ASHLAND — We were investigating a child endangerment case, and the homeowners were Steelers fans — no surprise there.
I was on a “ride along” with the Ashland Police Department (APD), and it was beyond amazing.
Cruising around town in the front seat (for a change, har-har) of a police vehicle allowed me to see the daily grind of the officer, how the future is female and how license plates are the mark of the beast.
It started at shift change.
APD officers work 12-hour shifts, 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. is followed by 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. I requested a Friday night stint in hopes of seeing more action.
After the buzz from the secured metal door granted me access to the back of the police station, I was escorted down the well-lit hallway to the debriefing room by the friendly dispatcher/receptionist.
In preparing for this self-appointed assignment, I made sure to brush up on all the “buddy cop” movies, where an officer is forced to work with a civilian and the result is pure comedy. Think of, “Blue Streak,” “Let’s Be Cops,” “48 Hours,” “Die Hard with a Vengeance,” etc.
Many daydreams flowed through my mind of solving some heinous crime that went all the way to the top levels of government. That’s why I brought my mountaineering headlamp, anyway (wasn’t allowed to bring any weapons).
It’s also possible that I got Ashland and Compton, California, confused.
At shift change, the fresh officers gathered around several tables making a large rectangle for roll call. Sergeant Craig Kiley went over reports and incidents from the day shift, persons of interest and a few priority items.
He told me specifically not to quote what he was saying, as it could compromise certain cases. Not sure if I just did quote him, but I agreed.
Everyone around the rectangle was naturally and justifiably skeptical of my presence. What story is this reporter working on? Is he investigating the department or going to try to use what we say against us and make us look unprofessional?
The last thing I’d want to do is upset the police from the town in which in live.
“We went to high school together,” Office Adam Brock said to me from across the table. (I remembered giving him a wedgie once. Just kidding, Office Brock, jk!)
There was also a long-goateed detective in a hooded sweatshirt, Officer Kara Pearce, Officer Brad Scarl and “The Sarge.” (I so wanted to call Sgt. Kiley that, like they do in all the cop shows, but occasionally my mouth doesn’t instantly ruin things for me, and I kept quiet.)
The real question of the debriefing was what officer had the unfortunate luck of having me in their vehicle for the ride along? To settle it, Officer Pearce and Officer Scarl had to pick a number, 1-20, and whoever was the closest to what Sgt. Kiley had written down, won, and wouldn’t get me.
Officer Scarl went first and picked 13. (I would have picked 10.) Officer Pearce picked 1. (I would have picked 12.) The magic number was five. Turned out I’d be with Officer Scarl, a tall younger officer with short black hair and a determined look.
Once roll call finished, we all headed to the back parking lot to load up—it was time for real police work. There wasn’t much room in the shotgun seat of the Ford SUV, with the mounted Getac computer and the real shotgun and assault rifle behind me. It looked like a 12-guage and an AR-15, but it was too dark to confirm.
The first order of business for the evening was assisting a social worker on a house call concerning a child endangerment claim. Oh no, I thought, am I going to see some abused and/or neglected child? It’s the messy side of policing no one wants to see or talk about.
Officer Pearce had been following the case and we were to back her up as she backed up the social worker. Officer Pearce’s demeanor suggested that it wouldn’t be a good idea to get on the wrong side of her, but her vibrant eye shadow suggested she was there to help and serve the community.
We three cars met beside Besta Fasta Pizza on Main Street and proceeded up the road to the location, with the social worker in front, followed by Officer Pearce and the “buddy cop” duo of Officer Fox, err, civilian Fox and Officer Scarl. (It should also be noted that I watched HBO’s “The Wire” with far too much obsession at one desperate point in my existence.)
The walk up to the front porch had an extra chill to the air—one, because it was so cold, and two, because of my precious little nerves.
The porch light came on and a human saw what was approaching and shut the main door behind the glass-plated screen.
“They just shut the door,” social worker Betty said from the deck (her name is changed to protect her job and personal privacy). The front porch light allowed me to see her—a massive web of bouncing blonde curls, maroon shirt, jeans and loosely laced waterproof boots.
The front entrance was soon reopened and out came a middle-aged woman. Betty explained why we were there and read the complaint to the resident. We were then invited in to settle the issue, inside.
It was an absolute honor to watch Betty work. She had the mental precision and deductive reasoning of the world’s top district attorney. Calm, meticulous, cutting—absolutely no room for BS with her. Every time the story didn’t add up, concerning paying rent on a home that was owned, child support, tax returns, Betty would reach up and grab a bundle of blonde, give it a slight twist, and proceed to instantly eviscerate what was previously asserted as fact.
“My job is to protect children,” she said, pulling her black backpack off to access the oral drug test kit.
The house was inspected and Officer Scarl had good flashlight work, pointing out pill bottles and liquor airplane shots stuffed and stashed throughout the establishment.
It became apparent Betty didn’t need our, haha, yes, “our” backup, and Team Buddy Cop was off to the next call. Literally, a call.
It was a child custody issue and Officer Scarl was just to make contact via phone. We sat in the parking lot of Samaritan Hospital while he tried to reach the person. Anytime you see a parked patrol car with an officer on the phone, there’s a tendency to think they are not doing their job—but you have no idea what they’re doing.
The reason we were parked at Samaritan was because a patient had lost his mind and backup may have been necessary.
Let’s talk a little about the job, the grind.
Do you have any idea of the amount of stupid stuff people call the police about? Let’s say you want to help people, to solve real crime, protect kids, etc., but instead, you’re responding to grass clippings from the neighbor’s lawn and similar nonsense.
Eventually, the remedial tasks break you down, mentally. That’s why there’s coffee I guess.
“Yes, I go to Dunkin Donuts. No, I don’t buy donuts,” Officer Scarl joked in the drive-thru line. We’d just wrapped up the case of the “car that was parked too close to the driveway.”
Ashland’s Community Stadium was hosting a playoff game and finding parking was difficult. Naturally, someone left their bumper protruding into part of a driveway of the apartments behind the stadium.
We located the car in question and went inside to talk to the man that made the complaint. Just like the TV show “Cops,” the man of course answered the door with no shirt on, was missing several teeth and talked a good deal of nonsense.
“I’m from Georgia, y’all. One time I went into the sheriff’s office down there with a half bottle of Jim Beam and acted all drunk. But the bottle was filled with iced tea, hahaha!” the man laughed.
“Georgia, eh? What brings you up here?” I asked, unconsciously becoming more police-like.
No parking violation ticket was issued, but a note was left on the windshield.
The rest of the evening was just being “on patrol.” Driving around different parts of Ashland and shining the cruiser lights on the dark spots of town.
Officer Scarl opened up a little bit, about his family up north and the impact the job can have.
“Working overtime, and getting cases you care about, and seeing awful things, and you want to leave it all, but it comes home with you,” he said. “When you first start, you have all this energy, and you are just dying to talk to your friends and family about your work. But you can’t.”
One of the overwhelming themes of the evening was “probable cause” (PC) and officer discretion.
We’d see a car with one headlight (a pididle), and Officer Scarl would say there’s PC to pull them over, but he wouldn’t. Same for the lady that did a U-turn at the mega traffic light of 42 and Main, seeing her old age and understanding she was just turned around, literally.
Running license plates was a common occurrence. Typing in 7 characters would show you a profile more complete than anything Facebook could ever produce.
There was a group of youngsters heading toward a bad area of town so the plate was run.
“That’s why I knew that name. Gave him a citation for a loud exhaust back on four [April] …,” Officer Scarl said, letting them drive on.
The power, control and helping that all come with being in law enforcement seem so quenching. If only I didn’t have to arrest people, I’d be a great police officer.
Thanks to the Ashland PD for putting up with all my shenanigans. It was a great experience.
