All posts by hockhochheim@forcenecessary.com

Hock Hochheim teaches hand, stick, knife and gun combat to military, police and savvy citizens in 11 allied countries each year. He's the author of more than 250 dvds on self-defense and more than 12 books on how to protect yourself. His products sell in more than 40 countries.

Countering the Home Invasion

     Home Invasions. It usually slightly annoys cops to hear people declare, "my house was robbed!" Houses don't get robbed. People get robbed. Or, we hear, “I was robbed!” when their house was burglarized. Houses get burglarized, or experience theft. But it is a problem for police dispatchers answering 911 lines and hearing some yell, “I’ve been robbed!” when their house was burglarized 7 hours earlier, discovered when arriving home. Other than that, I guess it’s case of semantics and impatient policing.

      But houses can be involved with robbery crimes – consider the home Invasion. Simply put, a home invasion is when a criminal enters a home for crime while occupants are there. Actually Wikipedia has a nice and true definition – "Persons charged with "home invasion" are actually charged with robbery, and, or kidnapping, or a homicide , rape , or even assault charges. But law enforcement has been seeing the increase in "home-invasion robberies" since at least June 1995, when "home-invasion robberies" were the topic of the cover story of The FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin. They state the crime is considered an alternative to bank or convenience store robberies, which are getting harder to pull off cleanly due to technological advances in security. In this same article, the FBI recommends educating the public about home invasion. Before the term "home invasion" came in use, the term "hot burglary" was often used in the literature. Early references also use "burglary of occupied homes" and "burglar striking an occupied residence."

HI

     Usually, often victims get shoved around, roughed up and hurt. Some killed. As a detective, I have investigated numerous, such, mixed-category "home invasion" crimes that included robbery, assault, rape even murder through the years. I have hunted down and caught home invaders. So, from experience, training and further research, I have some information for you. In the “who, what, where, when, how and why” of the crimes, there are some important patterns to worry over.

     Anywhere in the world, Omaha, NE or Budapest, Hungary, there are two kinds of home invasions. One is the premeditated home invasion, where the suspect absolutely knows, expects and wants you to be home. And then there are accidental home invasions when criminals break in, thinking no one is home and are as surprised as you are when face to face. Most thieves/burglars prefer an empty house. Many are unprepared for a resident to be home, or come home.  This shock on both parties makes for unpredictable results.

      While I really want to remain on the subject of occupied home invasions and not the common, empty house burglaries, some pre-hit basics must be covered that include both subjects.

      The criminal stake-out?  Was there one? Burglary victims often assume that burglars are stealthy masterminds staking out their houses from various clever vantage points for days or weeks on end. But more often than not, they skunks are not so movie-like, and the criminals are just quick creatures of opportunity. Some burglars do prowl a bit and quickly watch over neighborhoods for the easiest, superficial signs. One method is at early, common, rush hours, burglars try and catch residents leaving for work.  Some congess when caught that they follow a resident out of the neighborhood to ensure they do not return and head back for the house. (This is an issue especially for homes with garages that face front, as burglars can see how many cars are in the garage as the driver leaves.)

      Many burglars are not such early risers and will just do a quick visual inspection of your home looking for signs of interior life, and good cover to break in. They will knock on the door or ring the doorbell. No answer? They invade. Often through the covered, concealed areas of your house like the backyard, but there are plenty of bad guys that bust right in through the front door (certainly so in apartments.)  You, being home, hearing and then not responding to the doorbell, the knock or the phone, are assumptions of vacancy and parts of their invitation to bust in.

     Two types of home invaders. An official home invader either wants to creep around while you are asleep, or wants to ambush people to essentially take them hostage for other crimes. He strikes at evening, night or on weekends hoping people will be inside to capture and mess with. The creepers are a different breed of criminal. Some of these a.m. home invaders for example thrill at bring in your house and just stealing things, thrill at spying on you asleep. Their entries are quiet. And then some are rapists, and have other plans and crimes in mind. 

      Many home invasions occur when residents are present and awake! Daytime or evening hours. I would like to define here the three main ways in which criminals invade houses while you are there in the usual waking times. In old school, cop talk, this covers the big three – the surprise, the con and the blitz.

 1: Where? The front door. How? The con – a ruse at the front door.

 2: Where? Driveway/Garage: How? You are followed or waited for and rushed/attacked as you pull onto your driveway or into your garage.

 3: Where? Entry Points: All windows and doors. How? The criminal breaks into your house. The surprise entry into your house and your life is a shock and awe ambush. The blitz is being rushed and over whelmed and overcome.

The Con: The Front Door Ruse. The con is at the front door – any number of participants may get you to answer, to open the door or get themselves invited even to use the phone, bathroom, escape the weather, etc. One evening, in a gated, housing edition in Jupiter, Florida, a man answered his front door to find a young woman acting distraught.

      "I am lost! Can I use your phone?" The home owner kept the girl at the door trying to guide her out of the edition with verbal directions.

      "I can't keep track of what you are saying! Just let me use your phone."

      The home owner said, "don't worry, I just called 911 and the police will be here to guide you out."

      "What? 911?" she said, "you just called 911!"

     With that she ran from the front door and suddenly two men jumped from the bushes and ran off with her. Guess what they were up to? How did they get onto this gated community? We don't know, but these gated communities are not impervious to all criminal entries. Most likely the woman was going to pull a gun on the occupants once inside and then let her friends inside the house. Or, once the door was wide open, they all would barge in.

    Many of us have seen or recall the comical bug exterminator TV commercial where a giant insect rings a doorbell with a silly excuse to get in the house and use the phone. Funny, but a stranger at the door should be regarded with the same concern as a giant insect.These are classic examples of front door ruses. Not unlike all the others you should not fall for. No matter the set up, always be very suspicious of ALL people who come to your door with a story. They might not even ask to come in, but linger long enough for your door to open wider, then barge in.

      Remember to have and use a peephole on your door. Some people even have security cameras combing the front area of their homes. (Even a dummy camera high up over your front door bothers these ruse criminals and they chose another house.)

      An elderly couple in my city ate a very expensive, local restaurant one night. When finished, they got into their new, expensive car and drove home. They drove into their residential area of nice homes and pulled into the driveway. The man punched the garage door button and the door slowly open. He pulled his car into his garage. And with no great haste, hit the button again to close the garage door. As he opened his car door he was rushed by a young man with a pistol who ran into the garage, before the garage door was half-closed. The door’s electric eye stopped the descent and several others entered also. This began several hours of torment and hell. They were beaten, robbed, but were left alive.

     Within a month, after a few breaks in the case, I identified the home invaders. They were career criminals from Ft. Worth, TX.  Their MO (method of operation) was indeed to follow elderly people home from expensive restaurants and rush them in their garages before the garage door closed. I arrested them, but this couple was too afraid to fully press charges in this case. They simply denied the unequivocal identification of the robbers I presented them, my other collected evidence so they could dodge any further legal proceedings. The couple feared gang retribution. Fortunately, we had other charges on these thugs and they still did hard time.

     Home invaders use this method and many other similar schemes. So, you should identify places where you visit that might be construed as a victim, pick up for potential victims. Take note to see if you are being followed, from anywhere really but certainly from these "prime hunting" grounds locations. If you are suspicious that you are being followed? Make several, sudden turns to test your guess. If you are still followed? Use your cell phone to call the police and try to set up a trap. No phone? Shame on you! But, you might drive to a police station, or drive to a populated area to call the police.

     In August, 2010 in North Texas a group of thugs were out "on the hunt," trying to catch anyone pulling up to their house in the early am hours. It’s like fishing for them, and they netted a big one. They attacked a family returning from a vacation as they unpacked on their driveway. Do you see how this could have been a home invasion had the “fishermen” forced the family into the house. Instead, it’s just an outdoor, armed robbery. But what about such unplanned driveway attacks?

      What if you might be jumped right at your house? Front or back? What if they operated on some intelligence and identified you and yours as a potential and "just ripe" victim, coming home at a certain time? If it is driveway robbery or a home invasion, where around your driveway would attackers hide, within range of ambushing you and/or barging into your garage and house? Install lights there. Clear brush. Watch to see if someone sneaks into the garage as you pull in. Let your eyes run over your property. In some very familiar locales, you might even spot strange cars parked on your street, road or area.

      As a rule, don't exit your car until the garage door has closed behind you. This way you can stay in your locked car if confronted. Have a gun. Have a cell phone. If caught in your garage after the door is closed?, Open the door electronically. If criminals interfere with the door opening, hit the gas pedal and crash out. A new door is cheaper than the horrors to follow if taken hostage, and cheaper than any funeral.

      Are your doors locked in the daytime even when you are home? Or early evenings? Most people say no. They ask," why? We are home." But when you and yours are home, your most valuable possessions are inside your house. You! Anyone in policing (and crime) will tell you that most house burglars strike in the daytime, hoping that no one is home.

      But if the plan is an evening or weekend home invasion/robbery, multiple criminals are usually involved and they might enter your house anyway they can. Windows, doors, open garage doors, any way. And you won't have your alarm on either.

 The safety rules here are: lock your doors and that includes your garage door and the door between the garage and your house. Buy your doors solid! Lock your windows. In fact, follow the basic and common tips that deter and defeat house burglars, and you will slow down or stop the surprise entry. Common crime prevention pamphlets will wisely warn you that criminals break into the cars on your driveway to get your garage door openers. The invasion begins.

      Make a plan with your family about such a sudden entry. I will tell you one of mine since it won't matter. If I or my wife see a sudden invasion inside the house or even at the door, we plan to yell at the top of our lungs one word. One. "GUN!" Maybe we'll yell it a few times if we can. This way me or in your case, other members of your family deeper in the house have time to react. Get the gun. Have a plan for them to react. If you don't have a gun or two around your house? Well, you're an idiot or have a thinking disorder, or you are stuck in a naive, idiot's regime. Good luck with all that.

 A quick summary

    Be aware of cars and the heads/faces of the drivers and occupants when you are leaving your garage or just leaving your house.

    Be aware of cars following you at any time.

    Be aware of cars and the heads/faces of the drivers and occupants when you are entering your garage.

    Be leery of all strangers at your front door.

    Keep your house as secure as possible at all times, whether you are home or not.

    Have a plan to alert your fellow residents if you are blitzed anywhere in your house.

    Have weapons, phones and escape options.

    Good short video by Massod Ayoob, click here

 

 

Hock's email is HockHochheim@ForceNecessary.com

Coming soon, Dead Right There – the second non-fiction police book of Hocks' adventures and misadventures

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Face the Face Facts

Dogs. 
People.
Faces.
Facial expressions.
Micro-expressions

     Scientists have proven that your dog studies your facial expressions and reads the slightest change. CNN, to name but one source reported dogs can recognize a person's emotions just by looking at his or her facial expressions. They have been quite adept at reading the micro-expressions of faces. Much like dogs, humans, whether we realize it or not in the moment of interactions, have become adept at reading the big and small facial nuances of people they interact with, also. How accurate is that read, though?

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     We all know what a simple facial expression is, but maybe not a micro expression? “Micro expressions are very brief facial expressions, lasting only a fraction of a second. They occur when a person either deliberately or unconsciously conceals a feeling.” says Dr. Paul Ekman. (see a link below for his work.)     

     In the last fifteen years, some traveling martial arts instructors have wowed attendees with their revelations about violence and crime, and the wonders of psychology and fighting, But a pop topic on their amazing tours on violence is often “reading criminal intent” and facial and micro-expressions. And since old things need to constantly introduced to new people, and re-introduced to the forgetful, and tortured by the skeptics, I will expound a bit on the subject of faces, expressions and micro-expressions, and who, what, where, how and why you can’t completely trust your textbook judgements, or your seminar advice, and even tell a quick story about how tricky it all might be. Keep in mind, I am not a psychologist. I don’t even play one on television. In the end, resort back to the experts.

     A simple facial expression is defined as one or more motions or positions of the muscles beneath the skin of the face. Facial expressions are one form of nonverbal communication. It is universally regarded that there are seven micro-expressions, as mentioned above: 

1: disgust, 
2: anger, 
3: fear, 
4: sadness, 
5: happiness, 
6: surprise, 
7: and contempt.

     Facial expressions can change quickly, but last longer than a micro-expression. Experts report that micro-expressions are quick changes and are very brief, unintentional, involuntary moves on ALL our faces. A flash. The lab experts state that these emotions often occur as fast as 1/15 to 1/25 of a second. THAT…is fast. And we (and dogs!) can see them!

     “In other words, people in the US make the same face for sadness as indigenous people in Papa New Guinea who have never seen TV or movies to model. Dr. Ekman also found that congenitally blind individuals—those blind since birth, also make the same expressions even though they have never seen other people’s faces.” Reports Vanessa Van Edwards, a published author and behavioral investigator.     

     In my travels around the world, be it in international airports or even to the most primitive places I've been in Philippines, or isolated villages in South Korea, I saw so many similar expressions at appropriate times as Vanessa suggested. A smile at the right time. A frown at the right time. Very generic situations.

     People are fascinated by this face-reading subject, though it always seems though to lean toward the subject of lies, lie detection and salesmanship. People want to “read” other people and detect the truth. Oh, and sell stuff. Some folks sell you on how to do it. One ad for doing this said, 
“read people like a superhero!” Or, 
“be a mind-reader.”

And who doesn’t want to be mind-reader? But can you? Can you count on all this when push comes to shove? The human race is constantly trying to quantify and categorize everything. Laying a square grid on a round terrain. What do the critics of this say?

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Criticisms:
Critics of this “always happens” simplicity will state that the research test methods identifying emotions with expressions are too simplistic. Another criticism is that test takers and people can only identify what they are used to from their personal experiences. Another complaint is such studies on this are rare and more research is need.

Problems – Some Faces are indeed tricky.
Nick Morgan of Forbes studies politicians and communication and looked at politicians whose faces and words do not match, creating a distrusting awkwardness. “What happens when your words and body language don’t match? Audiences believe…

For the rest of this article, read Fightin' Words, click here

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Anatomy of a Common Street Fight and the Mysteries of De-Escalation.

     In this age of widespread interest in de-escalation and verbal skills to defuse any and all encounters, this is a tale about how convoluted a quick, on-the-spot verbal solution might be. It's a short story from back in the 1980s – a case I worked on.

     A driver pulled his truck up into a handicapped parking space to drop his wife off at a post office. He did not put his truck into “park.” She got out and walked away. He reached down, did something for a second, and was about to back out of the spot, when a man walked by the front of his truck, scowling and yelling at him, waving a hand in the air.

     The driver rolled down the window and said,

     “what?”

     The man yelled in outrage about the driver parking in a handicapped spot. The driver, aghast at the outrage said, “I am not parked. I am leaving.”   

     The man started cursing and closing in. “I had to park over there,” and he pointed down the lot. “You can't park here!”
“I'm not parked here!” But then he now was, as the driver put his truck into the parking gear and got out, telling me later he thought that the man would come over and kick in and dent his truck, or reach into the open window after him.
     The driver got between the man and his truck and said,

     “WHAT is your problem?” (what a classic line! The classic answer is – “you're my problem” and so on and so on.) And so it goes. You know the dialogue of this movie from this point on. You already know it. I often tell you that these pre-fights words are like movie scripts and usually quite predictable.

     The man swings at the driver. The driver fights back. There are witnesses. The police are called and the man gets arrested for assault. Later this man files an assault case back on the driver and it becomes a “he-said, he-said” deal.

handicap

     My sad part of the story is that one morning in a detective squad meeting, I got both cases dropped on my desk. My Lieutenant says, “this ain't going away.” Meaning these two guys are calling us and complaining about each other and how each were in the right. And of course, one of the two had even called the chief. Another day in Detective Heaven.
     I started with this angry man. I asked him to come in and give us a written statement, which he jumped at the chance to vent. He showed up for the appointment, loaded for vocal bear, and in a small, interview office I let him unload. The guy was panting when the oratory was over. I did not say a word.

     “Okay,” says I. “let's get that whole story down on paper.” I had to read him his rights and now the story was officially counted. And line by line, we got it all down as I typed his words as he said them. He calmed down and his remarks took a turn to another topic. The real cause and motivation. Handicapped people and handicapped parking…
     “What's the ratio of handicapped people compared to non-handicapped people?” he asked.
     “I don't know.”
     “Well you should know. People like you in your business should know.”
     “Hmmm”
     “I know this much,” he continued. “I know that there are too many handicapped parking places. There has to be too many of them compared to regular people. If you go down to Kmart you'll see all those front parking places are reserved for the handicapped. What a dozen? Dozen and a half? Are there that many handicapped people? A regular person has to hike to the store.”
     I did not answer. Then I said,” you want me to mention your parking spot concerns in the statement?”
     “Hell yeah! Maybe someone will read it for a change?”

     This theme rolled on. I realized that the guy wasn't mad at the driver because the driver had pulled into the slot for a second. He wasn't protecting the rights of the handicapped. This guy was mad at handicapped people and how many parking places they got. He was ripping mad because …

For the rest of the article, read Fightin' Words, click here

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The Filipino Martial Arts Turning Point

The FMA Turning Point
     When was this for me? The "Filipino Martial Arts turning point" for me? Keep in mind, this is just me and my personal view on things. Don’t hate me cuz I’m viewtiful!

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     I started doing FMA in 1986, in among other arts like JKD, karate and jujitsu. Where FMA? The USA and the Philippines. In about 1993 I had covered a lot of material and a friend called me and said,

    “Hey Hock, this weekend, Guro ______ is coming into Dallas! He is going to do two full days of ______ double stick drills. Are you coming?”

     I guess this phone call had an epiphany moment when several ideas flashed through my head. I said,

     “two days? Double sticks? Well, I think I’ll pass. I mean, how many double stick drills are there anyway?”

     “You’re gonna miss it! A chance to learn THEE _______ double stick drills!”

     We hung up. I examined my epiphany moment. Well, from the Inosanto world, Remy world, and Ernesto world, I’d already collected 53 double stick drills according to the lists I keep. FIFTY THREE! I suddenly asked myself,

    “why am I doing this?”
    “why am I doing this, this way?”
    “how many more could there be, anyway?”
    “how different could they be after a certain basic point?”
    “what makes them different?”

     But then finally the epiphany question!
     “How are they the same?”

     How ARE they the same? I realized for me, it was more important to organize the drills, not from the “who” or the “what” fan club systems, but instead how are the drills all the same? So similar. And how and why am I wasting my time collecting endless double stick drills from a near endless group of known and unknown people who think theirs are ever-so-special – many of which are so much the same and with only one slight different tweek here or there. Rather, I should try to understand the essence of all of them. The essential core and skip the rest.

     Then…then I asked myself why I didn’t view ALL aspects of the varied FMAs the same way? Why not find the universal core, essence of mano-mano, stick, knife, double weapons in this clean manner? Study those first. Deal with the needed and probably unneeded variables that might come up later for those “history/museum” collectors we know?

EPSON MFP image
Ray Medina and me doing the double deal, 1986

     (There will always be happy museum and history collectors, who like to sort-of, name-drop stuff like – “at this point, Reehan moved his kneecap this way, while Roohan kept his meniscus here…” I can talk some of that artsy smack too, just from training years osmosis, and delight the esoteric fanatics with these tidbits. I can also tell you that Ed Kranepool played first base for the Mets in late 1960s. Hey! I know stuff!)

     Annnnd with that idea? I started constructing the generic PAC course. Pacific Archipelago Combatives, an irreverent, skeptical look at the related core of those related arts. (It did not make me popular with existing entities, in fact I was shunned by some, and it is still not my most popular or even my favorite course. But hey, it's fun to do.)

     I later asked that friend back in 1993,
     “how was the _______ double stick seminar?”
     “It was great!” he said,” We did 30 drills. Many of them are a lot like what we already do, just a little different.”

Imagine that!

(Did you happen notice that this essay contains – at least once – all the words “who, what, where, when, how and why”)

 

Hock's email is hockhochheim@forcenecessary,com

For all the PAC training films, DVDs and downloads, click here

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Hick’s Law – Reaction Time in Combat

Myths and Misunderstandings in Martial Training
Hick's Law – Reaction Time in Combat
Or, How Modern Research Challenges the Value of the 70-Plus-Year-Old Hick's Law!"

     Remember when saying, "I'll be there in a second!" meant that you would be there very fast? A second is a very fast and elusive time. Now imagine milliseconds. Can you? I have trouble doing so, grasping the length of milliseconds. Did you know there are 1,000 milliseconds splitting one second? Can you imagine that split? ONE THOUSAND! UCLA researchers state that an eye blinks in about 100 milliseconds. That’s an eye blick! How fast can you go? How fast can you get?  
     In fighting and in sports, we all know "action beats reaction" If you are reacting to an attack, as the good guys generally are, you are already behind the action curve. Just how behind is your response? Or any mental, then physical response to anything? 
     Scientists have labored to discover this over the last 100 years? Like splitting the atom, scientists have split the single second into those one thousand parts. Then, you know scientists and quantum physics and stuff, and…well, they needed things cut down again, to nanoseconds. Whew! One second is equal to 1000000000 nanoseconds. 
     But, we usually find seconds discussed for "common man lingo," and milliseconds discussed by the not so common folk, and those being dramatic and poetic. Once in a while milliseconds gets a mention when discussing rave cars, the Olympics and car or horse races. 

     "She lost by 44 milliseconds!" 

     Wow! And we wonder what infinitesimal event occurred during the race that lost her a 44-millisecond lead. A small breeze at the turn of lap 5? A muscle twitch? One careless thought? Olympic athletes have complained about the seams on their uniforms slowing them a costly few milliseconds down . A butterfly's wing flutter 50 feet above? What? How fast can we go? How fast can we think? How fast can we react anyway?
 
     But it was about 30 years ago in the late 1980s when I attended a police defensive tactics course and I was rather insulted by the attitude of the P.P.C.T. instructor. We were treated like Neanderthals. He declared, 

     “KISS! Keep it simple, stupid. Hick's Law says that it takes your mind too long to choose between two tactics. Worse with three! Four? Forget it! Therefore, I will show you only one response." 

    Huh? I wondered then and there–am I to stay this simple and stupid my whole life? Who is this Hicks anyway, and what is his law? It takes too long to know three things? How long was long? How long is TOO long, I wondered? 
     That training day, we learned one block versus a high punch. What about against a low punch, I thought? My one high block fails to cover much else but that one high attack.   
     Plus, this was contrary to ALL sports, martial arts, military, and police training I'd received up to that point. I first thought this statement a quirk; then I began to see the message spread. It seemed my choices were on some sort of mental Rolodex that I had to laboriously thumb through and inspect to find a single response? All while being beaten or slaughtered. This didnt match the kick boxing I was doing in karate.

     Later that evening while coaching my son's little league baseball team, I saw this very same police instructor coaching his boy's team on another ball field. He was teaching 10-year-olds to multi-task and make split-second decisions as his infielders worked double plays with runners on base, and various other situations. It was clear the coach expected more from these kids than he did from us adult cops that morning. Hick's Law was not to be found on that kid's baseball diamond. He could not make the connection? The perfomance connection?
  
     Intrigued, next I slid both feet into this base thing called Hick's Law to discover it was a growing favorite among law enforcement trainers. Other famous police trainers kept mentioning Hick's Law too:

     “… selection time gets compounded exponentially when a person has to select from several choices.”
      "… it takes 58 percent more time to pick between two choices." (add that up exponentially and you have a slow motion world.
     “… it takes 'about a second' to pick one tactic out of two tactics.”
     “… lag time increases significantly with the greater number of techniques.”
      "…tests have shown that when an individual has too many choices the result can be that they make no choice at all."  

      Six or more choices really runs the response time numbers up then huh?! Four hundred milliseconds to choose or two, four, or even six seconds to Rolodex through all of them? Remember the police trainer's quote of "about a second per choice?" 
     Let's go back to the ol' ball game. We expect a common shortstop in baseball to perform a select list of actions instantly, thoughtlessly, and at the crack of the bat. The baseball shortstop is expected to: 
     Catch a ground ball to his left, or
     Catch a ground ball to his center, or
     Catch a ground ball straight at him, or
     Catch a line drive, or
     Catch a pop-up, or
     Tag a runner out, or
     Catch the ball traversing across second base for a double play, or
     Instantly consider consequences to the overall game, like diving for the ball or missing.
 
      But all this in a world of milliseconds, what is the official definition of "significant time" by all these people? And 58 percent of what? What exactly is "about a second"? And what do they mean by "exponentially"? "Compounded"? I had to delve even deeper into these very cavalier statements. If I was going to become this pessimistic, I needed more proof. I hit the textbooks and contacted the experts. (And no internet back then either! The info explosion came decades later and is all here.
  
     The actual original Hick's idea was based on a paper written in 1952 that simply set up an equation that states it takes time to decide between options. Just for the record, the equation is  "TR+a+b{Log2 (N)}."
      You have a colored light that suddenly comes on with a color. You have ten and later eight colored lights in front of you. The test light comes on. You hit the matching light button. Hick and buddies count the response times.
      Then somehow, this 1950's idea was then extrapolated over into human performance? Usually based on very primitive, 1950's old "see-then-push-button" tests were used.  Somehow from this 1950's button-test, in some twisted path, I suddenly couldn't learn two punches in the 1980s? The mythology of the slow brain, the slow, stuttering, decision-making brain premise developed into a modern combatives training doctrine thanks to some people reading, misusing, and misinterpreting Hick's Law.

      Today, programmers still ponder Hick's, like when they make long menu lists on web pages, preferring to use shorter lists to attract customers with short attention spans. And many computer and web people are familiar with their world’s application of the Law. Jason Gross of Smashing Magazine, a popular publication about computer science says, 
     "We have to remember that Hick's Law did not come about with the invention of the Internet. Hick's research simply shed light on how a website's options (choices/menus) affect the speed and ease of the user's decision making. This makes for a pretty broad scope because we aren't measuring physical responses…."
     What now? Not about measuring physical responses? Then why are all these instructors ragging on about Hick’s Law then? Those extrapolating computer screen readings over to physical fighting often use the term "exponential time for decision making." Instructors often ignorantly tag Hick's Law with "exponential math." Bear with me as I repeat the math experts here–"any exponential function is a constant multiple of its own derivative." 
     That will really slow you down. Many still just blindly associate a never-ending, doubling ratio to Hick's Law- that is, for every two choices, selection time doubles per added choice. Yet, despite all these quotes on times, Hick made no official proclamation on the milliseconds it takes to mentally decide between options. Meanwhile, experts say that logarithm math actually relates more to Hick's, not the doubling ratio of exponentials. Still, doubling persists in trainers' minds, doctrines, and outlines.
  
     There is a general consensus in the modern kinesiology community that "Simple Reaction Time," called SRT, takes an average of 100 or 150 milliseconds to decide to take any action. That's considerably less than a quarter of a second, or 250 milliseconds, or a 500-millisecond "half-a-second," or the loss of "about a second" we hear from martial trainers. 
     Based on the doubling/exponentially rule with the commonly discussed SRT average, then choosing between two choices must take 300 milliseconds. Run out that timetable. Three choices? Six hundred milliseconds. Four choices? One second and 200 milliseconds. A mere five choices? Two seconds and 400 milliseconds! Six? Four full seconds and 800 milliseconds. Should a boxer only learn one or two tactics? A few moves would mean nine seconds and 600 milliseconds to choose one tactic from another? 
     You would really see people physically shut down while trying to select options at this point and beyond. Has this been your viewing experience of a football game? Basketball? Tennis? Has this been your experience as a witness to life? Under this casual, exponential increase rule, it would seem athletes would stand dumbfounded as index cards rolled through their heads in an attempt to pick a choice of action. Every eye jab could not be blocked if the blocker was taught even just two blocks. The eye attack would hit the eyes as the defender sluggishly selects between the two blocks.
     One then begins to wonder how a football game can be played, how a jazz pianist functions, or how a bicyclist can pedal himself in a New York City rush hour. How does a boxer, who sees a split-second opening, select a jab or a cross, hook, uppercut, overhand combination, or to step back straight, right, or left? If he dares to throw combination punches, how can he select them so quickly?
     Simple, modern athletic performance studies attack the simplistic, loose "doubling rule," but we need not just look to athletes. How can a typist type so quickly? Look at all the selections on a computer? Twenty-six letters plus options! How can you read this typed essay? How can your mind select and process from 26 different letters in the alphabet and spell with speed? How can an elderly person drive a car across town? A child play soccer? It is obvious that the exponential rule of “doubling” with each option has serious scientific problems when you run a simple math table out or just look about you at everyday life. And, despite the constant use of the word exponentially by quoters, real experts clarify that logarithms should be used. These exponentials or logarithms, the math of many choices, do not play in the life we see around us.
  
     New tests upon new tests on skills like driving vehicles, flying, sports, and psychology have created so many layers of fresh information. Larish and Stelmach in 1982 established that one could select from 20 complex options in 340 milliseconds, providing the complex choices have been previously trained. One other study even had a reaction time of .03 milliseconds between two trained choices–.03! Merkel's Law, for example, says that trouble begins when a person has to select between eight choices, but can still select a choice from the eight well under 500 milliseconds. Brace yourself! Mowbray and Rhodes Law of 1959 or the Welford Law of 1986 even found no difference in reaction time at all when selecting from numerous, well-trained choices.
     Why all these time differences? Sometimes experts challenge test results by questioning the test process and equipment involved. In 2003, I conducted an email survey of 50 college university professors of Psychology and Kinesiology. It is crystal clear to all of them that training makes a considerable difference in reaction time. Plus, people, tests, and testing equipment are different. Respondents state that every person and the skills they perform in tests vary, so reaction times vary. One universal difficulty mentioned by researchers is the mechanical task of splitting the second in their testing–that is, identifying the exact millisecond that the tested reaction took place. Many recorded tests are performed by undergrads in less than favorable conditions.
     Discoveries made in the 1990s, decades well after the 1950's Hick's Law began, blowing the original, antiquated "mental Rolodex/task selection" concept out of the water as an important martial training tenet. The brain does not operate like a Rolodex. The brain has a fast track! Neuroplastician Dr. Michael Merzenich, regarded among experts as a leading source on the human brain when reporting in the book The Brain that Changes Itself, "We can change the very structure of the brain and increase its capacity … unlike a computer, the brain is constantly adapting itself." Below, researchers Martin D. Topper, Ph.D., and Jack M. Feldman, Ph.D., write about them:
  
     "Currently, the best explanation is provided by psychologist Gary Klein, Senior Scientist at MacroCognition LLC, in his Sources of Power: How People Make Decisions, he's proposed that the human brain is capable of multi-tasking. Dr, Klein is a good-to master sourse on the subject of decision making, having spent years researching the subject. Gary's theory works like this: 
     "A visual image is picked up by the retina and is transmitted to the visual center of the brain in the occipital lobe. From there the image is sent to two locations in the brain. On the one hand, it goes to the higher levels of the cerebral cortex, which is the seat of full conscious awareness. There, in the frontal lobes, the image is available to be recognized, analyzed, input into a decision process, and acted upon as the person considers appropriate. Let's call this 'the slow track' because full recognition of the meaning of a visual image, analyzing what it represents, deciding what to do, and then doing it takes time. Some psychologists also refer to this mental process as 'System II cognition.' If you used System II cognition in critical situations like a skid, you wouldn't have enough time to finish processing the OODA Loop before your car went over the cliff. 
      "Fortunately, there's a second track, which we'll call "the fast track" or 'System I Cognition.' In this system, the image is also sent to a lower, per-conscious region of the brain, which is the amygdala. This area of the brain stores visual memory and performs other mental operations as well. The visual image is compared here on a per-conscious level at incredible speed with many thousands of images that are stored in memory. Let's call each image a 'frame,' which is a term that Dr. Erving Goffman used in his book Frame Analysis to describe specific, cognitively-bounded sets of environmental conditions. I like to use the word 'frame' here because the memory probably contains more than just visual information. There may be sound, kinesthetic, tactile, olfactory, or other sensory information that also helps complement the visual image contained within the frame–fortunately, the fast and slow tracks are usually complementary, one focusing on insight, the other on action. Together they produce a synergistic effect that enhances the actor's chances of survival." – Dr. Gary Klein

book, Kelin shadows

     Doctors Richard A. Schmidt (a decades-long expert) and Timothy Donald Lee in the groundbreaking 1980's book and subsequent new editions, Motor Control and Learning, reported that task selection is made up of two parts, RT (reaction time)–seeing the problem–and MT (movement time)–physically moving to respond–and thus may be a "few milliseconds" for fast, simple chores, not this compounding, exponential, doubling, half-second, and full second formats.
     And another major factor, so simply explained in a sentence or two, concerns "arousal." Arousal is another word for alertness and also adrenaline in performance sports and psychology.   
     "One of the most investigated factors affecting reaction time is 'arousal' or state of attention, including muscular tension. Reaction time is fastest with an intermediate level of arousal and deteriorates when the subject is either too relaxed or too tense." (Welford, 1980; Broadbent, 1971; Freeman, 1933).
  
     Practice helps. Dr. Robert J. Kosinski of Clemson University reported on his research in September of 2010: "Sanders (1998, p. 21) cited studies showing that when subjects are new to a reaction time task, their reaction times are less consistent than when they've had an adequate amount of practice. Ando et al., 2002, found that reaction time to a visual stimulus decreased with three weeks of practice, and the same research team (2004) reported that the effects of practice last for at least three weeks. Fontani et al., 2006, showed that in karate, more experienced practitioners had shorter reaction times…." Visser et al., 2007.
    
     In 2012, in the new book, Wait, the Art and Science of Delay, Professor Frank Partnoy collects numerous studies on the split-second or millisecond-second decision-making of mental and physical choices. He has all the very latest 2012 medical and psychological testing on sports, self-defense, and on down to fast-paced, internet stock trading. It is interesting to note that in this new book, the infamous Hick's Law is not even mentioned, not a whisper. That is how research has advanced in this field from the 1950s.
     Wait breaks down the three critical steps–vision, decision, and reaction averages–all in the milliseconds arena with the latest high-technology and knowledge. In many ways, Wait refutes a former bestseller, Malcolm Gladwell's Blink, by proving that the very best-of-the-best performers know how to delay reaction to the last–well–millisecond, making the best choice. 
     The secret? Some genetics and a lot of proper training. Blink tells the reader to go with your first impulse. Wait tells you to sometimes go with your last impulse, not your first. All these choices occur in less than a second anyway, and the book makes for good reading. 

Wait, Partnoy

     Perception, Cognition, and Decision Training, a fantastic textbook written just a few years ago by Dr. Joan Vickers, is all about response times. In quick summary here, Vickers barely mentions Hick's Law, but for two respectful, "historical paragraphs" referencing the obligatory history of the subject. Tips of the hat. She states that Hick's selection times can easily be increased by simple training. For more on this, you must absolutely read this book.  Get it! Read it, and read it again once a year.

Decision Vickers book

    Dr. M. Blackspear of the Brain Dynamics Center at the University of Sydney, Australia, reports that the: "… study of functional inter-dependences between brain regions is a rapidly growing focus of neuroscience research. “People select and change options "mid-flight" in milliseconds split into milliseconds.

     Smarter? Faster! Intelligence matters as a variable in Deary et al., 2001. “there is a slight tendency for more intelligent people to have faster reaction times, but there is much variation between people of similar intelligence." (Nettelbeck, 1980) The speed advantage of more intelligent people is greatest on tests requiring complex responses. (Schweitzer, 2001)

 How can we possibly improve reaction times?
     Aside from the fact that the generic Hick's Law exists within in a small world of 1,000 milliseconds within one single second, here are some proven methods that improve overall reaction time and performance:
  
     * Sequential Learning–the stringing of tasks working together like connected notes in music really reduces reaction and selection time.
  
     * Conceptual Learning–is another speed track. In relation to survival training, this means a person first makes an either/or conceptual decision like “Shoot/Don't shoot” or “Move In/Move Back.” Rather than selecting from a series of hand strikes in Conceptual Learning, the boxer does not waste milliseconds selecting specific punches, but rather makes one overall decision, “punch many times!” The trained body then takes over following paths learned from prior repetition training.

     * Implicit and Procedural Memory–In Dr. Lee Dye's 2009 article for ABC News, "How the Brain Makes Quick Decisions,” he reports: 
     "[People] … have been helped by a kind of human memory that scientists have been struggling to understand.” Dye reports that people use "implicit" memory, a short-term memory that people are not consciously aware they are using. Doctors Ken Paller at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois, and Joel L. Voss from the Beckman Institute and the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign have conducted long-term research on this subject; and while they did not specifically involve athletics, the conclusions are consistent with other researchers who are also studying how top athletes can make split-second decisions and take action. 
     How does a batter hit a fastball when he has to start swinging the bat before the ball even leaves the pitcher's hand? “He relies on visual cues, even if he doesn't know it.” Athletes and people learn to predict and act and react spontaneously based on very little information. One way is implicit memory.
     Implicit memory (IM) is a type of memory in which previous experiences aid in the performance of a task without conscious awareness of these previous experiences. People rely on implicit memory in a form called procedural memory–the type of memory that allows people to remember how to tie their shoes or ride a bicycle without consciously thinking about these activities. Implicit memory taps into procedural memory. 

     * Procedural Memory— One more related subject in this chain of memory and performance. Procedural memory. Connecting small multi-tasks and problem solving. Examples of procedural learning are learning to ride a bike, learning to touch-type, learning to play a musical instrument, learning to swim, and performing athletic tasks like sports. For our readers, here this includes martial moves, fighting, self-defense, and combatives. Experts report that procedural memory can be very durable, however perishable, like any task. And the physical fitness to perform these tasks may not be so durable. Given the ravages of aging, a pro tennis player away from the game for many years is still likely to pick up a tennis racket and beat most common tennis players, but not qualify for Wimbledon.

The Good, the Bad, and the Simple 
     Sure, sure, sure, simple is good. I am all for simple. Absolutely. And there is the old, great expression, “our training should be designed to be as simple as possible and as complex as is necessary,” What a key phrase, "as complex as is necessary." Dwell on that phrase, please.  
     And reaction time is an important concern when you are dodging a knife, pulling a gun, driving a car, etc. And there may actually come a point in a learning progression when there are way, way too many reactions/techniques to counter an attack; and if these moves are a bit unnatural, not guided somewhat by some natural reflex, and taught poorly and trained poorly. Poor systems and poor training may lead to untimely confusion. But we are not as simple and slow as Hick's Law misleaders want to scare us into believing.
     Earlier I listed the scary quote "…tests have shown that when an individual has too many choices the result can be that they make no choice at all." This is in direct relation to sales, purchases, customers and computer menus – all topics where you find the transactions of Hick's Law today. Not jabs or crosses, or tackles, or shooting a gunman. 
  
     Decisions all to be executed in the sheer "splitest" of a split second? Then, our ape-man ball player has even more split-second, follow-up decisions to make with runners on different bases. Even a child playing shortstop has a lot to decide and very fast, AND can do it faster than four or six seconds or more! I hope that the police trainer I mentioned at the beginning of this essay is reading this article and will apply it not just when he teaches his kids in Little League, but when he teaches his adults in law enforcement tactics. In fact, I hope all martial instructors are reading this and paying attention.  

In Summary 
This quote from a true leader in the industry says it all.
     "Hick’s Law is really not applicable to use of force incidents. People simply don’t consider all the options they have available. They choose their favorite option or the one that is most available, effectively limiting response options to a very small number. They never consider ALL of their options, so the idea that having too many options will slow reaction times never comes into play." – Dr. Bill Lewinski, University of Minnesota, Force Science.
 
     For years and perhaps still, this original "paper" I wrote on Hick’s Law was the highest viewed on the web for this subject. Therefore I got a lot of love and hate mail. More love than hate because people understand the logic, the research, and less hate. Recently in 2011, someone accused me of claiming that Hick's Law doesn't exist and that I was ignorant of what Hick's Law really is.  
     I replied – “Of course, it exists. A Mr. William Edmund Hick existed. This British psychologist, Mr. Hick, created a test; and his test had results. The results were that response took time. That is the main conclusion. Things take time. And the central point of all this reaction research? Milliseconds. Mere milliseconds. 
     

     Probably the few reasons the misunderstanding and myth has spread on Hick's Law , infesting the police, martial, and military fields is
          1: people can’t grasp or define how short a millesecond is.
          2: The concept has been used as a sales pitch to sell training programs. Since the 1970s, I have been a police field training officer and presented/taught police at police academies since the 1990s. In my world of observing training programs, I have to tag Bruce Siddle's archaic, P.P.C.T., and then Tony Blauer's SPEAR program as main spreaders of this dumbing-down years ago in the 1990s "era." Others heard and still hear these words and terms from “the instructors” of the day, and they automatically revere them as biblical and mindlessly regurgitate them. The thoughtless virus spreads and frankly, it mutates into worse versions. PPCT is all but gone now and I say “good riddance,” and I do not what Tony says about it anymore. He's a pretty smart guy and probably has adjusted his outline with new research. 

     But this and a few other subjects were all once 1990s, insider, pop-psychology marketing to spout and then re-spout it. The over-emphasis, myth, mutations and misunderstanding of Hick’s Law can still be found today in police, fire military and martial arts training doctrine. And after all, its a great admin tale and a personal excuse to be lazy in training programs.

     But just how fast can we get? How dumb should we be to fight back confusion and stalling out? Don't ask Mr. Hick from the 1950s. Mr. Hick was not conducting tests on baseball or fighting, and the 1950's computer he used long ago became a stone-age museum piece. 

     1) Hick's Law certainly exists, in its most generic sense of an idea. The overall idea is good to know. Things do take milliseconds to see and respond.
  
     2) There are 1,000 milliseconds within one second. Not many grasp this. Almost no one can conceive just how fast 100, 250, 500, or even 750 milliseconds actually are. 

     3) There are other, more modern, reaction studies with differing and prove even faster results than Hick's. 

     4) It is blindly regurgitated and over rated in training courses. 

     5) These misuses and misunderstandings are frequently used to sell training programs or to feign a certain "insider" expertise. 

     6) Hick's Law  is often used to dumb down police, military, and martial arts programs. 

     7) People can only get so fast within these milliseconds anyway. Losing or winning by milliseconds may not be consistantly manageable. 

     8) Hick's widely accepted version of math and expanding delays between multiple choices cannot be played out in the reality we witness in our daily lives around us such as walking, driving cars, or the common sports events that even children play successfully. 

     9) Many other definable issues can cause choice delay. And all delays simply cannot be blamed on the root, Hick's Law principle. Stress and emotion can cause delay. Stuns and gas can confuse and delay. Also lack of sleep, antihistamines, and numerous other ailments. Also your “zero-to-sixty”alertness before the needed response is important and the subject of a whole other essay.

   10) Hick's Law and its milliseconds are rather inconsequential as a martial training tenet.

     “They” sell you Hick’s Law for about $1. It may only be worth about 15 cents.

 

Chalkboard_Einstein

Hocks email is HockHochheim@ForceNecessary.com

 

This is excerpted from the upcoming book, Fightin' Words, due out Winter 2017

1-cover Fighten words_med

 

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The Car as a Coffin

     Back in the 1970s, the 80s and even the 90s, this phrase “the car as a coffin” was a warning, a cop, training phrase, a “word to the wise” about being stuck in the car and being killed while stuck by an outside shooter. The advice was to… 

     “Get out of the car! Because the car is a coffin.”

night car

     When things got hot and you predicted bullets could/would fly, or while bullets were indeed flying, you have to try and get out of the car. Get out of the car because the car is an enclosed coffin. So, we got out if we could, because you know, sometimes you can’t! We got out the driver’s side, or we planned on traversing across the front seat to escape, low and crawling, to get out the passenger side if need be. OR, I have had friends successfully dive under the dashboard while under fire. 
     But alas, that was the good ol’ days of big cars. Who can dive for cover under a dashboard in today’s cars or worse, today’s patrol cars? They have some small patrol cars today, and some big police SUVs too. But, have you seen the front seat of a police car lately? It resembles a miniature version of the bridge of the Star Trek Enterprise. Computer systems, like a Robby the Robot, if you will, sits in the middle of the front seat. You CANNOT traverse the front seat anymore! And in civilian cars, the popularity of the console traps you in the driver’s seat more than ever.  

front
     I followed this golden rule, but even when you believe in it, you can still get caught there in an instant. Like I did this one disturbing Saturday, summer night in 1980.

     “Sixty-one,” the dispatcher said.
     “Go ahead,” my reserve police partner Joe Reilly said.
     “Domestic. Brothers fighting in back yard. The Starnes brothers. Mother called it in. 15 Jasper Street.”
     “Ten-four.”
     “Ask if the two brothers are wanted,” I told Reilly.
     “Dispatcher, check wants and warrants on the brothers.”
     “In progress. They’re clear.”
     “Ten four.”
     Damn. The Starnes brothers. Bout half-crazy, trouble makers. Almost twins, born so close and virtually look-alikes. In just about the same kinds of twin trouble. Drugs. Fighting. Burglaries. It wasn’t too late yet in the evening. About 8 p.m. Too early for the real trouble these neighborhoods brewed. We drove through the busy streets on the warm night. We didn’t need to look 615 Jasper up on the map. We’d been there before.
     When we pulled up, Reilly and I got out and heard the loud argument in the backyard, behind the long, old white house. We walked up the driveway beside the house, passed through the metal, chain-link gate and into the yard.
     The mom was there in a house dress, arms folded. A neighbor we knew by sight, a very big dude was calmly standing by and when he needed to, pushing the brothers apart. The bothers were neck vein, popping mad over something.
     “Hey!” I said loudly. “What’s going on?” 
     The mother spoke up and relayed the problem which frankly, I don’t recall to report here. We all talked it over for a moment, and I appreciated the presence of the neighbor. But, upon our very arrival, the brothers wanted to disappear. Afraid of being arrested again? Something else? I don’t know. It seemed like our very appearance ended the fight.
     Brother Buddy Starnes was shirtless and wearing very tight, light-colored jeans. This is important later.
     Just about the time I was officially wrapping up the conversation, Buddy left prematurely. Looking back now, it was obvious he had something to hide or be worried about. He turned and walked away well before I finished, and I, casually, walked after him down the driveway. Reilly lagged back just a few seconds more to finish up with the mom.
     I felt Buddy’s exit was a little too soon, but I really didn’t know what to do about it. He led the way down the driveway to the street, and I looked him over from behind. There weren’t any clothing prints of weapons that I could see in those tight pants. 
     “Buddy, next time, don’t leave until we’re through,” I said. 
I wasn’t trying to be bossy, or a prick, but I wanted to say something to…to see what he would say or do. 
     He looked over his shoulder at me and gave me a real dirty look. Which, you know, “sticks and stones,” and a look never hurt me. But he strutted off onto the street heading in the way of a crowd of folks up the next avenue.
     I walked around the front of the patrol car, opened the door and sat in behind the wheel. The very instant my butt hit the seat? I caught motion in the corner of my left eye.
     Buddy was strutting back to me, his right hand borrowing into his right pocket.
     Shit. I instinctively, instantly pulled my revolver. The window was already down, and I laid the 4 inch barrel of my magnum on the top of the door. Barrel right at him. It’s big and he saw it.
     “WHAT you pulling?” I growled.
     He yanked his empty hand out of his pocket and stood there. Expressionless. Looking at the hole in the barrel of my gun.
     Now, I tell you I stared hard at the pocket. It was flat, flat, flat and his jeans were very tight. I made a snap decision that he could not have anything at all in that pocket, or any pocket for that matter.
     “Get the fuck outta here,” I told him in a very quiet, sinister way.
     Expressionless, he waited in a stare down with me and the gun, then turned and walked away in his original direction. I did not holster my Python. I just watched him walk off.
     Reilly slipped into the passenger side, sat and was shocked at my position. Gun out, barrel on the door.
     “Wha…?”
     “I don’t know,” I told him. “He turned back on me, and it looked like he was pulling something from his pocket.”
     “Okay!”
     “But I can’t imagine he had anything in that pocket. Those pants are skin tight.”
     I put my gun away, started the car and drove off. Not even a half a minute later…
     

     “Sixty-one, are you still on Jasper street?” the dispatcher asked.
     “Just a block away,” Reilly answered.
     “Man shot on porch. 12 Jasper. Ambulance in route.”
     What? I whipped the car around and blasted over to 10 Jasper. We slid up in front, ran up the to the porch where an older woman was tending to man lying on the porch. He was down and shot in the chest. I propped him up just a bit. We told her to get us a towel, and Reilly made for the trunk for our first aid kit. We plugged the hole. Applied pressure. 
     The old man could talk. He said he was sitting on his porch when “that boy” without a shirt in tan pants walked by, out in the street, looked at him and then shot him.
     “Was that Buddy Starnes?” I asked while the ambulance sirens closed in on us.
     “It coulda been, but I don’t sees real well. Real far. At night.”
     The bullet hole didn’t look very big on his chest, but a chest wound is a chest wound. The EMTs got there and took over. Reilly and I jumped back in our car and I checked in with the dispatcher. I put Buddy Starnes out on the air as the shooting suspect.
     We and other units scoured the streets for Buddy. Reilly and I made every nightclub in the district. Asked everyone on the street. For hours. Nothing. And boy-howdy, I knew I screwed up. I made a snap decision to let that little piece of shit walk off. He did have a thin gun after all, must have, probably a small, semi-auto in that pocket. That bullet was meant for me. But since he couldn’t shoot me, he, frustrated, walked off a few houses away and shot that old man.  I should have stepped out, and patted him down. But, I let a visual-search-only, trick my judgement. 
     I met with the detective on call that night, and I told him what had happened. He also hunted Starnes with us in his own car. I can’t remember which detective it was. He asked Reilly and I to write supplements to the shooting crime report when we got back to HQ. 
     CID worked up a case on Starnes. The old man lived. It was a .32 caliber bullet that didn’t do much damage at all. Within a day or two, the detectives found Buddy, but they never found the gun. He confessed to shooting the old man because he said he’d always had trouble with him as he was growing up. A cranky old neighbor motive? 
     But deep down, I knew what happened. I first ticked Buddy off. He wanted to shoot me in the car but I got the drop on him. And since I let him walk off, he shot that old man instead. 
     Months and a few years later, I would stop and talk to this old man a time or two, when I saw him on the porch in that same chair.  Even years later as a detective. He frequently reminded me that he and Buddy had problems since Buddy was a kid, and that is why he was shot, but I still feel like I was a precursor to his shooting. I know I was. What…what do you say to this guy, to make any kind of amends? The old man died in the 90s. I still think about it sometimes. A missed chance. A missed chance!

     “The car as a coffin.” My good, trusty friend and working Texas cop, Jeff “Rawhide” Laun, told me that even now, 40 years later, they still use that phrase in police work and training. Even though they are now more captured today on the driver’s side of their cars with the techno systems in the middle of the front seat. No crawling across the front seat to escape! No dropping out the passenger door! No diving under the dash! You are stuck. The coffin shrinks. 
     But, this was as close as I got to being stuck in a car and shot. My friends have been shot at while inside cars and those are other stories. But, no matter how well I understood, and how much I believed and worried about that classic training line – “the car is a coffin” – in a single instant, I still got stuck in there. 
     I am alive today because several timesover the years I got my gun out first and fast. I am not some kind of a quick draw artist, not at all. I am…just quick-to-draw. My gun just “appeared” when I needed it. Practice, I guess? If you have to shoot through the glass of your car? Shoot. Don’t worry about the finer points of trajectory and how the bullets will go slightly up or down due to the angle of the car glass. You don’t have time to run the math. Just shoot. Make a hole and shoot through that hole!

 

Email Hock at HockHochheim@ForceNecessary.com

This story appears in Hock's upcoming book, Dead Right There. Due out in Decmber, 2017.

 

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Running Some Numbers: The Fighting Formulas

For me, fighting is always "more like checkers and less like chess." Another favorite line is "starting from the fight and working backwards," and that also seems to simplify things. Reduces the abstract.

     I think the formula is, a person needs to collect about 4 or 5, maybe 6 things that will work for their shape, size, age, strength. The task is collecting those things for you, personally. From whom? How to decipher them? And working on them to develop the time, grade and savvy to be successful. My favs aren't always your favs, but they probably are, to some extent. But not always.

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     The problems of complication begin in thee "working on the basics" – workout stage, and with the human desire to challenge yourself, fight boredom, etc … somehow, usually this becomes add, add, add. There have been many comments and essays by smart people about losing touch with the important basics for whatever reason and getting "technique-crazy," adding on, and, or doing  alot of unnecessary stuff. Art for art sake? The study of simple fighting for some also becomes an addictive hobby, or a complete obsession with a traditional art, perhaps? And with these complications and distractions, we can lose the "reality" way, things get abstract and we start building larger wooden ships inside larger glass bottles. The more matchsticks, the bigger the bottle, the more fragile.

 

comlpications

     

"…we can lose the "reality" way, things get abstract & we start building larger wooden ships inside larger glass bottles. The more matchsticks, the bigger the bottle, the more fragile."

 

      When they ask various all-pro, football lineman, what they plan to do for the upcoming Superbowl game, they answer, "the same 5 things I always do." Whether it's the Superbowl or not. But then look at all the support work (dare I say "skill" drills) that built this all-pro, Superbowler! The time. The grade. The savvy. The "touch." Testing what does and doesn't work. Pushing the envelope.

     Anyone can hit and shove a football, tackling dummy. Anyone can punch a heavy bag. Anyone can wrestle with a grappling dummy on the floor. Anyone can shoot a paper target. The trouble starts when the criminal or soldier moves and thinks and shoots back. Then the formula starts looking like "attack, counter, counter the counter (which is another attack)…". Or for some situations, "defend/counter-attack, counter the defense." I mean, what if he zigs when you zag? What if he blocks the almighty strike or kick? Did anyone say you might be ambushed? How many situations and positions are there? Suddenly there is the chaos theory of problem-solving?

 So, 4 to 6 or 8 favorite things?  Then the question becomes, is that also:

4, 5, 6 fav things for the hand?

4, 5, 6 fav things for the stick?

4, 5, 6 fav things for the knife?

4, 5, 6 fav things for the gun?

4, 5, 6 fav things for the ground with hand, stick, knife and gun? (that mean 4 for the topside? 4 bottom? and then 4 side-by-side?)

4, 5, 6 fav things for……what?

     Trainers frequently mention the few fundamental boxing strikes – jab, cross, hook, cross, uppercut, overhand, and how boxers work for years on them in combinations. Do the math on the combinations in sets of two, three and four. Lots of numbers there. Filipino master and veteran stick fighter, Remy Presas use to say that you need just "a few favorite fake and strike moves." More combinations for success. That basic, yet very necessary 4, 5, 6 moves numbers you absoutely need to know, seem to quickly increase by topic and combinations. Remy also said, "You practice your whole life for a 4 second stick fight." And for all the many Filipino stick techniques FMA systems have, Remy would stop, grin and say, "of course, I could just hit him in the head with my stick."  

     And when you are always looking around for the "better 4 things," this search never ends. It shouldn't end, actually. It's part of the…

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Fear and Loathing of the Killer, Henry Lee Lucas

Henry Lee Lucas
Henry Lee Lucas. Killer

     It was a head.
     I mean a skull. 
     Just a skull. Laying there on the ground. 
     And I realized why I was there.

     I was there because of the radio message:
     “Eighty-nine, Meet Texas Ranger Phil Ryan at the southwest intersection of Highway 55 and Juniper Road.”
     That message came over the air and not from the regular police dispatcher, but rather from my CID Captain. That was unusual for him to be on the radio sending anyone, anywhere. 
     “Ten-four,” I said, wondering what was going on. Ranger Ryan worked the next county over and not ours. 
     I drove across the city to the west side and under Interstate 55. West of the highway, south of Juniper was nothing but scrub brush fields. North of Juniper was hotels and stores and a truck stop. Why was I going to the south west corner?
     Clearing the overpass, I looked over the fields and saw several men walking around in the distance. I could see that two of them were county deputies from neighboring Brooks County, along with a small, thin man. It was easy to spot Phil Ryan, who dressed like the classic Ranger, white shirt, white hat and big, tooled, brown gun belt.
     I turned onto the field and parked my unmarked sedan on some low grass, got out of the car and made my way to these wanderers.
     It was then I saw it. The human skull. Laying in the open. Not 40 feet from the road and right across the street from a busy truck stop, cars buzzing by every which way. The loud hum of interstate traffic loomed.
     “And that,” I said aloud, “is why I am here.” 
     I walked across the field and up to Ranger Ryan.
     “Hi, Hock,” he said quite normally.
     “Hi, Phil,” I said.
     “We’re out here looking for a body,” he said.

Henry 4

     I saw the strange, thin man with a bad eye, unhandcuffed, standing around and he smiled at me.
     “Hock this here is Henry. Henry Lee Lucas,” Phil said. “He killed a girl and cut her up out here. He’s killed some other folks too.”
     “Well, I about stepped on a skull back up there by my car,” I pointed my thumb over my shoulder back toward Juniper.”
     Phil looked at the deputies and Henry. 
     “I didn’t put no head up thare,” Henry said with a quizzical face. 
     Phil started out for my car and we all followed. We knew that animals would spread body parts all over and these fields had bobcats and coyotes to name a few critters.
     I keyed up my handset and asked the dispatcher for our crime scene man, if Russell hadn’t already been notified.
     Phil walked over by me to explain.
     “Henry killed a woman in Brooks County. He confessed, and when I got him to talking, he wouldn’t stop,” Phil said. “He said he killed his girlfriend Becky here in this field. He killed her, had sex with her body, then cut her up and buried her in different spots.” 
     The longer story, the one I found out later was that an 80 year-old, Kate Poor of Ringsilver, Tx was a small landowner and she’d vanished. She let some travelers stay on her property frequently in exchange for some labor around the farm. She suddenly disappeared and her friends contacted the police about it. As the case grew more suspicious, the Ringsilver PD, a small department, asked for help from their local friend and Ranger Phil Ryan. I’ve written about Phil before in this book and Don’t Even Think ABout It. Phil was a terrific Ranger and a dedicated investigator. Phil began questioning everyone and Henry’s actions and words didn’t add up. Then, Phil found and collected a “deadly weapon” on Henry, and Phil put Henry in jail. 
     The next day Henry called out to a Brook County jailer, “I’ve done some bad things! I need to talk to that Ranger.”
     That he had.

     We walked up on the skull and we all solemnly looked it over. Henry kept sizing up the field and the distances.
     “I kilt her over thar,” he said. “How’d her head get here?”
     “Probably animals, Henry,” Phil said calmly. I knew that he’d stay calm and friendly with him for as long as possible to keep him talking. I would and the in the coming days, would more.
     CID Sgt Howard Kelly pulled up and so did our crime scene guy Russell Lewis. We filled them in. Russell started on the skull and its area and we all walked back to the center of the field.
     “I buried parts of her here,” Henry said. “You’ll find her leg bones over there and her arms bones over there.”
     Sounds like a lot of digging. I looked at Howard Kelly.
    “Hock,” he said, “bring Henry in. Get a statement from him, if you can.” 
     In meant book and arrest him. He knew I would. 
     “I’ll get some of the boys out and start digging.”
     I have done some digging for bodies before, and I thought this arrangement might get me out of that ugly, shovel chore. I will go ahead and ruin the suspense for you right now. It didn’t. 
     “Hey, Henry,” I said, “we need to take a little trip downtown. And, I have to handcuff you.”
     He was expressionless. I cuffed his hands around back and walked him all the way back to my car. I let him sit up front on the passenger seat. This was a detective car with no screen or cage. 
     “Where you from, Henry?”
And it went like that. Light conversation. Very light. I took him into our jail and drew up a quick arrest report. Printed him and got the classic mugshot below, a photo used in dozens and dozens of news reports and about 30 or so books. 


     Henry1

      “Come on with me,” I walked him down to my office in the CID section of the building.
     I sat at my desk and put my feet up. He sat in a chair, now cuffed around front and we relaxed.
     “What in the world is going on?” I asked.
     “Well, like I told Ranger Phil, I killed that ol’ lady in Ringsilver, and…”
     “Before we talk about this,” I interrupted, “let me go ahead and read you your rights, otherwise you know we can’t talk. And I want to talk to you for sure.”
     “Okay.”
     And that we did, but first I got us some coffee. Then covered the classic Miranda warnings. He told me that he and his girlfriend, Becky Rowlett, this girl in the field, hitchhiked away from Brooks County and were dropped off at the Interstate by the field. They bought some food from the stores at that intersection, with stolen money from Kate Poor, walked to the center of the field, started a fire and camped.    
     They had some kind of an argument. She slapped him and he pulled his knife from a sheath on his belt and stabbed her right in the chest. He watched her die. Then he had sex with her body. (As you get to know Henry, you learn this happens a lot). With that same knife, he cut up her body, head off, arms off, legs off. He put some parts in pillowcases that he traveled with. He decided to gather up his belongings and cross the street to stay in a motel.
     He hitchhiked around and walked around for about two weeks and returned to that campsite. He told me he wanted to bury her.
     “Why,” I asked.
     “Because I loved her.”
     “Okay,” I said.
     Henry said that when he walked out onto the field that dark night and saw her decomposing body parts, he buried most of them he could find. He told me that his and 14 year-old Becky’s relationship was like a father/daughter “thing.” He had pictures of her in his wallet and he carried those photos from jail to jail, state to state, thereafter.  How did this Texas killer go state to state later? A Texas Ranger Task Force, that’s how. Stand by on that.
     We were about three cups of coffee into this by now.
     “I need to get this down in writing, Henry. We need a statement about all this from you. Can we do that?”
     “Yeah. I already fessed up to Phil. So, yeah.”
     And I got a statement on the murder, which was my job. Other crimes in other jurisdictions would be secondary to me tightening up this one. We finished off that typed statement. I typed line by line as he told me line by line.
     We relaxed.
     “I’ve got a problem,” he said. 
     As if I needed to confirm my suspicions.
     “Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve been killing things. Dogs, Sheep. Cattle…and having sex with them. Something just snaps in my head, a sex thing. He told me about a man named Bernie who “taught” him how. 
     “When I kilt my mother…”
     “You killed your mother?’”
     “Yeah.”
     Keep in mind this was the early 1980s. There wasn’t much literature and psychology collected and disseminated on serial killers. The FBI VICAP (Violent Criminal Apprehension Program) was fairly new and largely unheard of at the time, and frankly were not very helpful when we needed them through the years. In short they match up violent crimes around the US and develop profiles of suspects. So, what has become this textbook case of someone killing small animals and the sex was news. Serial killer movies like the “Silence of the Lambs” were not popular. (But Hitchcock’s “Psycho” was! Huh? Norman Bates killed his mother and dressed up in her clothes. Weird was weird.)
     Lucas killed his mother when he was 24 years old. He told me (and other psychiatrists) that he had sex with his dead mother, but years later he denied that. He killed her in the kitchen with a knife and then fled the state in a stolen car. He ditched the car and was arrested while hitchhiking in Ohio.  He said that was his first murder.
     So, I am sitting in this office with a lunatic who killed his mother about 20 years ago. What was he doing roaming the streets? Obviously, somehow released, like…parole or something?
     “How did you get out of jail,” I asked him.
     “I was in mental prison. The doctors said I was alright one day. I wasn’t. But they said I was. One morning they just let me out the front door.”
     He started to tell me about all kinds of murders, all over the country that I just found hard to believe. It started to look like he wanted to shock me, like a braggart. I still have these details in my notes. And I knew we would be talking about all that again and all too soon. 
     I walked him back into the jail and locked him up.
     Then I jumped back in my car and drove to the site by the highway. A lot was underway there. Four detectives and Howard Kelly were combing the area and digging up body parts. Newspaper and TV crews were showing up.
     “You get a confession?” Howard Kelly asked me.
     “I did. He’s a real nut-job. He killed his mother, that woman in Brook county and this girl. And he started telling me he’s killed a bunch of women all over while hitchhiking.”
     Howard’s eyes widened and head tilted. He had a certain way of looking at you over his glasses. 
     “We are going to have to spend a lot of time with him,” I said.
     We had about four unsolved murders in recent years that we would have to run by him. Then, there’s the county, the state and what now? All 50 states? Boy howdy, how far could this go? 
     “Well, Phil will hep’ us on all that,” Kelly said. 
     I got my “crime scene shovel” out of my trunk. (This wasn’t my first dead-body-rodeo.) and got with the guys and started digging.
     The Justice of the Peace was finally called. I say “finally” because I remember he was really mad at us. He’d heard the news at about 11 a.m. He needed to be called out to the death scene. And he knew that we knew. We had a body parts he needed to officially presiding over. No one called him all day until it was his dinner time. He got out to the field at about 6 p.m. and he really pitched a high-holey, embarrassing fit.
     “You know I could have you all arrested!” he yelled at us. “By law you are supposed to notify a magistrate as soon as reasonably possible! I could have all of you arrested right now.”
     Whew! The judge looked like he was about to have a heart attack, but he finally calmed down. Dinner is really important to some folks! But apparently not so much to us as we worked well into the night. We called a funeral home to transport the remains of the body to the forensic morgue in Dallas.
     Nowadays, police agencies have special forensic, like “archaeological” teams that sift through the turf like they look for Tyrannosaurus Rex bones. Not back then. We just had five shovels, a Polaroid camera and some trash bags. (More or less. We also had a tape measure and a 35mm camera. I am just being dramatic.)
     I drew up diagrams of the parts in relation to fixed objects in the filed, triangulating the dig sites. Ranger Phil Ryan and the Brooks deputies went home. Lucas was in our jail, and we felt we could leave the field until the next day. End of day one.

Henry2

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     I drove home a filthy mess and stripped naked in the back yard. Bad news. The itching started. It was getting worse and worse. I was covered in chigger bites that were growing and expanding into a leper’s landscape on my skin from my sock line up to my chest. I ran into the bathroom and got into the bathtub while my wife tried to look up in a medical encyclopedia what to do. It started to drive me insane. Finally, I took pain-killers we had left over from my various injuries. That took an edge off. That and a little whiskey.
     I know some folks reading this won’t know what a chigger is. I hope you never do. A chigger is a bug I’ve only run across in Texas. Virtually invisible, they get on you and scamper up as far as it can. They they bites and burrow into your flesh. Lives. Parties, and legend has it, procreates in there until for some reason the clan dies off. (Experts say they die quick and don’t reproduce, but once bit, it sure feels like chigger generations stay and have an orgy.)
     I arrived at work the next morning and all of us that had toiled in the field, even the poor angry, judge I heard, were suffering from these chigger bites. And we had to go out there again! Not without a visit to the pharmacy for nuclear, bug protection, though. But Detective Jack Breasley had another plan.
     “You see this raw potato?” Jack said, holding one up.
     “Yeah.”
     “If you keep a raw potato in your pocket, chiggers won’t bite you.”
     “That so,” I said.
     “I got some potatoes out in the car for us.”
     “I think I will stick with the nuclear, bug spray, thank ya kindly.”
     “OKAY then!” Jack said, as though I were a fool.

     We returned to the field and worked all morning. By lunchtime, we were through. I hadn’t accumulated any more bites, that I could tell anyway over the red rubble of my lower chest and legs. But Jack? Jack’s chigger bites had chigger bites. I can’t really say I remember for sure? But I think he went to the emergency room at the hospital that night. I think the chiggers even ate the potato.
    In the afternoon, we sat back down with Henry at the police department. We ran some unsolved murders past him, showed him photographs. This is routine in a situation like this. A kidnapped and killed young teen, found in a Dallas gravel pit. Strangled woman found out in the woods by some railroad tracks. At first, he said no to them, then fudged on his “no,” and said maybe. I watched him look at photos of the victims and had a feeling that they were strangers to him.
     Howard and I talked in the hallway. We didn’t believe him, but we were obligated to test him through and through.
     “Me and Breasley will run him around these crime scenes. You catch up here,” Howard said. 
    There was plenty for me to catch-upward-with. Reports. Warrants. Body parts  in the morgue. Confirm Henry was at that hotel. Etc.
     Howard and I spoke about two full days later and in summary, he discounted all the other Lucas verbal confessions. 
     We filed the only case we had in our jurisdiction, the murder of Becky in the field. Henry was then quickly out of our hair, and Ranger Phil Ryan’s hair too. 
     Henry was convicted and sentenced to many decades in prison. Phil Ryan had his case over in Ringsilver. But Henry would not shut up about killing a lot of people. I mean a LOT of people. So mnay, Henry was next embedded with a special Texas Ranger Task Force to look into his stories. 
     The Dallas Observer newspaper reported, “A special task force, manned by the Williamson County Sheriff Jim Boutwell and members of the Texas Rangers, was formed to help other agencies sort out the stream of horrors that Lucas couldn't confess to fast enough. Soon, he was being jetted all over the country to lead investigators to crime scenes and recount the terrifying manner in which his victims had met their fates. Henry said, "I done it every way imaginable," he liked to say. "Shootings, stabbings, strangulations, drownings. Killing somebody, to me, was just like walking outdoors.’ For good measure, he occasionally added details of post-Mortem sex or experiments in cannibalism. ”
     None of us locals, including Phil Ryan thought Henry had killed all the people he’d suddenly claimed at the time. We read in the newspapers the toll was running up to 300 people. What? 
     Phil told me early on, that he’d accompanied one of these crime scene visits with other detectives from another Texas city and murder. The body was found under an overpass. With two detectives, with Phil and Henry in the back seat, Phil recalled for me what happened on that trip.
     “Henry had been shown, and had studied all the crime scene photos before we left the station. He collected the crime story and evidence in the course of the first interview. As we drove up the highway, they kept asking him. ‘Look familiar? Look familiar?’ 
Finally, Henry said, ‘Stop here.’ We all got out and looked around. Henry pointed to this or that. Back at the station he gave them a bare-bones confession to the killing. I said to Henry later, 
     ‘why did you take that killing, Henry. You didn’t do that?’
     Henry smiled at me. 
     I asked, ‘how did you know which overpass to stop at?’
      Henry said, ‘well, the driver kept slowing down and slowing down and I just guessed.’ Henry didn’t kill all those people, Hock. He’s working the cops.’ ”

     Working the cops. Then one morning, about two years after I snapped that popular mugshot of Lucas in our jail, I bought a weekday copy of the Dallas Times Herald and a headline declared  that the Henry Lee Lucas murder spree was all false. A local reporter Hugh Aynesworth, had constructed a map and a time line of Henry’s confessions and found it physically impossible for him to travel all across the United States and commit most of them. Hugh inserted into the time-line, proven facts of Henry’s whereabouts. For example:   
     Henry collected a paycheck on one date, than claimed he killed a girl six states away later that same day. Anyesworth concluded, “Lucas would have had to drive 11,000 miles in the space of a month to have murdered all of the victims on his confession list.”
     Now, I ask you, why didn’t this Texas Ranger Task Force run a simple chart like this on their headquarters wall? We all asked this. Phil Ryan too, and he couldn’t believe the mess. Why did it take a local newsman to do this? 
     In the middle of this is an odd tale of the Waco, Tx. prosecutor Vic Frizzell, which is another complicated story, too long to shoot off-course here with, but that you might care to look up on the web. 
     The New York Times concluded, “After his arrest in 1983, Lucas claimed to have killed as many as 600 people around the country, and detectives from 40 states talked to him about an estimated 3,000 homicides. Mr. Lucas later recanted, and many of the murder cases attributed to him were never reopened. He attributed the false confessions to a steady diet of task force tranquilizers, steaks, hamburgers and milkshakes fed to him by investigators, along with crime scene clues that he said he had parroted back to detectives.” Henry also got to travel, play cards and watch television and enjoyed numerous other benefits at the “Lucas Headquarters.” 
     Lucas’ lawyer Don Higginbotham, said that, “Henry lies to everybody. That`s how he maintains control over his situation. Anybody in authority. He`s playing with the system.”

     Get this mess. While I was hanging out with Henry before he wet hog-wild with tall tales of killing, he told me about his traveling, murdering buddy Ottis Toole, and how they killed people. He also told me that Ottis had kidnapped and killed young Adam Walsh, the son of John Walsh. John had gone on to become the famous host of “America’s Most Wanted” TV show. Was this yet another lie? Not up to me to decide, so when the dust settled a bit, I called the detective division of the Hollywood, Florida Police Department and reported all these details to them. Never heard back from them.
     Years later, Toole became infamous thanks to Henry’s popularity. But, apparently my early 80s phone call to Hollywood, Florida CID fell upon deaf ears! And unchecked? Then months later I learned the Texas Ranger, Lucas Task Force called them also with the same news. Read what Time Magazine wrote about this:
     “While the FBI  would credit “America’s Most Wanted” for helping nab at least 17 of the agency’s “10 Most Wanted” fugitives, John Walsh had to wait 27 years for the Hollywood Police Department to both admit that drifter and serial killer Ottis E. Toole abducted and murdered his son and apologize for investigative mistakes that transpired during the early years of this investigation,” as police chief Chad Wagner said in a news conference. 
     Toole first confessed to the Walsh killing in October of 1983, but, as the department’s police chief told TIME in the mid-’90s, Toole and his accomplice Henry Lee Lucas were notorious for ‘confessing to crimes they didn’t commit.’ Toole would end up dying in prison in 1996 while serving five life sentences for other crimes.”
     But, there was also supporting evidence against Toole. Walsh would later write a book about this. In the late 1990s, Walsh was on a book tour and I was hired to assist FOX security with protecting John on his trip through Texas. I had a chance to get to know John and we discussed this overall situation. Ironic, isn’t it?

I provided and arranged security for John Walsh in his 1997 book tour
I provided and arranged security for John Walsh in his 1997 book tour
John Walsh's book, Tears of Rage
John Walsh’s book, Tears of Rage


     And now for even more madness and weirdness, in the mid 1990s, then Sheriff, Weldon Lucas (no relation) called me at home. Weldon was a former Texas Ranger and was indirectly involved in Henry’s local case with us. He told me there was some new ado about a woman claiming to be Becky Rowlett in the media. Becky alive and well? Whose skull was that I’d almost tripped over that fateful day? He warned me that there might be a quick, new court date/hearing over the issue. 
     But, this was quickly dismissed as a fraud. Some bizarre married woman named Phyllis had befriended the imprisoned Henry. You know, first pen pals. Jail visits. Then, “prison love.” She thought she could somehow throw a monkey wrench into the works of Henry’s death sentence by suggesting Becky was still alive. She was quickly arrested for this fraud. Like the entire Henry Lee Lucas penumbra, this too was very, very strange. Years later, even Geraldo Rivera did a TV show on Henry and Phyllis. 
     Of course, Henry’s story morphed into books, documentaries and, even a movie. All of these are available on the internet for further investigation, with the proper names and locations. I was 
interviewed once in awhile by them, but Lucas disgusted me so, I didn’t add much more to their stories. I have only decided to tell my small involvement in this book, for the purpose of history. 

     But, I feel as reporter Carlton Stowers felt when he wrote in the Dallas Observer: “The furor over the latest Lucas scam attempt had already died when, one evening, I answered the phone to hear a long-distance operator say that I had a collect call from Lucas (in prison). "Will you accept charges?” she asked.
     ‘No,’ I replied for the first time. Then, realizing that he was likely listening for my response, I added emphasis. ‘Not only no,’ I said, ‘but hell no.’ Finally, I had too belatedly realize, the time had come to put the life and lies of Henry Lee Lucas behind me.”

     I guess I should sum up by saying that Lucas died in prison from a heart attack. All the stories about Henry’s killing spree, lies, and manipulations still fascinate people, but all agree that he did kill “some” people, and the murders they mention as real include our Becky case and Phil Ryan’s case.
 
     Of course, I and all others are also convinced he killed Becky in our city. I still remember that afternoon, all of us standing in the field west of the interstate, and Henry pointing to the ground and telling me, after I almost tripped over a human skull, “If you dig here, you’ll find a pillowcase with arm bones in it.” 
     We did. 

Hock's email is HockHochheim@ForceNecessary.com

 

This story appears in Dead Right There

 

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Two Police Books by W. Hock Hochheim

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Walther P-22. A Mistake!

Impulse gun buy! Man! A mistake!


     I was nosing around a gun store, looking to handle and finger another Ruger LCR-22, hammerless, revolver. Many of my friends I know and trust, love their's. I want one. I just….want one. I was weaned on small revolvers, issued one as an Army investigator and I just like them. I will eventually get this Ruger revolver too. But, but, but…I also spotted the Walther P22 in the glass case. I want another thin, small, carry gun and this was thinner than the Ruger. (Yeah, yeah, 22, I know, but ! I have worked a few killings with .22s. Then too with numerous survivors. But 22s are no BBs.)

     "Let me hold that Walther," I asked the guy behind the counter.

     Now, in year's past, I have shot these "new," shapely ergonomic handguns, thinking I would just fall in love with their feel. But, I am also a boxy, old-school, pistol guy and I didn't care for the feel. Like a match-gun feel.

     This Walther had that ergo look I thought I would not like in my hand. But it felt great. Jeez..I…like a damn teen-ager…bought it. Impulse. New. It was on sale for only $289. Regularly, what? $380 or so?

 

walther

     Next day, took it apart. Clean and oiled it up. Next day, shot it. Shot light, like a cap gun when it shot. Great groupings at reasonable distances when it shot…for what little time I had shooting it. Little time you ask? In the first 44 rounds it malfunctioned 5 times. Why stop at 44 rounds? The 44th shell got stuck and failed to eject from the barrel. An overall…cycling… problem.

     The guys at the gun club had a thin rod handy and we tapped out the empty shell. One guy there has the Walther P22, never had a problem and loves his?! (I used classic, Federal ammo, which should not be a problem.)

     Then, ass-backwards, too late, I went home, did some research on the gun. These malfunctions, feed and ejection problems are rampant with this model.

     The gun store said, they would take the gun back and ship it to Walther to "fix it." Huh? Well, I will have them "fix it," but, I need a gun I can count on, and between this experience and these numerous bad, reviews? My confidence is shaken. I am back on that little Ruger revolver again for a summer pocket gun, or whatever. I will get it back from Walther. I will shoot it, but…

     I have made an expensive, impulsive mistake. And now, you all also have another review on the Walther P22. Like a teen-ager in a bar, I brought home a looker who went bat-shit crazy the next morning.

 

Check out this video on the core problem from a gunsmith – Gun Torture Test.com on the Walther P-22

Hock's email is HockHochheim@ForceNecessary.com

 

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Jailbreak! And the Pyscho Martin Crebbs

(Some names and locations have been changed)  

Crebbs drawing  2  

   

Jailbreak! And the Psycho Martin Crebbs

     It was afternoon in August in the early 1980s.
     Egg-frying, Texas hot. That is to say that if you plopped a raw egg down on the street, it would sizzle in less than a minute.
     CID Sgt. Howard Kelly and I were cruising back into our city from a long day of looking around the countryside on the north side of our county. Looking over open, condemned land. Howard had caught a tip that a ring of car and truck thieves were stealing vehicles, stripping them down and discarding the remnants out on the vast fields and farmland very soon to be covered over by a major lake project. If we didn’t find the stripped vehicles soon, they’d all be under about a hundred feet of water. Howard had an idea about this location and we hoped we might catch the ring at work.  Who in the world would be working out in this laser heat, though? Still, we had to try.
     We were in my assigned Chevy, but Howard was driving because he knew where he wanted to go. I had my hands up on dashboard to collect the air conditioning shooting it up the short sleeves of my damp dress shirt. No matter the heat, we usually had to wear a tie and a sport coat or a classic suit. Had to cover the gun back then. Kelly almost never wore a tie, or a jacket for that matter, and “they” (admin) were kind of afraid to tell him otherwise. He was the NCIS, Jethro Gibbs of the detective division, if you get my drift with this modern analogy.
     We hit town, turned down Chester Ave and into the busy downtown area, talking about who knows what all, when a screaming man yelled over the police radio, “Jailbreak! Jailbreak! A whole floor is loose!” It was the county dispatcher. He was desperate.
     “All available units report to the SO, ASAP.”
     This news quickly went out over the city radio airwaves too. This did not sound like the usual “suspect bounding out of the first-floor, book-in room” and off to the city park north of the Sheriff’s Office.
     Howard and I looked at each other. We were about 100 feet from the County Sheriff’s Office! He pulled onto the lot. We bailed, pulled our guns and ran into and into the building. We could see some city police cars zipping in, and some officers running across the field from the neighboring city PD.
     We got inside and three county investigators were standing by the doors, guns up and at the ready, as the one main elevator descended from the cell floors above. What was this? Were escapees coming down? Howard Kelly and I pointed our guns at the doors too.
     The elevator descended. Descended. The doors opened. On the elevator floor laid a jailer. Johnny Yale. He was howling and quaking. There was blood all over his torn shirt.
     “He stabbed me!” he yelled. “They stabbed me. The whole third floor is loose!”
     SO investigator Jim Wilson hit the kill switch on the elevator wall and knelt beside Yale. Lt Jim Neel knelt also.
     “Who stabbed you?” Lt Neel asked over and over. “Who?”
     “Crebbs! Crebbs did this. It’s a jailbreak up there. He turned everybody loose.” Yale yelped, almost crying.
     “Everybody” on the third floor of the county jail was about 75 inmates.
      “Block off the stairwells!” Jim Wilson ordered. Some deputies near there with shotguns and pistols, took positions.
     Crebbs. I looked up at the ceiling, my .357 Magnum revolver in my hand. Crebbs. I’d put that raping, stabbing, psycho Martin Crebbs in this jail. I caught him. I put ‘em in here. And now? 
     Now I’m gonna go upstairs…and I’m gonna kill him.

<<<>>> 

     Who is this Crebbs? How did I catch him? Why did I think he needed killing?
     He was Martin J. Crebbs. Years ago, back in the 1970s as a patrolman in Texas, I’d heard of a rape case from station-house gossip and crime updates. A woman had been awakened in her bed by an intruder. The intruder controlled her with one of her own kitchen knives he’d collected from her counter on the way to her bedroom. She was raped at knife point in her bed. Then she was abducted to another house and tied up and raped again. Held for hours, she escaped. Our detective squad caught this teenager, also a known burglar. He was convicted and sent to the Texas Pen. Somehow, don’t ask me how, perhaps his age? Perhaps the trying times of overcrowded penitentiaries? He was released on parole.  The man’s name was Martin J. Crebbs.
     Then, there was another home intrusion rape in the neighborhood, and a series of aggravated robberies and burglaries throughout our city and in North Texas, and by this time, I was a detective.

May 19                  Paroled
June 12                 Aggravated robbery
June 12                 House burglary
June 20                 Aggravated robbery
June 20                 House burglary
June 20                 House burglary
June 20                 Attempted rape
June 23                 Attempted rape/home invasion
June 24                 House burglary
June 26                 Aggravated robbery
June 26                 Aggravated robbery
June 30                 House burglary
June 30                 House burglary
July 1                    House burglary
July 4                    House burglary
July 5                    House burglary
July 5                    Aggravated rape
July 8                    Aggravated robbery
July 12                  House burglary
July 12                  House burglary
July 14                  Aggravated rape
Other crimes too…

     Also, I might mention that not all of these crimes listed were within our city limits. Some occurred outside the city, in the county and in the counties north of us. In the 1980s we were not in “lightening” touch with each other as we are today. It would take days, even weeks, maybe even a month or two before regional crime patterns over multiple jurisdictions could be recognized and organized. 

     Where did I come in? July 14. The a.m. hours of. There was a pool of detectives in our squad, all taking general assignments and some of these crimes were routinely spread out among us.  

    I happened to be the “detective on call” so I was summoned to an old house on the northeast side of the city in zero-dark-thirty hours of the 14th of July. A home invasion, rape case. Crime scene specialist, Russell Lewis was also dispatched. In route to the house, I was informed that the victim was rushed to the hospital and with the crime scene in Russell’s expert hands, I turned off my path to speak with the victim and oversee the rape kit process. At the hospital, I learned what I could from this poor exhausted, bruised woman, I’ll just call her “Judy” here, before she was rolled into an examination room. I left Judy with a patrolman to gather info for the basic, crime report. Judy had a good friend who quickly met her at the hospital, as well as the ever-handy “Friends of the Family”a group of female counselors we used to help rape victims. Judy, the friend and the counselor promised they would all be at the police station by about 11 a.m. for a detailed statement.

     By 6 am, I was at the house. Russell and I had to swap stories to really know how to scour the residence, yard and area again. The open (an left unlocked the night before), a kitchen window of the older, wood framed house, and the big kitchen knife (from the victim’s kitchen drawer) and the bed in total disarray, and the strips of cloth used to tie her spread hands and feet to the bed frame…well…they all told much of the overall story. The three-hour ordeal.
     We stepped through the yard and with the help of the rising, welcome, dawn light and with our giant flash lights, we saw four, dry, Marlboro cigarette butts by the doghouse (there was no dog) in the yard. We collected them. I found another cigarette butt by a big tree in the yard. Another place to hide and watch from? Russel photographed and printed. We carefully folded up the sheets and pillows hoping for fluid stains and head and pubic hair and so forth. Was anything stolen or missing? I wouldn’t know until the victim could return to her house and take stock. You never know how fast you might need this info and the first few days are a thirsty rush for intelligence.
     By mid-afternoon, I knew a few things. The suspect was young, white male, 20s maybe, long blonde hair. He surprised Judy when she was in bed. He had one of her big kitchen knives. He treated her “like a candy store,” as she described it. He brandished the knife until she was tied up and even after at times while she was tied. The tip was at her neck. 
     He told her as he left, “Don’t bother calling the police. They’ll never find me.”
    Forty something years later as I type his last words to her, those words still burn my stomach and piss me off, not unlike when I heard them the first time. 
     Well, guess again, dipshit.


     Judy, nor anyone she knew, smoked cigarettes, least of all Marlboro cigarettes. The presence of such butts in the yard was mysterious to her. Perhaps we could run some successful saliva tests on them? She said she’d looked over her house and thought she’d lost one piece of jewelry. It was a customized piece. I learned she was an art student and I asked her to draw the suspect and draw that customized piece of jewelry. She did, and man! Did that come in handy later.

    I started a neighborhood canvass around dinnertime on the 14th, looking for any and all information about people, cars and suspicious things. 
     That began an amassment of suspects. One of Judy’s next door neighbors was a parolee, who had killed is wife in the 1960s, and was a known “window-peeper.” Another “weird” guy lived a block away, the neighbors told me. Plus, we had an occasional “butcher-knife” rapist working that side of the city for years, but he was a little older and always brought his own butcher knife. Neighbors reported their usual, suspicious “hippies.” One of these “weird hippies” was wanted for assault. I wasted a day running him down and arrested him inside a college night club. I quickly cleared him of this crime. 
     Russel Lewis checked in with me to report the fingerprints were smudges and not comparable. He sent other evidence off for testing.
    Meanwhile, I’d also caught “talk” of this Martin Crebb’s parole, once again from general “cop gossip.” I cannot tell you how important just gossip and talk was and is with fellow, area investigators, especially back in those non-tech, days. When on day shift, after the morning crime briefings, a bunch of us would go eat breakfast at a series of restaurants. We, the county and the state investigators would congregate, talk smack, hunting, sports and oh yes…crime! Some of us on evening shift would still drive in and eat breakfast for this. Ignorant police supervisors and bean counters who’d never served as investigators, would oft times complain about this “laziness.” But, they were just plain ignorant and frankly, pains-in-the ass. 
     At one breakfast, someone from the state, warned us to watch out for , “Hey, a crazy somabitch, Martin Crebbs was paroled and he is a little psycho, crime machine. A robber and a rapist. He’s got relatives in this county and up north in Crisco.”
     So, I looked into Crebbs and contacted his state parole officer in Crisco County. After this phone conversation, I could see it deserved a drive north to look at his file, which the officer said was thick, and always a pain to fax back then. Faxes were a bit foggy to read especially if you received copies of copies. Better and quicker to make the 90 minute drive.

   Once in the state building in Crisco county, I sat down with the Crebb’s file. The parole officer said that in just the few short weeks Crebbs had been on parole, he was already a growing problem. He lived with his parents in a rural area in Crisco county. His picture matched the suspect description and Judy’s drawing. Some of his prior rape conviction details did match those of Judy’s crime, but still, many rapists share common denominators. Had robberies increased since his release? Yeah. Burglaries? Well, yeah. But they come and go. Maybe up here in Crisco too? I took one Polaroid photo of Crebbs from the file, and collected some copies of ID data.
    My next stop was the Crisco County Sheriff’s Office where I met CID Captain David Bone. Bone and I had worked together a bit in the past. Bone was about 6’5”, a power-lifter, former Texas Tech lineman, ex-rough-necker/oil field worker and smart as a whip.on fire. What little we had and knew about computers back then, was already Bone’s new interest and his specialty. If I ever build a Dirty Dozen, police force, Bone will take up two slots. He had a very simple business card that had two things on it – the word “BONE” in the center in capital letters, and his phone number in the lower right. Not Captain, not Sheriff’s Office, just “Bone.” If you got one of those stuck in your front door, that Bone had been there looking for you? And you’re a shady character? You’d better just pack up and head on out to Mexico.
      “Martin Crebbs!” Bone said to me. “I am right this instant, looking at him for an armed robbery of a convenience store.” South part of the county. I need to talk to the clerk. Let’s go.”
     Go we did. I climbed into his sedan and took the front seat, passenger side. I felt like a small child there. Bone was such a giant that he’d removed the front seat and welded a new foundation for it, moving it back a few more inches than factory spec, so that he could fit his giant self behind the wheel and work all the pedals. So, though my own 6’3” self felt like a kid in there. I drove his car once on another case we worked and could barely reach the steering wheel, and I needed a Dallas phone book to sit on. But, I digress. Back to the case….
     The robbed county store was not that far from the Crebb’s family house. The owner himself was robbed, and he thought the getaway car he spied parked up the road from the store was familiar looking “Seen it around,” he said.

me and bone
Bad quality, old photo, but that’s me and Bone in the early 1980s. Though we worked for different agencies, he was one of my best partners to work with.

 

     The masked man with a gun reminded him over-all of someone in the area, but he couldn’t say for sure whom. The man said that the .45 pistol aimed at him was old and even “rusty-looking.” 
     Right then I recalled that we too in my city, had two armed robberies where a suspect held an old, .45 pistol. I realized the suspect at home did match the overall shape and size of this Crisco crime.

     Back the Crisco Sheriff’s Office, Bone and I made a plan. We would take turns surveilling the Crebb’s family house and if that dried up in a day or two, we’d march up to the house and question everyone. As Howard Kelly would say, “When you hit a brick wall, go shake the tree. That might not make sense, a “wall” and then a “tree.” But it meant that when all leads fail, go shake up, and mess with the suspects. Sometimes they react in a beneficial way. What have you got to lose? You never know what will fall out of the wall…er, I mean…the tree.

    The next day I asked Judy to make a return visit to the P.D. I showed her a photo line-up with Crebbs and with similar males with blond hair. Since the rape occurred in darkness, she just couldn’t be sure enough to pick Crebbs out. She gave me a maybe on Crebbs. I can’t work with a maybe.
    I did a “shift” on the Crisco county house. Bone did a shift and he had a deputy do one too. We never saw Crebbs, and only observed the comings and goings of a large rural, family. Nothing 
interesting happened. Not even a sighting of Crebbs.
     We decided to do that “march” and “tree-shaking” after three days. We drove up the dirt road to the two-story house and knocked on the door.  What we found was a mad mom, a mad dad and a mad uncle. Not mad at us. Mad at Martin! We all sat down in their large living room. 
     “I know that little shit is robbin’ places! I know it!” the dad exclaimed. “The day after he got out of jail, his little sister took him to Boydston, to a pawn shop, and he bought a gun.”
    “What kind of gun?” I asked.
     “It’s an old Army pistol,” he said. “I’ve seen him with it.”
     “By old you mean…”
     “Like World War II? An automatic.”
     It was very common to call semi-automatic pistols, “automatics” in those days.
   “He is a hangin’ out with that Steve Spitz from Sherman. He’s trouble,” the mom said.
     Bone nodded and said, “Heard of him.”
     “I’ll bet you have. He’s a snake in the grass,” the dad said.
     “They drive around in Spitz’s car,” the mom said. “Some kind of Camaro, dark red. It ain’t his, belongs to some poor girlfriend of his.”
     We collected various bits of other information, like the little sister’s name and birthdays. Cars. Etc. 
     Then Bone and I drove back to the Crisco Sheriff’s Office and we went straight to their records room. We looked up Spitz. Bone uncovered  in the county files that both Spitz and Crebbs were roommates in their jail years ago under burglary charges. With the Spitz birthday on file, we ran his criminal history and drivers license info. We had mugshots. Spits had dark hair, Crebbs had blond hair. 
     Back home I collected all our resent armed robbery reports. I was not assigned to any of those robberies. One robbery was at the usual gas station combination convenience store. 
     According to a customer pumping gas who saw the robbers approach the store, one robber was masked, the other man was still donning his mask while running across the lot. This almost masked man had black hair. And the customer saw the man’s face before the mask slipped on. The robbery team got inside, pulled an “old” semi-auto gun and robbed the place.
     Who was the witness pumping gas, the customer who saw the face?  I scoured the report. The detective assigned to the robbery case had not found out, even after three weeks? I will only tell you that the detective assigned to the robbery was a slug, and I wasn’t surprised. 
     I drove to the store and working with the manager, looked over the credit card receipts from the crime date and time, hoping the guy didn’t pay for his gas with cash, but used a credit card. 
     He did use a card! He used a company card. With some long-distance phone calls, we found him, an Oklahoma truck driver. I created a photo line-up of similar white males, and I met this witness at a restaurant on the Texas/Oklahoma border. He actually picked Steve Spitz out very quickly. 
     The next day, I got an arrest warrant for Spitz and we spread the word all over North Texas.

    Meanwhile, I contacted Texas Ranger Phil Ryan who worked the region including Boydston. I gave him the info on Crebbs and Crebbs’ little sister and asked him to find the pawn shop where the gun was purchased. Ryan was a great Ranger and I write about him often in my recollections. He would work a tractor theft as hard as a triple murder and within two days we learned all the details of the gun purchase. It was an old, .45 caliber, semi-auto pistol. 

     Days later, my desk phone rang. It was Bone.
    “We got Spitz,” Bone said. “A state trooper found him driving on Highway 8. Alone in his car. Nothing in the car. I’ll wait for you to get up here, and we’ll talk to him.”
     “I am on my way,” I said. 

     Spitz was a real punk, but he knew he was caught and he did talk in the hopes for leniency.
    “Cripps is crazy, man! He thinks he is Joe the Dope Dealer with drugs and Bonnie and Clyde, Clyde the robber. And he thinks he is Jack the Ripper.”
     In just three weeks these idiots committed a crime wave of felonies with more plans on the Crebbs drawing board for supermarket robberies, raping lone convenience store clerks and Crebbs favorite – home invasions, but of families at night. They had even plotted a bank job. Police officers stumbling into these scenes would be taken hostage or shot.
    “You know, it was all Crebbs. I…I wouldn’t do all that,” Spitz said. 
    Spitz was an emotional mess. Crying. Bulging veins. Pleading. We knew we would have to prove and re-prove everything he said, anyway we could.
     I won’t bore you here with the skyscraper of paperwork this produced. And all this back in the day when we typed reports on typewriters, maybe electric, sometimes not, with carbon paper, and used expensive, copy machines when we could. But filing warrants and cases on 30-plus felony crimes was a paper puzzle. We did it none the less, filing cases in three counties.  Welcome to my world. Today, all this would be done by a task force. Back then, it was just me and Bone. (In case I forget to tell you later? Spitz took a 10-year plea bargain.)

    We were informed by the angry relatives that Crebbs was still coming and going from the family house once in a while in another friend’s borrowed, two-door, light yellow Chevy. Bone drew up a search warrant for Crebb’s room in his house, just in case, which we searched and turned up nothing.
    Now, all we had left to do was find Crebbs and that gun. The word was out he was a wanted man. We were back to staking out the family house in plain cars. I was driving my personal Ford Thunderbird. 
     And then one afternoon after a few days, we saw him go by in the two-door Chevy. We pulled a simple traffic stop and an “under-the-gun arrest.” He tried nothing. He knew he was surrounded. Cuffed and stuffed, I took a quick look over his car. There in an open compartment in the console was a chain and a piece of jewelry. It looked familiar. It actually looked like the drawing Judy sketched of her stolen necklace. I walked back to my car and returned with my Polaroid camera. I snapped a photo of the console and the jewelry. I pulled the jewelry out. It matched Judy’s drawing perfectly. Her missing piece! The souvenir of a rapist. I stuck the picture and jewelry into my pocket.

     Next, began one of the most unusual relationships I guess I have ever had with a criminal, and I have had many, from Narcs, to Cowboy Mafia-men to dopers and killers. Back at the Cisco jail, Bone and I sat down with Crebbs in an interview room. We read him his Miranda rights. He waived them. I think he was dying to talk and see what we had on him. At first, Crebbs denied everything and was only concerned with the evidence we had, trying to play all the angles he could. He yelled and swelled up, and pitched a fit of innocence. He called us crazy.
    I pulled the chain and pendant from my pocket and held it up, the pendant swung like a hypnosis watch.
    “You took this from a woman,” I said calmly.
    His head shook slightly, just back and forth, not side-to-side, not yes, or no, and he almost smiled. Then I proceeded to tell him a list of what we had on him, step-by-step, to include a complete confession from Steve Spitz. Then I told him about the evidence the lab was working on. He listened intently.
     “You’re good,” he said.
     “No,” I said. “You’re just that bad.”
     But actually, he was impressed with me and Bone. His whole demeanor changed and he sat there and told us everything, almost as only an actor could, playing the part of psycho, talking about someone else, not him. He spoke in a passive, monotone voice. He did slightly giggle over some of the rape details. He bragged about the houses he “shafted.” He criticized his accomplice’s inadequate performances.
     “Did Spitz lie about anything?” I asked.
     “No, I don’t think so,” He said.
     It was pretty clear we were dealing with a psychopath, who viewed the rest of us as mannequins to his passing fancy. Bone and I took long, separate written (actually typed) confessions from Crebbs. He was quite proud of himself and his…achievements.

     Over the next few days, Bone and Crisco County kept Crebbs as they worked on paperwork and court appearances for the crimes in their county. Meanwhile with Judy’s jewelry and the confessions, I obtained a few more arrest warrants on Crebbs and pushed the local paperwork monkey further up the tree.  By this time, Texas Ranger Weldon Lucas caught wind of all this and wanted to help out. In about a week, Weldon and I drove up to Crisco, served the warrants and transferred Crebbs to our jail in cuffs and a hobble.
     Once in our jail, I had several visits with him, and frequently took him out to cruise the city and further document the locations of his rape, robberies and burglaries. I never once talked down to him, and always treated him “normally.” And we talked about a lot of things other than crime. This is an important strategy for every detective to try. You either have this knack, or not. Now, this method of “questioning/interrogation” has been quite formalized by the FBI and now even for fighting terrorism.
     Crebbs sat in the passenger seat of my car, cuffed around front to drink coffee and eat from drive thru, fast-food places. This was a treat for an inmate. I knew he would kill me in an instant, but I had a detective in the back seat right behind him that I could really trust and would…seriously intervene. It was probably another detective in our squad, Danny McCormick back then, but I just can’t remember. I knew this was tricky and dangerous, but it was the confession game I was playing. A risk I knew I was taking. And I knew Danny would just shoot the son of a bitch, if Crebbs tried to kill me. 

     In the process of his first local court appearances, he was appointed an attorney, who immediately shut all this interaction down. This attorney, first-name Gary, was a sharp guy, and we were friendly adversaries, as I was with almost all local defense attorneys. Gary could not conceive the unusual mountain of evidence and confessions I’d obtained from Crebbs. Within a few weeks, I would have a sperm match with the rape kit and a saliva match on the cigarette butts from the yard. Solid, solid case. This surely looked like a major, plea bargain to all of us. When Crebbs was eventually transferred from our city jail to the county jail, he told our city jailer to tell me goodbye.

     This had all the earmarks of a plea bargain indeed, but we had a new, go-getter, assistant district attorney I’ll call here “Hal Sleeve.” Hal craved the Crebbs prosecution. He asked me over for a meeting at the DA’s Office, and I expected a puzzle-piece, plan to bunch the crimes together into one big, plea bargain with a hefty jail term.
     “I am going to start with the rape,” Hal said.
     “Start?” I repeated.
     “This guy is an animal, and we are going to try him one felony at a time.”
     Okay. He’s the boss and that is what we did. Sleeve really was one helleva an attorney too and he did quite a job.

     So, within a few months, with Crebbs in our county jail with a “no-bond” the entire time, a trial eventually began. When I walked into the courtroom, Crebbs waved at me, and I nodded at him. Do you see what I mean by strange? When I was called to the stand to testify and Gary could not shake off any of the evidence we presented, especially the confessions I took from Crebbs, that I had to read aloud before the jury. I was dismissed. I had to walk past the defense table and Crebbs nodded at me again. Strange. I just fried him alive, and still he acknowledged me.

     Crebbs got about 30 years in the Texas Pen for aggravated rape. But, the next trail date was set a month off, and Crebbs remained in his cell on the third floor of the county jail. And during that wait? Crebbs called a friend on a pay phone for a pick-up, escape vehicle for a planned date and time, took small pipes off of an exercise bike, sharpened one end of each, wrapped the other ends of the pipes with a small, hand towel, tied the towel with some string, and tried to kill a jailer named Yale with seven stabs. Yale fell screaming. Crebbs took the keys off of Yale’s belt. With the Jailer’s keys in hand, he turned the whole 3rd floor of the jail loose, and they gained access to the office off the elevator. There were various staff weapons up in that office.

<<<>>>> 

     And now you know why on that hot, August afternoon, with jailer Yale screaming bloody murder on the floor of the elevator, and the SO in chaos, I stared at the ceiling, gun in hand, and wanted to kill Crebbs.
     With the elevator sealed, with just a few moments ticked off, we made our move. There was one stairway to the 3rd floor. Me, Howard Kelly, a city patrol officer named Jim Tom Bush (who was a decorated Vietnam War sniper and now brandishing a shotgun) and Jim Wilson gathered at that doorway. Wilson opened the steel door and we heard the raucous yells and crazied chants from above. With all our guns pointed upward, just me, Kelly, Bush and Wilson ran up the stairs. For some reason? No one else followed us up. I can imagine why.
     Oh, you might think, “Now wait a minute now, isn’t this a job for SWAT?”
     But back in those thrilling days of yesteryear, Tokyo and Los Angeles had SWAT teams. Back then, we were the SWAT team. In my department the detective division was the SWAT team. Same with the County Sheriff’s Office. So me, Kelly and Wilson had been on quite a number of raids and actions. Patrolman Bush? Bush was just a routine bad-ass. (Many years Bush later became a leader on our SWAT team.)
     We got to the big, vault-like office door on the 3rd floor, which lead to the cells. There was a window in the door and we saw the inmates walking around, yelling, throwing stuff. Unlike modern jails with open pods, this jail was mostly a series of hallways and cells on either side, and some open, sitting and eating areas. Wilson unlocked the big door, shoved it open, and we marched in.
     “Back in your cells or die!” we shouted, pointing our guns at everyone we could see.  This was Texas in the 80s and they knew that we were not bluffing. Mostly, they did return. Some were shoved.
     “You cannot get out of this building. Get back in your cells!” we said.
     I also was on the visual hunt for Crebbs. I couldn’t find him. I couldn’t see him. I ran down an empty hall to one of the day areas. I heard a voice. Angry, pleading. His voice. I turned the corner to see Crebbs on one of the pay phones. He was yelling at someone about his car ride escape. He held the shank in his hand. Jail keys hooked on his pants.
     “HEY!” I yelled.
     He turned. He dropped the phone. And pissed-off, stared at me. We were completely alone in this end of the wing. The ruckus in the halls seemed far away.
     It was another one of those moments in my life. I could have shot him. Dead right there. No one would have doubted or questioned the action under these circumstances. Somehow I had this odd feeling that shooting him was just not enough. It was a gut feeling. I holstered my gun and walked toward him, pointing my finger, “Drop it! Drop it. Drop it.”
     He didn’t. He didn’t. He didn’t.
     He raised it as I got close, and we had a fight. I can’t specifically remember each step of this, but I beat him down pretty bad. He’d had a lit cigarette in his mouth and I hit him there first, which was hard enough to make him drop the shank in his hand. After that? Confusing mess. When it was done, I picked him up off the floor and handcuffed him. A deputy ran down the hall and shouted. 
     “You okay?” he asked.
     “Yeah, can you get that?” I motioned to the shank.
     I marched Crebbs back down the hall as Kelly, Bush and Wilson and another deputy or two locked up the last of the loose inmates.  I took Crebbs through the office, down the stairs and was sort of surprised how no one else had really joined us? No one else in the stairwell, until I got to the bottom, where some officers stood an anxious guard. Maybe they thought we would just take the floor office back, shut the office jail door, and only secure the office? I don’t know. I walked Crebbs past the Sheriff, past some of the 
detectives, officers and civilians congregating on the first floor hall. The local news was already there, their office building a few blocks away. All solemn eyes were upon us. Maybe I had a bruise or two on my face. Crebbs did. He was bleeding. I took him into their CID offices, followed by some of the investigators, and sat him in a chair. Nobody cared about the blood.
     “Yale?” I asked of the jailer when CID Captain Ron “Tracker” Douglas walked in.
     “He’ll live.”
     “He’s all yours. Let me get my handcuffs,” I said.
     And some of the SO detectives stood Crebbs up, and we exchanged cuffs.
     “I caught him on the pay phone. I’ll write you up a statement right away and get it back to you,” I told Tracker.
     

     I needed out of there. Needed air. I walked outside. My car was still outside and Howard Kelly could simply walk across the parking lot to the City PD. This was a county crime, and a county arrest. I didn’t need to do that usual ton of city paperwork. The county did. I just needed to type a statement. This whole thing took about 15 minutes? 20 minutes? From the second we heard the radio call of “Jailbreak!”
     I saw my car on the crowded parking lot. I could squeeze it out between all the emergency and news vehicles. 
     I was going to make my own little escape from the mayhem! I could of killed him. Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda. But I didn’t. I just didn’t. It just didn’t… play out that way. And, I did what I did, and I felt real funny about it. Kind of mentally sick in a body-chemical way I can’t explain. A hard to describe feeling. I just wanted to get to my office and type up a short, concise, statement. 
     I backed out of the parking spot, and then I saw in my mirror, Tracker Douglas outside running toward me and waving.
     “Oh shit, what now?” I said to myself. I rolled down the car window.
    “Hock. Crebbs said he wants to talk to you.”
     “Talk to me?”
     “Yeah. We need a statement, and he said he would talk only to you.”
     They really didn’t need a statement. Yale was alive to testify about his attack. But to be thorough, a statement is always…nice to have. I pulled back in the parking spot and got out. Tracker and I made our way back to the CID offices.
     We found an interview room with a desk, and they sat Crebbs in a chair, cuffing his wrist to the arm of a chair. A deputy with a shotgun sat outside the door.
     I walked in, closed the door and sat on the desk. I said in an astonished tone, like two old friends talking, “What in the fuck happened up there?”
     And he began and wouldn’t shut up. He told me everything and I mean everything. I got off the desk and sat in the other chair. He told me with the rape conviction and more trials coming, he realized his life was over and had to escape.
     “Well, the only chance you have for any kind of leniency is to explain all this in a statement. If you don’t get your voice heard, you’ll just be like a cool-blooded killer. An attempted murderer,” I said. “You know they won’t let you speak up in court. The prosecution will really tear you apart if you take the stand.”
     “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll make a statement.”
     Now, technically, Crebbs was still under the auspices of Gary the attorney. In some locales, this might shed a darkness over any statement Crebbs might give. But, on the other hand, he could waive his rights at any time, and offer a statement. So I went with that angle. Worse came to worse? They would just outlaw/dismiss the statement.
     And so I began the statement process with Crebbs yet again. I got a standard confession form with the Miranda warnings on the top, and I began collecting a confession from Crebbs. We went line by line. When it was done, I told him, “good luck,” and handed Tracker the confession. It had various details like who the getaway driver was supposed to be.  And so, to my memory that was like the 23rd or so confession I had collected from Martin Crebbs. The last one, I had hoped. But oh, no. No.

     The next morning, prosecutor Hal Sleeve called me. He wanted to know the details of the escape from my perspective. I told him. In those days, video tapes were a growing interest in the legal system and Sleeve had massaged the DA’s office budget into buying some expensive, camera equipment. He was a real advocate for maximizing the use of video in court from crime scenes to confessions.
     “So, he confessed,” Sleeve said.
     “Yeah,” I said.
     “Would he confess again? I mean on tape? Could you get him to confess again?”
     “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know. What would Gary say?”
     “Gary’s on vacation for two weeks. Crebbs waived his rights. What can he say? Would he confess again,” Sleeve asked, “up on the scene. Would he walk you around the 3rd floor and explain what he did? Could you get him to do that?”
     “Can you get an SO detective to do that?” I asked.
     “You know he won’t do it for anyone but you. Go try, Hock.”
     I didn’t work for the DA’s Office, but I kind of do, you know? We all do in this business, and the police chief and sheriff are really just anal retentive, hotel managers. And, as the old Al Pacino movie line goes, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”
     Sleeve set it all up. 1 p.m., the next day. Two days after the escape attempt. I went to the SO. Sleeve was waiting there for me.  Their crime scene people and operators of the video equipment were at the ready. Tracker Douglas was also at the ready to facilitate. Crebbs was brought down to the same interview room and there we were again. Just me and him. He was surprised to see me. This was the kind of guy that, if you fight him? And you beat him? He respected you even more. And, after some conversation, like a damn salesman on cue, I reluctantly began my requested pitch.
     “Listen, Martin, it would be a great service to this agency and all the other agencies to hear you describe how you did all this yesterday. You know it’s a new world with these video tapes. And a video like this would be helpful, also make it look like you were trying to help us, and fully cooperate. Show full cooperation. It might show the jury that you have some…you know, hope? Compassion? Whatever.”
     I guess he had nothing better to do! Why not. His face was expressionless.
     “Yeah, sure,” he said.
     And we did. Uncuffed, he stood beside me, on the third floor, with all the hooting and hollering of a hot, un-airconditioned day in the county jail. I read his Miranda rights yet again on film. Maybe the 24th, 25th time? I don’t know anymore. He waived them again. I asked him to start explaining what happened. He walked us to the exercise area, showed us the particulars on the exercise bike where he got the two pipes for his shanks…showed us everything, right up to the point where he and we had our little, physical confrontation in that day room by the phones. I was wondering how he would handle that, describe that part of the tour? Just at this point, I asked him a question and broke his chain of thought.
     Video done. I left again.
     I got back to our station and sat down in Howard Kelly's office, stretching out. 
     “Is it over?” Howard asked.
     “I think that part is over. Now comes the rest of the trials.”

     I didn’t see Crebbs for about 3 months until the next case came to trial.  The jailbreak case was put atop the list in his crime wave. He was charged with Attempted Capital Murder with a Deadly Weapon. In the hall Gary the attorney looked at me, half-smiled and shook his head.
     “I don’t know how you do it,” he said.
     Meaning my conscience? I think I knew what he was talking about. Should I have waited for Gary to return two weeks before I questioned Crebbs? That whole protocol thing?
     “He said he wanted to talk to me, Gary. They pulled me off the street to see him. Then he kept waiving his right to counsel.”
     “And yet? I am still his counsel,” Gary said.
     “And yet you are.” What else could I say?
     In court, there were arguments for and against both the written and taped confessions. The judge ruled in the state’s favor and both confessions were admissible.  I did a lot of testifying that week. The jailer testified. Sleeve’s great, closing argument was another patriotic, crowd pleaser. In the judge’s chamber, awaiting the jury verdict, Hal Sleeve was ecstatic. At one point he even put his head on my shoulder and said, “Thank you.” 
     Somewhere in the annuals of the county court evidence records, in a locker somewhere is that very strange video tape of Crebb’s confession, taking us on a violent tour of a jail stabbing and mass escape.
     Crebbs was convicted, received nearly a life sentence and following that, the prosecutors from various counties joined together for a big plea bargain. There were aggravated robberies, rapes, burglaries, drug charges…what a bundle. He wound up with over a hundred years to do.
     Somewhere in all this, and I don’t remember how, nor is it in my notes, I somehow recovered that rusty old “Army” gun. Crebbs must have told me where it was. But I got my hands on it and I do recall, and do have notes, that I traveled around and showed it to the robbery victims in our city to further close up our robbery case files. One woman I showed it to jerked back at its sight, like it sent an electric shock her way.

     And that is the Crebbs story and his jailbreak scheme. I sometimes think about the victims of his crimes. And that line, “Don’t bother calling the police. They’ll never find me,” Martin J. Crebbs told Judy the rape victim as he left.

     Well, guess again, dipshit.

Updates:
     Just a few months after his confinement in the Texas Pen, Crebbs was almost beaten to death by fellow inmates. I received no further information about this.

     Just a few months after this beating, Crebbs was stabbed four times by another inmate. He survived. I received no further 
information about this.

     After a few years, Crebbs was killed in prison by another inmate. Once again, I received no further information about this, nor did I care. This is a typical end for a psychopath.
me and h kelly_medium

 

Hock's email is HockHochheim@ForceNecessary.com

This story is excerpted from upcoming book Dead Right There. Read more misadventures with these books…

 

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