Let's Not Meet Again

Sometime's You Can't Call The Cops For Help

  Apologies for the length. I have tried to cut it down some, but it is simply a long story. I'm hoping this is vague enough to remain anonymous, because those involved are still out there somewhere, and I'd really prefer to not encounter them again. However, I will say that this happened in the USA. For reference, I am female, and I was twenty years old at this time -- living in an apartment with my mom and little brother while I attended community college.

When we first moved in, the apartments were very well run, but within a short time the managers was transferred elsewhere, and his replacement did not have his skill at keeping undesirable types out. The police became a regular sight in our neighbourhood, and it was rare a day would go by without seeing them.

The woman who moved in downstairs from us began openly dealing drugs. People would come and go at all hours, and leave stuffing little bags of various substances into their pockets (mostly weed, but definitely other stuff as well). They could not have been more obvious if they tried. And there was always a crowd of shady-looking men with large, unfriendly dogs hanging around the yard, or even sitting on our stairs. They'd act like it was a personal insult if we interrupted them to walk up or down our stairs, and would be generally quite intimidating.

The breaking point didn't come until their customers started getting the wrong address and coming to our door instead. We'd be sitting in the living room and hear footsteps come up the stairs, and the doorknob would turn, and jiggle against the lock. We became religious about keeping the door locked tight.

One night I was home alone, and somebody started just beating on the door -- not knocking, it was more like he thought it was a punching bag -- all the while screaming barely-comprehensible obscenities. I grabbed the biggest butcher knife out of the kitchen and shouted through the door that I was calling 911, and he ran away. (In hindsight I probably should have actually called, but I was just relieved he'd gone, and since I hadn't seen what he looked like at all, I figured it wouldn't be much use). After that though, I always pushed the couch in front of the door before I went to bed.

Mom had had enough. She tried going to the manager first, and was met with a total lack of interest from her. So she decided there was nothing to be done but contact the police about it herself. So she called about it, and got off the phone looking happy, because they at least seemed to take her seriously, and promised to investigate.

The first sign of trouble came the next night. There was a lot of thumping and bumping downstairs, and a peek out the window showed people going in and out of the apartment, carrying cardboard boxes to a dented van on the street. Bright and early the next morning, the police raided the place -- and, you guessed it. Clean as a whistle.

At first, we didn't realize the implications of this. When it started back up again a few days later, Mom called the cops again....and the same thing happened. At this point we realized it probably wasn't a coincidence. Somebody in the local police department was most likely tipping them off. One of the curses of a small town.

I was angry and disappointed, but at least we'd tried, right? It never hurt to try...
....Hah. I wish.

About a week later, I was getting ready for an evening class. I'd just gotten out of the shower, and I was in my bedroom in a bathrobe and picking out what I wanted to wear. I heard a loud banging on the front door but didn't think much of it; we'd been expecting a package and the UPS man always knocked loudly. My mom's footsteps went to answer it, and I hear her say something. I couldn't make out the words, but her tone caught my attention, and I felt like something was wrong. I reached for my door, but before I could open it, it flew open in my face.

All my shocked brain could grasp was HUGE MAN WITH GUN IN MY BEDROOM, before I was grabbed by the shoulders and flung to the floor. I honestly thought the druggies downstairs had come to get us once and for all. I thought I was about to be raped and murdered.

At this point I should mention, I'd had an issue with one of my wrists for years due to a childhood injury. I'd had it operated on twice, and this was not more than a few months after the second operation. Naturally, I managed to land with my full weight on that wrist, and something crunched horribly. I did what any tough person would do, and immediately burst into tears and sat there clutching my wrist waiting to die. I guess I must not have looked very threatening like that, because he stepped back a bit. And that's when I saw the "POLICE" on the front of his vest.

The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. Somehow, I was herded out into my living room where my mom was, and the cop left without saying more than "Wait here!" I was completely dazed, Mom was pretty much having hysterics, and there was all kinds of shouting and activity going on outside. After a short while, the cop returned.... and informed us, (to paraphrase) "Sorry, wrong address. Shit happens, we can't be perfect all the time. My name is Officer Schinken, here's my card, and you can call if you have any questions."

And he left.

I went straight to the emergency room and spent the next two hours getting my wrist x-rayed and put into a splint, and then I went to math class, because I didn't know what else to do, and I was terrified of being at home. Needless to say, I learned nothing whatsoever, but the support of my teacher and classmates was reassuring.

The next morning, somebody knocked on the door. When my mom answered, it was Officer Schinken again. When I heard his voice I started hyperventilating and went and hid in the bathroom, so I didn't hear what was said, but I heard when Mom slammed the door. She was absolutely furious. I had never seen her look so angry. Apparently, good old Officer Schinken had brought along a carefully prepared document he wished for us to sign, that basically said we understood that it was all a terrible mistake, and that we would not be seeking legal action. She told him to go to hell and shut the door in his face.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was one of the nurses at the emergency room, saying somebody claiming to be law enforcement had just come by trying to get copies of my ER visit records, but they didn't have permission to release those, and if I wanted him to have them I'd have to come and sign the forms...

OH HELL NO. Further questions revealed that yes, the man matched Officer Schinken's description, and furthermore, he had told the nurse that he was "NOT the officer involved" but was investigating the incident.

I started to find that pretty much everyone that I told my story to would get a funny look on their face and say, "This cop...Was his name Officer Schinken?" And then they would launch into their own horror story about him.

My high school teacher said he shot one of her former students during a marijuana bust, and left him on the ground to bleed to death, but the other officer on the scene did first aid and saved his life.

One of our neighbours said he dragged said neighbour's disabled uncle down a flight of stairs by his feet, hitting his head on every concrete step. Another neighbour said Officer Schinken pulled him out of the shower by his hair and held a gun to his head, over a parole violation.

And Google said he'd once been fired from Nearby City for shooting a handcuffed man in the head, killing him. He claimed it was somehow self-defence, and was fired but never charged with any crime.

The medical bills for the ER visit and such ended up being over seven grand, and I didn't have insurance, so I basically had no choice but to file a suit. I found myself a lawyer and submitted a claim.

And that's when the shit really hit the fan.

We started getting disturbing phone calls at all hours of the night. Sometimes just silence at the other end, or the sound of somebody breathing, and sometimes graphically sexual comments. When we stopped answering the phone, they'd just let it ring until the machine picked up, then immediately hang up and do it again.

My mom went to her car one morning and opened the door, only to discover the handle had been coated in some kind of caustic chemical. She washed it off quickly, but still ended up with burns and an emergency room visit.

I'd just gotten my permit and was out for driving practice, when it began to rain as I went down the highway. I flipped on the windshield wipers and discovered they'd been coated with grimy motor oil -- it smeared across the windshield and completely obscured my vision. Fortunately the road was empty enough I was able to slam the brakes and pull to the side without getting in an accident.

Other things started happening too -- less severe, but sinister given the context above. Somebody cut out a bunch of Metal Mulisha skull designs and tacked them to our wall or pushed them under the door at night (WTF? I still have no idea what that was supposed to accomplish). Furniture was stolen off the porch, my boots vanished when I left them out there, and, oddly, several pounds of weed in a plastic sack appeared on our porch one morning. (My mom called the manager to get it, without going outside. For once in her life the lady did something useful and actually fetched it and threw it in the dumpster).

I have never felt so helpless in my life. What was I going to do...call the police?

It was around this time that a friend who lived abroad suggested I come stay with him for a while for my own safety. I dropped out of school and left the country for six months while the lawsuit worked its way through the courts. My mother and brother moved in with family, and then to another town, without submitting a forwarding address.

Eventually my tourist visa ran out and I had to come home. I was a complete nervous wreck, and I ended up settling out of court for a relatively small sum of money just to make it be over.

My lawyer got a copy of the search warrant they'd used. It was riddled with grammatical errors and, and switched between my apartment number, 18, and the number of the unit down the street (25), at random. The 'suspect' was somebody with an entirely different name, who looked entirely different from any of us, and who had apparently sold some oxycontin pills. She lived in Unit 25. I saw a copy of her driver's license. It said right on the front of it, in nice clear letters, "UNIT 25" as her address.

I don't know, I have no proof. But it was obvious that somebody had been tipping off our drug-dealers downstairs, and I often wonder if the 'wrong' number on that warrant was not a mistake at all. Perhaps it was meant as retaliation for trying to get their friends in trouble.

I've now regained full use of my hand, which my doctor had told me might never happen. I no longer have a heart attack at loud noises, and I only feel slightly uneasy when I see police uniforms, rather than having full-on panic attacks. It's six years later, and I'm only now beginning to reclaim my life, kick the PTSD, and going back to finish school. I feel like I lost the best part of my twenties to these jerks, and I'm still bitter about it.
I currently live "with friends" in an informal situation. My real address is not on any documentation, and I get all my mail in a PO Box in another town. Depending on which document you're looking at, I supposedly live in five different places scattered from one end of the county to the other. And I'm not going to change that until I move a lot further away from where this all happened.

As far as I know, nobody involved ever faced any sort of consequences.