What to expect when property crime happens to you

[bruce]

1- The police will generally not come to your location where the crime took place.
2-When you report the crime to 911 you will be transfered to a call center and they will take a statement over phone.
3- If the police do come out they will say things like this-- You did not have your property secured good enough---They will do a security survey and recommend actions to be taken---While you vent and complain they will write up a police report and give you their business card---they will make a list of your stolen goods and hope that they run across them--
4- If you are really pissed off they will tell you not to say anything they will have to testify against you in a court of law.
5-Just accept the fact that your stuff is gone. People rarely get their stuff back but it does happen sometimes.
6-Most property crime is drug related and the police generally have a idea who stole your stuff.
7-Even when they make a arrest the criminal rarely does any time,,, can anyone say probation,probation,probation
8- While on probation they start the cycle over again.
9-The police are not the problem, their hands are tied.
10-The jails are full and drug addict criminals who commit property are the last to go to jail.
11----and last of all did I leave anything out???

[Po Po]

Be more specific. You should explain what types of property crimes you are talking about. If someone throws a rock through your car window, the police are not going to come out. No point. If someone breaks into your house, they will come out. At one point, you say "You did not have your property secured good enough".....and "If you are really pissed off they will tell you not to say anything they will have to testify against you in a court of law." What the hell are you talking about? You say the police are not the problem, but in two statements you complain directly about them. Explain to me why the police should come out to all all property crimes.

[bruce]

I will try to clarify the points you have addressed . It has been my experience that when I have been victimized with property crime the police will show you how you should have had your building secured better, such as better padlocks ,window openings that need bars across them,window air conditioning units secured better.( they will pull these out and let them fall to the ground and enter through the hole.) Steel bars across doorways, A good alarm system, Gates or cables across driveways or parking lots, security lighting, scrubs that block views of doorways ,ect ...... Metal buildings can be a especially easy target sometimes.

When I said (If you are really pissed off they will tell you not to say anything they will have to testify against you in a court of law) What this means is this., A lot of people are so mad at being violated by these criminals that they make threats of killing or causing great harm to the thieves. The police know you are very upset and will let you vent for a while and that is their way of telling you to be quite. Its not their fault you were stolen from.
Sometimes they have already been to several property crimes before they get to you and they just get plain tired of all the stupid crap thieves cause. The police are human to. I did not mean my commits to be a critical toward them.
You have made a good point in saying that they cannot come out to all property crime ,I know this to be true but a lot of people who don't and they get a real education the first time they are victimized. Some just do not know the reality of what the police have to deal with on a daily basis.
In a mayberry world of crime fighting the police could come out to every crime, but here in Charlotte they know that criminal drug addicts who commit property crime very seldom serve time of if they do it is only after committing hundreds of crimes that they are finally stopped. Probation and dismissed charges are very common even for felony arrests.

I have been victimized at least 6 times in past two years and I know the score.
Also here is a good tip on PADLOCKS ,most cheap padlocks even big ones can be easily knocked open with a hammer, I found this out this hard way. buy the high security rounded padlocks ,money well spent.
The cheap ones are only good to keep out honest people and children.

I know my thoughts on this subject might have come across the wrong way. But this is because I have been victimized so many times .

[TXGrl]

Confessions of a Police Officer:

Author Unknown



I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse myself with my job almost as often as you do. The label 'police officer' creates a false image of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds.


My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the world really is.

My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic.
It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops.
CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the funniest. I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that haunt me.

But I do have some confessions to make:

Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Boccelli's voice makes it easier to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to bite.

Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenaline that kicked in when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.

Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his own life.

Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the next bedroom.

I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood trickling toward an open cut on my arm.

If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.

On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform, or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am remembering the lessons my job has taught me.

I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.

I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's jaws, twice.

I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the shrieking child in her arms.

I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught person back to the surface, and help me refocus.

And I learned not to give up EVER! That split second of terror when I think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.

One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. We must remember them!
.
'Loyalty above all else, except honor...'

[uneFlic]

TXgrl ----
.
You are posting a copyrighted work. Defending cops by violating a law is counter productive...
.
.
.
"Confessions of a Police Officer" is a copyrighted work.

I realize there is no ill intent in your posting it but you are using it in violation of its copyright.

The "version" you have posted has a few words changed to make it appear to have been written by a man. Obviously, that was done by a man, a man who is afraid to let anyone know that he was moved by a woman's words.

Since its first paid publication, I have never asked for money for its use. It has affected too many cops for me to refuse to share it. It is on over 250 different websites, blogs, forums, etc. Unfortunately, because it is easy to cut and paste, several officers around the country have been disciplined by their departments for plagiarizing it.

I was injured in the line of duty and forced to retire just two months after this was first published in a civilian newspaper. Since then it has been published worldwide in 5 languages. It is one of my few remaining links to the job I loved.

Every May, in recognition of Police Week, this essay is sent all over the internet. Please help me perpetuate the original text by changing your post to include its original wording, its URL, my name and the copyright notice.

Anyone who copies it exactly that way has my implied consent to use it.

Thanks
stay safe
Officer Jill Wragg
Yarmouth Police Department (Ret.)

-------------------------------------

Confessions of a Police Officer

uneflic.blogspot.com/2007/05/confessions-of-beat-cop.html

Dear Citizens, Neighbors, Friends and Family,

My name is Jill and I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse my self with my job almost as often as you do. The label "police officer" creates a false image of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds. My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the world really is.

My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic. It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops. CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the funniest. I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that haunt me.

But I do have some confessions to make:

Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Bocelli's voice makes it easier to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to bite.

Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenalin that kicked in when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.

Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his own life.

Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the next bedroom. I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood trickling toward an open cut on my arm. If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.

On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform, or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am remembering the lessons my job has taught me.

I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.

I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's jaws - twice.

I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the shrieking child in her arms.

I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught person back to the surface, and help me refocus.

And I learned not to give up, ever! That split second of terror when I think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.

One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate her work. Smile and say "Hi" when he's getting coffee. Bite your tongue when you start to tell a "bad cop" story. Better yet, find the time to tell a "good cop" story. The family at the next table may be a cop's family.

Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the recipients. Give from the heart. Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.

Jill Wragg is a retired Police Officer from Massachusetts. She can be reached at [e-mail]

(This piece is copyrighted and can be used by permission only)

-----------------------------------


ps-

When you find something on the internet that is tagged "author unknown" or "anonymous" or has no author, a simple Google check will reveal its origin and you can do the right thing by crediting the author. There's no such thing as an essay written by nobody.