Wexler, who frequented the Saint Amelia library to view Internet porn, had been kicked out one day for masturbating while watching a high school girl read. Because the girl had been totally unaware and the librarians hadn’t actually seen what he was doing under his magazine, there was no victim and technically no crime. Wexler made a scene at the library, then at his psychologist’s office, and finally in the PD lobby, where he wanted to file a complaint against “those whore-librarians.” When I reported for swing shift, I found the Chief, dispatcher, CSO, and day-shift sergeant crowded behind the lobby door, peering through the dispatch window at Wexler talking to Donald in the lobby. They were quietly and gleefully laughing at Wexler, whom they likened to a werewolf, because of his bushy hair and beard, and a unicorn, because of a large, bulbous growth on top of his head. “Look,” they told me, “it’s like a second head.”
While we were gawking at Wexler, who reeked so alarmingly of garlic that the scent had infiltrated the ballistic glass that separated us from him, his psychologist called and said she felt afraid for her safety. Wexler had offered to “show her what he’d done at the library,” and when he began unzipping his pants (he had impulsivity issues), she told him to leave. Wexler left her office enraged, twice ousted by women in one day, and she knew he owned a gun or possibly guns.
The dispatcher ran him for rap sheets and gun licenses, and when she found he’d been convicted of felony battery against a police officer in another state ten years before, the Chief said, “Bingo” and claimed the arrest as mine. Everyone wanted to know when the arrest would take place, if I was nervous, seeing as it would be a rite of passage: my first felony arrest. A jolt of testosterone had just affected everyone in the room but me. I felt no aggression toward this disheveled man with his girlish wrists; I felt nausea, at the unpleasant thought of having to touch him. I was also conscious that watching a six-foot brunette cuff and search a petite perverted freak might appeal to the other officers as something interesting to watch.
By eight P.M. we had a signed search warrant for Wexler’s third-story apartment over a garage in a gated Seventh-day Adventist compound outside Saint Amelia. Jason, with whom I normally drove, was on his days off, and Sergeant Tom, with whom I drove on Jason’s days off, was tied up with a traffic collision. So the group consisted of the Chief (whose call-sign was A-1, like the steak sauce), Donald (who felt he’d established a good rapport with Wexler), a deputy (since it was county jurisdiction), and me. We learned from Wexler’s landlord that he was away at a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting and would probably be home at nine-thirty or ten, which was great because we could get him separate from his guns, and the plan was to wait. I rode with Donald, who’d scouted the place, which was difficult to find at night. I noticed that Donald’s hands trembled visibly, and I wondered if he was on medication or just especially nervous.
It was dark with our headlights off, and I remember looking up at the stars while we waited for Wexler. The only sound was the landlord’s two rottweilers barking behind the gate. Donald had the idea that he and I should get Wexler’s landlord to let us into the apartment to observe the layout and scan for weapons, which I was not happy about, legally and because it meant negotiating the rottweilers, but we did it anyway. Wexler’s landlord doubtfully watched us as we checked drawers and closets for weapons. “He’s a sweet man,” the landlord said. “He wouldn’t harm a fly.”
It was like looking at a physical manifestation of Wexler’s crazy yet ordered mind. In the entry room were three bare cots, but Wexler slept on the floor in the second room, on a pillow made of plastic grocery bags, hundreds of them stuffed one inside another. On his kitchen counter were myriad plastic bags of lentils and dried beans secured with rubber bands, carefully spaced in rows. And dominating the room was a huge, walk-in gun safe, locked. We went back to the cars, and everyone was burning to know, speculating on what might be in that safe — not only what weapons but what dark evidence of perversion. Videotapes, maybe. At ten-thirty we left, as our warrant was not endorsed for night service.
The next day I reported early for my shift. Jason and Donald and the deputy and I were to attempt the arrest during daylight. Wexler’s landlord said he was home, so the plan was for the landlord to call Wexler when we arrived and get him to come down on some pretense. But when the time came, Wexler’s phone rang and rang. “Maybe he’s got it unplugged,” the landlord said. “His car’s here.” I looked up that narrow flight of stairs to Wexler’s third-story apartment, and then I followed Jason, who was behind Donald, single file up those stairs. Donald drew his gun and held it behind his leg, and then Jason did, and I looked behind me at the deputy, who had his drawn, and I drew mine and said, “Oh, I guess, we’re taking our guns out now,” realizing as I said it how inappropriate it sounded.
“I find it interesting that I’m not sexually aroused by you because you are so much larger than me.” This is what Wexler said when I cuffed him. He had been studying calculus when Donald knocked, and he answered the door amicably enough that Donald reholstered his gun and stepped inside. Donald then presented the search warrant, and, while I cuffed Wexler as a safety measure, he asked for the combination to the gun safe. You can imagine the suspense when the heavy door finally swung open. Everyone was almost disappointed to find it only contained two pistols and a shotgun, each loaded and with a round in the chamber, cocked and locked, and 105 rounds, including six loaded magazines of.45 hollow-point ammunition. “Search him now,” Jason said, and then all eyes were on my searching technique.
Wexler wouldn’t shut up. He kept saying, “This isn’t right.” I can’t tell you the disgust I felt touching him, pinching and twisting his thin, grayed dress shirt, undoing his belt (“My trousers will fall to my knees,” he warned me, and they almost did), grasping his bony legs, inhaling the reek of someone who rarely bathed, even patting at his snarled hair. Sweat was sheeting off my forehead as I untied his shoes from behind him. I kept telling myself, be slow, be methodical, don’t miss anything, because I’d once missed a razor blade tucked under a belt during a practice search in academy. I told myself, pretend they’re not here watching you, because the three cops were hovering over me, like they could scarcely keep from touching Wexler themselves. “What would you do if I reached over and brushed against your thigh? I could, you know,” he said. Calmly, I said, “If you do that, I’ll be forced to use a compliance technique and take you to the ground for your safety and mine.” Wexler replied that he might enjoy it (that old cliché), and suddenly everyone in the room was talking, drowning out my voice. They were all unbearable and needed to fight or run or take a cold shower.
On the night of Wexler’s arrest, Jason wouldn’t let me eat dinner because he was so stressed about boxing and labeling all the evidence we had collected. I would have swept it all into one big box, labeled it “Wexler,” evidence-taped it, and been done with it because we still had to take Wexler to the county facility in Napa. But Jason made me find just the right shape box for each item. I had to seal each box with evidence tape and sign my initials and the date, and he’d say, “Now wait. Don’t touch anything! Let the ink dry.” Then he’d turn around and get flustered and say, “Where did my sheet of paper go?” At the end of the night we were exhausted, and Jason couldn’t find the small rechargeable flashlight that was always in our car. He swore at the thought of Hash finding out he’d misplaced gear, the teasing he’d have to endure. I told him not to be such a baby; anyway he could always blame it on me.