Case in point is a one that has been in the news lately, that of Etan Patz. He’s the New York boy who disappeared without a trace 33 years ago. It was the first time his mother let him walk to the school bus by himself, and it was 1979, decades away from the paranoia about kids and pedophiles that exists today. For all these years Etan’s parents were left to imagine what happened to their son.

Thirty three years ago there was not a shred of evidence: Etan simply didn’t come home. I remember reading an article about the case being reopened back in April. NYPD must have been acting on something to conduct a search for remains thirty three years later. They didn’t find anything.

Now, this past weekend, a man has stepped forward to claim he killed the boy and threw him in the trash. Cold case closed, right? Not really. The police still need evidence to support what the suspect is saying. They still need to build a case that will stand up beyond a reasonable doubt. How do you do that without a body and so many years later?

Most cold cases are solved by a hit on evidence. For example, say a woman was raped and murdered 20 years ago. Evidence was collected but a suspect was never arrested and the case goes cold. DNA technology improves and so does the CODIS database.

“CODIS is a computer software program that operates local, State, and national databases of DNA profiles from convicted offenders, unsolved crime scene evidence, and missing persons. Every State in the Nation has a statutory provision for the establishment of a DNA database that allows for the collection of DNA profiles from offenders convicted of particular crimes. CODIS software enables State, local, and national law enforcement crime laboratories to compare DNA profiles electronically, thereby linking serial crimes to each other and identifying suspects by matching DNA profiles from crime scenes with profiles from convicted offenders.” (From the DNA Initiative, http://www.dna.gov/solving-crimes/cold-cases/howdatabasesaid/codis/howcodisworks )

Consequently, a diligent police crime lab submits its cold case evidence and they get a match. The DNA matches a convicted offender. Now police must still build an air tight case but the evidence match has made it a little easier, because, if for no other reason, it has given them a starting place. But what to do in the case of Etan? Investigators need to be certain the man who has confessed is just not some sick, attention seeking lunatic confessing to something he didn’t really do.  They have to go back in time 33 years, retrace investigative steps that have already been taken and try to turn up something more. They need the truth for the investigation and ultimate closure of the case, but more importantly for Etan’s parents.

For the sake of all those involved, I pray they do discover the truth. I pray the police can close the case and that Etan parents will have closure by finally knowing what happened that morning 33 years ago.

After a few minutes the couple picked up their things to leave and the girl called out to another girl, “If my mom calls, tell her I’m at your house.” They then left the shop draped all over one another. I’ll admit I wished I knew the mother so I could be a tattletale.

The scene made me think about my years working as a juvenile detective. I’m not a parent, but that job made me appreciate how difficult it must be to be the parent of a teen. In juvenile we took missing/runaway reports and often a distraught parent would call to report a teen missing with no other information than the kid didn’t come home from school. Many times the parent couldn’t tell us if there was a friend’s house the teen could be at. They’d say, “my kid would call” and be furious because we wouldn’t cancel every other call, pull in SWAT and every local law enforcement agency to look for Johnny or Jane.

(Police reports for missing/runaway children are taken whenever a responsible party calls, there is no 24-hour waiting period but missing reports where the child is under 12 or developmentally disabled are considered critical. Reports taken for older teens are not usually critical unless there is more information than he just didn’t come home from school, e.g. Signs of foul play or indications the child is in immediate danger. The difference between a critical missing and a missing is the amount of immediate manpower assigned.)

More often then not, we’d get a call a couple of hours later telling us Johnny or Jane had been out with a friend and just showed up home. I personally never handled a call where foul play had occurred and a kid disappeared completely or was injured in some way. I realize that does happen, but going back to the couple in the sandwich shop, I wondered if the girl’s mother had any idea her daughter was so close to a boy. I wondered if the mom knew the boy’s name, his parents, etc. And I wondered if she knew that her daughter’s girlfriend would lie so easily for her.

Thinking as a police officer, I would say that parents need to know their kid’s friends. They need to know what their kids do during after school time when they are not supervised. At the very least, if they do have to call the police because their child doesn’t come home they should have an idea about their child’s friends and likely frequented destinations. I’ve heard it said that when kids hit puberty it can appear to parents as if their sweet child has been replaced by a sullen alien. But no matter how sullen a child is, parents should ask questions and know as much as they possibly can about their kids.

I hope the parents of the kids in the sandwich shop ask questions and know as much as possible about what their children are up to.

• I am inside a huge plan orchestrated by God. Detonation: inside, by God. Gulp: huge
• “Grace is the reign maker.” I’m not here just cuz… Reigning in life is more than having stuff… Detonation: Rain/reign, fall on me!
• By the grace of God I am who I am. By the enabling ability of God I am who I am.
• Detonation: “Grace is the vehicle by which I travel; faith is the fuel.”
• Grace is not a replacement for hard work and discipline. Detonation: It’s work powered by grace.

Thanks be to God!

My dad was a member of the greatest generation. Born in 1916 he served stateside in the air force as an airplane mechanic (B26) during WWII. He met my mom while he was in the service, followed her home on the bus and they were married three months later. She must have seen something in him because my mom came from tough beginnings; her father left her mother during the depression with five kids to raise. In my dad mom found a man who wouldn’t quit on her or leave the family high and dry when things got tough.

And things did get tough because life is what it is. With three boys under the age of ten their house burned down and the family lost everything but a few photos. I have some of them, still singed around the edges from the fire. My dad did what he had to do to get the family back on its feet. My dad was not a quitter, he was a fighter, someone you always wanted on your side.

I came along after the dust had settled and new digs built and my sister came three years later. More ups and downs jostled the family but through nearly 70 years of marriage my dad remained steadfast for his family.

As I write this it’s Saturday and I have nothing to do but laundry and I’m very sad. For the last two months we’ve had to be somewhere every Saturday, and just about every day, to see my dad, whether the hospital or the Alzheimer’s care home or lastly the nursing home where he died. But dad’s gone now and I never thought saying that would make me feel so empty. You see the last two months had been so hard on my dad, he been through so much bad stuff, that I thought his going home to heaven would bring me relief. Instead I’m sad for me because as difficult as he was, I miss him.

He was one of a kind, larger than life. Growing up was a roller-coaster because my dad was bi-polar, something that was not diagnosed until he was well into his eighties. Until medication he was a man who could fly off the handle at the drop of a hat and rage with verbal abuse. He was also capable of the opposite in generosity, kindness and caring for friends and family. And for as long as I can remember, he never slept well, never seemed to have any kind of peace.

Going through old pictures I read a story of a man who worked hard all his life, he’d say “busted his ass.” For a large part of forty years he was always building something, working on a vision he had for the house he and my mother lived in. It was only when advancing age and failing eyesight kept him inside that the house began to fall apart.

Going through his possessions there is surprisingly little in the way of personal treasures. He didn’t spend money on gold watches or expensive things for himself. In fact, if you were a guest in his house and you admired something he had, he’d probably give it to you. His only treasure was a ring that belonged to his brother. He wore it all the time until my mom took it off his finger during a hospital visit. She didn’t want it to get lost.

What was important to my dad was his family and passing something down to his kids. To that end he accumulated property because as a child of the depression, property held its value as far as he was concerned. You could always live in a house.

A fall was the beginning of the end for my dad. He broke his arm and a stay in a nursing home for rehabilitation did something to his mind. When he came home he was not the same man. While in time he did regain some, it was obvious that dementia was taking its toll. I moved in to help mom take care of him and we eventually had to sell the house my father had poured his heart and soul into in order to move to a smaller, more manageable home. There, over the course of four years, my dad slowly wound down. Imperceptibly at first, and then horrifyingly fast the last two months of his life.

Through all of it though, when he was lucid, he was first and foremost concerned with his family. One of the last things he said to me was in the hospital before his leg had to be amputated because of a blood clot. He’d not been responsive to the doctors, seemed to be in the la-la land of dementia during the drama that was playing out. I held his hand and at one point he looked at me with unclouded eyes and he said, “Will you take care of mom?” I nodded that I would, hoping that he was not being prescient. But he was, he never really recovered from that surgery. The lucid light in his eyes faded after he acknowledged my answer and forty days later he was gone.

I think it’s an odd irony of life that the most difficult people in our lives often leave the biggest impact. Growing up I was daddy’s girl but somewhere along the line I began to believe he was an obstacle not an advocate. We fought about politics and religion and I resented the fact that he always wanted me home, didn’t seem to want me to grow up. But now that he’s gone, the loss cuts deep. My dad was one of a kind, definitely no mold remaining where he was concerned. I miss his bluster, his swagger, his smile and most of all his sure presence. I could always count on my dad.

Well, Dad, I’m sure you’re in heaven now, and finally at peace. I’ll rejoice for you knowing that I’ll see you again one day and when I do you’ll have both legs and your eyes will be clear and unclouded by dementia. Until then I want you to know that I’ll do the best I can to look after mom, I’ll be as trustworthy and steadfast as I know you would have been, and indeed as you were for my whole life.

I send my love Dad, until I see you again, I’m sure you’re in heaven doing what you love, busting your ass to build a vision.

(I have to insert a disclaimer here, I believe in gun ownership and that if a person does own a gun its incumbent upon that person to be responsible with the weapon).

I don’t have a problem with people defending themselves and people they love from criminals. That being said, I would hope that anyone who points a gun at someone in a situation is certain that deadly force is the last and only resort available. They can’t have a television mentality about waving a gun around. On TV that might scare someone and diffuse a situation; in real life it will only escalate things and someone is likely to end up dead. That’s why it’s called deadly force. One lesson I have always remembered from firearms training in the police academy was an admonition about drawing your duty weapon. I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this: If you draw your weapon and point it at someone, be prepared to shoot them. And understand the consequences.

Police officers are not trained to draw their weapons to scare people, to fire warning shots, or to bully people. Officers draw their weapons in life threatening situations to stop an immediate threat. And, when an officer discharges a weapon at someone believed to be an immediate threat to them or an innocent person the officer must be able to articulate the threat perceived clearly and unambiguously. Often an officer has less than the blink of an eye to decide whether or not to shoot and his decision will be debated ad infinitum by lawyers and armchair quarterbacks for years afterward.

A well placed bullet stops a beating heart and when I was on the job I knew that if the situation ever arose for me, I’d need to be certain I was able to justify my actions for my own peace of mind.

Retired now, as a civilian I have a CCW and still carry a weapon on occasion. I’ve often thought about what might prompt me to draw the handgun I carry: It’s the same as when I was working. I’d have to perceive a real threat in order to draw my gun and be absolutely certain it was the last resort before pulling the trigger.

But my first choice would always be 911. Uniformed police officers are continually trained to deal with any and all threats that come their way. They have resources, equipment, training, and mind set to do the best job in an emergency situation.

He had a cell phone and called 911. Search and rescue got a ping on his GPS and told him to sit tight, they’d find him. Well to make a long story short, they didn’t find him and the snow began to fall. That storm turned out to be an epic storm and soon the forest and the town was covered in at least four feet of snow. The poor hiker was not found before conditions got so bad the search had to be called off.

It wasn’t until the spring came and the snow melted that they found the hiker’s body. He apparently sought shelter and sat down in a depression to wait for rescue that never found him. The saddest part of the whole story was that he’d died less then forty feet from a fire road that had he found it, it would have led him safely out of the forest.

This sad prologue leads me to Abbie the Labby.

Abbie my yellow lab is a trouble maker, no two ways about it. But she is also a sweetheart and very precious. She’s now seven months old and seemingly growing by the day. I bought Abbie with the hope and aspiration of training her for search and rescue. I’d love for her to be the lab that rescues the lost hiker.

I knew when I brought her home that to do this, search and a rescue, I would be the limiting factor. My time input and my resolve would be crucial. (Years ago a man I knew who worked with dogs told me I’d never be a successful dog trainer because I’d be too easy on the dog. Guilty as charged.)

At Abbie’s puppy class I discovered two things: she’s very smart and she is very manipulative. That being said, she can be an absolute joy and she learns things very quickly. She also enjoys using her nose.

We just started a course called Beginning Nose Work and Abbie loves it. I’ve learned that there are even nose work competitions like there are agility competitions for dogs. Right now she’s using her nose for food (she is a food seeking missile) and loving it. I look forward to moving forward and seeing exactly what she can do and to keeping you updated on our progress.

Mom’s LA was before freeways. It was a wonder world of streetcars, the Big Red Cars and the yellow line, a place where my mom and her brother could walk to the pool in Griffith Park on a summer day. Or if they had a bit of money they could take a streetcar to Ocean Park or just about everywhere. “You’d go to the main terminal,” she tells me, “and stand in line for the streetcar that was going where you wanted to go and for less then a quarter, you could go anywhere. The Long Beach line was the best. It went fast and got you there in record time.”

When she was older she and her girlfriends would ride the streetcar to dance with servicemen. She met my father when he followed her home on the streetcar. That would be creepy today, but they have been married 68 years. Streetcars were for the most part social and safe, the exact opposite of any freeway you could name today.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to give up my car for a streetcar, no, but I sometimes long for a less hectic life, a less crowded city to wade through, and the absence of traffic. When I listen to mom’s stories, I try to imagine Los Angeles without freeways and with about a quarter of the current population.

I recently gave my mother a biography of Raymond Chandler, one of my favorite authors. He lived in and around LA the same time as my mother and in his books, my mother’s Los Angeles comes alive so I knew she’d like the book. I was right, she recognized a lot of the places in the book where Chandler lived and worked. It dawned on me that I can glimpse my mother’s LA when I read Chandler or any other gifted writer of that time period. I can hear the clang of the street car, the laughter of the children and imagine a city without freeways.

I love reading for a lot of reasons and knowing that now, I can get a glimpse of my mother’s LA through the pages of a good novel just gave me another reason.

This is a re-post of a blog I wrote back in October. Accused is out now, so hopefully those of you who have read the book will be interested in learning a little bit more about the star, Detective Carly Edwards.

Carly Edwards is the main character of my upcoming novel, Accused. Recently, members of my writers group, the Reunioners, gave me some questions to ask her.

A little back ground on Carly, she’s been a police officer with the Las Playas Police Department for ten years. Las Playas is a medium sized Southern California Beach City near the city of Los Angeles. Carly likes to work in a patrol car, but when the story opens she’s working the night juvenile booking desk.

Question- Why did you choose law enforcement as a career?

Carly: I envisioned the job as an outside job with a lot of variety. I wanted to be out and about, not confined to one place. I also wanted to help people, to perform a needed service. Patrol work fits the bill nicely.

Question – What did your folks think of the job choice?

Carly: My dad didn’t like my choice. He told me police work would make me hard. But before he died he saw how much I liked the work and how much good I could do and he told me he was proud of me. My mom has never liked my choice, and has told me she wished I picked another line of work. But, she also always tells me she prays for me.

Question – Did you ever feel the need to prove yourself beyond normal expectations because you were a woman?

Carly: Yes and no. By that I mean there are some older guys around who don’t approve of women in police work and when I was a rookie I sometimes felt I had to work harder to prove to them I belonged. But I soon learned that just doing my job to the best of my ability was the best way to fit in. I think I’ve earned the respect of my peers by being a hard worker.

Question: Have you ever had to shoot someone?

Yes, I have. I shot a man I thought was lunging toward me with a weapon. It turns out it was not weapon, but a tool he’d fashioned to a point in order to collect aluminum cans. I realized my mistake but unfortunately my partner that night, Derek Potter, didn’t. I was involuntarily transferred to the night juvenile desk because of the incident. Right now I just want to get back to the streets and that’s all I want to say about the shooting.

For more about Carly, the shooting and her quest to get back to patrol, you need to read the book, Accused, now available, Tyndale House Publishers.

“I’ve tried and tried,” she said, holding up a hammer, “and I can’t turn it off.”

She showed me to the bathroom with old porcelain fixtures and the water running into the tub. She’d broken most of the handle hitting it with the hammer. But it was easy to shut off because she’d been trying to go the wrong way.

The woman was grateful, and I made certain there was nothing else she needed help with. The episode took me only a couple of minutes and I was glad to do it, thinking of my parents, my mom, and hoping if she was ever so confused someone would help her, in turn thinking of how they’d want their parents treated.

Fast-forward about fifteen years, now my folks are old, dad 95 mom 88. Mom is doing okay but my father suffers from Alzheimer’s and is easily confused and he’s incontinent. I find my self in this horrible position where from time to time I have to trust my poor dad’s care to others and sadly I’m finding that some people, people who are supposed to show compassion and caring to the sick and infirm, doctors, nurses, ambulance drivers, could care less.

I took my dad to the hospital because I thought he had a stroke. Thank god he didn’t, but he was kept in the hospital for a week. When he was brought home, by transport arranged by the hospital, they’d put his pants on but no diaper, they simply shoved a towel down his pants and sent him on his way.

The next time he had to go to the hospital because of a painful infection, he was left on a gurney for hours without being let up and taken to the bathroom and without being changed. Because his insurance is Kaiser, the hospital the paramedics took him to knew they would have to transfer him, but they waited 12 hours before making the call. He finally got to Kaiser at midnight, without having been changed and lying in urine all day. (I would have changed him myself but I was sick and ended up in urgent care the next day.)

I asked the nurse if she would treat her own father that way and got a snotty answer about how busy they were. Never mind that the hospital emergency room website blared all day that conditions were green, they were not busy and there was no wait there.

I know better than anyone that it can be trying taking care of an old man with Alzheimer’s but common decency would seem to dictate you would at least make someone who has to wait for care wait dry and comfortable.

Maybe there is no comparison to shutting a tap off versus changing a diaper, but that was not my job, it is the job of health care professionals to CARE for sick people. I realize that the vast majority of them do, but the ones who can’t show just a little bit of compassion for a confused old man should quit and find a different job.

Thanks for letting me vent.

The suit charged the CHP with being negligent with the photos and the family won a couple of million dollars. This is a horrible story that gets worse. Now, the pictures are on the internet forever, if you Google the girls name they pop up, I know, I tried which is why I won’t print the name in my blog.  In the article the family said they rarely use the Internet for fear of accidently coming across the photos. I had to sit and think about that. Because it’s their last name that will bring the photos up. How would your web browsing be affected if you had to worry about seeing something like that every time you plugged your name into a search? What would you do, change your name?

The website I saw is a gross website that posts pictures of bodies, the more gross the better, I guess. Decency should make them takes the photos off the site, or at least remove the connection to the name, but that won’t happen. What’s on the web stays on the web. I doubt the CHP employee who leaked the photos meant for this horrible situation to develop, and now there is nothing for the family to do but take the money and hope it brings meager comfort.

I once accidentally posted a blog that was not complete. It was basically just me thinking out loud about something and I neglected to change the visibility status and it went up. A couple of hours later I discovered the mistake and deleted the blog, but I’m not certain who saw it or read it. It wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t polished or edited. It still bugs me that people did see it because I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t imagine it floating out there forever and it was just a blog post.

I’ll bet there are people out there who don’t think and post stuff on the web, not realizing that it is likely to float around in cyberspace forever. It could be dangerous, embarrassing or just stupid. Definitely makes me think before I post.