America's Dumbest Criminals

by Daniel Butler

  Betts was stunned at the man’s reaction. He thought then that he might have an out-of-control drug addict on his hands. He couldn’t let the man go because the suspect was in the kitchen and there were too many possible weapons lying around. So he kept pulling. Every time Betts pulled, the burglar screamed louder and louder.

  When Betts’s backup arrived, they tried to pull the man through the window . . . with the same results. With every tug, the man screamed at the top of his lungs.

  Finally, two of the officers went inside the center, got behind the man, and pushed him out of the window into Betts’s arms. That’s when the lieutenant noticed a shiny object tucked into the burglar’s pants. It turned out to be a chrome-plated crowbar that the crook had used to break into the center.

  Now everything became perfectly clear. When the crook was leaning out the window with the crowbar wedged down the front of his pants, he had created a painful leverage on his privates. Every time someone pulled on him, the crowbar would act like a small, effective lever and apply enormous pressure on the suspect’s groin area. Since the source of his agony was also important evidence in his crime, he didn’t really want to tell the officers, “Guys, there’s a crowbar in my pants. Could you stop pulling on me, please?”

  Needless to say, the lieutenant didn’t need to pry a confession out of this particular dumb criminal.

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  Stealing Home!

  It was the early 1990s and baseball would never again be played in the old Comiskey Park in Chicago. Cheering crowds believed they had seen the last play at the historic stadium. Not long afterward, however, two dumb but nostalgic baseball fans decided to try one last half-inning on their own.

  The two men climbed onto the field at night with the intention of stealing the old home plate for a souvenir. Silently, they crept over the field with their shovels, peering nervously over their shoulders, jumping at the slightest sound, but determined to obtain their prize. What a collectible!

  But surely they paused for just a moment to contemplate, to look up at the silent, shadowy stands and hear the cheers once more. They must have gazed down at that old plate, envisioning all the runs that had been scored from that spot, all the great batters who had stood there, all the great pitchers who had hurled the ball toward home.

  They paused for just a moment to wonder how they were going to get away with their crime now that two security guards were running toward them on the field.

  There was a frantic rundown play between third and home before the two thieves were captured for the unofficial final out at the old Comiskey Park.

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  The Fall Guy

  We’ve all heard of people who have been in accidents that could have or should have killed them but were so drunk they weren’t even injured. Detective Adam Watson of Brunswick, Georgia, tells about one of those people whose amazing good luck managed to outstrip his sheer dumbness.

  Watson was dispatched to an exclusive resort estate late one Saturday night to check on what was supposed to be a break-in with the suspect still on the premises. The terrified occupants of the house, an older couple by the name of Thompson, had whispered the story over the phone when they called police.

  Around midnight, the Thompsons said, a man had appeared at the front door of their residence and begun pounding crazily, determined to gain entrance. Not surprisingly, they had refused to let him in. After several unsuccessful minutes the man had moved to the back door and continued his pounding. Then, as the Thompsons were phoning the police, they heard the sound of shattering glass and a loud thud that told them their intruder had somehow gained admittance. They didn’t try to find out how. They just locked themselves in their bedroom and waited for the police.

  “When we arrived,” Watson says, “we began an immediate search of the home with weapons drawn. We came around the corner and entered a hallway on the first floor. And there in a crumpled heap lay the intruder— out cold. But it wasn’t until much later, when we got him to the hospital and he woke up, that we were able to piece together what really happened.”

  The burglar, it turned out, wasn’t really a burglar. He was a high-powered executive who had been visiting friends at the resort. That night, he had gotten totally wasted in a local bar and then gotten lost. Drunk and unfamiliar with the area, he arrived at the Thompsons’ and assumed their home was the condo where his friends were staying. He had beaten frantically on all the doors, seeking admission.

  Getting nowhere, he had next decided to scale the side of the house and climb in through a second-story window. First he tried to open it, then finally he smashed it and fell through.

  Unfortunately for him, the window he chose was in a room with a cathedral ceiling. There was no second floor to land on. He fell twenty feet and landed in the first-floor hallway.

  When the intruder was finally able to talk to police the next day, he told them that all he remembered was knocking on the door. He had no recollection of climbing up the house or falling twenty feet or being arrested—he was just too drunk to remember anything at all.

  “We ended up charging the guy with criminal trespassing,” the officer states. “There was nothing else we could charge him with. He really wasn’t breaking in, and there was no criminal intent.”

  And amazingly, the only ill effects he seemed to suffer from his twenty-foot fall were a few bruises.

  DUMB CRIMINAL QUIZ NO. 457.2

  How well do you know the dumb criminal mind?

  A dumb crook tried to rob a gas station, but the attendants didn’t cooperate. When neither attendant would hand over the money, did the criminal . . .

  (a) start crying and run away?

  (b) challenge the attendants to an arm-wrestling contest for the money?

  (c) threaten to call the police?

  (d) hold his breath until he passed out?

  If your answer was (c), then you’re getting the idea. A would-be bandit in Oklahoma grew so upset that the gas station attendants refused to give him the money that he threatened to call the police. When the attendants still refused, the man made good on his threat. Needless to say, he was half-gassed himself at the time.

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  Wrong Side of the Tracks

  No officer likes to get a call involving a train accident. They are usually the bloodiest and most disgusting scenes imaginable.

  One evening Marshal Larry Hawkins of Little Rock got a call that a pedestrian had been hit by a train. Expecting the worst, Hawkins reported to the scene. He arrived to find a crowd of spectators craning their necks to get a better look. The marshal elbowed his way through the crowd and saw the victim—standing up talking to someone and brushing off the dirt on his pants.

  Here’s the story Hawkins unraveled: The man and his wife were at Johnson’s Tavern, which is right next to the railroad tracks. They both got drunk, and then they got into an argument. He said to her, “The hell with you, I’m walking home.” The railroad track went right past his house, so he decided he was going to walk the tracks home.

  Meanwhile, a southbound train was on its way. And somewhere between the tavern and home, the train and the drunk man managed to meet.

  But the important thing is that he was lying between the two rails when the train went over him.

  The conductors and the engineers all saw a man go down, and they were sure the train went over him. They assumed he had been killed. But somehow after the train had managed to stop, the dumb, drunk, and incredibly lucky criminal was still alive.

  To this day, no one is sure exactly how it happened. The train might have knocked the man down, or he might have passed out on the tracks. But the important thing is that he was lying between the two rails when the train went over him.

  Said Hawkins, “Now, there’s always stuff hanging down under a train, like air hoses and stuff, and those things did clip him and roll him around. He was bruised, scratched, and cut, and his clothes were torn. But he was all right. He was up and walking around—still drunk and scared o
ut of his mind. I took him in for his own protection and arrested him for public intoxication.”

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  My Name’s Steve, and I’ll Be Your Dealer Today

  Giving one more glance around the crowded bar, Agent Johnson (who’s still working undercover in the South somewhere and shall therefore remain otherwise nameless) yawned and sighed. He was working undercover narcotics and had wanted to bust a certain known dealer that night. But the dealer had never appeared. Whatever the reason, the whole evening had been a colossal waste of time.

  The agent was about to pay his tab and go home when a man slid onto a stool next to him and struck up a conversation. Johnson began to suspect that this man might also have connections to the drug culture.

  “Hey, man,” he asked his new acquaintance, “you know where I can buy some reefer?”

  The man said evenly, “As a matter of fact, I do.” After a few more minutes’ conversation, Agent Johnson understood that the man was referring to himself.

  By now Johnson was wondering, How am I going to find out who this guy is? He had to have a name in order to serve a warrant. And he had to serve a warrant, because to arrest the man on the spot would jeopardize the entire operation and blow his cover as well.

  The new suspect didn’t feel comfortable selling drugs in the bar, so they strolled outside into the parking lot. The man led Johnson to his car. The agent was still racking his brain, trying to think of a way to learn the dealer’s name.

  Then the dealer himself solved the problem.

  “Listen, man, it’s nothing personal,” he said. “But I don’t know who you are. I mean, you could be a cop for all I know. So can I see your driver’s license?”

  With a rush of relief, the agent pulled out a phony driver’s license that he used for undercover work. And then he said, “Hey, I don’t know who you are either. Can I see your driver’s license?”

  “Sure,” the dealer replied.

  The agent looked at his license, memorized the information, and made the buy. About a week later, the dealer was treated with a personalized warrant for his arrest signed by his new friend, Johnson.

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  Hooked on Crime

  In a Florida town, the first policewoman on the local force was sent undercover to crack down on the prostitution problem. Her particular targets were the “johns,” or clients, who are considered as much a part of the problem as the prostitutes themselves. (After all, it’s just as illegal to buy it as it is to sell it.) The police officer was dressed to look like a “working girl,” wired for sound, and sent out to walk the streets. It wasn’t long before a well-dressed man picked her up.

  “Are you a cop?” the man asked her.

  “Do I look like a cop?” she responded.

  “Well, no, you look too nice to be a cop.”

  So the conversation continued, and the man eventually told the undercover officer what he had in mind. But that wasn’t enough to arrest him for solicitation, however. He also had to offer to pay her.

  “What’s in it for me?” the officer asked.

  “Well, normally,” the man said, “I don’t pay more than fifty dollars. But as good as you look, I’d pay you a hundred bucks.”

  The officer leaned down and spoke into her hidden microphone, “Fellows, did you hear that? I knew I could make a whole lot more money doing something besides being a cop.”

  The man was flabbergasted. “You are a cop!” he yelled.

  The female officer looked at him smugly. “Yes, I am.”

  “Hell!” the man exclaimed. “If you’d have told me you’re a cop, I would’ve offered you two hundred bucks. I’ve never screwed a cop before.”

  “You’ve been screwed by one now,” the officer remarked. “You’re under arrest.”

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  A Red-Hot Robbery

  In St. Louis, Missouri, two men entered a convenience store with the intention of robbing it. They made their intention known to the clerk—but they had no weapons. The clerk told them that if they didn’t leave the store he would call the police.

  Frightened that their robbery wasn’t working out like the ones on television, the two crooks made a run for it. But one of the robber wannabes decided he was going to steal something—so he grabbed a hot dog off the rotisserie and quickly shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

  A few steps outside the convenience store, the hot-dog thief collapsed—he was choking on the frankfurter. Faced with this beautiful case of poetic justice—it takes a weenie to stop a weenie—the other man did the only honorable thing a dumb criminal can do. He ran like hell, leaving his partner gasping in the parking lot.

  He grabbed a hot dog off the rotisserie and quickly shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

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  The Five-Year Cab Ride

  Late one evening, in a small town in Illinois, a taxi was called to a local bar to pick up a man who had imbibed a bit too heavily. The gentleman in question staggered out to the cab, gave his home address, and slouched back into the seat as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

  When they arrived at the guy’s house, the drunk told the cab driver that he didn’t have any money on him, but that he had some in the house. “I’ll just run in and be right back out with the money, okay?”

  That was fine by the cabby; it happened all the time. But not quite this way.

  The man got out of the cab, staggered into his house, and reappeared a few moments later.

  “I couldn’t find any money,” he slurred, “but I found my gun, so you’re going to have to give me all your money.”

  Believe it or not, this guy actually robbed the cab driver at gunpoint, took the money, and then lurched back into his house, leaving the cabby still parked outside.

  You don’t have to be psychic to see where this is going. The stunned and shaken cab driver backed his vehicle up about a block, called his dispatcher, and told them he had just been robbed at gunpoint, and then described exactly where the armed robber was at the very moment.

  When the police arrived on the scene, the cabby repeated his story to them. Then he watched as the police approached the house, weapons drawn.

  Pete Peterson was an officer on the force at the time. He remembers that the front door was wide open when the officers approached.

  “Only the storm door was shut,” Pete recalls, “and it wasn’t locked.”

  The officers looked in through the storm door to the lighted living room. There on the coffee table was the .38-caliber handgun. And there on the sofa, passed out cold, was the robber.

  The drunk was sentenced to five years in prison for armed robbery. He might as well have told the cabby, “Take me straight to jail.”

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  Winner Loses

  Winning the lottery is every gambler’s dream. So when Donna Lee Sobb hit the California state lottery for one hundred dollars she was thrilled. Not only did she need the money, but her winning ticket also qualified her for the big two-million-dollar jackpot.

  Things were looking up for Donna, it seemed. She smiled as she looked at her picture in the local news-paper. She was getting some attention, and people on the street occasionally recognized her. Unfortunately for Sobb, so did the people on the beat—the police beat, that is. A local cop read her story, saw her picture, and recognized her as the woman wanted by authorities on an eight-month-old shoplifting warrant.

  Now Sobb really needed that hundred dollars she had just won. She ended up applying it toward her bail.

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  The Civic-Minded Cocaine Cooker

  It was October 1993 in a Georgia town when Tyrell Church was in the kitchen cooking up his specialty . . . cocaine. He had been doing that for a good thirty years, but he had never seen any that cooked up like this batch. Something was wrong.

  “I had never seen powder cocaine that turned red when you cooked it up,” Church explained. So, being concerned for his own welfare as well as that of the public at large, Tyrell Church did what any fool would do. He took the s
uspicious concoction to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation crime lab for analysis.

  The lab ran four separate tests. The substance proved to be cocaine after all. And Church was promptly arrested and charged with possession of the same. He opted to serve as his own lawyer in what to him seemed a ridiculous trial.

  “Had I known I was going to be arrested,” he argued, “I wouldn’t have taken it over to the lab.”

  So why did Church take his cocaine to the lab?

  “If kids get hold of something like this,” he said, “it might hurt them or poison them. I took it over there to have it tested to see if it had been cut or mixed with any dangerous substances.”

  The civic-minded cooker went on to say that if something had been wrong with the cocaine, he could have warned the public.

  Church insisted that he had often had his cocaine tested in New York, where he once lived.

  “What’s the sense in having a crime lab,” he asked, bewildered, “if a person can’t take anything over there?”

  He also requested that the substance be retested, a request which the judge denied.

  “I’m not a habitual user,” the cooker complained in his final statement. “I use cocaine for my arthritis. It’s a waste of the taxpayers’ time for this kind of case to come to court. The grand jury shouldn’t have even bothered.”

  “I do not think a violation of the cocaine law is a waste of time,” the district attorney countered.

  The jury couldn’t have agreed more. It took just seven minutes for them to return a guilty verdict.

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