Chabo's Journal: Don't say it unless you mean it!

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on October 12, 2005.

Yea, once again a carnival was amongst us, bringing with it all the joy and magic of a genital lesion. The City fathers, as is their custom, parked it in an area of town whose inhabitants had nothing of value that they had obtained legally, in the hopes that one or more would be recruited and depart.

Commanding the graveyard shift, I extorted my men to watch our businesses with especial care, and assigned the rover units to that end of town.

Around 1am my of my star officers, call him A, reported that he had just seen someone running from a restaurant that perched on the edge of a trash neighborhood like a border outpost overlooking the Orcish realms.

I drove several blocks north of the beanery and swung south, figuring that they would lay up for a couple minutes, then scarper north (the south was vast tracts of parking lots and businesses, the west was a five-lane roadway, the east was a large undeveloped area known for copperheads).

Sure enough, two blocks from the restaurant I spot a small pickup with three men, all looking intently south.

I pull them over, and discover a local burglar and two carnies. None ask why they have been stopped. Local has a DL, Carnie 1 has an Oklahoma ID, and Carnie 2 (C2) gives a name and date of birth. A arrives, but reports all he had seen was movement. Officer B arrives.

Local & Carnie 1 come back clear. C2 comes back no history. This, I feel, is hogwash; a 38 year old American is extremely unlikely not to have made the national database; the odds of a 38 year old carnie with two arms covered with homemade tattoos not being in the database is zip.

C2 is invited to step out of the vehicle and seat himself on the curb; he is advised of his rights. Its obvious he had done time: he's careful not to make eye contact, he moves quickly enough to be compliant without being fast enough to be interpreted as hostile, he keeps his hands in plain sight, he asks no questions, and keeps his comments short and devoid of all emotion. His body language is pure convict.

A points out a tattoo within another that could be an Aryan Circle. I ask him about it; he says its folk art off an album. We extract places he has lived in the last ten years, and their individual data bases are checked. Still nothing.

I ask him to take off his tee shirt. He hesitates, then complies: 'White' and 'Pride' in gothic script on the back of each arm, eagle & swastika, 6" Aryan cross, the full rig.

I ask him to explain how a man displaying prison gang ink is not in the database; he says he was a skinhead in his youth.

Horse pucky. I send the other two on their way. C2 steadfastly sticks to his story: a man driven to the carnival after a bad divorce. Good cop & the full-blown Darth-bad-cop routine get nowhere.

He asserts the carnival has employment records; we transport him across town and rouse the manager, who apparently is used to being awakened by the local minions of the law in the wee hours.

The manager has no documentation-they are staging in, and the mobile office is still up near Odessa. He does note that since C2 is not a driver, they did no checking on him; he assembles & disassembles rides and does similar labor for $215 a week and a bunk in the trailers.

I ask C2 if we can search his bunk for ID; he says he has a crack pipe there. I wave that away; I'm only interested in ID. He agrees. We troop over to a converted cargo trailer which has been partitioned into living quarters (each with its own outside door) about 6' long, 4' deep, and as high as the trailer. It is too small for two officers to search. C2 is positioned so he can observe, and I glove up & toss his belongings. I find the crack pipe, and note an Aryan Circle made of copper wire hanging on the wall.

In the outside pocket of his suitcase I find a deep blue cardboard presentation folder; behind me (A & B are positioned carefully) I hear C2 sigh. I flip it open; on the top flap is a color photo of C2 being baptized; on the bottom is a certificate of baptism dated four months earlier, in C2's real name.

C2 had an extensive history of rape, armed robbery, drugs, and the like in California; he had 11 different aliases & six different social security numbers noted in the database (not the ones he had used with us). He was an alumni of San Quentin, and most importantly, the State of California missed him so dearly that they were willing to extradite him from anywhere, so as to discuss matters of local interest with him.

It just goes to show: religion is not something to take lightly.