Maybe we could all use a laugh or two…STAY SAFE!!


Man, what a night . First, “Paddy’s” then it was a night of sex and debauch at 36DD’s apartment.

Her place is sure the hell a lot nicer than mine. Pictures, flower arrangements, family photographs sat on end tables. You know nieces, nephews. She explained who all the pictures belonged to. Probably more than once. Yeah, yeah sure nice, yeah there real cute. Hey listen DD I’m a horny old letch so lets stop with the who’s who and get down to “bidness.”

Diane Daniel’s AKA 36DD does not disappoint.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

Ronnie Blade, a vicious, evil, straight razor totein’ scumbag got got.

Ole’ Ronnie lad, in the process of ripping off a dope hole managed to shoot and kill one of St. Louis’s finer citizens.

He got nabbed by a couple sharp beat cops in the area. Heard the ruckus headed to the source, saw Ronnie hot footin’ down the sidewalk and viloa’.

Ronnie, known to all cops in the 19th and adjacent districts, is good for at least three murders. In reality, many more.

The chump always skated on the charges. Why you may inquire..good question.

In the ‘hood nobody sees or hears anything. Like the Richard Prior Jessie and cool breeze routine…”Office, I been blind fo’ fifty’ years…I anin’t seen notin’ till yaall came through that door.”
Great stuff from a funny man.

Upon completion of the booking process, Mr. Blade cooled his heels in the holding cell.

We just finished rounding up witness for a burglary case. Got the warrants issued, headed back to the barn.

I parked our trusty battered, beaten detective car in the LT’s spot. “Where in the hell is Nate…it’s only a little after two and his car’s gone. Hell, he never sticks his nose outta’ his office.”

Ian drug his sorry ass into the district. I wasn’t far behind.

I glanced to the south parking lot. A bunch a trustees from the jail washed cars. Nate’s car in the rotation to be washed.

Ah, ha..so the dip shit’s still in his office. The office, coke machine, coffee pot or the john. How on earth did that turkey get to be a LT…he’s afraid of his shadow. Oh well in a bureaucracy everyone rises to their level of inefficiency. Damn, ole’ Natie boy should be the chief if that’s the case.

What’s the matter with you Richie lad..all I want is to put the finishing touches on the paper work and book on ‘oughta this popsicle stand. Maybe give 36DD a shout, see what’s cookin’.

I hustled to the building, went upstairs, droped the load of paperwork on my desk.

Deshawn and Sal, a couple of street wise detectives chatted in the corner. When I walked in Deshawn looked over. “Hey Rich, Ian ya wanna have a little fun?”

“Sure, what “ya got in mind?”
“Couple a street dawgs nabbed that baddass Ronnie Blade. Nate’s still in his office chewing on Rolaids, watching the clock an going over all that stuff he’s got about Florida.”

“Put the two together for me Deshawn.”

“Thought we’d drag Ronnie’s sorry ass into Nate’s office, gently place his no good buttin in one a those creaky ass chairs and begin a not to gentle interrogation.”

“Does the Natester know about Ronnie.”

“Hey Richie my man, Nate don’t know shit ‘bout no police work. My trusted shill, Sal is in the process of giving Nate the somewhat puffed up resume of the felon du jour.”

Jeeze, do I wanna get involved in this or do I just want to go home ride my bike, grab a shower…Hell no.

“Yeah, me an Ian are all in.”

The three of us headed to Nate’s office.

Sal brought the bad guy in, slammed his butt into one of the chairs.

“Hey man these cuff hurt my hands, why don’t yaall thame ‘em off…or ya scared to?

Deshawn, a hulking black detective said, “ya sho nuf, ya little popcorn pimp I’ll take ‘em off.”

“Man, yall’ can’t talk to me like that..community relation an all.”

“I jst did, bye the bye the Community would be a hell of a lot better off if you were in Washington cemetery or the bottom a the Mississippi river or where ever you wind up.”

Ronnie started to get up from the chair. He is pissed. Eyes bulged, lower lip quivered, his muscular frame tensed.

Deshawn pushed the doofus back into the chair. “Hey asshole, I didn’t tell you ta get up did I?”

Nate damn near swallowed that stinkin’ pipe he always had in his mouth. He knew he didn’t want anything to do with this. He hustled the papers on his desk to one side. “I’ve got a meeting to go to downtown, I can’t stay here.”

In the haste to leave ‘ole Natie boy jumped up from his chair. His Glock, which we were all sure had never been fired except for the range popped out of his holster. Quite possibly from Nate forgetting to secure his weapon after one of his frequent trips to the john. That irritable bowl syndrome seems to be getting worse everyday.

Nate, inadvertently struck the pistol with one of his wingtip shoes. The Glock zipped across the room. It stopped to the right of the chair occupied by Ronnie. It sat on the floor, spinning.

Ronnie looked down at the pistol, making it last revolution, crossed his arms, clicked his teeth and said “Oh no, I ain’t fallin’ for that one!!”


During these turbulent times with citizens and Police Officers clashing more and more let’s all take just a moment to dial this whole thing down just a notch or two.

Everyone has a cause, a real or perceived threat or affront. Some just want to experience the thrill of becoming involved in a protest of some sort or another. OK, we all agree with the individual liberties guaranteed to the citizens of America. That’s a given.

Let’s all just take a step back and a deep breath. Re-consider just what in the world is going on and enjoy at least, one day, a day we can visit with friend and families and reflect on what the hell is going on.

PEACE…we’ll get back to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.


They’re at it again. That’s right the perpetually offended and long suffering students at Americas finer institutes of higher learning keep getting slammed with racial degradation.

Two recent cases come to mind. The first takes place at Vanderbilt. Seems a BLIND student was at the black cultural center studying for a class when her seeing eye dog had to taken care of business. She led the dog outside and put the doggie doo in a baggie, as she normally does. Not being familiar with the area and unable to find a trash can she left the baggie and it’s contents on the steps.

The offended crowd immediately took umbrage and proclaimed this action to be a deliberate hate crime. An act designed to harass and intimidate black students and get their panties in a wad.

Upon finding the truth the black student leaders apologized.

The second calamity comes to us from Michigan Tech where a black student made death threats to all black students. The threat was made on a dubious site called yik-yak.

The school took the necessary precautions, as it should, and classes canceled for a day. Upon finding out the rapscallion doing the deed was a black student all the information published via news outlets made an effort to not reveal the students race.

These things are really getting out of hand. The bogus threats. The need for black students to have a “safe space’ where they can decompress blah, blah.

Maybe before everybody goes ballistic on these silly things they should try to check out the activity to determine what really happened. No, that’s probably too much to ask of these folks. After all they are in college.

In the immortal words of that great American, Rodney King…”Can’t we all just get along.”


What. The 1st Amendment creates a hostile and unsafe learning environment?

The pampered and placated students are protesting the freedom of speech?

That constitutional right is the one that allows the silly, unrealistic protests to happen. Aren’t these kids in college? One must wonder what they are being taught.

Let’s take a look back for just a second. The protests of the 60’s had real causes. Today’s protesters are grasping at phony causes and ginning up pseudo grievances like a poop swastika drawn in a bathroom and Halloween costumes. It would seem that the spoiled students are protesters in search of a cause. Agitators in search of a target. That poop swastika has bounced around the internet for a few years. Additionally, the swastika is a symbol used to intimidate Jews, not blacks.

These misguided folks are intolerant in the name of tolerance.

The Paris tragedy that has dominated the news recently incurred the wrath of the student “leaders” and others as having overshadowed their “cause” and fight for blah, blah, blah.

If and when these students graduate and find themselves in the workplace one must wonder if their sniveling self centered mindset will play well. Probably not.

Maybe everyone should dial it down a notch or two and engage in meaningful conversation. What a plan!!


Ok, so the bratty students at MIZZOU hounded the president and a couple other weak-kneed administrators out of whatever lofty, high minded positions they held. Maybe they just said they’ve had enough of all the whining and crying about…about what? Nothing really.

Claims of a feces swastika written on a shower somewhere. A student allegedly insulted by a racial slur. Demands made on the governance of the once proud university. Everybody caves. Including the football coach. One must wonder if the coach and the team would have been so quick to jump into the students hissy fit had the team record been 9-0. Probably not.

Then the students set up a reporter-free zone. A professor of touchy feely attempts to remove a photo-journalist from the area and asks for some “muscle” to help her in this silly quest.

Then some of the black students set up a “black only healing space.” A tweet was “asking white students to leave.” Some black students wanted a black only area…in the words of some activist or another…”a black only healing space for the students to share, decompress, be vulnerable & real.” WHAT??

This is merely an extension of the Ferguson effect where certain aspects of our society feel empowered as a result of the Shooting of Michael Brown Jr. and the rioting that followed, empowered by the bending, placating and capitulation of our political leaders to the actions of the “peaceful protesters.” Peaceful indeed.

More later…gotta catch blogtalk radio..Law Enforcement and Supporters of Media Accountability. On every day 11:30-1:00 EDT
Call 347-850-8154 to join in. See you soon and STAY SAFE!!

Michael Brown Jr. Didn’t Have to Die – Criminal Empowerment

Shortly after the shooting death of Michael Brown Jr. he was lionized in print and video media. More importantly, in social media. Unarmed black kid, murdered by a white racist cop.

Not so. Michael Brown Jr had, as is the current vernacular, issues. Bold and overbearing disrespect for authority. His grandmother tried to rein him in. No luck. He ran with the pack. Left to his own, and others devices he spiraled out of control. Weed, colt .45 and a circle of friends that had no mission in life but to get high and cause trouble.

If he wanted to cause a stink and bring law enforcement attention to himself all he had to do was rip off a store and attempt to disarm an officer. What on earth did he think would happen?

I recently had the opportunity to listen to some of his gangster rap. Total BS. Lyrics that don’t rhyme about killing, taking drugs, drinking and ho’s. Wow.

Michael Brown Jr. Didn’t Have to Die

Hostile, violent and deadly. Thirty seconds on the afternoon of August 9, 2014. Ferguson Missouri Police Officer Darren Wilson and Michael Brown Jr’s lives intersect.

This snapshot in time threw the country into a long period of turmoil and upheaval.

What really occurred? How did this happen? Could anything have been done to prevent the trying times that befell our nation?

The “Ferguson Effect” continues to impact our republic.

Want to know what really happened? Check out my new book, “Michael Brown Jr Didn’t Have to Die,” Available soon at Amazon.com.


‘Howlin’ Ray, a defense attorney and court jester.  More than likely responsible for the Missouri prison building boom.

No wonder, I can’t recall him ever winning a case.  All the cops kept “Howlin’ Ray’s business cards at their disposal.  Upon arresting a suspect the cops always slid one of ‘Howlin’ Rays business cards in the bad guys pocket.  He did a brisk business defending a number of the area’s most notorious criminals.

He came by the moniker ‘Howlin’ Ray because he would howl at the cop on the stand…OOOHHHH, you went to my clients house,  OOOOHHHH, then you took my client into custody, OOOHHH what led you to come in contact with my client?

He’d howl like a banshee.  Many times I observed jury’s cringe at his high pitched antics.  Not a very good way to put the defendant in a good light.  But then he often didn’t have much to work with but persuaded his client to take the case to a jury.  “Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of this jam…no jury would believe you robbed that little old lady.  You were just trying to get money to feed your drug habit.  Everything will be fine…Bullshit!!

One fine day Murph and I developed information that a well known burglar/drug dealer would be in possession of about eight ounces of heroin.  The dope secreted in a brown paper bag containing, in addition to the dope, a bottle of Remy-Martin.

We conducted a surveillance of the area and, sure enough, be-boping down the street comes joey-bag-of doughnuts with a brown paper bag.

Based on the information from a reliable informant we, along with some TAC cops conducted a stop and discovered nine ounces of heroin.

The mope-ass protested that he didn’t know anything about the dope…but claimed ownership of the Remy-Martin.  What a goof.

Fast forward about four months.

In the courtroom of Judge Jack Wanglin, ‘Howlin Ray had the cops on the stand, howling, as usual, at the officer giving testimony.  He questioned me about the snitch and some other non-sensical bullshit, howling all the while.

Then came the lunch break.  We left the courthouse and headed for the eat-rite dinner.

After a tasty meal of meatloaf on melmac we all returned to the courtroom of Judge Wanglin.

Since I testified I had the opportunity to sit in the peanut gallery.

It was Murph’s turn to testify.

‘Howlin Ray, seated at the defense counsels table made a big deal about the cops going to lunch together.  Laughing and joking at his client’s expense.

He asked Murph,  OOOhhhh, so you all went to lunch together.

Yes sir.

OOOhhh, and you were all talking and laughing.

Yes sir.

OOOHHHH, and you were talking about this case.

Yes sir.

OOOhhhh, so you were all conspiring against my client.

No sir.

Murph, being no dummy could see what was coming.

OOOhhh, would you care to tell the court what you all were laughing about.

I’d rather not sir.  Setting the hook just a little bit further .

OOOhhhh, you must tell the court what was so funny, and what you were talking about.

I’d rather not sir.

Judge Wanglin, leaned toward the witness box and said “Answer the question detective.”

Yes Judge.

OOOHHHH, now answer the question detective.

“Well, okay…I asked Detective Dye if you asked any intelligent questions and he told me no.

That’s all folks


To read about Ken’s latest novel, go to his website.


It’s hot.  It’s hot like only St. Louis is hot in mid July.  Shoes actually melted and stuck to the sidewalk.  Humidity, let me tell ya about the humidity.  A person can walk out of their house, apartment, condo or lean to right after taking a shower.  Within a few seconds, you feel like a limp dishrag.

St. Louis, MO, one of the hottest, inhospitable places on earth when it comes to the discomfort level.  This includes Panama and Viet Nam.

Murph and I are in the Drug Enforcement Task Force that covers the metro area.  Cops from departments around the city and county send detectives to work big cases.  Even the Highway patrol…except they always want to write the bad guys a speeding ticket!!

DEA, ATF and the FBI all have representatives assigned.  Of course the I wanted the OK to use our stats when they compiled cases worked, thus giving an inflated number to the end of quarter, 6 month and annual stats.

That’s OK most of us just wanted to work dope cases.

We have a snitch, DeVon, plugged into the black dope scene.  He provided us with valuable information resulting in a number of search warrants yielding extremely large quantizes of heroin, powder cocaine and the drug that grabs brain and body and turns the user into a stark raving maniac…crack cocaine.

Great social thinkers feel that the penalties for crack cocaine, possession of 5 or more grams is unfair.  It is unfair because the penalties for 5 grams of crack cocaine are the same as for 30 grams of powder cocaine.

Great debates about this stupid issue just wear me down.  The answer is simple.


Devon, as with any good snitch, is difficult to locate whilst trying to find out about a group that popped up on the radar.  He is always available upon being arrested on a gun, dope or shoplifting pinch.

He came back in pocket after his latest brush with the TAC boys who caught him with a couple heroin “buttons.”

DeVon possessed info on a big heroin crib in the fine suburb of Pine Lawn.  A shitty little town overrun with drugs and crime.

Murph and I headed out the door to cove a team making an undercover buy of crack and a couple sawed-off shotguns.  The ATF boys salivated over that one.

Ms. Rohan, our unit secretary and all around good egg, said, “Ken, you might want to take this call…it’s Devon.”

I asked Murph to handle the call.  DeVon related a story about a big heroin stash, just hit town.  The bad guys in the process of breaking it down into ounces, half’s, quarters and eight balls.  This occurring, of course, after the product had been stepped on at least three times.  The additive being a Mexican laxative called Bombieta.  The Bombieta meant to counteract the constipating effect of the opium poppy and its derivatives.

Being in a big hurry, Murph told DeVon to drive past the local, obtain the numerics, color, size, shape and other distinguishing characteristics of the dope house.  Murph told DeVon we were in a big hurry…call us in a couple hours.

We both thought he must have gotten jammed up and needed to work off his case.  A thought process that is entirely correct.

We covered the team making the buy.  As is usually the case the only thing predictable about a dope, deal is that it’s unpredictable.  It’s supposed to go down at 3:15.  The seller only had one shotgun and the crack man hasn’t shown up yet.

After a number of calls between the dealers, the operation came to fruition.  The narc’s walked away with two ounces of brown heroin, three sawed off shotgun and a boatload of intelligence information.  This info would later prove invaluable in thwarting the ambush of two narc’s.

When Murph and I got back to the office, it’s 6:30, we hadn’t eaten, it’s hot out, and I had to take a monster leak.  I stopped off at the john, Murph went to his desk.  Before he could plant his ass in the raggley ass government chair, he picked up the phone.  That’s right DeVon.

Devon dutifully gave information about the house, where the dope could be found, the color, size and shape of the residence.  OK fine.

The last line on a search warrant is “Affiant prays that a warrant be issued for the structure known and numbered as 4356 La La street, front facing east rear facing west.”

Having this in mind Murph asked DeVon “Which way does the house set.”  As soon as the words were out of Murph’s mouth he realized what a stupid question to ask a street cat.

DeVon, in his feeble, drug addled mind said, “Ah, UMMM, er-ah, ya know I been thinkin’ ‘bout that man.  I believe that muthafucher sits sideways.”



To read about Ken’s latest novel, go to his website.


Courtney “Owl Baby” Newman a well-known creep, dope dealer and all around bad guy and his lovely girlfriend/baby mamma, Takiashia Brown dabbled in the sales and distribution of dope and guns.

As is customary in this situation both had lengthy arrest and conviction records. Not so customary, Takiashia, snitched for Murph and myself.

Takiashia came up with good information for us from time to time.  This activity, of course, conducted without the knowledge of “Owl Baby.”

Murph and I completed our undercover activities, now assigned to the street crew, that being former undercover cops that knew the criminal landscape and worked in the Street Corner Apprehension Team, referred to as SCAT.

Primarily targeting open-air drug markets and developing, following up on any major criminal activity.

One fine day Takiashia called our office looking for Murph and moi.  Ms. Rohan, the secretary tracked us down and told me Takiashia is looking for us with a most important crime bulletin.  Something about bloody tennis shoes, stashed clothes and a bunch of other gibberish that she couldn’t understand.

I contacted the source of all the drama and agreed to meet her near the abandoned carter carburetor factory.

By now, it was dark.  Like no moon or stars dark, like no streetlights dark.  Creepy dark.  Murph and I had our iron out and ready for quick access.  Is this a set-up?  Crazy thoughts run through your tired, oxygen-starved brain.

Tankiashia arrived on the scene and got in the back seat of our trusty red mercury cougar.

She couldn’t stop talking.  Words spilled out like a machine gun.  I picked up snippets like “Owl Baby”, bloody clothes, attic and I think he kilt that boy.”

After we settled her down with calming words like “What the fuck are you talkin’ ‘bout, girl?”  She composed herself somewhat and broke the set down to us.

The story revolved around a non-paying heroin distributor in the employ of our purveyor of fine dope products.  “Owl Baby.”

The late Billy “white boy Bill” McCurry, failed to make good on a fronted package of two ounces of heroin.  In the dope world, non-payment is, in essence, a death penalty.  That is a death penalty without benefit of court proceedings, endless appeals and pleadings of defense attorneys like “Howlin’” Ray Nixson with some fairy tale explanation why his client is not good for the charged offense.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Murph and I were able to get a reasonable, if somewhat disjointed, story about what the hell happened.

“Owl Baby” went in search of the dope thief ,”White boy Bill”, unfortunately for the victim, if that is the correct description, he found the chump getting down with a portion of the purloined heroin.

“Owl Baby” put an end to his antics via several bullet holes in the area of vital organs.  The evil doer then rummaged through the lad’s clothes looking for any money and the remnants of the fronted two ounces.  In the process rendering his clothes and tennis shoes bloody.

Murph and I being able to piece toghather that the clothes and shoes stashed in a closet.  The gun placed behind a radiator.

A quick check with the homicide boys indicated that, sure enough, “White Boy Bill” was a murder victim.

Our boss and the homicide boss agreed to let us work the case.  Proper procedure and all that shit.

Murph put out an arrest order.  I got a search and arrest warrants.  The hunt was on.  “Owl Baby” captured a short time later.

Grand jury indictments followed.

Then came the legal system, and depositions.

Tankieshia subpoenaed by the defendant’s attorney, “Howlin’ “Ray for an exploratory deposition.  “Howlin’ Ray trying to find out who snitched out his god-fearing client. She was accompanied to this party by an assistant prosecuting attorney.

After being sworn in“Howlin’ Ray asked if she was married to the defendant, Mr. Newman.

“Yeah we married, but we ain’t got no papers ‘yaunnderstan’”

“Then Mr. Newman is your significant other?”

“My what.”

“Never mind.”

“Tankishia, do you know Detectives Dye and Murphy?”

“Yeah…but I ain’t fuckin’ ‘em.”


To read about Ken’s latest novel, go to his website.

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