Faulkner
Member
Here’s an interesting call earlier this summer from the Faulkner files.
I had monitored a radio call from dispatch to a relatively new deputy with our department regarding a domestic disturbance. Deputy Crocker was in his late 20’s and had a few years under his belt with a police department in the county and had transferred to the sheriff’s office to fill an opening a couple of months back. Although I had encountered him a time or two while he was with the police department I didn’t really know him well. I had helped him on his first day of his transition to the sheriff’s office getting him squared away with paperwork and geared up, and after lunch we spent some time on the range getting qualified. He then spent a week with one of our FTOs and a second week with a different FTO getting him checked out on the department’s procedures. After that they issued him a patrol car and placed him on the day shift under the supervision of one of our tenured SGTs. So far Deputy Crocker was proving to be a solid LEO with us.
The address given for the domestic disturbance was about 10 minutes from my location, and since I was finishing up doing some follow up investigations on a call earlier in the week, I decided I’d ease over and back up Deputy Crocker.
“Unit 4 to S.O.”
“Go ahead Unit 4.”
“S.O., show me clear at my location and in route to back up Unit 17, my ETA is about 10 minutes.”
“10-4 Unit 4, appreciate it.”
Domestic disturbances are like a box of chocolates, you never know what you gonna get. About 5 minutes out I heard Unit 17’s radio call that he was on scene. A few minutes later as I pulled up I saw him standing near the front porch of the residence talking to fellow not much older than Deputy Crocker who was sitting on a porch swing. Everything seemed to be pretty calm at the moment.
“Unit 4 to S.O., show me on scene with Unit 17.”
“10-4 Unit 4.”
I exited my patrol car and walked up and stood about 15 feet behind and off to the side of Deputy Crocker, close enough so I could hear the conversation and see the young man’s hands while watching the front door. The house reminded me somewhat of Sheriff Andy Taylor’s house on the Andy Griffith Show, probably built in the late 1950’s or early 1960’s but very well cared for. It had a large, wide, front porch and along with the porch swing the fellow was sitting in there was a repurposed church pew and a couple of wicker chairs. I could envision folks sitting around of the evening drinking iced tea and waving at the neighbors as they passed by. As I glanced around there was a mix of large pecan and maple trees shading the front yard.
As I had walked up in mid story with Deputy Crocker talking to the fellow, it appeared from the story he was telling that he and his wife were living here in his grandmother’s home. He had lost his job due to COVID downsizing and was pretty much out job looking every day. His wife was holding down two part time jobs but they were not quite keeping up financially and out of frustration they’d gotten into a shouting match earlier. No, it was not physical, no one had thrown any dishes or anything, but when grandmother couldn’t get them quieted down she called 911.
Deputy Crocker turned to me and raised an eyebrow. At that, I walked up on the porch to the front door and knocked a couple of times, immediately a young woman I assumed was his wife answered. She’d been crying and I asked if I could come in. She stepped back and I opened the big screen door and stepped inside. We sat down across from each other in the big living room I asked her for her identification for the report and as I was making notes on my notepad I listened to her version of the story, which was identical to the fellow’s story outside. They never got physical but they both were frustrated and got loud. As she went on with the story she was more upset over the fact that they’d upset grandmother. She had been so gracious to allow the couple to come stay with them and there was plenty of room in the big old house since grandmother lived here alone. When the heated argument turned to shouting, and grandmother could not get them to calm down, she picked up the phone and called 911 before it got out of hand. No one was on drugs and no one had been drinking, it was just a heated argument with some frustrations being vented.
It seemed to be therapeutic for the young woman to talk to someone and as she finished her story she took a deep breath and with her arms wrapped around herself she shivered.
“I’m so sorry and embarrassed you guys had to come out here,” she said.
“No need to be sorry or embarrassed,” I replied. “Would it be okay if I speak with your grandmother?”
“Sure,” she stood up and motioned, “come this way.”
I followed her across the living room to a sliding pocket door which she slid open, and then motioned for me to go on inside. As I looked about the room I could tell it was a private library/office with dark walnut paneling on two walls and book shelves full of books on another wall, and a big window looking out on a large back porch on the back wall. “Grandmother” had been sitting in a cloth bound high back reading chair and stood when I walked into the room.
“Hello ma’am, I’m Deputy Faulkner,” and reached out my hand.
She took my hand and said, “hello Deputy Faulkner. I am Amelia Koslowski, I am the one who called. Please, would you like to sit down?” Mrs. Koslowski was a short thing, probably around 5’2” or 5”3”, silver headed and thin but moved with a spry step. Later, when I got her information for the report I found she was 83 years old but you wouldn’t know it by the twinkle in her eyes.
I sat down across from her on a two seat sofa and as she sat down I asked, “Mrs. Koslowski, are you okay.”
“Yes, yes, Deputy Faulkner, I’m just fine. In fact, those kids out there are fine too, they just needed to let off a little steam. I was never afraid for myself or them, but I needed to make a point. Things are different now days than back in my day. As I was growing up, and as my late husband and I raised our family, we never raised our voices inside. Never. I don’t know what would have happened had someone done so, it . . . it just was not tolerated. So when I tried to shush them and saw I was getting nowhere I decided I’d get some help to teach them a lesson. I was hoping they would send some big fellows to make a point . . . “ she moved her head from side to side as she eyed me, “but I’ll guess you and that young officer outside will have to do.” She smiled when she said it, but at 5’ 11” and 190 I guess she thought I wasn’t big enough to make the intended impression she wanted made. We’d have to see about that.
She then asked me, “Deputy Faulkner, I certainly hope no one here is going to jail over this. I called to get a little help, not make a felony case out of some harmless shouting.”
“Mrs. Koslowski, based on what I’m hearing I don’t think taking anyone to jail would be beneficial to the situation. I believe Deputy Crocker and I can provide some strong feedback about the fallacies and consequences of domestic violence. I just want to ensure that you don’t feel threatened or uncomfortable in your own home here.”
She waved a hand and said, “after speaking with you for these few moments I have the utmost confidence that you can put the fear of the wrath of God in those two should you have to make a return trip here,” she said with a dignified smile.
“Okay then,” and I stood to leave and go talk to the other two, but as I reached to shake Mrs. Koslowski’s hand I noticed a framed picture on one of the paneled walls behind her. It was a charcoal drawing, probably 24 x 24, of a nude woman on a boat laying under an umbrella. Mrs. Koslowski caught my gaze and turned to look as well. She turned back to me with a grin.
“Ah, that is a drawing of me many, many years ago. I was 19 years old then.”
I took a step closer to get a better view. The drawing was of a beautiful young woman and it was not the least bit vulgar or pornographic, but a wonderful work of art and very well drawn.
I turned back to her and she said, “I spent the summer in Hot Springs, Arkansas, with my cousin and fell in love with a young man who was an aspiring artist.” The twinkle was back in her eyes again. “Hot Springs was such a lively place back then, more popular than even Las Vegas at that time. But, it only lasted for the summer and I never showed the drawing to anyone and kept it hidden. Even my late husband never saw it. A few years after he passed away I came upon it again and decided to frame it as a reminder of one special summer in my misspent youth.”
“You were a beautiful young woman, Mrs. Koslowski, I bet you had your choice of the young fellows. In fact, you still wear your age quite well,” I said.
“Ha, Deputy Faulkner you are such a flatterer, but it’s nice for an old woman to hear.” She took me by the arm and we headed to the door. “Now, go about your duty and line out those two youngsters for me and let them know I won’t tolerate such behavior in my home any further.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
I had monitored a radio call from dispatch to a relatively new deputy with our department regarding a domestic disturbance. Deputy Crocker was in his late 20’s and had a few years under his belt with a police department in the county and had transferred to the sheriff’s office to fill an opening a couple of months back. Although I had encountered him a time or two while he was with the police department I didn’t really know him well. I had helped him on his first day of his transition to the sheriff’s office getting him squared away with paperwork and geared up, and after lunch we spent some time on the range getting qualified. He then spent a week with one of our FTOs and a second week with a different FTO getting him checked out on the department’s procedures. After that they issued him a patrol car and placed him on the day shift under the supervision of one of our tenured SGTs. So far Deputy Crocker was proving to be a solid LEO with us.
The address given for the domestic disturbance was about 10 minutes from my location, and since I was finishing up doing some follow up investigations on a call earlier in the week, I decided I’d ease over and back up Deputy Crocker.
“Unit 4 to S.O.”
“Go ahead Unit 4.”
“S.O., show me clear at my location and in route to back up Unit 17, my ETA is about 10 minutes.”
“10-4 Unit 4, appreciate it.”
Domestic disturbances are like a box of chocolates, you never know what you gonna get. About 5 minutes out I heard Unit 17’s radio call that he was on scene. A few minutes later as I pulled up I saw him standing near the front porch of the residence talking to fellow not much older than Deputy Crocker who was sitting on a porch swing. Everything seemed to be pretty calm at the moment.
“Unit 4 to S.O., show me on scene with Unit 17.”
“10-4 Unit 4.”
I exited my patrol car and walked up and stood about 15 feet behind and off to the side of Deputy Crocker, close enough so I could hear the conversation and see the young man’s hands while watching the front door. The house reminded me somewhat of Sheriff Andy Taylor’s house on the Andy Griffith Show, probably built in the late 1950’s or early 1960’s but very well cared for. It had a large, wide, front porch and along with the porch swing the fellow was sitting in there was a repurposed church pew and a couple of wicker chairs. I could envision folks sitting around of the evening drinking iced tea and waving at the neighbors as they passed by. As I glanced around there was a mix of large pecan and maple trees shading the front yard.
As I had walked up in mid story with Deputy Crocker talking to the fellow, it appeared from the story he was telling that he and his wife were living here in his grandmother’s home. He had lost his job due to COVID downsizing and was pretty much out job looking every day. His wife was holding down two part time jobs but they were not quite keeping up financially and out of frustration they’d gotten into a shouting match earlier. No, it was not physical, no one had thrown any dishes or anything, but when grandmother couldn’t get them quieted down she called 911.
Deputy Crocker turned to me and raised an eyebrow. At that, I walked up on the porch to the front door and knocked a couple of times, immediately a young woman I assumed was his wife answered. She’d been crying and I asked if I could come in. She stepped back and I opened the big screen door and stepped inside. We sat down across from each other in the big living room I asked her for her identification for the report and as I was making notes on my notepad I listened to her version of the story, which was identical to the fellow’s story outside. They never got physical but they both were frustrated and got loud. As she went on with the story she was more upset over the fact that they’d upset grandmother. She had been so gracious to allow the couple to come stay with them and there was plenty of room in the big old house since grandmother lived here alone. When the heated argument turned to shouting, and grandmother could not get them to calm down, she picked up the phone and called 911 before it got out of hand. No one was on drugs and no one had been drinking, it was just a heated argument with some frustrations being vented.
It seemed to be therapeutic for the young woman to talk to someone and as she finished her story she took a deep breath and with her arms wrapped around herself she shivered.
“I’m so sorry and embarrassed you guys had to come out here,” she said.
“No need to be sorry or embarrassed,” I replied. “Would it be okay if I speak with your grandmother?”
“Sure,” she stood up and motioned, “come this way.”
I followed her across the living room to a sliding pocket door which she slid open, and then motioned for me to go on inside. As I looked about the room I could tell it was a private library/office with dark walnut paneling on two walls and book shelves full of books on another wall, and a big window looking out on a large back porch on the back wall. “Grandmother” had been sitting in a cloth bound high back reading chair and stood when I walked into the room.
“Hello ma’am, I’m Deputy Faulkner,” and reached out my hand.
She took my hand and said, “hello Deputy Faulkner. I am Amelia Koslowski, I am the one who called. Please, would you like to sit down?” Mrs. Koslowski was a short thing, probably around 5’2” or 5”3”, silver headed and thin but moved with a spry step. Later, when I got her information for the report I found she was 83 years old but you wouldn’t know it by the twinkle in her eyes.
I sat down across from her on a two seat sofa and as she sat down I asked, “Mrs. Koslowski, are you okay.”
“Yes, yes, Deputy Faulkner, I’m just fine. In fact, those kids out there are fine too, they just needed to let off a little steam. I was never afraid for myself or them, but I needed to make a point. Things are different now days than back in my day. As I was growing up, and as my late husband and I raised our family, we never raised our voices inside. Never. I don’t know what would have happened had someone done so, it . . . it just was not tolerated. So when I tried to shush them and saw I was getting nowhere I decided I’d get some help to teach them a lesson. I was hoping they would send some big fellows to make a point . . . “ she moved her head from side to side as she eyed me, “but I’ll guess you and that young officer outside will have to do.” She smiled when she said it, but at 5’ 11” and 190 I guess she thought I wasn’t big enough to make the intended impression she wanted made. We’d have to see about that.
She then asked me, “Deputy Faulkner, I certainly hope no one here is going to jail over this. I called to get a little help, not make a felony case out of some harmless shouting.”
“Mrs. Koslowski, based on what I’m hearing I don’t think taking anyone to jail would be beneficial to the situation. I believe Deputy Crocker and I can provide some strong feedback about the fallacies and consequences of domestic violence. I just want to ensure that you don’t feel threatened or uncomfortable in your own home here.”
She waved a hand and said, “after speaking with you for these few moments I have the utmost confidence that you can put the fear of the wrath of God in those two should you have to make a return trip here,” she said with a dignified smile.
“Okay then,” and I stood to leave and go talk to the other two, but as I reached to shake Mrs. Koslowski’s hand I noticed a framed picture on one of the paneled walls behind her. It was a charcoal drawing, probably 24 x 24, of a nude woman on a boat laying under an umbrella. Mrs. Koslowski caught my gaze and turned to look as well. She turned back to me with a grin.
“Ah, that is a drawing of me many, many years ago. I was 19 years old then.”
I took a step closer to get a better view. The drawing was of a beautiful young woman and it was not the least bit vulgar or pornographic, but a wonderful work of art and very well drawn.
I turned back to her and she said, “I spent the summer in Hot Springs, Arkansas, with my cousin and fell in love with a young man who was an aspiring artist.” The twinkle was back in her eyes again. “Hot Springs was such a lively place back then, more popular than even Las Vegas at that time. But, it only lasted for the summer and I never showed the drawing to anyone and kept it hidden. Even my late husband never saw it. A few years after he passed away I came upon it again and decided to frame it as a reminder of one special summer in my misspent youth.”
“You were a beautiful young woman, Mrs. Koslowski, I bet you had your choice of the young fellows. In fact, you still wear your age quite well,” I said.
“Ha, Deputy Faulkner you are such a flatterer, but it’s nice for an old woman to hear.” She took me by the arm and we headed to the door. “Now, go about your duty and line out those two youngsters for me and let them know I won’t tolerate such behavior in my home any further.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
Last edited:
