Archive for the ‘Poplarville’ Category

**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.

In the haze of pain that comes with losing my father, I often selfishly forget that others lost him too. He was not only a father and a husband, but a friend. A friend that touched lives long before I was even on this earth. I am thankful for the times that I am reminded of that. Today was one of those days. Upon checking the mail, I came across this ……

Inside was a letter from a childhood friend of my father’s. I won’t put her name here in order to respect her privacy, but I will put the text of her letter here, and I think that explains it all…..

February 23, 2010

Dear Kim,

I want to introduce myself to you although we did meet once several years ago when you were living in Poplarville. I knew your father through all of our “growing up” years but somehow life just takes friends in a different direction and we lose touch.

When Billy’s father got out of the service, he joined Louise and Billy at Gaggie’s house in Poplarville. Big Bill, Louise and Billy then moved to Africa. Billy and I lived across the street from each other, started first grade together, and he moved to Africa for a short time and then returned to live with his grandmother because of the school situation in Africa.

So, during those many years we were just such good friends, like boyfriend / girlfriend, and also very close to all the other children in our neighborhood. We did get to the age of dating but then we just returned to being “good friends” and nothing closer. Actually, about the 6th grade, a new, good-looking girl moved to Poplarville, All the boys my age just went bananas over her and your dad even paid a mutual friend $.50 to sit by me at the movie so he could walk down the aisle, look at me sitting by someone else and then announce we were “breaking up!” It was all such an innocent wonderful age and town to grow up in and your dad was very much a good friend and great guy.

During one of those innocent years, about the second grade, Billy gave me the enclosed pin. He said it was an emblem that was on his dad’s uniform while he was in the Navy. You know how you keep things, old jewelry and things that just get “shelved” somewhere, and then suddenly they just appear. During Katrina our house flooded and many items were just boxed away to be looked at later. About four or five months ago I was going through an old jewelry box and other “stuff” we rescued after the storm but did not have time to address. There in the box was the Navy pin Billy had given me 60-something years ago !!! I heard that he was not well and I started trying to find someone who knew where he was living. I asked my sister, who had moved back to Poplarville to find me an address. Intuition should never be ignored but again, I left it up to someone else to find Billy’s address for me instead of actively searching. Within a few weeks, my sister to called to say that Billy had died.

My biggest regret is that we did not get to touch base again and that he did not get to see his dad’s pin. AND, once again, I asked my sister to get your address for me, so I am a little belated in expressing my sympathy to you in the loss of your father. He was a fun, handsome guy and a long-ago great friend!

Forgive my lengthy letter but I wanted to tell you how this pin had made the round through several states, through several hurricanes and now to you.

To her I say thank you, your letter means so very much to me and I am sure to my mother as well. It invoked memories of the town my father and I were both lucky enough to call home, and cemented another precious memory of him in my mind and heart. The pin that you included was shared by my father and grandfather, and will now be mine, and I will treasure it forever. There are no words to express what your simple act of a kindness has meant to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.