The Sad Saga of Bad Luck Brown
Don Parker of Pensacola also has a string of tales to tell about a dumb criminal who richly earned his nickname of Bad Luck Brown.
“We called him that because this guy had atrocious luck,” Parker remembers. “Plus he wasn’t all that bright. He was a small-time crook who spent more time in jail than he did out.
“I think the first time I met Bad Luck was in 1978 when I rolled in on a robbery call at a church on Sunday morning during the sermon. Bad Luck had robbed the collection plate. He made good on his escape and got away clean with all the cash, but he dropped his wallet. All we had to do was check his driver’s license, then go by his house and pick him up.”
But the dumbest crime Bad Luck Brown ever committed was one of his unluckiest, too.
There had been a string of motel robberies in the Pensacola area, and the police had received a tip on where the motel thieves were going to hit next. They always hit the motels around midnight, and the cops planned to be ready for them. Officers were stationed in the motel office and in parked cars around the parking lot. Parker was in the woods across the street with three other officers.
Just past midnight, an old, beat-up station wagon slowly passed the motel. It rattled up the road, turned around, and came back. The vehicle didn’t fit the description of the motel robbers, and there was only one person in the car. But the motel thieves might have changed cars, or they might have just been casing the place. All the hidden officers watched it carefully.
The car turned around and came back for a third pass. Don Parker called his sergeant across the street on his walkie-talkie. “You think this might be our guys?”
“Nah, but he sure is interested in something.”
The car stopped, a door opened, the driver leaned out and looked around cautiously. The sergeant wasn’t taking any chances.
“All units stand by. We’ve got some activity out here, but I don’t know what’s going on.”
Everybody watched as the mystery man stepped from the car.
“He’s on the ground.” The man walked around his vehicle and into the light of a street lamp. “He’s on the street side of his car now. Okay, I can see him now . . . oh, no!’
But Bad Luck Brown’s luck held true. Just as he was about to disappear, he tripped over one of the officers and sprained his ankle.
Parker didn’t like the tone of Sarge’s voice. “What? What?”
Sarge radioed back, “It’s Bad Luck Brown.”
The man eased over to the patch of grass in front of the motel and finally stopped next to a lawn mower that someone had carelessly left out.
Sarge was almost laughing. “I don’t believe it. He’s stealing the lawn mower!”
Quickly and silently, Bad Luck Brown rolled the lawn mower to his station wagon, dropped the tailgate, and loaded the mower into his car.
“Move in.” Sarge gave the command with a bit of resigned frustration in his voice.
The two unmarked cars in the parking lot pulled up to block the station wagon just as Bad Luck started it up. The officers hopped out with drawn guns and called him to freeze. Instead, Bad Luck jumped out and made a run for it. He dashed across the street into the woods—right where Parker was hiding.
“We almost scared him to death when we jumped out. But he was determined to get away this time, so he bolted to the left into the dense undergrowth. Now, a foot chase at night in the woods is the worst. You’re running into trees and falling down into gullies. So I decided to try to scare him into stopping.
“‘Halt, or I’ll shoot!’ I fired my gun into the ground. Unfortunately, this didn’t have the effect I had hoped for. All the officers hit the ground, but Bad Luck just sped up. It looked like he was going to get away clean.”
But Bad Luck Brown’s luck held true. Just as he was about to disappear, he tripped over one of the officers and sprained his ankle.
“We never did see the motel thieves that night,” Parker says. “But once again, it was our privilege to book Bad Luck Brown. He never ceased to amaze us.”