Once again, I was driving for the Central Confinement Facility (CCF) at Fort Benning. I didn’t get back until around about 2200 hours that night. As I pulled into the motor pool parking lot to park my deuce and a half after topping it off with fuel, I noticed something wrong or at least a little odd. The Motor pool guard was not at his post in the guard tower. That was rather peculiar, but I had bigger fish to fry. I went down to the dispatch office to turn in my log book and keys. Then, I headed up the hill to the parking lot outside the motor pool to where my car was parked. That was when I saw the guard, a soldier named PVT Gray, beat feet from my car toward the guard tower. I thought, “That is really bizarre. Something is definitely not right.” Then, I took off running to my car. When I got to my car, the passenger door was open. What the hell? Not a good sign at all. I should mention that my car was a 1968 brown Buick Wildcat 2-door hardtop in cherry condition that I had just washed and waxed. The passenger window had fingerprints all over it, and the dash was covered with grimy fingerprints. My entire 8-track tape collection (about 44 tapes) was missing as were my stereo tape deck and speakers. I thought, “Sure enough, that son of a bitch broke into my car.” I knew I had to call the cop shop and talk to the military police (MP). My car was easy pickings for Gray because he had all night, well three or four hours anyway, to take what he wanted. And Gray was always in trouble and out of money. He was a perennial Article 15 candidate. I just couldn’t prove he broke into my car, so I called the MPs. I said, “Hey guys, my car got broken into.” When they arrived, they said, “Look here, we’ll have to come back in the morning with CID cuz we can’t see shit.” “CID? What the hell is that?” “Not what, who, moron. Criminal Investigation Division. CID. An investigator. You know, someone who investigates.” “Oh, you mean like Dick Tracy or something.” “Or something. Anyway, in the meantime, lock it up and don’t touch anything and don’t move it anywhere. Don’t disturb the crime scene. You got that?” “Yeah, I guess so, Sarge. Bright and early the next morning at 6:00 AM, the MPs rousted me out of bed. I said, “What the hell? I haven’t even had chow yet.” They said, “We don’t have all day. We got places to go, people to see, and things to do. You know, we’re the cops.” “Oh yeah, I forgot, the donut shop opens at 7:00 AM.” “Hey now, we ain’t like that.” “Sure, Sure! Uh Huh. You ain’t like that, I forgot. It looks like you get a lot of exercise too, don’t you, Sarge.” “One more crack like that from you and you’ll be the one going to jail.” So, we went down to the motor pool to where my car was parked. By the time we arrived, two other guys in suits and trench coats like the FBI wears had arrived in another car. The investigators looked at both doors of my car, they looked at the dash, they looked under the seat, and in the rear passenger compartment of my car. Then they said, “Open the trunk.” I said, “Why? Whoever robbed me didn’t break into the trunk. There ain’t shit to see in there. What are you expecting to find, my stash of drugs?” “Just open the damn trunk.” So, I opened the trunk to humor the bastards. I got the distinct feeling that they were searching my car for something. Hmmm… The trunk was completely empty except for the jack and spare tire. So, you guessed it, the gee whiz investigators gave my spare tire the once over. I was thinking, “Maybe you ought to bring in a K-9 unit to check out that vicious tire.” Mighty fine detectives on the job here. Yes sir. They never even looked at fingerprints, and there were clear sets of fingerprints on the dash and on the passenger door. I said, “Hey, what about fingerprints?” “We can’t get any fingerprints off of this car.” “What the hell do you mean, you can’t get any fingerprints? I don’t use the passenger door on my car, and it was just washed and waxed. There are clear prints on the window and on the dash.” “You’ve been watching too much TV.” “What the hell does that mean, I’ve been watching too much TV? There are clear prints, not mine, right there. The only prints of mine you’ll find on this car will be on the driver door handle and the steering wheel cuz I don’t get into my car on the passenger side to drive my car. Now, your cars may be different. You may have steering wheels and brakes and such on both sides of the car just in case one of you falls asleep at the wheel. You all being keystone cops and all.” “That’s it, smartass, you’re coming with us,” the Sarge said. “What? What the hell for? What did I do?” “Shut the hell up and get in. You’re going to the cop shop.” “Why?” “We gotta get your statement.” “My statement? What about fingerprints?” “Enough about the damn fingerprints. Get in.” The MPs locked me in the back of their car. They locked me in. You know. Bars on the windows, doors locked so you can’t open them, and a cage between the front and back seat. Then they drove off at 10 miles an hour with their damn lights on. The damn lights on like I’m a criminal or something. There was this guy driving even slower than them, but he was in front of the MPs. The Sarge said, “If he doesn’t move out and go about his business, I’m going to pull his ass over and give him a ticket.” I said, “Seriously? For what?” “He’s impeding police business and slowing me down.” “What? Slowing you down? That’s such Bullshit. You’re only going 10 miles an hour.” The Sarge smacked the cage and said, “You keep your damn mouth shut back there.” “Yeah right. Cuz you’ll lock me up in the back seat if I don’t shut up.” “He banged on the cage again and said, “Just shut the hell up.” “That has to hurt, banging on the cage like that.” “I said, shut the hell up.” “Or what? You know, I’m going to make you really sorry you brought me along unless you buy me a donut when we go to the donut shop.” “What’s with you and donuts, anyway?” “Oh please, don’t even try to bullshit a bullshitter. All cops eat donuts. That’s how you got your belly, and that’s how the cop in my home town got his belly.” He smacked the damn cage again and said, “I’m warning you.” “Look Sarge, you can’t hit me through that cage. It ain’t going to work.” “That’s it,” the Sarge said. He pulled the slow dude over and gave him a ticket. “Why did you give him a ticket, Sarge.” “Cuz he pissed me off.” “No. I pissed you off. All he did was drive too slow.” Then the Sarge banged the cage again. Finally, we arrived at the cop shop. MP number one handed me a blank piece of paper with a spot for my name and the date at the bottom and said fill this out. I wrote my name and the date on the paper and said, “I’m done.” “The MP said, “Let’s try this again. Fill this out.” “I already did that.” “No. No. No. I need more than just your name.” “Well, maybe we’re not communicating, then, cuz all it says is name and date.” “I need you to fill out the blank part up here.” “With what? You want me to write “fill out the blank part up here” a hundred times until it’s full?” “No. You need to write a statement about what happened to your car.” “Oh. I see.” I wrote, “My car got broken into. The end.” The MP was not happy. He gave me another piece of paper and said, “Let’s try this again.” “I guess you didn’t like the “The end” part, huh?” I wrote, “My car was broken into. I reported it to the cops. The end.” Then he said, “Let’s try this again.” “Okay, what am I missing here? Obviously, I’m missing something cuz you’re not happy.” “Write something that sounds appropriate.” I wrote, “My car was broken into. I reported it to the cops. They did absolutely nothing about it. The end.” He looked at me and said, “You son of a bitch. You get your ass out of this building.” “No.” “No? What do you mean? No?” “You forgot to say please. You know. Please get your ass out of this building. And I ain’t leaving until I get something. That something can be a ride back to my unit or my case solved, but something. “Cuz I damn sure didn’t walk over here and I ain’t walking back to my unit.” My experience with the MPs was just another exercise in futility.
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