Sheriff's Calls

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— The calls were coming in at a furious pace. It was early afternoon on Aug. 7, and people placidly pacing the peaceful paths of Weaver Hollow Park were being menaced by a young hellion on a green motorcycle who was roaring around the tranquil trails at speeds approaching insane. Deputies caught first scent of their quarry near South Cole Street, and by following the echoes of his two-stroke thunder were able to track the dirt-bike daredevil to West Marlowe Avenue. Pausing briefly in the middle of the intersection, the reckless racer locked eyes with officers for only an instant before spinning 180 degrees and squealing off down South Alkire Street with black-and-whites in hot pursuit. Keeping eyes on their delinquent prize, deputies grew increasingly concerned as the fugitive’s speed easily doubled sleepy suburban limits, and became positively alarmed to perceive “a much younger white male” precariously perched behind the desperate driver and “hanging on for dear life.” Disregarding the danger, the foolhardy fellow sought to shake his tail by staging a high-speed retreat back across Weaver Hollow Park, and officers could do little but watch as he tore “eastbound on the sidewalk” as “people on the path were forced to get out of the way of the dirt bike or they would have been hit.” The perilous ploy worked, and deputies quickly lost sight of the two-wheeled terror and his hapless passenger, who apparently went to ground somewhere among the fetching homes of Friendly Hills. Unable to reacquire their fox, the dogged deputies called off the hunt.

Baboons on his bumper
— The mild-mannered motorist’s placid afternoon cruise through the neighborhood took a turn for the worse when a fearsome foursome pulled up behind him at a deserted intersection and rudely rattled his cage. As he tells it, the gal driving the decrepit blue coupe roared up so fast and so close that he felt compelled to pull forward through the stop sign and onto the shoulder to avoid getting pasted by the little car’s already-battered front end. Perhaps mistaking the evasive maneuver for a courtesy, the impetuous woman sped around him and tore off toward the foothills at “about 75 mph” with a shirtless and carpet-chested 30-something hanging out the passenger-side window, eyes fixed skyward and brandishing what looked like “a semi-automatic pistol.” Mild-mannered immediately notified the sheriff’s office, but, given the speed of the event, couldn’t provide a license plate number for the car or a solid description of the gun-toting gorilla. Tarzan, Jane, and the two occupants in their back seat swiftly disappeared into the suburban jungle.

Duress of a salesman
— It took but seconds for the seasoned telecom customer to determine that the person who called on the afternoon of Aug. 10 was neither friend nor relation. “No, thank you, we’re not interested” she told the persistent pitchman. Her admirable civility was apparently lost on the pesky peddler, who immediately called back and got the woman’s husband. “Your wife hung up on me,” he explained, only to be politely brushed off a second time. Throwing his lightly used copy of “Willy Loman’s Sure-Fire Guide to Closing the Deal” clean out the window, he called back again: “You’re a tough guy and your wife’s a slut.” And again: “I’m going to come over and slap your wife around.” In fact, he called at least six separate times in less than 45 minutes, prompting the “tough guy” to call for back up. The responding deputy suggested the couple drop a line to Qwest about setting a “phone trap” for the truculent telemarketer.