It was early fall in 1982; warm days were giving way to crisp, chilly nights as I approached my second anniversary with the (then) Village of Ontario Police Department. Aside from the shocking car-stop shooting of fellow Patrolman David Pugh early one morning in November of 1981, nothing of great note had occurred in Ontario up to that time during my four year stint there.
Dave, shot in the face by a felon out of Cleveland, who was a passenger in a stolen van loaded with stolen car parts, survived; the shooter, later that morning, was located and killed in a running gunfight with police.
My dayshift partner in the story I am about to tell was Ptl. Tim McClaran, who would go on to be Chief of Police in Ontario and, later, Crestline, Ohio.
Tim was a combat veteran, having served in Vietnam with the Marine Corps. He'd previously been a deputy with the Richland County Sheriff's Office before coming to Ontario; on this day, Tim would pass on a little of his investigative skill to this still-green rookie, some of which would be rather...unusual.
Around noon we'd received a report of a home burglary on Walker Lake Road, just west of the now-modified 'S' curve. The house, a brick ranch-style home, sat by itself well back from the roadway, bordered by a cornfield to the west and deep woods behind it. As we arrived we were met by an older woman, probably in her early fifties, and another we'd learn was her daughter, whom she'd called even before notifying the department of the break-in.
The woman had already checked with her lone neighbor across the street, explaining that they each kept an eye on the other's house when anyone was away. "They didn't see any cars come or go."
The interior of the home had obviously been ransacked as we looked room to room, the woman telling us that some of her husband's tools, four long guns and two chain saws were missing. She also believed some of her jewelry was gone; her jewelry box, which had a glass lid and smooth metal sides, was opened, some of its contents spread on top of the dresser on which it sat.
At that time Ontario was a 13-officer department, including the chief; we weren't large enough to have our own crime scene technicians, so each officer processed his own crime scene, taking photographs and fingerprints; major crime scenes, such as homicides, were handled by the state Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation.
This one, though, would be handled by us....or, rather, Tim. He took the time to explain what he was doing and why as he went. It was during this time that we both overheard a conversation between Mom, the house's occupant, and her daughter in the living room, around the corner from where we were working. It went something like this:
Mom: "Well, what's one of my bras doing out here in the living room?"
Daughter: "Uhh, Mom, I wouldn't touch that. Let the officers handle it."
Mom: (obviously not heeding her daughter's advice and picking the brassiere up) "I just don't understand why...ohh, why is it wet?"
Daughter, alarmed: "MOM! PUT IT DOWN!"
There was a hushed, short exchange between the two, followed by Mom shrieking "OH MY GOD!!"
She fairly ran, followed by her daughter, to a bathroom down the hall, where we could hear her furiously washing her hands.
Tim looked at me with knowing eyes. "The guy jerked off in that woman's bra."
I was astounded. "Why would somebody do that during a home burglary?"
"Good question. What does that tell you, other than he's a pervert?"
I thought for a moment. "Well....he was probably alone. I mean, if you were burglarizing a home with someone, that's not something you'd do, right?"
My partner smiled. "You're learning. So, nobody saw any vehicles here while the complainant was gone, meaning they had to come from the woods or through the cornfield."
I finished Tim's line of thought. "The shotguns and rifles, the tools and chainsaws, how did one guy carry all that stuff away if he was on foot?"
Smiling, the veteran copper answered. "He didn't. That stuff is hidden somewhere close by and he's gonna come back, probably after it gets dark, to pick it up."
McClaran, to this young, green patrolman, was a genius.
Using the victim's house phone (cell phones didn't exits back then), Mac, as I called him, called Chief Krauss and explained the situation; the chief agreed to call in the next shift early so we could stay on our case.
After hanging up, Tim and I went looking for the stolen loot. We found it after about 45 minutes, stacked neatly at the edge of the woods fifty yards west of the house, in an open, green tractor lane between the standing, brown cornstalks and the treeline. I was getting excited.
We checked to ensure that the two shotguns and the pair of rifles were unloaded, then put them back where they'd been hidden. "We're gonna stake out this stuff. You go back to the station and get us some extra batteries (for our portable police radios), flashlights, green coveralls (which we'd all been issued but never used), some water and maybe snack food. We might be here for awhile; I'll stay here and watch the stuff."
I must've drove 100 mph on the way to the station. Once there, the oncoming patrolmen wanted all the particulars about what Tim and I were doing but I didn't have time to explain. "Just stay out of the area so we don't spook the guy" was all I said.I also grabbed two 12 gauge pump shotguns before leaving. Stopping at a gas station, I bought water and a couple small bags of chips, then hurried back to where Tim was waiting.
We quickly slid into our coveralls, pinned on our badges, strapped on gun belts and took up a position in the cornfield, able to see the loot between the tall, unharvested stalks from where we lay.
Time crawled by. When we spoke, it was in hushed whispers; we mostly listened for the sounds of someone walking on fallen, dead leaves in the woods.
Mac remarked, "Man, I need a cigarette."
Dusk had started to set in when we heard the snapping, crackling sounds of someone making their way through the woods. "Wait until he picks the stuff up and starts to walk away", Tim whispered. "That way we can show intent to take the stolen goods."
Another thing I never would have thought of. McClaran knew his stuff.
We watched as not one, but two men emerged from the treeline in the falling darkness, cautiously looking left and right before walking directly to the piled items. As each grabbed an armful of goods and straightened up, we sprang, shotgun butts planted in our shoulders.
"POLICE! ONTHEGROUNDONTHEGROUNDONTHEGROUND NOW!"
Startled, both men hesitated before dropping what they had and laying down. We were on them quickly, cuffing both in quick successions. Immediately, one of the men started pleading.
"I'm the one you want. I broke into the house and took this stuff. He's my brother-in-law and had nothing to do with this. Please, let him go, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
McClaran got brother-in-law up and took him a few steps away. The short of it was that he indeed didn't know what was happening; the burglar had only told him he'd 'found' some stuff while taking a walk and brother-in-law had never imagined his sister's husband would be involved in a burglary.
After taking down his information, we let him walk.
Once back on station, Tim interviewed our suspect, who confessed everything at length, however leaving one part out of his story.
Mac: "Tell us about the woman's bra."
A look of sheer horror, which quickly turned to shame, played across the suspect's face; then he started crying.
"I'm so sorry", he said tearfully. "I've been out of work for awhile, my wife and I have been fighting, and...well...I just needed some relief." The 30-something man started to sob.
The man was eventually transported to the sheriff's jail and locked up, and we tagged our evidence, putting it in the evidence room.
Later, in court, the man pled guilty as charged. Since he'd confessed to the burglary and fully cooperated, coupled with the fact that the man had no criminal history whatsoever, he was sentenced to time served while awaiting trial and placed on probation, a huge break for him.
During the rest of my career, I never heard the man's name or read it on any police reports; he'd apparently turned his life around...or moved out of the area.
Tim McClaran, from whom I would learn so much, died of lung cancer in November of 2013. Though many people didn't like him, I'll always remember Mac for the good cop that he was.
