**DISCLAIMER – all stories in this series are true. The names of suspects, victims and officers involved have been changed to protect their identity and to keep them from suing my ass. The opinions expressed are mine only, and do not reflect the policies or opinions of any of my former employers or co-workers.**

In my former life as a Criminal Investigator, I got to wear plainclothes to work and on call out duty. Naturally, being a woman, I was all about the clothes and shoes that I could wear to work. It had to be comfortable but still cop-like, in case I had to fight someone or go through a door or something like that. I also couldn’t run around in heels or strappy sandals, as much as I would have liked to. My footwear of choice was usually a pair of comfortable Timberlands or something dressy but practical for court. Then of course there were the Hi-Tecs in case I ever had to be in uniform or tactical gear or whatever.

My favorite shoes however, were always Doc Martens. I think I had about six or seven different pairs that I tromped around in – black/brown/tan/hi-cut/lo-cut whatever, if they were Docs, I had them.

There was one problem with my Doc’s though.

Every time I wore a new pair, someone ended up dead.

For real.

The first time, I had some nice tan mid ankle ones with a really thick sole that I was sporting with some new jeans and I’m sure some prepped out shirt. I tried to balance my wardrobe between preppy and punk – prunky?

Anyway, that day some young man decided to put a Russian assault rifle under his chin and pull the trigger. I’m glad I had them on, because that’s not a mess you want to be flitting around in wearing nothing less than nuclear grade soles.

The next time, I was wearing my new black hi-lace Docs around and had just washed them off after walking around at the stockyard in poop and dust. Then we got a call of a drowning in a  pond. Needless to say, they got washed again. Several times that day.

Next ? Brown low classic style Doc’s. The poor soul who drew the Doc Marten death card that day was murdered by some wayward youth and had sat in an un-airconditioned mobile home for a few days before anyone found him. In July. He wasn’t only a stinker, he was a slider. You probably don’t want the full on definition for a slider, but let’s just say that your skin starts to break down after a few days and if someone tries to move you it will, well….never mind.

Finally, the last ones I can remember were my black classic low-riders. Wreck on the interstate. Seven people in a car meant for four. Not one of them had on a seat belt. Three were DRT (dead right there), and four were on their way to the hospital on a wing and a prayer. One of the poor dearly departed was so badly mangled on his way out of the jagged metal mess that he left his ear in the emergency lane. Which promptly got stuck to the bottom of my shoe when I accidentally stepped on it. Prompting several weeks of officers and medics shouting at my shoes “Hey hey can ya hear me?” ….. emergency personnel have a sick,twisted sense of humor. It keeps them from going absolutely insane.

I still have all of those Doc Martens. They sit high on a shelf in a closet full of my things at the lake house.

One day maybe I’ll wear them again, but with all of the stuff going on in my life these last 15 months?

I’m kind of afraid to.

** It’s been awhile since I posted this series, I know many if you have asked me about it. I’ve been busy, I’ll try and keep it more regular, thanks ! **

There were certain areas in our county that always gave me the heebie-jeebies. Even though I had several guns at my disposal, just having to go to these areas always increased my pucker factor tenfold.

One of these areas was known as “Henleyfield”. Now, not all of that area was heeb inducing, just a few spots. And only at night. During the day I was fine, but throw me out there around 2am and I was checking the back seat for haint’s about every 5 seconds. If you don’t know what a haint is, click here …….

So anyway, one night I got a call out to Henleyfield to check on a loud music complaint. Luckily, I had my friend and reserve officer Beau riding with me, and being the manly man he was is I was only had half the heebs I usually did. Right then.

Normally loud music complaints are routine, teenagers or drunken adults jamming out to the music of the moment or someone wanting to show off their ride. Normally. But as I learned early on in my law enforcement career, nothing in Pearl River County is normal !

We got close to the location of the call and pulled off to the side of the road with the windows down to listen out for the alleged noise. Immediately we could hear music coming out of the woods and see lights through the trees from the house. We slowly crept along the road and then up the long dirt drive that led to the house. Upon entering the clearing where it was, it looked like something put of a scene from a weird movie. Old cars, junk and even a school bus littered the yard, and every light in the house was on and the yard was lit up with floodlights. And there was music. Loud, haunting music.

Courtesy of Miss Patsy Cline.

Good thing I peed before we left town.

Beau and I walked all over that yard, through the fully lit, every door and window open shack house, cleared each bus, van, and ramshackle car on blocks, and never found anyone. Not even Miss Cline. Only her incarnation, recorded forever on a cassette tape blaring out of the rotting husk of a Chevy Cavalier. We silenced Patsy, tried to secure the house and got the hell out of there. I never did find out where the owner was, and I never got called back to find him rotting away in the woods, so I guess he’s still there.

Crazy.