The plans were all in place. The phone calls had all been made, the faxes sent, the interviews arranged and confirmed. Now the crew was on location, ready to set up and videotape our hilarious yet revealing interviews with police officers who had encountered America’s dumbest criminals.
Time was money. With every moment, hundreds of expense dollars were clicking away. And here was the assistant chief of police, the man who had welcomed us so cordially the day before, giving us the kind of stern look that goes with “You’re under arrest.”
“You need to speak to the chief,” he said.
We were ushered into a large office. Before us was a huge desk, and behind that desk was a very big man. To us, he looked like more than just an “authority figure”—he was the authority.
The chief did not smile. In that office no one smiled. And no one spoke but the chief.
“Explain to me,” he said, “what it is you boys want to do.”
Something in his tone made me think of every lie I had ever told. I swallowed. Then I launched into a nervous, chattering “pitch” for the home video series and book project we were trying to produce.
I explained that we had come to collect stories from the officers in his department about dumb criminals they had known. I told of my phone conversations and faxes to his assistant chief. I talked a little about our plans for a book and for television pilots.
As I spoke, I noticed a small plaque on the bookcase behind the chief’s chair: “Treat the media as you would any other watchdog. Feed it, water it, pat it on the head, but never turn your back on it.”
I finished my explanation. No one smiled. The silence seemed to last, oh, five to ten years. Finally, the chief spoke:
“Son, you need to understand something. You see, I was the interrogator on the Ted Bundy case. I went through that whole trial with the media. Then Hollywood sent me scripts for their movies-of-the-week and they asked me to circle whatever I thought was inaccurate. I circled a bunch of stuff and they went ahead and shot it just the way it was. Plus, in the last six months I’ve had two abortion-clinic shootings and I’ve had the media climbing all over my back every minute of every day.
“So tell me again,” he said, “why I should let your cameras in here.”
I saw our whole project teetering on a toothpick. I swallowed hard, opened my mouth, and miraculously, words came out.
“Chief, I’ve got two sons, seven and fifteen years old, and they love to watch television shows like COPS, Rescue 911, and America’s Most Wanted. They think those programs are accurate, that they show the way it is for cops and for criminals most of the time. They think the crime scene looks exciting, even glamorous.
“I don’t think that’s true. I think that even the term ‘Most Wanted’ glorifies the criminals—sort of like a rookie-of-the-year baseball card. And from the few interviews we’ve done already, I’m convinced there’s not much glorious about crime.
“In fact, I’m convinced that you police officers spend 90 percent of your time dealing with idiots—or with people just like me who have been caught doing the dumbest thing they’ve ever done. That’s what I want to show in our videos and in our book.”
This time the silence seemed to last ten to twenty years—without parole.
No one smiled. No one spoke. Except, finally, the chief.
“Son,” he said, his face relaxing into something like a smile, “if you’ll show criminals for the coldhearted dumbasses they are, and if you’ll show our police force as being professional at all times . . . well, then, we’ll help you any way we can.”
Over the next six months, this scene was repeated over and over. The stories were not all funny ones. With each officer that we interviewed, we felt the weight each one carries daily—the weight of pain and sadness and even fear. But police work, like any other stressful profession, is full of moments when situations take a turn for the absurd and when laughter seems as appropriate as tears. The most rewarding moments of this entire project came when the officers’ very serious faces broke into broad grins and we all laughed so hard that tears came to our eyes. We hope this book shares a little bit of that laughter.
We want to make it clear, however, that in laughing at “dumb criminals” we are not making fun of the mentally challenged. We use the term dumb in the same way that great American philosopher Forrest Gumpused the word stupid: “Stupid is as stupid does, sir!” We say, “Dumb criminals are as dumb criminals do, sir!”
Dumb criminals, in other words, are criminals who act dumb—people who opt for selfishness, ignorance, greed, or just plain meanness instead of using the good sense God gave them. We take great satisfaction in showing the real and often hilarious consequences of such dumb choices.
None of the dumb crimes depicted in this book are still under adjudication. None of the criminals or victims described in this book are identified by their real names. All the stories really happened, but many details have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved. The cops named in these pages, on the other hand, are very real. Their names and their stories are repeated with permission—and with deep gratitude. We wish them all the best as they continue to cope with the seemingly endless stream of America’s dumbest criminals.