Sheriff's Calls

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An Offbeat Look at Area Crime


Bad lad’s dad mad

WEST KEN CARYL AVENUE — On the afternoon of Feb. 13, Mickey Motorist was carefully cruising near South Simms Street when Bungling Boy blundered into him. Bungling Boy could provide no vehicle information, so to be on the safe side, Mickey tipped off a trooper and the State Patrol wrote a wreck report. His duty done, Mickey went home to find the phone ringing and a bellowing blowhard on the other end. It was Furious Father demanding to know why Mickey had involved the authorities. “You could have just talked to me,” Furious fumed. “You’re an (ash-pole)!” Mickey called the police for the second time that day and recounted the crude call for JCSO. He told deputies he didn’t want to make a federal case out of a fender-bender, but he was still waiting for young Bungling’s vehicle information and he’d appreciate it if they could grease the skids. Officers told Mickey they’d contact CSP for particulars and urged him to forward any more flaming phonings from Furious.


No love lost

KEN CARYL RANCH — Her heartless neighbor just hurled a putrid bouquet of hostility and abuse at her chamber door, a quaking Rose told the 911 dispatcher on the morning of Feb. 14, and there he remained, twisting his mustache and oozing menace like the last half-nibbled cordial in a 2-pound variety box. Deputies flew to her aid, but her neighbor, Mr. Villen, had already slunk away to his next-door lair. Revived with soothing words and smelling salts, Rose explained that she owns three tender and loving dogs who, when seized by overweening passion, have been known to treat the invisible fence around the yard like it isn’t even there. That morning, two of those good-hearted hounds wound up in Villen’s yard, and Villen, with lightning in his eyes and thunder upon his brow, brought them back, along with a lurid, long and loud soliloquy intended more to distress than impress. Tired of getting yelled at, Rose had moved to close the door. “I’m not done talking to you yet!” Villen bellowed, forcefully smiting the door with an open hand. Wrestling the door shut, Rose announced she was calling the police, and Villen beat a muttering retreat. Rose pleaded with officers to be gentle with the rogue, as she had already sold her estate and was loathe to leave hard feelings behind when she blew town. The deputies paid a call on Villen, who grandly, smilingly and repeatedly bade them to enter and take their ease, and was clearly offended when they remained standing at the door. “I guess that’s just not part of their program,” he observed to Lady Villen. Unable to win the officers’ favor by flirtation, he sought to buffalo them with deposition, launching into a tortured recounting of his harrowing history with the dogs and enumerating Rose’s many deficiencies as a pet owner and neighbor. Hardening their hearts, the deputies asked Villen if he’d smacked the door when Rose tried to close it. Well, yeah, he admitted, but she’d provoked him by not thanking him for bringing back the dogs. The deputies explained that his actions met the definition of criminal trespass, and that if he knew what was good for him, he’d give Rose an extra-wide berth forever after. Villen complained that the officers weren’t properly sympathetic to his sufferings, but agreed to let Rose ramble in peace.

Those who forget the past …

SOUTH COORS COURT — Pulling up next to the white Acura coup parked in plain and public view on the afternoon of Feb. 12, the deputy found two familiar young faces lounging inside. One was sprawled in the front seat, the other was draped across the back seat, and both were stoned to a fare-thee-well. The officer asked to see some identification and, carefully setting aside the blown-glass pipe still clutched in his hand, Front Seat willingly complied. He and Back Seat were just hanging out waiting for a friend, Front Seat said, and they couldn’t imagine what the problem could be. At least part of the problem, the deputy explained, was that, not two weeks before, he’d personally and sternly warned both Front Seat and Back Seat about toking in public. The genial gents said they’d forgotten that distant episode, but it was coming back to them. The lads helpfully assured the deputy that they had no more marijuana in the car, nor anything else of official police interest. When a cursory search of the vehicle turned up a cache of grass and a 2-inch switchblade knife, Front Seat professed to be astounded. “I forgot about that,” he said. To help Front Seat remember his court date, the deputy wrote it out on a transfer pad he keeps in his patrol car and gave him four copies, but only because department guidelines prohibited writing it on his arm.