Wild Turkey, Depressed Men, and a Gun

This week's column features another fine guest column by a good friend of mine, Chief Paul Farber.--Percival

I have experienced a number of hair-raising situations in my law enforcement career, but none so sad and thought provoking as an incident I experienced a few years ago. When I think about my wrestling cloud, I recall a too close-encounter with a chair wielding, drunken fan at a card in Burlington Junction, Missouri and a scary incident with Butcher Vachon; both future stories that I will write about. However, those two stories pale in comparison to the life-threatening situation that I am about to unfold.

The Police Chief is often called to the scene of deaths, major crime scenes, community crises, and life-threatening situations. It was mid-March, and I was at home for the evening when the phone rang. The call was from the Police Dispatch Center. The Dispatcher advised that the Shift Sergeant was requesting my presence at a seedy motel that had been converted into apartments just outside of the city limits. Officers had been dispatched to the scene after a 911 call reported a man with a gun and possible hostages. Sheriff's Deputies and State Police were en route also. When I arrived at the scene, my Sergeant had set up a perimeter line around the motel. He showed me a room with the door open where the gunman was. We could observe the room while taking cover behind a brick wall. A major problem existed because there were people in the rooms on both sides of the suspect's room. I informed my Sergeant that if the gunman made any overt actions toward the other rooms, we would have to take him out. I shuddered as I observed my trained snipers in position with their rifles ready. My Sergeant pointed to a figure standing over in the shadows. As I approached the figure, I observed he was shabbily dressed, had a large gut, broad muscular shoulders and a bull neck. From this point on, I will refer to him as "Mr. Tough". I knew this man. "Mr. Tough, what the hell is going on?" He looked at me and tears started to run down his cheeks. I could smell the strong odor of alcohol. "Chief, that's my friend, Jimmy, in that room. He is from Tennessee and he came here with his wife. She left him a few weeks ago. I met him when we were cutting up iron. He was over to my place. He and I and some other guys were depressed and we got to drinking Wild Turkey. All of a sudden, Jimmy pulls out a gun and scares everyone. Everybody ran. Chief, that's my place and all I got is in there."

We were able to get the people in the adjacent rooms out through their back windows and to safety. The Sheriff, his Deputies, and the State Police had also arrived. We started a dialogue with the gunman named Jimmy. I had my position behind the brick wall. I saw him come out of the room, gun in hand. He stopped, pointed the gun at the ground, and fired. "HOLD YOUR FIRE; HOLD YOUR FIRE" was the order. "SHOOT ME; SHOOT ME," yelled Jimmy. He then put the gun to his head and said, "If you won't, then I will." We ordered him to put down the gun. The Sheriff was able to get behind Jimmy and grab him. During the ensuing struggle, the gun went off as I ran toward them, but luckily it went off in the air. Jimmy was subdued and taken to the Sheriff's office.

As we began to clear the area, I saw Mr. Tough going into his room. I walked over and went in. He sat on the bed. On his wall was a framed collection of wrestlers, including Pork Chop Cash, Bob Backlund, Bill Crouch, and others. I asked him about his pictures. He told me they are his friends. He hadn't seen them for an awful long time. I asked him how many years he had. He told me he had wrestled all over the country for 12 years. "But it's been all over for a long time. Hell Chief, you know." I asked him if he would do me a favor. "Get some sleep and see me in the morning. Maybe I can help you about the drinking." He said he would see me in the morning.

Mr. Tough never came to see me, but, rather, avoided me as much as possible. Before the incident, we had maintained contact in the community. We would meet on the street or in public places. When it was just the two of us, we would talk about the business, but never in the presence of other people. He never talked about himself or me to others that I was aware of. He would tell me how tough things were, but he always seemed to have enough to drink.

My thoughts have been about him and the rest of the boys who worked the ring wars. I hate the word loser. Yes, he may have been one, but it doesn't seem fair to refer to him or others who were a vital part of the wonderful world of professional wrestling as losers. The County Sheriff, police officers, and court records can verify, Percival, the story I have just related to you. As for Mr. Tough and some of the boys, they worked hard, lived hard, and spent their money. Some ended up like Mr. Tough, with nothing. I feel sad about that, but that is life and the choices they made. Whether their star was big or small, I salute them and say thanks for everything. That's the way it was, Percival.--Chief.

Percival A. Friend, Retired
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