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I remember the old grandma who called 911 after her husband of 50 years had died peacefully on his deathbed. I was the
responding officer and she explained all of his recent health problems, which were the usual ones for an old sick person: chronic
obstructive pulmonary disease, diabetes, pneumonia, heart disease, and in his unique case, more than forty years of some kind
of muscular dystrophy. “He hadn’t been eating for the past several days so I knew the end was near,” grandma told me. “A
hospice caregiver had stopped by in the middle of the night to check on him and I was told he was very close to death.” I looked
at grandpa laying in his giant hospital bed that hospice had brought in for him a week ago. His skin was a yellow pale from the
now-complete cessation of blood and oxygen circulation and his nose hair was distractingly long. Dried spittle was crusted on
his lips and his teeth were in horrible condition, because like most folks who start dying, the whole tooth brushing regimen
pretty much goes away. “He woke up at about 4 am moaning, in a great deal of pain so I gave him a dose of morphine in his IV
line.” I looked up at grandma and asked “Did that work?” She was pretty calm considering the circumstances but like most old
folks who had just met their dead spouse, she was still in a bit of shock. “No, it didn’t seem to help so I gave him some more.” I
looked back at dead grandpa, still distracted by the long nose hairs bristling out of his nostrils. “What happened then?” I asked.
“Well shortly after that he just stopped breathing and he died,” she said. I thought about that for a bit and looked at her. And I
began to wonder just how much morphine did she push into his IV line. Because “too much” morphine can definitely kill a man.
Especially one on the brink of death anyway. And I began to wonder if she gave him too much unintentionally. Or maybe on
purpose. And I quickly decided that if she did, who was I to make a big deal about it? The old guy was already being stalked by
Mr. Death and if grandma was ready to open to the door wider for the grim reaper by hastening the inevitable with what turned
out to be a painless death, I wasn’t going to judge her for that. In fact, if that was indeed what happened, I was okay with it. I
offered some condolences, noted what I needed to, noted his long list of medical conditions for my report, and called the
coroner’s office. The coroner agreed it was a natural death (I didn’t mention the morphine part) and so it would not require an
autopsy. The coroner said he’d sign a death certificate at his office and call for the funeral home to come pick up the body.

Bailiff duty for municipal court. One of the defendants arrives for his criminal charge of operating a motor vehicle with a
suspended license. Not his first time. I notice he arrives alone, and has car keys with him which is odd because he’s not supposed
to be driving. The public defender and the judge go over his case very quickly and make a date for a future court appearance;
the guy then leaves so fast I didn’t have time to check his current drivers license status. I discreetly follow him outside and watch
him drive off in his car, that he had parked in the parking garage literally right under the courtroom. Yep, his license was still
suspended. I documented it all in a report for another new charge against him. Pro Tip: If you don’t have a license, and you have
to drive yourself to court for that, maybe don’t park your car so close where the cops are going to see you. Maybe like, I dunno,
park a few blocks away at least? I couldn’t resist going back into the courtroom and telling the public defender what I had just
seen his idiot client do.