![]() Just as I had exited my vehicle, I heard someone huffing on the other side of a nearby block wall. I exited my car with the intent of going into the complex on foot to find my partner. I guessed at the direction they might have taken after running through the apartments, and I proceeded to the next block. While doing so, the thought occurred to me that this is why I should always drive. I assumed the driving role and went around the block, looking through the apartments and adjacent homes, hoping to catch a glimpse of my partner or the suspect. I finished the transmission: “They were last seen running north into an apartment complex.” I quickly analyzed their probable route by noting the direction that gawkers stared. By the time I exited the car, neither my partner nor the suspect could be seen. I alerted the troops via a radio broadcast that our suspect had crashed at the intersection of Y and Z, and that my partner was now in a foot pursuit. But when he drove and ran, it left me in a bit of a quandary. Normally, he would jump and run from the passenger’s seat and I could drive ahead or go around the block to cut the runner off. I had asked many times that he not do that. One was the suspect the other, my partner. Steam burst from beneath the crunched metal that was the vehicle’s front end, while two assholes simultaneously jumped from their vehicles and began running. When he collided with the other vehicle, the suspect’s car veered left and center-punched a light pole. He had swerved into oncoming traffic to avoid being stuck behind cars stopped for a red light. Metal crunched as the suspect clipped a vehicle traveling in the opposite direction. We stayed with him until the moment it all came to a sudden stop. Our siren wailed and a red light sat flashing from the dash. We continued following at a high rate of speed. The radio crackled with activity, various units acknowledging our request for backup and providing their locations and estimated times of arrival. “Eight-oh-one Paul, the reason for the purs-uh, for following the failure to yield, is, uh, he’s a possible two-eleven suspect.” Floyd waited until we had straightened out to say, “He’s a fleeing felon, at this point.” We came around a corner with the tires squealing again. “Did you figure out why we’re chasing this guy?” Then I provided our direction of travel, the vehicle description and its license plate number, the number of occupants-which was one-and the reason we were “following a failure to yield.” “Eight-twenty-one Paul, we’re following a failure to yield,” I started. That was a question for which we had no answer. Another was that the watch commander would require a solid answer to the standard question: “What is the reason for the pursuit?” It was against department policy to be in a pursuit while driving an unmarked car. Should we tell dispatch that we were now doing about seventy on Rosecrans in afternoon traffic? Our tires squealed and our sedan fishtailed when we reconnected with the pavement. “Okay, I’m pretty sure we’re in pursuit now,” I said, as Floyd bounced us over a curb, across the dirt lot, and off another curb. Gravel flew and a cloud of dirt rose as the anxious motorist headed south, back into the Hub City. ![]() He turned hard to the left, jumped a curb, and cut across a dirt parking lot. But then the motorist-in-question ramped it up. This was spoken as casually as a morning chat at the coffee pot. It is the opposite of how most motorists react to seeing the cops behind them.įloyd glanced over. It seemed that the longer we followed him, the faster he would go. The citizen motorist made a couple of turns, and my partner followed. He watched us closely in his mirrors through black plastic sunglasses. ![]() It was a late-seventies Oldsmobile Cutlass-the preferred hoops of South Los Angeles gang members-and the occupant happened to exhibit certain characteristics consistent with being so affiliated. Nonetheless, we were meandering back to Century Station and arguing about who-knows-what, when I noticed that Floyd had become more focused on the vehicle ahead of us, than on the topic du jour. I can’t recall now what we were doing in Compton at the time, but we seemed to find ourselves there often. Our vehicles consisted of unmarked sedans or undercover cars, and we wore jeans and casual attire, sometimes raid jackets. We were detectives assigned to the crime impact team. Crime Impact Team – Century Station Dickie – Century Station Crime Impact Team But one afternoon we were traveling through Compton, en route back to Century Station, and Floyd was actually behind the wheel for a change. Somehow, it always seemed to be my turn, or so he would argue. It was a rare occasion when Floyd would drive. Floyd – Century Station Crime Impact Team
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