Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given - Duane Dog Chapman [79]
“How did you know he was about to run?” the major asked. “C’mon, it was a setup for your show, right?”
“No!” I told him. “A friend called to say he’d bought a plane ticket to Florida and was leaving on a flight the very next day.”
I got to the airport just as the guy was standing in line to go through security. When he saw me, all he could say was, “Sorry, Dog.” He called his wife on the way to jail and said, “The Dog got me.” I booked that son of a bitch with his plane ticket and boarding pass in his pocket.
The major was still dissatisfied with how things were going. Just as Beth and I were about to leave, he called me over. He started questioning me about all the places I traveled to around the world for my job. I thought this was my one chance to show the major I was a good guy. I wanted to break the ice and make him like me. Boy, did I have him all wrong.
“You know, Duane,” the major started out, sounding a little like Barney Fife as he slowly began to make his point, “there are a lot of murders, rapes, and other types of crimes that happen all over the globe. Probably in places you might go or have already been to.”
I still wasn’t clear on where he was heading with what he was insinuating.
And then he said, “Are you aware of the law here in Hawaii that all felons have to have their DNA checked? I think we ought to be able to do it right now in the station while I’ve got you here instead of one of my guys having to pull you over and make a scene in public. You wouldn’t want another scandal to make the evening news, would you?”
I was flabbergasted. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Bring it on. Go get your swab.”
The major sent one of his sergeants to get the DNA kit. He must have run as fast as Carl Lewis because he was back in the room within sixty seconds or so.
I walked back toward Beth, who still wasn’t sure what was going on. She was upset, but we both knew I had to let them swab me because it is state law. The major could run every possible DNA match there was, but he wasn’t going to find anything, because I had nothing to hide. I suppose in a far-fetched world, it was possible that I was a “secret serial killer,” because people surely have died in all of the places I have been. Anything is possible. Even so, the major didn’t have to conduct himself like that. It was the height of disrespect and unprofessional behavior and everything I stand against when dealing with fugitives. I would never have acted that way—not even on my worst day in the field.
Not long after that meeting, I bumped into that same major again. I was delivering a prisoner to the local police station in Honolulu after a bust, when he came over and told me to move my car.
“You’re parked in police parking,” he said.
I tried to explain that I had a prisoner in custody and was entitled to use the spot.
“No, you’re not. You’re lay public, now move your vehicle before I have you towed!”
I was quick to point out that under Taylor versus Taintor, bounty hunters are acting in the capacity of the sheriff at the time of making an arrest. Despite everything I said and the case I cited, he still wasn’t buying my explanation. The major went back into the building to look up the law and check the accuracy of what I was saying. In the meantime, I walked my prisoner to the door of the station and handed him over like I always do. When I came back outside, the major was standing in front of my car with a smug look on his face and his arms folded.
“Bounty Hunter!”
“Yes, sir?” I said.
“Move your car, civilian. You’re in my spot now.”
At first I thought he was just being a punk, but then he gave me the Hawaiian shaka sign, waving his thumb and pinky finger in the air to let me know everything was all right.