Occasionally, we receive a story here at America’s Dumbest Criminals headquarters that doesn’t involve a dumb criminal, but does involve the police and their ability to defuse potentially volatile situations. There’s no criminal in this case, just an unfortunate fellow whose straw, so to speak, didn’t go all the way to the bottom of his glass—and an experienced cop who handled a delicate situation with creative efficiency.
“Sometimes an officer has to fly by the seat of his pants,” says C. R. Meathrell, chief of the Salem City Police Department in Salem, West Virginia. “And being able to ad lib at the drop of a hat can be a real plus.”
Several years ago, when Meathrell was a sergeant working the night shift, he was called to a rest home to take care of a disturbance. An elderly patient had refused to take his medication and had mentally reverted to his days as a private in the army. The old soldier had raised enough pure hell that everyone on his floor was awake. For well over an hour he had paced the hallway, ranting and raving about the expected German attack. The home had called the police to help them with a transfer to a nearby hospital.
“I had a rookie with me who was still trying to find his way around our little town,” Meathrell remembers, “and all the way there he was plotting how we would take this guy. I had to remind him that it was just an old man with a bolt or two loose, not a Charles Manson.”
When the officers arrived, staff members were waiting to escort them to the old fellow’s room. When the rookie and the uniformed sergeant entered the room, the old man stared at the sergeant’s rank stripes and then snapped to attention.
“Sergeant,” he blared, “I’ve been a good soldier. Let me show you my medals.” With that, he popped open a cigar box with several figurines in it.
Here’s my chance, Meathrell thought.
“Private,” he barked, “we are here to get you out of enemy territory. But we must hurry; the enemy isn’t far behind.”
The elderly “private” snapped to attention again, gathered his duffel bag, and marched out the door.
All the way down the hallway, the sergeant called cadence, and the little group marched out the front door as if they were going to war. Five or six elderly ladies cheered. One elderly gentleman simply muttered, “Nut.”
The elderly “private” snapped to attention again, gathered his duffel bag, and marched out the door.
Things went well until the officers and their charge emerged from the door of the rest home. There the good “private” stopped dead in his tracks. He had spotted the fire department ambulance that stood waiting to transfer him. An attendant opened the side door and offered him a hand, but he wasn’t having any part of it.
“It’s okay, private,” the sergeant assured him. “That’s a tank I ordered to get you safely across enemy lines. I’ll stay behind and guard our flank.”
Like a shot, the good old soldier was up and in the ambulance. Meathrell closed the door and waved good-bye.
As the ambulance drove away, the rookie turned to the sergeant with a slack jaw. “A tank?” he asked in disbelief.
“Don’t gripe,” the sergeant said. “He’s on his way, isn’t he?”