Goes to show you that “police work” boils down to finding people to intimidate and point the finger and tell.
Anything else is gobbledygook
Anything else is gobbledygook
America's Police Can't Solve Murders Anymore
- Thread starter bnew
- Start date
KingZaire_
Superstar
Cops are fukking useless and a drain on society it’s why it’s so funny hearing Cacs talking about “who’s gonna help if you’re in trouble” if you get rid of these motherfukkers, they already don’t fukking help they’re useless.
It was easy to pin any random nikka crossing the street for murder 60-40 years ago that’s why so many black men get exonerated now.
It was easy to pin any random nikka crossing the street for murder 60-40 years ago that’s why so many black men get exonerated now.
She Took a Picture of the Man Who Attacked Her. It Didn’t Matter.
In an age of widespread surveillance, why was a police lineup, a method known to be unreliable, treated as the gold standard?
She Took a Picture of the Man Who Attacked Her. It Didn’t Matter.
In an age of widespread surveillance, why was a police lineup, a method known to be unreliable, treated as the gold standard?
The assumption that humans are the most dependable witnesses to traumatic events contradicts decades of social science research.Credit...Spencer Platt/Getty Images
By Ginia Bellafante
Ginia Bellafante writes the Big City column, a weekly commentary on the politics, culture and life of New York City.
Feb. 2, 2024
Last year, on a cool September afternoon around 2 o’clock, a friend who lives in my building was walking to the post office in Downtown Brooklyn when she was attacked by a stranger. She had been on the phone when she vaguely noticed someone in her periphery. Suddenly he was right in front of her, mimicking her movements as she tried to step away. Assuming the position of a linebacker, he tackled her to the ground, leaving her at the curb with various injuries.
He walked away, but before long he turned around and came back. By this point my friend, Laura, a slight artist in her 50s (who asked that I not use her full name because she continues to feel vulnerable) was safely inside the closest building. From behind a glass door, she was able to take a picture of the man with her cellphone. And there was other visual evidence: A nearby security camera had recorded the attack, footage of which my friend eventually watched in the company of detectives at the 84th Precinct.
The incident struck me not only because it happened in the middle of the day, to someone I know and care about, in what is considered a very safe part of Brooklyn, but also because of what followed procedurally and what it revealed about the still dubious place of technology in modern law enforcement.
On Oct. 23, five weeks after the attack that left Laura with bruises to her lower back, a chipped tooth and scrapes on her elbow and forearm, she was called in to the precinct house to identify a suspect. There were no actual people in the lineup; instead, she faced a presentation of eight pictures of different men who, she said, looked unnervingly similar.
“The idea that I might wrongfully accuse someone weighed on me,” she told me later. Although she could quickly eliminate five of the eight, she found it hard to distinguish among the remaining three — each of whom had a point at the top of his cranium, she noticed, and eyes that were cast downward.
She made a selection. Then, detectives told her that her assailant was No. 5; she had chosen the wrong man. She hadn’t registered any details about her attacker’s appearance during the incident itself, but she had looked at the picture she had taken. He seemed to be in his 20s or early 30s, and was wearing patched jeans, white sneakers and a black parka. He had a vacant gaze, a small, distinctive bump over his right eyebrow and a tiny scar over his left. If you looked closely, you could see a cigarette clutched in his left hand.
Detectives told her that despite the photographic and video evidence, her mistake would prevent them from taking anyone into custody. When I asked sources at the New York Police Department to explain why victim identification, known to be so unreliable, would trump visual imaging — which, in this instance, included a high-resolution iPhone photo taken immediately after the attack — a spokesman responded with an email that said: Detectives “work closely with District Attorney’s Offices to build the best possible prosecution,” which includes “taking several investigative steps” to “effectuate an arrest.”
In other words, no matter the clarity of the imaging, the human determination remained the gold standard, and in the absence of an accurate one, the case was considered too weak to move toward conviction.
This implicit understanding of living creatures as the most dependable witnesses to traumatic events contradicts decades of social science research. According to a report by the Innocence Project, titled “Re-evaluating Lineups: Why Witnesses Make Mistakes and How to Reduce the Chance of Misidentification,” empirical and peer-reviewed research “reaffirms what DNA exonerations have proven to be true: Human memory is fallible.” For all the downsides of living amid ever-present 21st-century surveillance, one benefit would presumably be the capacity to correct for exactly these errors of human observation.
Memory formation exists in three phases: encoding, storage and retrieval. “When someone is in a moment of stress — when someone has attacked them — that stress impacts both the encoding and storage functions,” Alexis Hoag-Fordjour, a criminal-law professor at Brooklyn Law School, explained. There is a frustrating lag, she said, between developments in technology, pathology, social science and science in general and what happens in the law.
There is not a uniform approach to using pictures and security camera footage when making decisions in criminal cases. “The irony,” Alex Vitale, a sociologist who has studied policing for 30 years, said, is that if Laura had died, the police “would have been perfectly happy” to arrest the suspect “in the absence of a positive eyewitness ID.”
Some lawyers, like Julie Rendelman, formerly the deputy bureau chief of the homicide division at the Brooklyn district attorney’s office, maintain that mistaken identifications should not necessarily prevent prosecution from moving forward, or, as she explained, “that the level of crime should be relevant to bringing the case.”
What happened to Laura was psychologically disruptive above all. The release of her assailant is the sort of outcome bound to enrage those who see New York as an increasingly dangerous place where law and order have been subjugated to the ostensible virtues of progressive reform. But it would also gnaw at progressives who view inadequate attention to the psychological well-being of homeless and other marginalized people as the problem animating our sense of unrest.
Detectives asked if she wanted to press charges, and she did — so that the man who attacked her, she reasoned, could get help.
Lincoln Restler, the City Council member who represents the area where the attack took place, said that the decision to prosecute an assault like this one “should be made by the D.A.’s office every single time,” adding: “If that case is taken up, then the courts, a judge, could refer the alleged assailant to treatment services, even housing,” assuming that is what is needed.
As Mr. Vitale suggested, “It is not as though we don’t know who these people are who are responsible for these quality-of-life problems.” The challenge, as he put it, is that “we don’t know what to do about them.”
Florida divers go deep with sonar to find sunken cars, solve cold-case mysteries
The half-brothers behind Sunshine State Sonar have found 350 vehicles and 11 missing people in Florida waterways.
Florida divers go deep with sonar to find sunken cars, solve cold-case mysteries
The half-brothers behind Sunshine State Sonar have found 350 vehicles and 11 missing people in Florida waterways.
John Martin of Lakeland, left, and his brother Mike Sullivan of Gulfport suit up for a dive with their Sunshine State Sonar Search Team while investigating a submerged vehicle in the Hillsborough River at the 40th Street Bridge. Over the last two years, the divers have found 11 missing people in Florida waterways. [ DOUGLAS R. CLIFFORD | Times ]
By
- Lane DeGregoryTimes staff
Published March 26|Updated Earlier today
TAMPA — There’s a car down there, deep in the muck of the Hillsborough River. Maybe a motorcycle.
They found it the other day, out on their little boat with their fancy fish finder: a shadow on the sonar with a golden blob in the center.
Now, on a warm winter afternoon, they’re wriggling into wetsuits below the 40th Street bridge, about to dive for a license plate.
“Could be stolen,” says John Martin, 55.
“Could be a homicide,” says Mike Sullivan, 44. “You never know. There could be a body in the trunk.”
Mike Sullivan of Gulfport, right, and his brother John Martin of Lakeland use three types of sonar devices to find submerged vehicles. In late February, they were searching for a car in the Hillsborough River near the 40th Street bridge. [ DOUGLAS R. CLIFFORD | Times ]
In the last two years, the half-brothers who own Sunshine State Sonar have found more than 350 cars in canals, ponds and waterways across Florida.
Weekend fishermen turned amateur underwater detectives, the true-crime junkies dive into cold cases, searching for the disappeared. Sometimes, they choose the cases themselves, following threads online. Other times, law enforcement asks for their help.
They have discovered remains of 11 missing people inside cars, giving answers to relatives who had spent years agonizing.
One family, who thought their mom had left them, learned that she had driven off the road. Relatives of a missing teacher suspected his girlfriend — then found out he had been submerged in a canal for three years. And the son of a young mother who thought she had been murdered was relieved when her death proved a watery accident.
“You good?” Sullivan asks Martin, who is checking his air supply. Martin gives a thumbs-up.
They shove off, motoring toward a bobbing red buoy where they had marked the spot days before.
Sullivan splashes into the gray-green water, sinking through silt so thick he can’t see, feeling his way through the dark.
• • •
Martin owns a pool cleaning company in Lakeland. Sullivan, the leader, runs an auto parts business from his Gulfport home.
They both speak excitedly, spewing staccato sentences with thick Boston accents that haven’t ebbed after two decades in Florida.
“It all started with YouTube,” Sullivan says. “I kinda got obsessed.”
A couple of years ago, he got into bingeing Adventures with Purpose, videos of a volunteer dive team in Oregon that searches for missing people.
“Florida has so much water!” he told his wife. “I really need to do this.”
Sullivan has always owned fishing boats, loved catching king mackerel. He raced personal watercraft, flew airplanes, learned to read complicated instruments to navigate through the dark. A former mechanic, he knows car makes and models, can recognize hubcaps and bumpers.
And he doesn’t just watch true crime, says his wife, Johanna. “He has to go to the scene to see for himself, if it’s in Florida. He just has to be there, especially for missing people.”
He didn’t know how to scuba dive. He’d never longed to float through crystal water or over schools of colorful fish. But he got certified so he could swim through muddy channels and search waterlogged crime scenes.
He bought a shallow-draft boat and outboard motor, rigged it with the latest fish-finding technology: a Lowrance SideScan sonar, a DownScan imaging device and a Garmin LiveScope. The machines send sound waves pulsing through the water, then record them as they bounce back to create a blurry image on a monitor — like a sonogram.
It’s similar technology to what authorities are using to scour the waters off of the collapsed Francis Scott Key Bridge in Baltimore, where search crews were able to detect at least five submerged vehicles.
The equipment cost Sullivan $21,000. It took him a year to be able to interpret the images, to tell a rock from a Volkswagen. He learned that small cars sink fast and SUVs, which have bigger air pockets, sometimes float.
“He’s always been high-energy, seeking adventure,” says Sullivan’s wife, who has been with him since they were 18. “Only now it has meaning.”
Sonar scans from the search team's boat show an overturned vehicle in the Hillsborough River. Mike Sullivan spent a year figuring out how to interpret the grainy underwater images. [ MIKE SULLIVAN | Mike Sullivan ]
He started close to home, in Pinellas County, by reaching out to a cold-case detective. The officer told him about Robert Helphrey, 34. In 2006, after closing the Palm Harbor seafood restaurant where he worked, he went to a pub. Friends watched him drive away around 1:30 a.m., but no one ever found Helphrey or his Mitsubishi hatchback.
“He was a dad, a veteran,” Sullivan says. “He just disappeared.”
Over the next year and a half, Sullivan searched 150 bodies of water in Pinellas, Pasco and Hillsborough counties. “My friends and family thought I was crazy,” he says. “They were taunting me. One sent a Where’s Waldo? T-shirt.”
Sullivan reached out to Helphrey’s mom and daughter. Finally, last April, as the family looked on in shock, he found Helphrey’s car under 10 feet of water in a retention pond. For 17 years, his body had been submerged just a few miles from his home.
Sullivan doesn’t go fishing, ride personal watercraft or fly planes anymore. All of his free time goes toward searching.
Once a month, Sullivan, Martin and a couple of other volunteers go on expeditions, paying their own expenses. Last year, Sullivan says he spent $27,000 on Airbnb rentals across the state. Videos from their YouTube channel bring in about $100 a month.
“We’re blessed to have good income,” he says. “I just wish we could get a grant or something to do this full time.”
Mike Sullivan learned to scuba dive so he could search for submerged vehicles. A former mechanic and airplane pilot, "He's always been high-energy, seeking adventure," says his wife, Johanna, who has been with him since they were 18. "Only now, it has meaning." [ DOUGLAS R. CLIFFORD | Times ]
• • •
The car is upside down in the elbow bend of the Hillsborough River, nose-first, buried in sand up to its door handles.
Sullivan switches on a flashlight strapped to his left arm, takes out his phone in its waterproof case.
Swimming closer, 20 feet below the surface, he can make out a Cadillac, not too old, maybe black? The model: CTS.
On the back, there’s a Buccaneers plate — with a registration sticker valid until April 2024.
This can’t be the vehicle we’re looking for, Sullivan realizes.
A neighbor had called recently, concerned about an accident from 2019, where someone seemed to have gone over the guardrail.
This Cadillac’s demise must have been recent. Its windows are so caked over, it’s impossible to tell if anyone is inside.
“Could be an accident,” Martin says as their boat putters back to land. “Or insurance fraud.”
Sullivan nods. “Or suicide.”
Onshore, they peel off their wetsuits and call the cops.
• • •
(continued)
The stories haunt Sullivan — those he has helped solve and those that elude him.
He thinks about missing people while he’s in the car line, waiting to pick up his kids. They keep him up at night, beside his sleeping wife.
When he finds someone, he offers their relatives a chance at closure. But he also quells whatever hope they might have left. “Calling families is the worst part,” Sullivan’s wife says. “He’s not trained to be a grief counselor.”
Every time Sullivan drives over a bridge, or around a cloverleaf with a retention pond, along every canal he crosses, he wonders: Could someone be down there?
Imagine driving along, he says, then suddenly sinking into dark water, trapped behind the wheel.
He researches newspaper archives, looks up police reports, scans maps and highway markers. In his phone, alongside family photos, Sullivan keeps pictures of the missing. He has memorized their faces and names, can recite when each person was last seen, and where they might have been driving.
John Martin recovers a license plate from a Cadillac that was overturned in the Hillsborough River. He and his half-brother go on searches every month, in waterways across Florida. [ DOUGLAS R. CLIFFORD | Times ]
Sandra Lemire was a single young mother, heading to a date at a Kissimmee Denny’s 12 years ago. She had borrowed her grandmother’s red minivan and promised to call on her way home.
Her family worried she had been kidnapped or killed.
Sullivan spent more than a year working with Orlando police as divers searched 63 bodies of water. In December, newly released cellphone records helped map Lemire’s drive. Sullivan’s sonar picked up the minivan in a retention pond off the Interstate 4 exit to Disney World. Her remains were inside.
Kareem Demarzo Tisdale, 30, disappeared from his parents’ Fort Lauderdale home 19 years ago. In January, while searching for someone else in a pond at Sawgrass Mills Mall, Sullivan and divers from Adventures with Purpose found what they think is Tisdale’s 1983 Oldsmobile. Police are testing DNA of the water-logged skeleton.
“The one that really got me, that I went through weeks of depression over, was Karen Moore,” Sullivan says. Less than 24 hours after the Davie-area mother filed a restraining order against her husband, she failed to pick up her daughter from Girl Scout camp. Sullivan found Moore inside her white Saturn 22 years later in a pond near her house.
In January, Sullivan says, they were able to “bring five people home” in six days.
• • •
“It’s a Cadillac down there,” Sullivan says, handing the bent metal plate to an officer. Ten cops have shown up, including Tampa police divers. Beneath a grove of live oaks, they stare at the sodden riverbank and the bouncing buoy, a football field away. The earth smells like wet leaves.
The ground is too wet, the slope too steep for a tow truck, the officers decide. “We’ll have to come back,” says Chris Audet, who coordinates the dive team. “Shut down the bridge and hoist it up from there.”
Running the plate, the cops learn that the 2013 Cadillac was stolen a few months ago in Hillsborough. “Great job,” Audet tells Sullivan and Martin. “We don’t have the time to go fishing like this.”
Be careful in the water, the officer tells them. “There are lots of dinosaurs out there.”
“Only the little gators come up to us,” Sullivan says. “At least so far.”
“I wouldn’t dive these ponds for golf balls,” he went on. “But knowing that we can make such a huge difference for some of these families …” He shook his head and wiped his eyes.
• • •
A couple of weeks later, five Tampa police divers drop into the Hillsborough River. The sun is bright, the air and water both 60 degrees. Their teeth chatter.
“We don’t know what could be in there,” Sgt. Charlie Feldman tells them. “Weapons? Remains? We can’t search it without lifting it.”
Every year, Tampa police recover about a dozen cars from waterways, Feldman says. But this process is more complicated because of the shore’s steep slope.
A Tampa Police Department diver prepares to plunge into the murky water to help recover a Cadillac. Divers from Sunshine State Sonar had already found and marked the car. [ DIRK SHADD | Times ]
After attaching ropes and air bags to the sunken car, divers from the Tampa Police Department were able to float it to the river's surface, then tow it to the edge of the bridge. [ DIRK SHADD | Times ]
Recovery takes three hours. Divers attach straps and air bags to each of the car’s tires, then inflate them until the vehicle floats. A police boat pulls it to the bridge, where two tow trucks are waiting.
“It’s kind of cool,” says Ashley Maggart, 38, who is filming. “But it’s sad at the same time.”
Maggart, a mother of four, had called police about the damaged guardrail near her home years ago. When they didn’t investigate, she messaged the Sunshine State Sonar crew.
A boom hoists the car 30 feet above the bridge. Black mud, oil and water drain out, staining the river with a rainbow sheen, filling what looks like a swollen bladder dangling below.
“Oh, is that a head?” Maggart cries. “What’s in there?”
It took three hours for Tampa police to float the stolen sedan and drag it to the bridge, where two tow trucks were waiting to hoist it out of the water. The car, which was upside down in the river, then had to be flipped over. [ DIRK SHADD | Times ]
The Cadillac's windows were so caked with mud that divers couldn't see inside. It had to be lifted onto land with a boom and set upright before police could search it. [ DIRK SHADD | Times ]
She sends a video to Sullivan, who is on spring break with his kids. He can’t believe he’s missing this.
“There’s a key in the ignition, but it’s corroded,” Feldman says. “After two weeks in water, any DNA evidence would be erased.”
He checks the glove box and back seat, which stink of decay, then shines a light into the trunk: Soggy paperwork. A water bottle. Otherwise, empty.
“If someone is in that river, their loved ones deserve to have that closure,” Maggart says. “Even if it’s just someone’s stolen vehicle, they deserve to know.”
• • •
The next weekend, Sullivan and his crew find two more cars in the Tampa Bay Bypass Canal. Next up, a trip to Miami.
“We got 53 cars we’ve located just in south Florida that we haven’t been able to dive on yet,” Sullivan says. “So many cases are still unsolved.”
Like Carlton McCarthy Ireland, who disappeared after leaving his Zephyrhills home to pawn a ring in Tampa.
And Peggy Wynell Byars-Baisden, 23, a mother of three, last seen in 1965 in a parking lot in Polk County.
Then there’s Brenda Starr, 32, who vanished from Palm Harbor in 1995 after dropping her daughter off at school. Sullivan has been searching for her Mazda Protege since he started diving.
Recently, he has been talking to her 82-year-old mom. He’s promised he’ll do everything he can to bring Brenda home.
The stories haunt Sullivan — those he has helped solve and those that elude him.
He thinks about missing people while he’s in the car line, waiting to pick up his kids. They keep him up at night, beside his sleeping wife.
When he finds someone, he offers their relatives a chance at closure. But he also quells whatever hope they might have left. “Calling families is the worst part,” Sullivan’s wife says. “He’s not trained to be a grief counselor.”
Every time Sullivan drives over a bridge, or around a cloverleaf with a retention pond, along every canal he crosses, he wonders: Could someone be down there?
Imagine driving along, he says, then suddenly sinking into dark water, trapped behind the wheel.
He researches newspaper archives, looks up police reports, scans maps and highway markers. In his phone, alongside family photos, Sullivan keeps pictures of the missing. He has memorized their faces and names, can recite when each person was last seen, and where they might have been driving.
John Martin recovers a license plate from a Cadillac that was overturned in the Hillsborough River. He and his half-brother go on searches every month, in waterways across Florida. [ DOUGLAS R. CLIFFORD | Times ]
Sandra Lemire was a single young mother, heading to a date at a Kissimmee Denny’s 12 years ago. She had borrowed her grandmother’s red minivan and promised to call on her way home.
Her family worried she had been kidnapped or killed.
Sullivan spent more than a year working with Orlando police as divers searched 63 bodies of water. In December, newly released cellphone records helped map Lemire’s drive. Sullivan’s sonar picked up the minivan in a retention pond off the Interstate 4 exit to Disney World. Her remains were inside.
Kareem Demarzo Tisdale, 30, disappeared from his parents’ Fort Lauderdale home 19 years ago. In January, while searching for someone else in a pond at Sawgrass Mills Mall, Sullivan and divers from Adventures with Purpose found what they think is Tisdale’s 1983 Oldsmobile. Police are testing DNA of the water-logged skeleton.
“The one that really got me, that I went through weeks of depression over, was Karen Moore,” Sullivan says. Less than 24 hours after the Davie-area mother filed a restraining order against her husband, she failed to pick up her daughter from Girl Scout camp. Sullivan found Moore inside her white Saturn 22 years later in a pond near her house.
In January, Sullivan says, they were able to “bring five people home” in six days.
• • •
“It’s a Cadillac down there,” Sullivan says, handing the bent metal plate to an officer. Ten cops have shown up, including Tampa police divers. Beneath a grove of live oaks, they stare at the sodden riverbank and the bouncing buoy, a football field away. The earth smells like wet leaves.
The ground is too wet, the slope too steep for a tow truck, the officers decide. “We’ll have to come back,” says Chris Audet, who coordinates the dive team. “Shut down the bridge and hoist it up from there.”
Running the plate, the cops learn that the 2013 Cadillac was stolen a few months ago in Hillsborough. “Great job,” Audet tells Sullivan and Martin. “We don’t have the time to go fishing like this.”
Be careful in the water, the officer tells them. “There are lots of dinosaurs out there.”
“Only the little gators come up to us,” Sullivan says. “At least so far.”
“I wouldn’t dive these ponds for golf balls,” he went on. “But knowing that we can make such a huge difference for some of these families …” He shook his head and wiped his eyes.
• • •
A couple of weeks later, five Tampa police divers drop into the Hillsborough River. The sun is bright, the air and water both 60 degrees. Their teeth chatter.
“We don’t know what could be in there,” Sgt. Charlie Feldman tells them. “Weapons? Remains? We can’t search it without lifting it.”
Every year, Tampa police recover about a dozen cars from waterways, Feldman says. But this process is more complicated because of the shore’s steep slope.
A Tampa Police Department diver prepares to plunge into the murky water to help recover a Cadillac. Divers from Sunshine State Sonar had already found and marked the car. [ DIRK SHADD | Times ]
After attaching ropes and air bags to the sunken car, divers from the Tampa Police Department were able to float it to the river's surface, then tow it to the edge of the bridge. [ DIRK SHADD | Times ]
Recovery takes three hours. Divers attach straps and air bags to each of the car’s tires, then inflate them until the vehicle floats. A police boat pulls it to the bridge, where two tow trucks are waiting.
“It’s kind of cool,” says Ashley Maggart, 38, who is filming. “But it’s sad at the same time.”
Maggart, a mother of four, had called police about the damaged guardrail near her home years ago. When they didn’t investigate, she messaged the Sunshine State Sonar crew.
A boom hoists the car 30 feet above the bridge. Black mud, oil and water drain out, staining the river with a rainbow sheen, filling what looks like a swollen bladder dangling below.
“Oh, is that a head?” Maggart cries. “What’s in there?”
It took three hours for Tampa police to float the stolen sedan and drag it to the bridge, where two tow trucks were waiting to hoist it out of the water. The car, which was upside down in the river, then had to be flipped over. [ DIRK SHADD | Times ]
The Cadillac's windows were so caked with mud that divers couldn't see inside. It had to be lifted onto land with a boom and set upright before police could search it. [ DIRK SHADD | Times ]
She sends a video to Sullivan, who is on spring break with his kids. He can’t believe he’s missing this.
“There’s a key in the ignition, but it’s corroded,” Feldman says. “After two weeks in water, any DNA evidence would be erased.”
He checks the glove box and back seat, which stink of decay, then shines a light into the trunk: Soggy paperwork. A water bottle. Otherwise, empty.
“If someone is in that river, their loved ones deserve to have that closure,” Maggart says. “Even if it’s just someone’s stolen vehicle, they deserve to know.”
• • •
The next weekend, Sullivan and his crew find two more cars in the Tampa Bay Bypass Canal. Next up, a trip to Miami.
“We got 53 cars we’ve located just in south Florida that we haven’t been able to dive on yet,” Sullivan says. “So many cases are still unsolved.”
Like Carlton McCarthy Ireland, who disappeared after leaving his Zephyrhills home to pawn a ring in Tampa.
And Peggy Wynell Byars-Baisden, 23, a mother of three, last seen in 1965 in a parking lot in Polk County.
Then there’s Brenda Starr, 32, who vanished from Palm Harbor in 1995 after dropping her daughter off at school. Sullivan has been searching for her Mazda Protege since he started diving.
Recently, he has been talking to her 82-year-old mom. He’s promised he’ll do everything he can to bring Brenda home.
Elim Garak
Veteran
With social media and the amount of information online you would think it would be easier lol.
Shows how dumb cops really are
Chicago literally had YouTube content creators following every murder and self snitching tweets on full display yet they still had a homicide clearance rate of 25%
DJ Paul's Arm
Veteran
Remember that episode of The Simpsons when they showed clips of cops doing their jobs but it was actually Chief Wiggum and crew watching the show “Cops”
Detectives are in their office watching The Wire instead of working.
Detectives are in their office watching The Wire instead of working.
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