and, in a loud voice, announced the presence of Law Enforcement. At that time, I observed an unidentified male subject pull back the curtains of one window which he promptly replaced and then (apparently) returned to “smacking his bitch up”.

  Originating from a location inside the residence, Deputies heard a woman scream “he’s got a gun”, which drastically changed the dynamics of the call. At that time, both myself and Cpl. Shmoe felt that exigent circumstances had created a need for immediate action.

    I maintained cover on the front window of the residence as Cpl. Shmoe attempted to breach the front door with a kick. At which point Cpl. Shmoe’s foot passed through one of four panels in said door, causing him to become stuck in the opening up to his thigh and leaving him balancing on one leg.

  (Trying not to laugh) I proceeded to Cpl. Shmoe’s position where I began dragging him from the door and deposited him securely on both feet. Cpl. Shmoe then turned back towards the door and prepared to kick again…

          (Now think about this. There’s already a hole through the door, (In other words Hole: 1. cavity: a hollow space in a solid object or area.) and this guy was getting ready to kick it again.)

      Seeing my partner’s intentions, I instructed him to wait. At which time I was informed by Cpl. Shmoe that the woman inside needed our help and was abruptly reprimanded for cowardice in the line of duty and ordered to step aside as I was wasting precious time…

          Wait, I was wasting precious time?

     After pushing Cpl. Shmoe to one side, I reached in through the hole in the door and unlocked the deadbolt from inside. I then swept a hand towards the now open door so that (the heroic) Cpl. Shmoe could save the day. At that time, I observed a look on Cpl. Shmoe’s face which is difficult for this officer to explain.   

    (Long story short) Upon entering the residence, it was determined that there (thankfully) was no weapon and the woman involved was intoxicated and had initiated the disturbance. EMT was dispatched to treat the male subject for minor lacerations. The female was then advised of her rights per Miranda, placed under arrest and transported to corrections for booking.

        If this had gone a little differently, it could have been a bad situation. Fortunately for everybody involved we can now look back at it and laugh.

          Another incident that comes to mind also involves my time on patrol but, for the sake of inconsistency, I won’t write it in pseudo-report form. As was often the case, I was out looking for something to get into. On this particular occasion I had parked off in the alleyway of a high crime area and observed what I suspected to be a hand to hand  transaction involving illegal narcotics.

          Gunning my vehicle, I drove right at the offenders, screeching to a halt some five feet away from them and jumped out screaming “Stop, in the name of the law!” (or something along those lines) Much to my chagrin and, as was to be expected, my suspects took off like bats out of Hell in opposite directions.

         This is where I should tell you, I don’t like running. I mean, not at all. I’m just not built for it and I find  that whole heavy breathing thing to be objectionable at the very least. But the one thing I disliked more than running was having a possible suspect get away (see “The Water-Lizard and the Buffalo” by Graham E. Saturley). So I ran after the slowest of the two.

          I chased that little bas... Excuse me. What I mean to say is that I pursued the subject in question, from the sidewalk where the alleged crime had taken place all the way to his house. Which, in retrospect, was approximately forty (excruciating) feet from the edge of the street.

          My suspect swung his front door open and looked back where I was still in the process of rounding my vehicle’s front end (did I mention that I’m also kind of slow?) He then waited the fifteen minutes it took for my foot to hit the front porch before slamming the door right in my face.

         Rawwwrrrr! Graham no like slammed door! Graham smash! So in a fit of frustration I pounded my fists once against opposite sides of the door jamb…and watched in horror as the entire thing fell inwards and landed on top of my suspect and his mother.

         Leave it to me to find the one door in the projects framed in balsa wood.  And to make matters worse, it turned out the guy had nothing on him. So, after the department promised to fix his momma’s door in lieu of her filing a formal complaint against me, I opted not to pursue charges. Benevolent of me, I know.

          I wish I could tell you that every door I came across was as easy to break down, but I can’t. Take for example the case our Narcotics Unit did with the DEA a few years back. It was meant to be a simple “rip”. In other words, we were using an undercover agent to purchase dope from a bad guy and planned to swarm the suspect once the deal was done. Afterwards, we would execute a search warrant at the suspects house and get the rest of his supply.

          At least, that was the plan.

         Without getting into to many details, the bust went off without a hitch with everybody keeping all their fingers and toes. However, what we soon discovered was that one of our primary targets was not on scene. What’s worse, it appeared that the bad guy on the set had shot a call to his partner who was still at the house with the rest of the stuff.

         This is a perfect example of what is sometimes referred to in the business as an “Oh shit” situation. And yes, that is the technical term.

        A small cadre of about six of us broke off from the main party and high-tailed it to the suspect’s residence where, upon our approach, one of us saw somebody peeking through the window. (I don’t know why they do it, but you’d be surprised how often it happens)

          As our team exited our vehicles and stacked up on the front door somebody yelled, “Get the ram! Get the ram!” which, from where I was standing in front of a barred window, sounded like a great idea me. I worked on controlling my pulse, which beat like a Tommy Lee drum solo and eagerly awaited what I knew would be a burly, Federal Juggernaut equipped with all kinds of cool breaching gear, to round the corner and flatten the door. Going over my own diagnostic check, I press checked my weapon for the fifteenth time, slowed my breathing and waited…

           And waited… and waited…

       When our master key didn’t arrive as quickly as I would have liked, I thought maybe I was experiencing some kind of tunnel vision. I looked around from my place in the stack and realized everybody else was looking around at each other. 

         “Did you hear me?” one of their agents asked one of our agents. “Get your ram." 

          “Our ram?” we asked as one,

        “Wait, you knew we were going to hit a house and your forgot the ram?” the indignant DEA guy asked.

          “Hey, we rode with you.” one of our guys said, “This is your operation.”

          Here came that “Oh shit” feeling…again.

         We now had six narcotics officers armed to the teeth and decked out in full entry gear standing in the front yard of a house where a known mid-level and possibly armed  drug dealer was holed up and not one of us had a battering ram. On top of that, we were now arguing amongst us as to who’s fault it was.

          Great.

          I looked to both sides hoping one of the senior guys on the scene would make a suggestion. Instead all I saw was discontent. I mean, I could understand both sides; the Feds, thinking we were a bunch of local yokels considered us amateur. We, on the other hand, figured the all powerful DEA would come prepared for anything. But standing there bickering wasn’t solving anything. We still had a job to do.

          Wait a second, maybe I could somehow use this to my advantage. I now had the opportunity to show off my gift for quick thinking and problem solving to my commanders. At the same time I’d help our motley band of Narcs save face in the eyes of our federal big brothers, who in turn would be so impressed with my ability they would instantly accept me into the fold, rewarding me with a position in Miami or some other similarly bitchin locale. That was it, I would single handedly deal with the situation at hand and in doing so, guarantee my position as the real Sonny Crocket.

            But how?

          Then, as had happened in the lair of the Rougarou a few years before, something inside of me took over and I immediately recognized the solution to our dilemma in the form of a metal garden bench situated in a flower bed next door.

          “I got it,” I said and dashed over to my impromptu battering ram.

       Wrenching the bench’s legs from the overgrown St. Augustine “grass’, I hefted it, noticing in my adrenaline infused state that the thing was far lighter than I had expected. I had obviously tapped into some primal attribute akin to the strength a mother experiences when a car lands upon their child. I could feel my now unbridled powers coursing through my veins and the fire within me stoked to a white hot. Nothing, let alone a flimsy house door, could stand in my way.

         Running back to the door I prepared myself for the first blow, noticing the approving looks and nods from my peers along the way. Ha-ha, I had them right where I wanted. All eyes were upon me and I basked in thoughts of the eventual praise that would surely be heaped upon me after my foray against the offending portal.

        Taking a deep breath, I grasped my unwieldy battering bench by one armrest and a leg and reared back. With a fearsome battle cry originating in the reptilian part of my brain, I drove forward, slamming my metallic bludgeon full force into the door...

      This is where I need to pause and discuss the fundamentals of metallurgy. Unlike cast iron, cast aluminum, as in the type of metal from which my ram was forged, is light and brittle.

          Extremely brittle.

         So brittle in fact, that when I slammed it into the door, there was an initial accordion effect as the whole thing folded upon itself and then shattered, disintegrating in my hands… right before I plowed headlong into the closed door.  

          To their credit, nobody said anything at the time. Even though I swear I heard somebody snort once.

          But I was undaunted. This little setback would not prevent me from achieving my goal of getting inside that house and securing my transfer to super-cool, pastel jacket and sunglass wearing status. I still felt strong and so, with years of martial arts training under my belt, I cocked my leg back and with the force of a pneumatic hammer, lashed out at the door with my best front kick. Which resulted in me bouncing off the door and landing squarely on my ass.

          By the Gods! Would that I attempted to force entry to Valhalla itself I should not meet such resistance. Oh dark citadel, you and I shall do battle until one of us falls… I mean, other than on my ass.

          Again I fell upon my inanimate adversary, this time utilizing my ever faithful mule-kick. Once, twice, thrice my foot found its mark and three times my best efforts went unrewarded.

          But hark, what is this? Another warrior urged by my actions had sprung forth with his own fierce battle cry and together we lay our assault upon the stronghold’s entrance as if battling our way into Hell. But, I could feel my own strength ebbing and knew that my newfound abilities would soon be exhausted. At this pace we might be forced to bring in petards or sap the walls.

           It was then that I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun, readying myself for what I assumed to be an enemy combatant. But there was no enemy, just another member of our rag tag outfit, relieving me from my spot before the castle gate. He too set into the door with wild abandon and he too was soon exhausted by the effort

          That’s when I looked across the street and saw the old man laughing at us. He was wearing a faded “Coors” T-shirt and a pair of old sweats, with a coffee mug in one hand and spitefulness in his heart. I’m not sure if it was a rage brought on by embarrassment at being heckled or… no, strike that “or”, it was definitely the embarrassment.

          I felt my ears turn red hot and I ordered the other two would be breachers to back away. Once my path was cleared, I ran towards the door, jumped into the air and in true “beard-having, Texas Ranger” (I dare not speak HIS name) manner planted my foot in its center, driving my entire weight to an imaginary point about three feet behind the barricade. This time there were unexpected results. A loud crack echoed through the neighborhood, but I could not discern any damage on the door‘s facade. And then I saw it, the door itself had not been damaged, but its threshold had begun to give way.

          Three of us now worked together in a blitzkrieg of fury and slowly, but surely, the jamb began to peel away. Then, with a final shove, we watched as the entire doorframe gave way and fell inwards, tearing five inch long wood-screws from the 2x4’s of the main structure in the process…and slamming into the 72” plasma television which in turn fell off its stand and smashed into the 30 gallon tank filled with exotic fish.

          Well, anything worth doing is worth doing right I guess.

         Wading through a living room reminiscent of an early 1990’s music video (bonus points if you can name it), we searched the house but it was empty. After hearing unusual movement above, and administering a healthy dose of OC/CS gas through the access hatch, we eventually located our suspect gasping for breath beneath the attic insulation. He was taken into custody with no further incident and we came out okay as far as dope, money and guns.

          So, as you can see, doors (and I didn’t even get into fences) can be fun.    Not.

        While looking back at stories like these are funny now, conditions were ideal for an 80% chance of fecal precipitation. Thankfully, the Fates chose not to snip any threads short on those days.

         I will leave you with these parting words. Thomas Fuller once said that “All doors open to courtesy” and Helen Keller was quoted as saying “Mah na gaaah nanaba ga bana” which, when translated, means, “When one door closes, another one opens”. But I’m pretty sure that neither Fuller nor Keller ever stood outside a building in which a wanted person was holed up behind a reinforced door with a hostage, two handguns, a fully automatic weapon and a propensity for violence resulting from three years in prison and a two week bender on Methamphetamines.

          Not that something like that could ever happen, I’m just saying.