Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Take Another Road
Anybody who has known The Crime Dog for long knows that Wayners and I lost a cherished brother, Gene, to a drunk and reckless driver many years ago. He was killed by a guy whom I've never even seen, but whose name is etched into my brain forever: Johnny Kent Blakely. It was 1976, to be exact. He did a whole year in lock up for vehicular homicide, and we were lucky to get that. I was stationed in the Middle East at the time, and was only able to come home long enough to help bury my brother, so I missed the indictment, trial, and sentencing. That's why I never so much as laid eyes on the guy.
If Gene were alive today, he would have turned 62 last month. But it didn't happen. He was taken from us when he was only 32. Hell, that seemed pretty old to me at the time, but it's been astern of me for nearly two decades now.
Anyway, it's impossible to inject humor into that little piece of history. There's nothing but sadness, tragedy, and a sense of loss that still haunts Wayners and me to this day. But.....there was a little incident a few years after his death......
Flash forward to Fall, 1982. I was discharged from the military and had become a police officer. Back then, I was a strapping fellow who thought he could whip the world with one hand tied nehind his back, so long as the other held my side-handle baton or, even better, my S&W Model 586 .357 Magnum revolver with 4" barrel, matte nickel finish and Pachmayr grips. Yes, I was impressive, young and aggressive, saving the world on my own.
I was working a patrol beat in one of the toughest areas of town one quiet Sunday when I got a call of two men fighting in - of all places - a playground. I rolled over there just as these two shit-faced, white-trash assholes wore each other out and stopped fighting. They were scratched up, bloody, bruised, and both wore the uniform of their lowlife culture: Levis and no shirt.
I corraled both of the turds, and asked them for ID, which they surprisingly each had. They went from screaming obscenities and trying to gouge one another's eyes out to a hangdog "Yessir, Officer" in about 10 seconds. I recognized one right away. I was on the high school wrestling team with him, and he was quite the athlete in those days. He took state one year, or got real close. I don't recall exactly. He got a scholarship, but apparently drank, smoked, or flunked it away. He remembered me, and you could see the look of relief come over the two of them as they began to believe they might just get out of this shit without going to jail.
Then I looked at the other ID. It read:
Keith Blakeley
No, I thought to myself, There's no way I could be this lucky.
I put a big smile on my face, and said, Keith Blakely? Hey, man! You related to Johnny? in a way calculated to make it sound like Johnny and I were buddies. Tight.
Now, the guy really lights up. He knows he just got a pass. He's going to be allowed to go home, drink more beer, and try to beat up somebody else.
"Johnny Kent?" He asks with a big smile. "Why, sure! That's my brother!"
So here I am: Badge on my chest, gun on one hip, baton on the other, proficient with both, and I'm staring at the brother of the man who killed my brother. Oh, did I mention I also I had a little thing we cops liked to call probable cause?
Where is ol' Johnny these days? I haven't seen him in a while.
"Oh, he's working construction down in Artesia, but he gets up here quite a bit."
Good! You tell him next time he's in town to look me up! I really, really want to see him.
"That's cool, man. I'll tell him. What's your name?"
I was wearing a police windbreaker with no name tag. I pulled the jacket back to reveal my name tag. It was right below the medal that said "Revolver Expert." Then I said my name. Just in case this fuck couldn't read. Firmly. Through clenched teeth.
Gene was my brother. So you tell Johnny that he and I need to get together. Soon.
The blood drained from this guy's face like his carotid had just been cut. He got a little wobbly in the knees as he began to wonder what was coming next. Was he going to get the shit knocked out of him, or go to county with so many charges he wouldn't make bail for a month?
Either would have been fine with me. Toss a mental coin, and run with it. But then it struck me. This guy didn't kill my brother. He was just a garden-variety asswipe in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong last name. Time to take the high road, Crime Dog.
So, I handed his ID back to him and told him, You tell Johnny Kent Blakely that you met the brother of the man he killed. And you tell him things aren't settled, and they never will be. And you also tell him that I showed you - his brother - the respect he never showed mine.
He looked at his ID, then back at me as though he wasn't sure he was seeing or hearing correctly.
Now, get your ass out of here. This is the last break you get on my beat.
He muttered a quick "thanks," turned, and walked away. I never saw him again, nor did I ever see his brother. Fate, Karma, justice, whatever you choose to call it, will get him one day. Hell, maybe it already has. When it does, I won't be involved. Since Mom died, I have no reason to go back to that neck of the woods, so the chance our paths will cross are about equal to me winning the lottery.
But hey, Johnny Kent? If by some chance you're out there, and you happen to come across this, look me up. I'm in the book. No, I don't want to fight you. I don't want to heap abuse on you, or scream at you. I'm past all that. I just want you to know that Wayners and I are still out here. And what you did still hurts.
Every day.
|
If Gene were alive today, he would have turned 62 last month. But it didn't happen. He was taken from us when he was only 32. Hell, that seemed pretty old to me at the time, but it's been astern of me for nearly two decades now.
Anyway, it's impossible to inject humor into that little piece of history. There's nothing but sadness, tragedy, and a sense of loss that still haunts Wayners and me to this day. But.....there was a little incident a few years after his death......
Flash forward to Fall, 1982. I was discharged from the military and had become a police officer. Back then, I was a strapping fellow who thought he could whip the world with one hand tied nehind his back, so long as the other held my side-handle baton or, even better, my S&W Model 586 .357 Magnum revolver with 4" barrel, matte nickel finish and Pachmayr grips. Yes, I was impressive, young and aggressive, saving the world on my own.
I was working a patrol beat in one of the toughest areas of town one quiet Sunday when I got a call of two men fighting in - of all places - a playground. I rolled over there just as these two shit-faced, white-trash assholes wore each other out and stopped fighting. They were scratched up, bloody, bruised, and both wore the uniform of their lowlife culture: Levis and no shirt.
I corraled both of the turds, and asked them for ID, which they surprisingly each had. They went from screaming obscenities and trying to gouge one another's eyes out to a hangdog "Yessir, Officer" in about 10 seconds. I recognized one right away. I was on the high school wrestling team with him, and he was quite the athlete in those days. He took state one year, or got real close. I don't recall exactly. He got a scholarship, but apparently drank, smoked, or flunked it away. He remembered me, and you could see the look of relief come over the two of them as they began to believe they might just get out of this shit without going to jail.
Then I looked at the other ID. It read:
Keith Blakeley
No, I thought to myself, There's no way I could be this lucky.
I put a big smile on my face, and said, Keith Blakely? Hey, man! You related to Johnny? in a way calculated to make it sound like Johnny and I were buddies. Tight.
Now, the guy really lights up. He knows he just got a pass. He's going to be allowed to go home, drink more beer, and try to beat up somebody else.
"Johnny Kent?" He asks with a big smile. "Why, sure! That's my brother!"
So here I am: Badge on my chest, gun on one hip, baton on the other, proficient with both, and I'm staring at the brother of the man who killed my brother. Oh, did I mention I also I had a little thing we cops liked to call probable cause?
Where is ol' Johnny these days? I haven't seen him in a while.
"Oh, he's working construction down in Artesia, but he gets up here quite a bit."
Good! You tell him next time he's in town to look me up! I really, really want to see him.
"That's cool, man. I'll tell him. What's your name?"
I was wearing a police windbreaker with no name tag. I pulled the jacket back to reveal my name tag. It was right below the medal that said "Revolver Expert." Then I said my name. Just in case this fuck couldn't read. Firmly. Through clenched teeth.
Gene was my brother. So you tell Johnny that he and I need to get together. Soon.
The blood drained from this guy's face like his carotid had just been cut. He got a little wobbly in the knees as he began to wonder what was coming next. Was he going to get the shit knocked out of him, or go to county with so many charges he wouldn't make bail for a month?
Either would have been fine with me. Toss a mental coin, and run with it. But then it struck me. This guy didn't kill my brother. He was just a garden-variety asswipe in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong last name. Time to take the high road, Crime Dog.
So, I handed his ID back to him and told him, You tell Johnny Kent Blakely that you met the brother of the man he killed. And you tell him things aren't settled, and they never will be. And you also tell him that I showed you - his brother - the respect he never showed mine.
He looked at his ID, then back at me as though he wasn't sure he was seeing or hearing correctly.
Now, get your ass out of here. This is the last break you get on my beat.
He muttered a quick "thanks," turned, and walked away. I never saw him again, nor did I ever see his brother. Fate, Karma, justice, whatever you choose to call it, will get him one day. Hell, maybe it already has. When it does, I won't be involved. Since Mom died, I have no reason to go back to that neck of the woods, so the chance our paths will cross are about equal to me winning the lottery.
But hey, Johnny Kent? If by some chance you're out there, and you happen to come across this, look me up. I'm in the book. No, I don't want to fight you. I don't want to heap abuse on you, or scream at you. I'm past all that. I just want you to know that Wayners and I are still out here. And what you did still hurts.
Every day.
