Writing about Law Enforcement

            Pet peeve and red button time!  I have been stepping over bodies and visiting celebrities in their freshly burglared homes for about nine years.  I work as a crime scene photographer for the Los Angeles Police Department.  To say that I have seen it all seems somewhat redundant.

            So here is the thing that is stuck in my craw:  People who write about crime without any people in it frosts over my will to continue reading.  WHAT!?  You heard me; stop writing as though anyone who carries a gun and a badge is devoid of personality.  I work with FBI agents who have a better sense of humor over life and its lessons than the DMV-styled officious maunder that is today’s attempt at getting a reader behind the yellow tape.  By the way, the LAPD invented that stuff to keep politicians and other ilk from trampling over evidence.

            Example:  PIII Juarez led XA-21 mission ready as always.

            Result:  I am going to find where you live and…. 

            Let us see this more clearly shall we?  A PIII has been with the department for a while, approximately five years.  They can stay at that level, many choose to do so, or promote to detectives or administration by way of Sergeant.  A PIII is a Police Officer III.  Everything has a rank.  I am Photographer III, which is right below supervisor, who could also be ranked at various levels.

            It begins at the academy where an officer is either a boot or field trainee.  After graduation, they are sent out into the field and are become another officer’s partner.  On duty, a partner is like a ventricle; you cannot pull one out and have a functioning heart.

            Rank is important.  I have been on scene where two Detective III’s had to fight over who was in charge, and it came down to date of hire.  Oh, the poor fellow who graduated first.

            XA-21 is a Unit.  Basically, two officers patrolling anywhere in the area designated as 21.  It is somewhat of a mouthy insider; do not  use.

            Avoid power words like maximum or turbo.  Relate the relatable like an officer who sees their first dead child and it looks like their cousin.

            Tensions rise on scene when brass shows up.  It gets worse when politicians are involved.  Once, the District Attorney got me on the phone to tell me directly what to photograph.

            We all have our own method of writing.  Just think about the heart behind the badge that covers it.

            Some insider things you should know.  Bulletproof vests are never comfortable.  In the summer, they do not breathe and will make a hot day even more hellish.  In the winter, they are dense, causing the cold to come straight through.  They also bunch up when you sit down.

            A car is called a unit or shop; some still call them radio cars.

            SWAT stands for Special Weapons and Tactics and it saves more lives by less than lethal means.  Less than lethal are stuff like tasers, water cannons, ladders, so on and so forth.  They go the extra mile to stop someone from hurting themselves, but primarily anyone else.  Shootouts are nowhere near as common as you are led to believe.  The people in SWAT are extraordinary; they are in amazing shape and practice safe takedowns constantly. They are not the biggest badasses on the department.

            Special units and, in our case, Metro cops are far more likely to get into a nasty fight than anyone else.  They are also some of the nicest people I know.  Funny how true badasses know they are the 600 lb gorilla and do not need to flex.

            Officers cry.  I was shocked the first time I witnessed it.  I always let them know it is okay around me.

            Please, let us connect with the human being first before you start taking us into the world of your creation.  Detectives have been single moms needing a solid job or fresh out of the military with no idea of what to do with their lives.  It is true that all of us behind the thin blue line go into a mode when it is time, but we also have to go to the bathroom and find chow if we are stuck on a long scene.

           

Angel In The Alley

Days of triple digit temperatures are no time to put on a bulletproof vest, but that’s exactly what I was instructed to do by the detective.

The detective was wearing a windbreaker and slacks in weather not even being completely naked would make comfortable.  Not only was he sweating from the heat, but also from a strange nervousness.  I’ve worked with this detective before, so I could tell something was off.  The heat combined with the task at hand was not making me happy.  A few minutes after putting on my vest, sweat ran down my back and soon it appeared as though I had lost control over my bowels.  Now, I’m cranky.

The job was to photograph a body in an alley located in the heart of East Los Angeles. This is the part of town where no one raves about living in the City of the Angels.  At the time, the population of Southern California had quickly grown with migrant workers who lived in overcrowded conditions.  So many of the homeless were a product of a lack of floor space anywhere.  There had been quite a number of people dying where they slept.  

It was obvious that this particular body had been moved.  The detective informed me the body had come from a nearby building packed with vagrants, and that they would have to secure it before we could proceed.  Now I understood why he appeared nervous.  Police presence was growing rapidly and squad cars were coming in from neighboring areas to secure the scene and make it safe.

Two hours passed before I was finally able to begin.  I left my vest in the truck, which had become relatively comfortable with the AC running at full blast.  The coroner had been called and we started in the building.  I only took photographs of the lower floor.  The building was located on a corner and the body was placed in an alley behind a parking lot.  

The lower floor was decorated with over-used furniture and a makeshift chapel that could be quickly folded away to allow shoulder-to-shoulder sleeping along the concrete floor.  The smell of disinfectant and old urine was nearly strong enough for me to use my mask.  The kitchen contained three refrigerators and a stove that I assumed to be in some working condition.  I had to admit, my garage was cleaner.  

The occupants were asked to line up against a wall under the bright sunlight.  They were going to be photographed for ID purposes.  From the looks of discomfort on their faces, it appeared as though the sunlight was killing them.  There was only one woman amongst the handful of men.  I allowed her a moment to smooth out her hair and work up the best smile she could.  I could feel the tension slowly melting around me.

The coroner arrived and I completed my overalls.  I took shots up to a partially rolled-up carpet in an upright position against a chain link fence and utility pole.  A thin man with no shirt had been wrapped inside of it.  I could see that his body was malnourished.  Sometimes with alcohol as the main source of calories, the body will rob muscle and bone tissue for nutrients.  His head rested peacefully against his clasped hands.  He looked as though he were in the middle of prayer when suddenly he was called home to heaven.

Along with the carpet, his story began to unfold.  He had been a drug counselor who made the decision to stay and work in the place that saved his own life.  Rescuing similarly situated individuals became somewhat of a calling for him.  When he died, the residents became nervous and took him outside.  With as much dignity and respect as they could muster, they placed him in such a way that forever memorialized him as the angel in the alley.