Inspired by an actual event
Most often, patrolling for violators on the highways in the “outback” of Saskatchewan is like trolling in a huge lake that has only one or two fish. The odds of nabbing a speeder are mighty slim. In fact, even seeing another vehicle is a rarity on a Tuesday night in January when the temperature has plummeted to minus-35-degrees.
I was new to the Highway Patrol Unit. I had just completed two years of rural detachment policing in a small town. How small was it you ask? The town map was actual size… they closed the zoo because the duck died… I’ll stop now.
I did handle some big cases during that time though. Big is subjective, I suppose. There was the infamous post-office kick-in where 22 rolls of nickel stamps were stolen, the missing child who was found hiding under his bed by a police dog, (that was embarrassing), and of course, the “slow-speed” country road chase of a van full of dope smokers. I was now ready for new challenges.
Marked detachment vehicles were solid dark blue in color with our police crest on the door and a single red light on the roof that resembled a bubble-gum machine. The siren wailed up and down like a police car from the 1940s. Oh, and detachment cars had six-cylinder engines.
Highway Patrol was different. Our marked vehicles had white doors with a California light bar system on the roof and a Federal siren system that had several really cool siren sounds plus a microphone for the loud hailer. We also had plain unmarked cars for clandestine duties like radar traps.
On Highway Patrol, we stayed on the paved major highways leaving the dusty gravel and dirt roads to the detachment guys. Oh, and we patrolled alone. Our police force policy in those days was one man in one car. The brass figured two guys in a car would do more clowning around and goofing off. They were right.
The best thing of all was our Highway Patrol cars were super powerful. My favorite was one we called the “green beast”—an unmarked Ford with a 429 cubic inch four-barrel carb V8 engine. My patrol sergeant warned me about that one. “Be careful with the 429,” he said. “If you tromp it, hang on because that car will dig a hole in the pavement and jump out.”
My sarge was right. Our speedometers topped out at 140 miles-per-hour and the green beast would bury the needle and the accelerator pedal was nowhere near the metal. We estimated the top speed to be around 160 to 180 miles per hour and perhaps higher. Why not run it through radar to be sure, you ask? Our radar sets only went up to 100 miles per hour. I suppose I could have timed the vehicle through a known distance and calculated the speed. To be honest, that just occurred to me as I wrote this.
At speeds like that, the dotted line in the center of the highway appeared solid and the fence posts along the ditch blended together in a blur. I was an idiot for driving a standard four-door sedan that fast, but the exhilaration I felt was worth the risk.
After supper on this cold Tuesday evening, I warmed up the green beast and then headed up out of the valley. The speed limit on this four-lane highway was sixty-five mph during the day and sixty at night. After a few miles, headlights flashed in the rearview mirror. A vehicle had emerged out of the valley and was closing fast. Even though I was in an unmarked car, I slouched down in the seat to hide my left shoulder flash, placed my winter fur hat on my right shoulder, and outstretched my right arm on top of the bench seat. The approaching driver would think my girlfriend was cuddling up beside me. I know, it’s a dirty trick, but if he wasn’t speeding he wouldn’t have anything to worry about. Right?
The vehicle moved over into the passing lane and went by me like I was standing still. I put the pedal to the metal. The other two carburetors kicked in and the green beast threw me back in my seat. Once I caught up to the speeder, I slowed down to maintain a constant interval between us. I clocked him at well over ninety-five miles an hour for a mile or so. Got him, I thought. I set the red fireball light on the dash and turned it on. The driver slowed down immediately, pulled over, and stopped.
A nighttime traffic stop in the middle of nowhere on a Saskatchewan highway can be a risky endeavor. My closest backup was over an hour away and that’s if I managed to raise them on the radio. Usually, I was out of range of a repeater tower, so the radio was useless. We carried Smith and Wesson .38 Special revolvers that made a lot of noise but didn’t do much else. On my leather gunbelt, I had a handcuff carrier and an ammo pouch with no extra ammo in it. That’s where I kept my lip balm and Rolaids. Remember, this is Canada.
In those days, we didn’t have body armor, portable radios, stun guns, or pepper spray. Oh, and our vehicles weren’t equipped with automatic door locks. Out on patrol, I kept the driver’s door unlocked, and, for safety, the common practice was to lock the other three doors.
I approached the vehicle holding my flashlight on the driver. Out of province plate, I thought. As I passed the rear seat of the vehicle, I checked for other passengers. He’s alone.
The driver rolled down his window. “Evening, officer,” he said. “How fast was I going?”
“I clocked you at over ninety-five miles per hour, sir. I’d like to see your driver’s license and registration.”
“At least I know my speedometer is accurate,” he said. I kept my flashlight on the driver while he found his documents. “Here you go,” he said. “I got no excuse for going so fast. I didn’t see any other cars for over an hour. Didn’t think anyone else was out here.”
Seems like a nice guy, I thought. He’s either sincere or wants a break. “I’ll be right back, sir,” I said.
On the way back to my police vehicle, I decided to give him a break and only charge him for going eighty miles per hour which is twenty over the limit. The fine would be a lot less and the lower speed meant he could voluntarily pay the fine and not have to come back to Saskatchewan to appear in court.
I tried to open the driver’s door of my police car. It’s locked! I thought. I went around and tried all the other doors. Locked! S**t! I had no coat hangar or anything else I could use to jimmy a door. I considered breaking one of the car windows with my revolver but then remembered the paperwork involved, the chewing out I would receive from my sarge, and the ridicule I would endure from my fellow patrol officers. Yes, there was only one thing to do.
I walked back to the speeder’s vehicle and he opened the driver’s window. “This is your lucky night, sir,” I said. I pointed back at my police car sitting with the engine idling and the red light revolving on the dash. I swallowed hard. “I seem to have locked myself out of my police car. Here’s the deal. I’ll trade you no speeding ticket for a ride to my detachment office to get another set of keys.”
Obviously, the driver was suppressing laughter. He paused for a moment, collected himself, and said: “That’s a deal I can’t pass up.”
Turns out, he was a nice guy. On the way into town, we talked like two friends. He worked in sales for a cookie company and drove to grocery stores in towns and cities across Western Canada. He asked me how long I had been a cop. “Two years,” I replied. “And in case you’re wondering, this is the first time this has happened to me.”
“We’re even,” the driver said. “This is the first time I’ve ever got out of a speeding ticket due to a locked door.”
We entered town and I gave him directions to our office. On the way, I had a scary thought. The office key was with the other keys in the ignition of my police car out on the highway. We pulled up to the detachment. Fortunately, one of the detachment guys was in the office working at a typewriter. “Thanks for the ride, sir,” I said. “Oh, and you can spread this story if you want because I’ll deny it ever happened.”
The driver chuckled. “You have nothing to worry about, officer. No one would ever believe me.”
I thanked him again and headed into the office. The detachment guy looked up from the typewriter. “Who dropped you off?” he asked.
I paused. “A speeder. My patrol car’s out on the highway.”
“What?” he asked.
“After I stopped the speeder, I accidentally locked the driver’s door when I got out.” I headed over to the closet to get the police car’s spare set of keys. “Could you give me a ride out to get my car?”
He nodded his head as he laughed.
We drove out of town and up out of the valley. When we approached my police car, there were over ten vehicles parked on the shoulder directly behind it. “Where the hell did they come from?” I asked.
“Probably shift change at the steel mill,” the detachment guy replied.
I had forgotten about that. Just my luck, I thought,
The detachment guy parked behind the line of cars. “There you go,” he said.
“You’re not coming with me?” I asked.
“Are you crazy?” he replied. “I don’t want them to think it was me. I’ll wait here until you get into the car.”
Many of the steelworkers had gathered around my car. They were peering in the windows saying stuff like ‘he’s not in there’ and ‘I don’t see any blood’. Others were using flashlights to search the ditch for my body. I went past them to the driver’s door. “There’s no problem here, folks,” I said. “The highway patrolman is okay.”
I opened the car door. “What happened to him, officer?” one of them asked.
I had to think fast. “It’s under investigation, sir,” I replied. “We’re not releasing any information at the present time. Thank you all for your concern.” I closed the door, shut off the red light, and drove away.
Did my patrol sergeant and the rest of the detachment find out, you ask? No one said anything for weeks. I figured I was in the clear. I thanked the detachment guy for not saying anything to anyone. “No problem,” he said.
Two months later, we had a detachment and highway patrol get-together at our local Legion with members and spouses from neighboring detachments. During the band’s first break, my patrol sergeant went up on the stage and asked for everyone’s attention. “Welcome, everyone,” he said. “This is an auspicious occasion. It is too seldom we get to recognize the outstanding contribution made by one of our own.”
Then he called me up on stage. I could hear whispers and a few giggles as I headed to the stage. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. They know, I thought. I was right.
One of my fellow officers came to the stage and handed my sarge a huge Ford car key dangling from a gold swag-lamp chain. The key was fashioned from thin plywood spray-painted gold. They went to a lot of trouble, I thought.
“In honor of one the funniest rookie screw-ups in the history of our Highway Patrol,” Sarge said, “I am delighted to award you the Order of the Golden Police Car Key.” He placed the chain over my head. Many in the crowd chuckled at the sight of the key dangling on my chest. “This honor comes with all the rights and privileges of the Order of the Golden Police Car Key including the requirement of wearing the key until this award function has concluded."
For a moment, there was totally-planned golf course-like applause from the crowd. Then everyone broke out into uproarious laughter… including me.