I was on my own working the midnight shift, which is a misnomer, since we actually went eleven to seven, an hour before the witching hour. I was working on my second cup of coffee, sitting on a logging road turnabout just outside of town. From my spot I could stay hidden, but I could also see the ragged two-lane highway down below, and I could pick out likely speeders for good felony stops if I wanted to get into something. I had just settled in with not much traffic on the road when my radio crackled to life.
“Unit 322?” dispatch called out. I keyed the mic, letting them know I was awake and listening. “We have a call of a child riding down Main Street on a bicycle. In the middle of the street.”
There was a pause and I was about to key up a 10-4 when the dispatcher continued a little slower. “Three twenty-two, be advised, caller says the child is riding a black Huffy.”
“Ten-four,” I said as I fired up my Crown Vic, which really sounded like a death rattle; as rookies we got the oldest, most raggedy cars the Kentucky State Police could find.
“Further,” dispatch continued.
I was beginning to think dispatch was enjoying this.
“The operator of said Huffy is wearing a black bowler.”
I looked at the radio. Even though my mind told my mouth not to, I keyed up the mic anyway and said, “Dispatch, please repeat.”
“Three twenty-two, caller advised the operator of the Huffy is wearing a bowler hat.” Pause. “Nothing else.”
That time I did hear laughter in the background. I was betting the night sergeant and other dispatchers sitting at post two counties away were yucking it up at my expense. I noted that the time was well after midnight, and I was wondering who in their right mind would let a kid out on a school night. And I didn’t even think about the clothes. I kicked the car into high and headed toward town. Did I mention before that we young road troopers loved to go fast every chance we got?
The town’s main drag wasn’t much, and the stoplights went to flashing yellows after ten. The storefronts were closed, though some light leaked out onto the sidewalks. We didn’t have much of a downtown, but we did have sidewalks on what we had. It didn’t take me long to find the bike in question. Indeed it was a Huffy and indeed the rider was naked except for a small black bowler. I turned on my lights and hit the siren just one chirp. Without looking back, the bicycle’s operator raised his arm, making the signal for a right turn, and pulled to the curb, where he promptly fell over.
It wasn’t a pretty sight awash in my headlights. All limbs and naked torso matted with dark hair. And the bowler had fallen off to reveal a bad case of male-pattern baldness.
Sliding out of my cruiser door, I yelled out, “Sir, are you okay?”
The nudist got himself free of the bike without catching any needed parts in the spokes or chain and stood wobbly at attention, hands stiffly at his sides. My eyes caught a glimpse of something glowing just under the bike’s spinning front tire.
“Trooper,” the nudist said. All deep bass voice as steady as his legs weren’t. The pungent odor of marijuana rolled off him.
Making a leap of logic, I asked, “Mr. Creech, where are you headed?”
He didn’t answer. He just stood there at attention, rocking slightly back and forth. As I got closer, his eyes blinked, trying to focus on me. He had a heavy five o’clock shadow.
Squatting, I reached underneath the still-spinning front wheel and picked up the dying doobie. The joint was as big and fat as a good Havana cigar. Cheech and Chong would have been proud.
“This yours, Mr. Creech?”
“I don’t mind sharing,” he answered, breaking out into laughter.
As I stood there looking at this naked stoned midget, I couldn’t take Shawn’s words seriously. I couldn’t believe this guy was a member of a hardcore criminal clan. He never gave me a bit of trouble. Just climbed in the back of my cruiser and fell asleep. I tossed the bike and bowler into the trunk of my cruiser. The doobie went into an evidence envelope.
When I booked him into the jail, I learned I had arrested Hobart Creech, Londell’s younger brother. Hobart had spent the last few years in New York City, presumably working (or being a criminal) before moving back home. While I was filling out the citation, the jail staff tried to find a jumpsuit that would fit Hobart, but none were small enough. In the end one of the jailers went to her car and gave him a pair of her kid’s pants and a Power Rangers T-shirt to wear.
That small arrest turned into something big in my learning about how the Creeches handled things. While I was finishing up my shift, Hobart Creech and another inmate named Eddie Tremayne got sideways with each other in the drunk tank. It seems that while Hobart was mellow while stoned, Eddie was a mean drunk. He sucker-punched Hobart and proceeded to stomp the downed Creech into unconsciousness. The next morning the jail staff asked what had happened, and Hobart Creech refused to say a word. A few days after that, both Tremayne’s house and his truck burned to the ground while he was in jail, trying to make bail. By then he knew he had made a major mistake. In fact, he refused to make bail when he could, thinking jail would protect him. Eventually, though, Tremayne had to leave. Now, we know Ed Tremayne walked out of the county jail. From there no one knows where he went. Rumors were that he wound up at the bottom of some well or coal mine, but for all we knew, he hopped a Greyhound bus out of Clement County.
But that still didn’t convince me that the Creeches were the baddest outlaws in Clement County. The next time I encountered the Creeches I became a true believer.
Talk all around town and most all of Clement County was the burglary of Poppa’s place. Someone had cut the electricity to the building before knocking down the side door. After that they just backed a truck up to it and waltzed out with everything they wanted. Every cop on every shift wanted the hides of those thieves. Now, the reason the cops were fired up was because whoever broke in took Poppa Roche’s big stove and griddle, and Poppa wasn’t sure if and when he could replace them. No stove, no lunch plate specials. Which meant there were a lot of hungry, angry cops.
Though it seemed like the burglary was the work of a professional crook, the randomness of what they stole had us all scratching our heads. The thieves took the time to tote out the restaurant-sized stove and grill, but they didn’t touch any of the guns in sporting goods. The same thing for the rings and earrings in jewelry display cases. Yet they did take twenty rolls of plastic that farmers and landscapers use to protect plants. They then waltzed down aisles picking this and that, with a particular interest in chips and Twinkies.
Besides the kitchen appliances, the biggest and most bizarre item stolen was one of the most controversial products ever featured for sale at Poppa’s. Like I said, Poppa would bid on shipments from damaged or derailed box cars, sometimes sight unseen. Before the burglary Poppa’s was already the talk of Clement County for cases of products stacked knee-high all over the store. More conservative church groups were offended that every other aisle at Poppa’s displayed bottles of something called The Love Doctor’s Personal Lubricant.