Let The Drummer Kick

From the map came a location.

From the location came a man.

From the media came a name.

From the name came a picture:



From the picture came a match?

Kind of looked like the same Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force Officer anyway. Hard to tell, horizontally. I thought up a way to be sure.

I started with a property search in the City of Charlottesville but found no records. On the County of Albemarle site I queried “Hatter, J” and got one result.

Some time later in a boredom-stirred early morning drive-by staring, I saw and recognized the silver Monte Carlo parked outside the house at that address.

And that’s how I learned the man I’d nicknamed Dasani was Charlottesville Police JADE Sgt. Joe Hatter.

How I Learned The Real Name Of A Tagged TFO In Four Simple Steps

1) I went through recent and semi-recent court documents pertaining to Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement to find the names of anyone distinguished as an officer that could, potentially, currently be in the Task Force.

2) I searched local real estate and property tax records and quickly landed an address that matched a detective’s name from step one.

3) I used Google maps and got directions to the residence from step two.

4) I cruised by said house one sunny morn and recognized the flashy-ish vehicle parked outside as one belonging to a policeman I’d seen at the Ix property.



How did I know that guy was in law enforcement in the first place? That’s easy; he advertises it.



But honest-to-god he so was not the JADE member I was expecting to identify that day.

Memoir From My Embryonic JADE Reservoir

(I wrote this shortly after it happened. To give you an idea of how long ago it was, I still hadn't figured out who a third of the men in the Task Force were and I was trying to find a female member of JADE that it didn't even have.)

Rasmussen.

I watch the man I think of as Rasmussen mosey up the parking area, a worn, fully crammed red backpack slung over his shoulder. Sometimes he walks kind of funny, like now. I swear his legs are longer than a nautical mile. I take a few pictures of him, both before and as he gets in his car. I don’t know how well they’ll come out because the lowering late-afternoon sun is blazing and every automobile in the lot is reflecting its rays like a prism.

I’m parked two rows away and two spaces down behind him. I think about how nice it is to see the back of him inside his vehicle -- I am so sick of tinted windows! Not sure what he’s doing in there but a few minutes go by before he backs out.

Rather than leaving via the top exit of the upper lot, he goes out the gap at the bottom. I think it’s actually the entranceway but I’m not entirely sure. I don’t want to lose his Impala so I follow it out the same path. If they don’t want people driving out the “in,” it should clearly say so. Humph!

We both bypass the speed bump, drive beyond the newsplex building, and pull up to the stop sign. We sit here a loooong time. Maybe he’s waiting for a car to pass. None does before he eventually turns right. I’m startin’ to think this guy’s a strange one. I, on the other hand, do have to wait for a vehicle to go by before I can get in motion again. Happily the driver of it is a lead-foot so it’s almost like a non-pause.

The signal at the top of the hill is red and Rasmussen is lazing in the left turn lane. I stop behind him. I see parts of him in his driver’s side and rear view mirrors and I study the exposed portions of his features. I think his face is interesting-looking; it’s chiseled and fierce.

So who is this guy? I have the cell phone number of one of the JADE members I have yet to identify programmed into my phone. That guy’s supposedly from Staunton. Based on some other details, there’s a high chance Rasmussen could be him.

The light is taking forever to change. I pick up my cell and hit a single number to speed dial the one that belongs to the Staunton man. I listen to the ringing and watch for indications of Rasmussen getting a call. There are no such motions from the man in front of me, and when the ringing in my ear changes to voice mail I disconnect.

We make our turn and, with green lights all the way, travel smoothly down 5th Street. By the arrangement of his arm it looks like Rasmussen may already be on the phone. That could be why he didn’t answer me.

At I-64 we go west. Perhaps he lives in Ivy, or Crozet. Or… maybe he’s a JADE detective whose name I never got. It’s a possibility for sure but I tend to doubt it. This is the direction to Staunton. This is the direction to Staunton!

The exit to Ivy comes and goes, and I’m fastidiously comparing what I know about the man in front of me to information I have about the Task Force person I suspect he is. Methodical reasoning makes me more certain about his identity. I don’t care if he doesn’t answer his phone; if we don’t take an off-ramp to Crozet, I’m going to declare it’s him. We pass by Crozet like it doesn’t exist.

Rasmussen still sort of looks like he’s on the phone but I try the cell number I have one more time anyway. Nothing. There oughta be a rule that for every time these guys don’t answer their phones, a corpulent, Russian woman named Ustinya gets to yank ten hairs out of their nether regions with tweezers.

Even though I believe I now know who he is, I’ve followed Rasmussen this far without a problem and I reckon I might as well go the rest of the way. My odometer keeps spinning over the 5… 9… 100… miles.

We drive at a sensible pace and I maintain a comfy distance. We progress across the mountain; the scenery is incredible. God, I think I would love to be an eagle.

We're nearing Waynesboro and, because traffic is picking up, I shorten the space between us. Perfect timing since Rasmussen happens to take the next exit. I break out one of my trusty notepads intending to jot down the names of the roads as we take them.

The drag we’re on right now is all built-uppity and the heavy congestion of motorists reflects it.

A moment later we’re on a side road that obviously leads back into a neighborhood. I’m neither too close to nor too far from Rasmussen and after another turn or two, I instantaneously sense he’s suspicious of me. I can’t explain how I know he’s wondering if I’m here because of him -- he’s done dead nothing out of the ordinary -- but I feel like my spine just got set on fire and electrical sparks are playing leap frog on my shoulders. Rasmussen slows and with no turn signal makes a sudden left. A semi could’ve made that turn better.

I’m heeding my warning sensations. Rather than follow after him, I drift by and eyeball it instead. Yep. There he is. The silver sedan is pulled over on the right side. Gee, what are the chances that’s his house he’s in front of and he just didn’t feel like pulling into the driveway? I chuckle.

I roll a tad further, make a U-turn in the middle of the lane, pause for a sec to add the name of the street Rasmussen’s sitting on to the notepad, and head back out the route I came. In the process of leaving I give one last gander out my passenger’s window down the side street. The stopped Impala is several hundred feet further than where it was and judging by the severity of the brake lights, its operator is still inside.

Later I learn the street Rasmussen took is only one away from the address of the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force Officer “from Staunton.”

MeetUPS With L.L. Me

I watch UPS exit the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement building. Sometime within the last thirty minutes he seems to have adopted a sidekick. I know for a fact that UPS had been alone when he got out of his car and went inside – I have the pictures to prove it.

I’ve seen UPS a few times; this is definitely the first time I’ve seen the guy he’s with. Where’d he come from?

I watch as they laugh and chat moving towards UPS’s car. Should I try to follow them? By the time they’re climbing in the vehicle, I’ve not only made up my mind the answer is “yes” but I’ve also come up with a ruse to find out who this new mystery man is. And although I’m almost positive of UPS’s identity, if my idea is successful I’ll have absolute verification. I give them no more than a few seconds head start before I go after them.

The traffic is thick at this time of day and I make sure my bumper is right on UPS’s. I weave with them down the road towards the University of Virginia and contemplate if having two people in a vehicle draws their attention away from everything else. If they’re focused on each other does it distract them from me?

As usual, there’s plenty of people and activity around UVA and the closer we get to the campus the more chaotic it becomes. I’m content that all the hullabaloo further distracts them from my blatant tailgating.

We have to stop several times to let pedestrians cross so I think nothing of it when UPS stops yet again in front of me. That is until I notice there’s no clear reason for him to be doing it now. Shoot! They’re parking. I watch as the Alero pulls off to the right hand side into a space and I frantically look for a place where I can pull over too. No such luck. They got the only visibly open spot.

I zip by and take a right on the first road I see -- miraculously close to where they were. Immediately on my right is a parking lot. It’s nearly empty and it takes me less than a second to decide I don’t care about permits or being towed or any of the other threats the college makes to an automobile-impaired visitor such as myself.

In a rush to catch UPS and his associate, I’m out of my car almost before the tires cease rolling. I aim my auto-lock gizmo over my shoulder as I take off running. I'm too far away to hear it click; I’m hoping the doors are in fact secured. I fly by signs stating the parking area I’m in is for bank customers. I come racing around the corner as fast as my legs will move me and am delighted to see the Alero. Yes, still there! It seems like mega-minutes have passed but it’s probably been less than two.

I slow to a saunter and, while keeping watch on their car, briefly scan inside all the stores on that particular block looking for the pair. I don’t see them. I head back to their mode of transportation and seat myself on a wall of bricks in front of it to wait for them. I look at the roof of the car and study the object that I intend to use as a ploy. I know exactly what it is: an antenna, same white color as the car. It’s round and kind of flat -- resembles a hockey puck.

I spot the duo meandering down the sidewalk in my direction. The one whom I don’t know is wearing a UVA jacket and I immediately begin strategizing to begin at the University’s police department to find out about him. I wait patiently for them to get all the way to their car before approaching them. They’re talking to each other over the roof and I interrupt.

“Hey, what is…” I’m pointing. “Oh, I’m sorry…” I say, as if embarrassed that I’d accidentally cut in on their conversation, “I don’t mean to bother you but what is that… thing? On your car.”

“It’s an 800 megahertz antenna” replies UPS. He says it in such an authoritative and proud manner it’s clear I’m supposed to be awed. I act like I am. I also act like I’m dumb.

“For…?” Wide eyed, I draw the single word out.

UPS says something technical about police communications.

“Oooh…” I let that word linger also. I look back and forth between the two of them. “Y’all are detectives?” I don’t wait for an answer before adding “I mean, I saw the light in the back of the car but…” I trail off like I'm struggling to put two and two together. They confirm they’re law enforcement.

“What’s your name?” I abruptly ask UPS, in a tone that suggests he's already told me but I've forgotten it. For a heartbeat it appears he’s not going to tell me, then he surrenders his given name. Ha! I knew it! Inwardly I grin. Outwardly I nod. I consider the advantages of having an ambiguous surname, since he didn’t specify whether the name he gave was his first or his last and it could definitely be either.

There’s a long pause and it occurs to me that throughout it I’ve been intently staring at UPS. “You look really familiar” I say as an excuse. “I think your picture’s been in the paper.” I know it has; it was the basis for my tentative ID of him. I tilt my head, like a different angle will alleviate my puzzlement.

UPS grins boyishly then claims maybe it’s the other guy. “He looks like me” UPS laughs. They don’t look anything alike. I smile, more in lieu of his good-naturedness than his jest.

While UPS is making jokes I move casually around the other guy absorbing as many details as I can. Now standing to his right side I peer into the man’s peepers. “Oh, what’s your name?” He looks back into my eyes for a moment, a teeny smidgen longer than I’m comfortable with. “Michael.” Probably not his last name, which he obviously isn’t going to provide me with. Again I nod. He doesn’t know it but, just from this little run-in, I figure I’ll know precisely who he is before noon tomorrow. In the meantime I'm gonna call him L.L. Me. Thank you, UPS.

Satisfied I have a good starting point, and not wanting to push my luck, I determine I can end the meeting and attempt to do so. I start to ease back away with another apology for bothering them -- ramble about being curious, let them be going, blah, blah. UPS at last makes the obligatory joke about the antenna being a hockey puck. I don’t share the thought that crosses my mind: Doubt you’re going to score with that one, pal. They both assure me I haven’t been a bother and we all wish each other a good night.

I go back to my seat on the bricks and look vacantly around at the college kids scurrying by like roaches. I wait ‘til I’m certain UPS and Michael are out of sight before jumping up and jogging back to my car. I pray it’s still there and doesn’t have a ticket on the windshield -- it is and doesn’t.

The following day, while out walking, I use the time, along with my handy cell phone, to learn who Michael is. It takes a mere three calls to find out. I deposit my phone in my pocket right as I pass by the Charlottesville Police Department. A vehicle pulls out of an area where I know law enforcement parks and, though the windows are heavily tinted, I’m close enough to see through the front one. It appears Michael is the driver. What a coincidence. The man waits for me to go across the sidewalk in front of him. Once past, I sneak a peak back at the fellow. He’s looking in my direction. Does he recognize me too? The possibility amuses me and I turn to hide my smirk. As he drives away I slide my cell phone back out to look at the clock. The time is noon on the dot.