Cop Out - The End Of My Brilliant Career In The NZ Police (The Laughing Policeman)

by Glenn Wood

  It was the most horrifying thing I’d ever seen but I was strangely calm. I checked the room and could see no sign of a struggle. There was no evidence of a forced entry so, unless the coroner told us differently, we had to assume she died of natural causes. Despite her shocking appearance, I think she died peacefully in her sleep.

  One thing did strike me as odd. There was very little smell in the room. Death was in the air and the room was musty but for some reason I couldn’t smell the corpse. I didn’t dwell on this and decided my senior partner should look at the scene to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. She glared at me when I asked her to go inside but softened considerably when she saw the body. The fact I hadn’t run out vomiting or freaking out gave her a new found respect for me and she began treating me almost like a human being. A lesser mortal than herself obviously, but at least I’d been elevated from my previously held role as pond scum.

  We waited for the coroner’s assistant to turn up. When he arrived we would have the unpleasant job of loading the body into the back of his hearse so he could transfer it to the morgue. We spent the time waiting on the front lawn under the pretext of taking the neighbour’s statement. The truth was that neither of us wanted to be inside with the body. The wait wasn’t a long one and I think the neighbour was more pleased to see the coroner’s assistant than we were. We warned him about the state of the corpse and he retrieved an aluminium stretcher from the back of his vehicle. The idea was to roll the body onto the tray and then transport it to the car. A good plan. We went back inside and I took hold of the dead lady under her arms. The hell bitch grabbed her feet while the coroner’s assistant held the stretcher propped against the bed. Then, as we started to slide her toward the stretcher, the corpse began to deflate. I hadn’t noticed how bloated the body was until it began to leak. There was a terrible noise, a spluttering hiss as the noxious gasses that had built up inside her began to escape.

  The smell hit me. It was like nothing I’d ever smelt before. A sickening combination of corrupt gasses and rotting meat that made my eyes water and my stomach heave. I couldn’t handle it. I dropped the body and ran for the door. Once outside I was pleased to see I wasn’t the only one to beat a hasty retreat. My partner and the coroner’s assistant were with me in the garden gulping for air. The coroner’s assistant proclaimed he’d never handled a body that smelt so bad. He suggested we scour the house for air freshener before we attempted another assault on the bedroom.

  We couldn’t find air freshener but did come across a large can of hairspray in the deceased’s bathroom cupboard and thought it might be worth a try. It was old lady hairspray and if it was anything like the brand my grandmother used it would be powerful stuff. The other two hadn’t come up with a better solution so they agreed to try it. I took a deep breath, pushed the nozzle on the spray can as hard as I could and plunged into the fetid room. Within seconds I realised that, rather than masking the death smells, the hairspray was mixing with them and making the stench twice as bad. I immediately released the nozzle but nothing happened, the can went on hissing like a demented snake, spewing its nasty spray further into the room. I’d pushed the nozzle so hard it had jammed.

  The stink was now appalling and I was in a panic to turn off the hairspray before I suffocated. Without thinking (there’s a change) I smacked the top of the can against the dressing table, trusting in that warped male logic that bashing things solves problems. It didn’t, it made it worse. The can bounced out of my hand and rolled under the bed, still spluttering out spumes of lilac scented gas. I wasn’t going to fumble around under the bed. I was nearly fainting from the stench as it was, so I ran spluttering outside once again. When I told my offsider what I’d done, she gave me a look that left me in no doubt that I was back in the pond doing aquarobics with the scum.

  In the end we had no option but to do several trips into the room while holding our collective breaths. It took three excursions, edging the body closer to the stretcher each time. Finally we raced in, rolled her the last few inches onto the stretcher, and hauled her out of there as fast as our legs could carry us. As I vacated the room I noticed that the accursed can was still hissing and farting under the bed. Damn the twenty per cent extra-large super-value can.

  I heaved a sigh of relief when the body was finally loaded into the back of the hearse. We sent her off with as much dignity as we could muster after our Keystone Cops performance.

  It had been a trying day and I was looking forward to going back to the station. I mentioned this to the ice queen and she informed me that I wouldn’t be going back to the station. I’d be going to the morgue to strip the body and remove the valuables. I’d forgotten about that heinous duty. Most people don’t realise it, but it is the job of the police to strip the bodies at the mortuary before the coroner views them. We also had to itemise the deceased’s possessions.

  I thought that as we were dealing with a female cadaver a policewoman should perform that duty. This was the usual procedure. But the hell bitch wasn’t having a bar of it. I was informed it would be good experience for me - important for my development as a police officer. She’d shown scant regard for my development up until now, so pardon me for suspecting that she wanted me to do it because it was a nasty, smelly job.

  I was dropped at the morgue a few minutes later. It was a depressing place, cold and sterile and bloody creepy. The coroner’s assistant showed me where he’d stored the body and then buggered off for a cup of tea. I was left alone. Just me and the hairspray impregnated body of a poor old dear who deserved better than to be lumbered with a nervous rookie cop hacking at her night attire with a scalpel.

  I was aware of the solemnity of the situation and I cut as carefully as I could, removing her night gown with respect and fortunately not too many problems. There was no point trying to save the garment as it had melded with her decaying skin. The only other item she had was a gold wedding ring. I wasn’t looking forward to pulling the ring off, as her hands were in a terrible state. Her fingers were black, partially decayed and awfully curled. Still, it had to be done so I steeled myself and twisted the ring as gently as I could. It wasn’t moving so I gave it a decent tug. The whole finger came off in my hand. I didn’t know what to do so I just stood there with a dumbfounded look on my face holding the disconnected digit before me. I made a panicked attempt to stick it back on her hand but it wouldn’t reconnect. I even contemplated Sellotape, but thought better of it. In the end I just laid the rogue pinkie discretely by her hand and hoped no-one would notice. The body was in such a sorry state that the missing finger would probably be put down to decay. Which is exactly what happened and there were no repercussions. Not on an official level anyway.

  The whole business had unnerved me. That sorry sequence of events graphically illustrated just how unpredictable the job was. Sure, I knew I’d come across some gruesome sights during my career but nothing had prepared me for the things like the hairspray can or the rotten finger.

  Was it just my bad luck, or did this sort of thing happen to all cops? I didn’t know but I think the smart money was on the former.

  I had trouble sleeping the next few nights. I couldn’t get the image of the dead woman’s decaying face out of my mind and it was very hard to get rid of the smell, which had impregnated my brain as well as my uniform. We’d been told during training that the stench of death was hard to erase and they had suggested sniffing water up your nose as a possible remedy. I did this when I got home but it just made me splutter and feel woozy. To this day I feel nauseous whenever I come within twenty metres of a freshly sprayed blue rinse.

  Hospitalised Part One

  Let’s take a few minutes off from discussing the depressing subject of death to talk about something far more sinister. Let’s talk about vehicles.

  Call me paranoid, but I believe there is an automotive conspiracy against me. I have proof. The first vehicle I ever owned was a Kawasaki 100 trail bike that was Dad’s until he fell off it and gave it to me. I fel
l off it too, so I gave it to my sister who fell off it as well and then sold it back to Dad. He fixed it up and gave it back to my sister who sold it again (not to Dad this time. He had wised up by then) and bought a car.

  After the Kawasaki 100 debacle I got my driver’s license (third try), headed for Training College and bought a pink mini called Floyd. It caused me major embarrassment, mechanical disasters galore and unending derision until it finally caught fire (while I was driving it) and nearly exploded. After that I purchased a red Cortina called Clyde. This car was also a heap of junk which was soundly mocked by all who knew me.

  As expected, Clyde fell to bits and once I’d spent an obscene amount of money repairing the exterior, the engine blew up. I had only been in Palmerston North for a few weeks when it happened and didn’t know what to do so I rang Dad. He suggested I let a mate of his replace the engine. This was the same friend who had recommended Floyd, but I decided everyone is entitled to one mistake so I acquiesced. We agreed a price (cheap), he picked out a second hand engine (dodgy), and I had the car back a week later. Thinking that nothing else could go wrong with it, I lent Clyde to Carey one evening when I was on duty. She and her friends were going to the pub and needed a vehicle.

  Part way through the shift I received a call to attend an attempted car theft at the tavern Carey and her friends had gone to. I arrived to find a distressed Carey standing beside my car which had the front lock ripped out and the ignition dislodged.

  “Oh fantastic!” I exclaimed as I examined the mess the thieves had made of my door and steering column. This annoyed Carey, as apparently I was showing more concern for my car than for her safety. I thought she was being overly dramatic as the thieves took off as soon as the girls approached, but it turned out that she was right.

  Once disturbed and deciding not to take on all three girls at once, the offenders snuck away and stole another car. This was lucky for me as we (the police) spotted the criminals shortly after and a high speed chase ensued. The chase ended with the thieves smashing the stolen car into a lamp post, wrecking it completely. I heard this going on over the RT and heaved a sigh of relief that they hadn’t been able to get my Cortina started in time. But it was not over. After the offenders crashed the vehicle one of them (the one who wasn’t slumped unconscious in the passenger seat) leapt out of the crumpled car and ran from the scene. My sergeant, who had been pursuing them in his patrol car, jumped out and gave chase. When the offender ran out of breath he turned to face my sergeant holding one hand up, indicating that he wished to surrender. At the same time he slid his other hand down the side of his leg. Instead of pausing and letting the guy give up without a struggle (as I would have done) my sergeant barrelled into him, knocking him to the ground. He kept the young thug pinned down until he could handcuff him. A subsequent search revealed that the offender had a large diving knife strapped to his leg. He had been reaching for it while pretending to give up.

  Back at the station the offender admitted that had Carey been alone he would have pulled the knife on her and held her hostage until he and his accomplice had been able to start my car and escape.

  Later that evening I told Carey what had happened. She went pale and had to sit down. She soon recovered enough to cuff me around the ears and remind me of my cavalier attitude to her safety. I quickly realised I wouldn’t be spending the night at her flat, so I got into my unlockable Cortina, put my keys into the dislodged ignition and attempted to drive off with my dignity intact. True to form, the starter motor chose that moment to pack up. At 3am the next morning, as I tried to sleep on an uncomfortable couch at Quentin’s flat, I decided to sell the Cortina. I told Carey I was so distraught at the danger it had put her in that I couldn’t bear to drive it anymore. She forgave me instantly. I didn’t mention the starter motor.

  Carey’s birthday came soon after and I gave her flowers, a garnet brooch, an amusing card and the fright of her life. I didn’t gift wrap the last one.

  After promising to get rid of the Cortina I was forced to find another form of transport. Being without a vehicle would have been unacceptable for a high flying young police constable like me so I had to find a replacement pretty damn quickly. I decided to buy a motor bike, reasoning that it would be cheap to run, cool to zap around on and a romantic surprise for Carey. That’s right. I know what women want.

  I scanned the paper and found a bike that sounded perfect. It was a Suzuki 125, a bit more powerful than the Kawi 100 and best of all it was only $400 - a bargain. I phoned the seller (nice fellow) and agreed to take the bike out for a test ride. He lived on the other side of town in an area I was unfamiliar with but I found his house without much problem and was soon seated on the Suzuki.

  The bike looked fine but tradition demanded I go through some pre-buy tests to ensure I wasn’t about to be ripped off. The irony being that I am as mechanically adept as a sea anemone and wouldn’t have been able to tell if anything was wrong anyway. Still, in an effort to keep up appearances, I revved the engine, listened to what I thought might have been the tappets (small furry creatures from Central America that push the pistons up and down), kicked the tyres and wobbled the exhaust pipe, burning my hand in the process.

  I then sighed a few times and muttered that I should take it for a road test as I thought the grommets might be out of line. The guy nodded and bit back a smile. He had me worked out from the moment he laid eyes on me but we were honour bound not to deviate from the buyer/seller rules of engagement. I left my wallet behind as security (contents: $10, an expired Visa card, my driver's license and two condoms) and took the bike for a drive around the block.

  I made it as far as the first intersection. The Suzuki had been making some strange sounds and I was paying more attention to the bike’s engine then I was to the road signs. So much so, that I missed a large red STOP sign. In my defence the road had been recently resealed and there were no markings on it.

  I approached the intersection, the motor coughed again and I started playing around with the accelerator cable. A belated sixth sense kicked in and I brought my attention back to the road. I caught a glimpse of something out of my right eye and the next thing I knew the bike was ripped from underneath me and I was thrown into the air. I had driven directly into the path of a Ford Ute. The car crashed into the Suzuki about two centimetres in front of my knees sending me smashing into the car’s windscreen and the bike careening across the road into a lamppost. My body shattered the glass and I bounced onto the roof before landing in the rear tray and tumbling onto the road, where I lay unconscious and bleeding, my crash helmet smashed completely in two.

  The motorbike was damaged beyond repair with the chassis bent one way from the impact of the ute then the other when it hit the telephone pole. The state of the Suzuki was the last thing on my mind; I was more concerned about the gigantic wall I was falling down. I had just regained consciousness and was convinced I was still flying through the air and plunging down the length of a seemingly endless concrete wall. Suddenly the wall turned from vertical to horizontal and revealed itself to be the main road, upon which I lay, sprawled.

  I didn’t take the time to thank God I was still alive. I wasn’t thinking in terms of life and death. I was just trying to make sense of what had happened to me. I knew I’d been knocked off the motorbike but I had no recollection of bouncing along the length of the ute. In fact, I didn’t even know I’d been hit by a ute.

  One thing struck me as strange. I wasn’t experiencing any pain, although I was struggling for breath. My chest felt like an elephant was using it as an arm chair. To make matters worse blurry people were arriving and were putting blankets over me. This added immense pressure to my battered ribcage. People had come running from their homes when they heard the crash, but their knowledge of first aid seemed to amount to crushing the victim with blankets.

  I felt helpless. These kind folk were doing their best to make me comfortable but were suffocating me. Fortunately an ambulance arrived soon after. I’m no
t sure how quickly it got there because I was drifting in and out of consciousness but I do remember the ambulance men taking the blankets off my chest, for which I was eternally grateful. Once they’d extricated me from my woollen hell they eased me gently onto a stretcher.

  I must have blacked out because the next thing I knew, I was in a bed in the back of the ambulance which was zooming through the suburbs with the siren blaring. The ambulance men hadn’t noticed I had come to and were chatting as they cut my shirt off and assessed the damage. I heard one of them say: “Jesus, look at all this blood.” Then I lost consciousness again.

  When I came to, I was being wheeled into the hospital Accident and Emergency room where I was given a pain killer. The nurse proceeded to cut the rest of my clothes off and I was examined more closely. It’s all a bit blurry from here, but I have fuzzy memories of being wheeled into a lift and seeing Carey with me. She was crying. I think her parents were there too. They weren’t crying but they did seem unusually pleased to see me. Not that they were ever openly hostile but I had the feeling they thought Carey could have done better. Looking at the state of me that day, they had a point.

  Swathed in bandages and complete with sobbing girlfriend and worried girlfriend’s parents I was wheeled into one of the wards and told to go to sleep. This was impossible because every half hour some dude came in and shone a light into my eyes.

  Astoundingly, I hadn’t broken any bones. But I had deep seated bruising on both hips. The bruising was so bad that for several days I couldn’t walk without the aid of a nurse under each arm (the only way to travel). The blood the ambulance guy referred to came from a myriad of small cuts that crisscrossed my arm. Fortunately, they weren’t deep. They had been caused by the smashed glass from the car windscreen and gravel from the road. The rest of my body was also covered with cuts, bruises and large, seeping grazes where my light cotton shirt had offered no protection as I skidded along the road. Of the most concern was my head, or more specifically my brain. I was concussed and the doctors were worried I may have sustained a skull fracture and brain damage. (They couldn’t find any evidence at the time, but I’m sure I did suffer damage to my brain which, in later years, helped me become an advertising copywriter).