“We had a guy...”

Tales From the Laurel Police Department

Spring 2025

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There’s been a pattern lately of these articles being dedicated to a vanishing generation of Laurel officers, all of whom I worked with, respected, and learned so much from. This one is dedicated to Sgt. George Rathkamp who passed away January 20, 2025. George was with the department in the 1970s before transferring to Prince George’s County PD, and the guys who came after he left sure missed out on some old-school policing. George tried several times to lure me over to the County, but I told him I’m more comfortable policing where I know all the backyards and alleys.

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This continuing series is an uncomplicated string of personal war stories from my time at a small municipal police department between Baltimore and Washington, D.C., told without a lot of extravagant details; just the facts, ma’am. Other cops will appreciate the bare-bones setups of my individual anecdotes. But I do try to explain some of the procedures for the general public who has little understanding of why we do some of the things we do.

The men and women I worked with are the finest you will find in any police agency anywhere. Some have since retired or moved on to other agencies, and some are still there fighting the good fight. Hopefully, this bit of sucking up will make up for any inconsistencies in my memory of the events in which some of these great guys made an appearance. They will no doubt recognize their own first names and possibly the fictitious names of some of our less-than-law-abiding customers.

So grab yourself a cup of java or crack open a beer and get comfortable. You’re in a room full of cops talking shop. And the attitudes, sometimes smart-ass, sometimes despairing, that go with it. In our town, on my shift, this was policing in the last decades of the 20th century.

Periodically, the patrol division lieutenant, Lee Brown, would hold departmental inspections where all the uniformed officers would assemble beside the station in squad formation. I can still see George’s bushy red hair sticking out behind his hat, while he’s sort of bouncing up and down at the knees, clapping one open hand against a closed hand, snapping fingers together in time, in what he called the “Coast Guard” salute, teasing Archie Cook’s military background.

George is in the front row, left. So many of these guys have left us...

Several of his escapades have been described in past installments of We had a Guy and there are “George stories” that will never see print but are no less entertaining. So forgive me for repeating some of the earlier ones here.

It was a brave officer who would tempt fate by crossing The Line and leaving the City boundaries under any circumstances, so imagine my shock and awe one quiet, boring night in 1977 when, as a young and impressionable dispatcher, a historically under-recognized position soon to be renamed Police Communications Specialist, I answered the phone, maybe around 3 am, to the voice of my shift supervisor, Sgt. George:

“Hello, boy.” You had to know George. This fits.

“Hi, George.”

“Any calls for me?”

“Nope. Why?”

“I’m just hanging out down here in green belly.”

“Green--?”

“Greenbelt PD. Visiting some friends, hanging out in their squad room, drinking coffee.”

“Holy S--, George! You can’t go down to Greenbelt! It’s outside City limits.”

“I’m a sergeant. I can do anything.” Not only could I hear his laugh but the chuckles of a few officers from our sister department down in Greenbelly.

That was probably the first time it dawned on me that The Line might be more of a suggestion than a rule. It may also have been the beginning my yearning for the three stripes.

Now remember: these were the days before take-home cars and guys living out in the surrounding counties. When that dam was breached it became very ho-hum to do my commute from Severn in a marked patrol car. Sgt. Andy lived way down in Charles County and CPL Joe way up in Frederick. Take-home cars were quite the luxury that the current generation now takes for granted.

But in the days of the solid wall surrounding the City, there are times when the radio is jumping and we run from call to call and the night just flies by. But at times, even in summer, which is usually busier at night, the hard part is finding things to do. Of course, patrolling your beat area is Job No. 1 but you can only drive in so many circles or shake doors on Main Street so many times before you convince yourself there are no living beings left in town. Then the Devil finds work for idle hands.

On another equally boring midnight shift, again while the radio console clock moved like the glaciers, I heard PFC Chuck on Channel 2, which was a non-repeater channel and, hence, only audible at close range, quietly and cryptically say, “Headin’ north. Takin’ orders.”

What kind of code is that? What’s he talking about? I’ve always learned more by keeping my mouth shut and listening but in this case I had no idea.

Within a few seconds PFC Harry came across the radio, “I’ll take one!”

Then PFC Bill, “One!”

Sgt. George, who apparently had not ventured south to Greenbelly this night, again on Channel 2, “Two! With extra Mombo Sauce!”

An hour or more goes by and George walks into Communications and hands me a brown bag containing a very tasty Polish sausage sandwich. George sits down with his own bag and props his feet up on the desk. With years of investigative proficiency on the mean streets, he can see the question on my face and explains, “Boy, these are the finest Polish’s in the land. You won’t be sorry.”

The sausage was indeed very good but didn’t entirely answer my question. The long and short of it is, up in Baltimore there is a red-light district with strip clubs, bars, and massage parlors, and a reputation equally unsavory, called The Block. On this block was an all-night eatery called Pollack Johnny’s, which was apparently popular with all denizens of the midnight shift, including cops. Back then there were only three Pollack Johnny’s locations but today they’re everywhere. I learned that the more daring of our veterans would occasionally risk life and badge to make a quick run up to The Block in Baltimore and bring back some world-famous Pollack Johnny’s sausages.

I began to surmise that perhaps there was no alarm bell on Chief Kaiser’s nightstand that clangs the death knell of any errant officer who ventures across The Line.

As you read this, spring has sprung and I’m sure you’ve had some hot days already. Here in Montana we still have plenty of snow on the ground. Uniformed organizations like police departments usually have a different uniform for winter and summer. Longstanding tradition holds that everyone must look, well, uniform. I don’t know how it is now, but “back in the day,” we had to wait for a written order to come out from the chief authorizing everyone to change from winter to summer uniforms, which actually only meant ditching our neckties and long sleeve shirts for short sleeves. Said order was issued by a man who spent all day in air-conditioned comfort without having to work a blistering hot traffic accident scene on toasty black asphalt, or constantly climb in and out of a cruiser taking calls.

The date for uniform change was arbitrary, of course, because the weather itself is arbitrary. We’d start to get antsy around March when the first few decent weather days would tempt us to lose our necktie hoping the chief didn’t catch us. The actual order usually came out way past regularly warm days.

They didn’t call it climate change back then but low and behold, the climate did change as fall gave way to winter and we eagerly awaited permission to wear long sleeves again. The cycle of life.

Yes, this is the best job in the world. We get to park anywhere we want. But there are times when I’d rather sell shoes or insurance. One day I had to deliver a death notification to a woman whose son had been murdered. When I knocked on the door she answered and did a double-take when she saw my uniform, and immediately stepped back and gasped, putting a hand to her throat.

“I’m sorry, officer,” she apologized. “The last time a policeman came to my door it was to tell me husband had died.”

“May I come in for a minute?” I asked.

This job sucks sometimes.

As a patrol guy I was perfectly happy to “stay in my lane” and stick with uniform policing. A few times I had to drive an unmarked car when my cruiser was in the shop. I hated it. It was amazing how much people misbehave when The Po-lice are invisible.  But sometimes I’d get creative and do something unexpected to help our guys get into the good stuff.

We had an open-air drug market for quite a while in the Grove neighborhood. I’m sure it’s all cleaned up by now, but it is part of our law enforcement history that a significant number of drug arrests were made there. As you may imagine, it’s difficult for uniformed guys to get close enough to actually see anything going on that would lead to probable cause for a stop-and-frisk, let alone an arrest. The dealers had lookouts and as soon as a marked cruiser turned off of Rt. 198 into the Grove on 8th or 9th streets you could hear them call out, “Five-O!” Then anyone selling or holding just seemed to disappear.

Sure, we had our drug unit and undercover guys working the big fish, but Patrol division liked to do its part for street-level enforcement. I had some real go-getters on my squad who did their best but, like I said, it’s hard to get close enough to see. So, one night we had a guy selling on the corner at 9th and West Streets, but no one could get close enough to develop probable cause to get the jump on him.

Thinking outside the box I told my guys to clear the area for a while and let him get comfortable with no cops around. I went to the station and grabbed an old USMC camouflage shirt from my locker to cover up most of my uniform and drove to Nichols Drive, around 924 or so. I hopped the fence and cut through the back yard (SO much of my foot patrol adventures cut through back yards I played in as a kid), until I reached the BG&E electrical substation, which was surrounded by trees and bushes at 9th & West Streets. I was at the corner of the substation fence along West Street and there were bushes all the way to 9th Street. I crawled on my stomach for about 150 feet to the last bushes closest to the corner and our seller was still hanging around waiting for customers.

I radioed the guys to stand by out of sight and waited for some traffic. Sure enough, a typical buyer drove up and this guy walks up to the driver’s window and makes a transaction. He had picked something up from the ground under a bush on his side of the street first, so I knew where his stash was. I also saw where he put the cash from the buyer.

“Edward 2, come and get him. Short guy, white shorts, yellow sweatshirt. Money is in his right front pocket. The stash is under the bush on the southeast corner. ... Edward 3, grab the car going northbound on 9th Street: white Chevy Camaro, MD tags, ABC123.”

And that’s how we grab druggies in Patrol Division. I’m so glad I had on that camo shirt: there’s no telling how much dog poop I crawled through. Oh, and while I was crawling, a guy came out of one of the townhouses on 9th Street to his work truck and made a call on his cell phone. I could barely hear him, but it sounded like he was talking to his girlfriend, kinda hushed. Maybe his landline was out of service...

Not every police report ends with the initial description of the basic events. When there’s a probability of additional supplementary reports the typical closing line of the report narrative is, “Investigation to continue.” I hope these anecdotes haven’t offended too many readers of this venture from The Laurel History Boys. And hopefully there will be more to come. Thanks for your time.

Investigation to continue...

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Rick McGill grew up in Laurel and worked at the Laurel Police Department from 1977 to 2001. He authored two history books: Brass Buttons & Gun Leather, A History of the Laurel Police Department (soon to be in its 4th printing), and History of the North Tract, An Anne Arundel Time Capsule. In 2001 he retired to Montana and worked as a military security contractor for Blackwater Worldwide making 12 deployments to Iraq and Pakistan from 2004 to 2010. He is now a Reserve Deputy Sheriff in Montana.