A Boston Cop and a Homeless Woman

Boston Cop and the Homeless Woman

A Boston undercover cop comes to the rescue of a homeless woman in need of his help.

Author's Note:

This is the true story of how Susan Jill Parker met her ex-husband, Michael Joseph Sullivan, a Boston police, undercover, first grade, detective sergeant.

# # #

Minding my business while walking to the local pharmacy in plain clothes to buy items that I needed, I'm trained to always be on alert. A habit that I have, I'm always checking cars, memorizing license plates, and taking note of descriptions of any suspicious persons that I see. Not uncommon in any big city, between the police sirens, fire sirens, car burglar alarms, and beeping horns, a cacophony of noise, able to distinguish and isolate one from the other, I heard a woman scream for help. An emergency, her screams sounded, pleadingly desperate.

"Help! Stop! Don't! Don't you touch me! Get away from me! How dare you? Who do you think you are? Get the fuck away from me! Help! Police! Rape!"

Then, when she screamed rape, I knew this was serious and not another domestic issue. Impossible for me to ignore, coming from all directions, her loud cries for help echoed throughout the alleyway. With me only a couple of blocks away, I stood in front of the alley and peered down listening while trying to determine where the screams were coming from. With the sound of her loud screams bouncing off of brick buildings and echoing all around me, it was difficult to pinpoint their exact location.

"Help! Help! Please! Please help! Somebody help me," she screamed louder and longer. "Please! Someone call the police! Call 911! Call 911! Rape! Rape!"

There it was again. Sounding closer this time, I continued walking down the alley to investigate. Heading in the right direction, the closer I walked the louder her screams.

"Please! Someone help me. Call 911! Rape!"

Her screams were reminiscence of a time past. Whether young or old, stripped naked and forced to have sex against their wills, I thought of all the women who were brutally raped and murdered by the Taliban. I couldn't walk in a village without women hiding for fear of being raped again or murdered.

Something that stuck with me, I remembered Lara Logan. A television and radio journalist and war correspondent from South Africa who was stripped naked, brutally attacked, and raped multiple times by a mob of dozens of angry men in Cairo, Egypt. Gang raped, fucking her in her pussy and in her ass, forced to her knees and forced to blow them, they sodomized her with sticks and even a flag pole. Her security detail was only one man armed with a handgun. Overwhelmed, there was nothing that he could do but to watch in horror and hurry her out of there after the ordeal was over.

That wouldn't have happened on my watch. Stopping it before it even happened, crowd control and keeping angry mobs at bay was one of the specialties of the Navy SEALs. Reading the obvious signs, we would have gotten her safely out of there before it escalated to that extreme. She never would have gone through any of that physical and emotional trauma had I been there with my SEAL team.

# # #

Typical of people who don't want to get involved, as if they didn't hear her screams, the pedestrians around me ignored her cries for help and continue walking. Yet, if something as horrific happened to them, they'd be screaming for help, too. If someone attacked them and no one responded to help them and came to their rescue, they'd be angry. If what happened to this poor woman happened to them, and the police were slow to respond, they'd be the first ones to accuse the police of not doing their jobs.

Never without them, ready to take action and help her when no one else would, I pulled my SAP, weighted, black, leather gloves from my back pocket and put them on as I walked towards her cries for help. Any man, no matter how big, would take notice of a two-pound weighted uppercut delivered to his chin at full force and with the devastating speed of a martial artist and ex-MMA fighter. Most times, snapping their heads all the way backwards, it would only take one, perfectly placed punch to knock someone out and put them down on the ground unconscious.

The screams were coming from the alley that housed dozens of 180-year-olds, brick buildings behind Marlborough Street in Boston. No matter if rich people lived there in this 13-block part of the Back Bay, from Arlington Street to Massachusetts Avenue, there were always criminal activities happening in the alleys. No matter if they paid three-thousand-dollars or more a month for rent for a studio apartment, whether drugs, break-ins, stolen cars, robberies, or rapes, the alleys were the targets of criminals.

If that wasn't enough, the alleys were infested with rodents and roaches. You wouldn't want to be a homeless person in Boston. Yet, a real disgrace, with Boston the 8th richest city in America, nearly 6,200, one-percent of Boston's 670,000 population are homeless. From drunks to druggies and to mothers with children, with America the richest country in the world, no one should be left out in the cold, going hungry, and begging for food. Yet, the homeless people of Boston who slept in cardboard boxes in doorways, on the sidewalks, and on park benches graphically highlighted the problem.

# # #

As if on a military mission, using the element of surprise to my advantage, I quietly entered the alley one slow step at a time. Not knowing if they had a firearm, I hugged the wall and walked sideways to make myself a smaller and harder to hit target. Positioned out of sight and continuing to inch my way along, in case they had a gun, when I peered around the corner, I saw a woman surrounded by four men.

Not making a sound, I continued moving closer while remaining out of sight. None of them displayed a gun in their hand, had a gun tucked in their waistband, or showed a firearm bulging out and weighing down their pockets. I stopped to view her from a safe distance as I slowly and stealthily continued to move closer. Clearly, they were getting ready to strip her naked and gang rape her.

The men were physically abusing and sexually assaulting the woman. With her disheveled appearance and two shopping bags filled with her personal belonging, mostly clothes, by her feet, she looked like a homeless woman or loosely referred to as a bag lady. Not seeing me coming, continuing to stay low, and crouching down out of sight, I took my position behind a parked car. Wanting to know more about my enemy before planning my attack, the men were unaware that I was there watching them through the passenger side window while I continued to survey the situation.

I needed to be careful. Especially with four against one, a situation such as this could turn violently ugly really fast. They could take her as a hostage to make their escape. They could stab her to stop me from chasing after them and, to force me to stop to call an ambulance and wait with her for it to arrive while medically treating her.

# # #

Sometimes preventing a fight from even happening, I rolled up my sleeves to display my Navy SEALs tattoos. My shoulders, arms, and forearms were decorated with them. If a man recognized what they symbolized, usually, that was enough to stop him in his tracks. Yet, these men were too dumb to know who I was and what I was about. With special ops members, Green Beret, Delta Forces, Army Rangers, and Navy SEALs all having deadly reputations, no one wanted to tangle with a Navy SEAL, especially one who was trying to save a defenseless woman from being brutally, sexually assaulted.

Clearly, the woman feared the men but, giving her credit, seemingly fearless by her defensive posture, she was unafraid to defend herself and fight back. Maybe she had brothers and I suspected she did have brothers because someone had taught her how to fight. With her balanced on her feet, she definitely knew how to throw a punch and a kick to defend herself.

I don't know of too many women who knew how to throw a punch with force. I don't know of too many women who'd be ready to take on four men to defend themselves without trying to run away and falling apart crying. I don't know of too many men who'd be ready to take on four men but, having done that many times before in combat situations, I was ready and able to do just that again on her behalf now.

Using whatever there was around her, she tossed a heavy, metal, garbage can filled with trash and garbage at them hitting one of them in the legs and knocking him down. Strong to even lift the garbage can, one-handed no less, she was even stronger to toss it with some force. Yet, the potential of physical danger when fighting for your life will give anyone superhuman strength, strength they never knew they had until they needed it.

Keeping hold of the lid by the handle with her left hand, she used that as a shield to defend herself against their onslaught while waving an old, discarded, wet, dirty mop in her right hand. Hitting them in the face with the mop head whenever they neared, she did a good job of keeping them at bay. Then, tired of playing games and tired of being hit in the face with a wet, dirty mop, they attacked her full force.

When all four men attacked her from all four sides at once, her valiant, albeit brief battle of defense was over and, now or never, it was time for me to step in and save her. They grabbed her arms and, holding them behind her back, they touched and felt her everywhere through her clothes. Now, the only defensive weapon she had left was to scream. When one man tried to put his hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming, she bit his finger hard enough to draw blood and for him to scream in pain.

"Ow, you bitch," he said backhanding her across her face.

Not bothering to unbutton the buttons, he tore open her blouse to expose her big, white brassiere.

"Help! Someone help me! Get away from me! Let go of me! Call 911! Call 911! Someone call the police. Rape! Rape," she screamed!

# # #

Trained to put my emotions aside, to think first, and not blindly rush in a potentially dangerous situation, I considered all of my options first. Still assessing the situation, in the time that it took me to walk from the street to the alley where they were, not more than a minute or two, they pulled at her clothes. With her punching them and kicking them, they removed her blouse, lifted her bra over her naked breasts, and pulled down her pants to expose her white, bikini panties. Then, when they surrounded her, grabbed her, and held her arms, they pulled down her panties to expose her shapely, naked ass, and her blonde, bushy, naked pussy.

Clearly, with her already stripped naked, ready to take her against her will, as if she was there for their personal, sexual pleasure, they were ready to gang bang, rape her. With her long and shapely legs, and muscled calves, she looked as if she had been a runner. With me trained to notice everything, she was my kind of woman. No doubt, if ever she got free, she could easily outrun them. Ever since watching women competing in the Olympics, I've always had a thing for tall, athletic women competing against one another, and especially when competing against men.

Even with all that was happening, I couldn't help but notice that the woman was a tall, blonde, attractive woman in her thirties, with a shapely ass, and with big tits. Certainly, with her a diamond in the rough, I understood why they'd all wanted to have sex with her. Yet, forced sex was not only wrong but also illegal. Why a man would receive a thrill from forcing himself on a woman is beyond me. Yet, some men can't become sexually aroused unless they're forcefully stripping a woman naked and violently raping her.

What kind of man would I be if I didn't defend her modesty and her honor against four potential rapists? What kind of police officer would I be if I allowed them to do whatever they wanted to do to her and sexually take her against her will? She was someone's daughter, sister, mother, aunt, niece, cousin, and/or friend. How would I feel if she was related to me and I did nothing to help save her from a lifetime of horrific memories?

With my mind distracted by her potential beauty and sexy, albeit naked appearance, I could only imagine how good she'd look after she had a bath, wore some makeup, fixed her hair, and donned some clean clothes to wear. Yet, even in her disheveled appearance, I could tell that she was a real beauty beneath her dirt. She was a woman that I'd like to get to know. Planning my strategy to save her without having to work up a sweat and without having to call for backup, I eyed the four men to assess which one was the biggest threat.

If I called for backup, no ands, if, buts, or maybes, I'd have to arrest them and take them all to jail. If I arrested them, there'd be paperwork, lots of paperwork, and if there was paperwork, blowing my cover, I'd have to make court appearances. I didn't want to go through all of that hassle for these, four clowns.

Yet, that call wasn't always up to me. No doubt, she'd want them arrested and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Yet, figuring by her appalling appearance that she homeless, with her not having a physical address to mail the court appearance summons, maybe, perhaps, she'd be happy with me giving them all a beating, knocking out their teeth, and breaking some bones. I could do that.

Just as no one should hit a woman, no one should strip a woman naked. No one should force a woman to have sex against her will. Of the mind of an eye for an eye, I know that I'd be happy teaching them lessons that they'd not soon forget by beating the crap out of all of them. Trust me, when I was finished with them, they'd never touch another woman against her will again.

# # #

Ready for action, but overkill in this case, in case of real trouble, I had my Glock 19 with 9 mm ammo in my holster and extra clips. I had my badge, my ID, and my permit to carry a concealed weapon, a small, high-capacity Smith and Wesson pistol in my ankle holster strapped to my right leg. I had my KA-BAR, bowie knife strapped to my left leg. On my way to the store to buy some supplies, always armed and dangerous, I'm always prepared.

I eyed the biggest one, a tall, black man as my obvious target. A big fella, he stood about 6'5" tall and weighed more than 300-pounds. With him clearly the leader, he looked like the biggest threat to me. With me at 6'2" tall and an in shape 240-pounds, he may think that he had the advantage with him so much bigger, but he met his match with me. I'd hit him so hard that his mother would feel it.

I figured if I knocked him on his ass, the other three, two, much smaller, Hispanic men, and a skinny, white guy, would scatter. Only, surprising me, taking defensive postures, I was wrong. Even after I decked their big man, ready for a fight, they all pulled knives from their pockets and were ready to attack me.

Nearly laughing out loud, with them bringing knives to a gunfight, I wasn't worried. Besides, by merely pressing a pressure point on the forearm, while avoiding the knife, trained to do so, taking a knife from the hands of untrained assailants is like taking candy from babies. Even if they had a gun, having done this many times before, I could easily distract them long enough to disarm them and take their weapon.

If you know how to do it and had practiced it a thousand times as I have by teaching others how to disarm an attacker, it only takes a second to disarm an assailant brandishing a weapon. Clearly, they had no idea who they were about to go up against. They're lucky I'm in a good mood and don't go full Navy SEAL on their asses. Only, killing four men in an alley would get me in a heap of trouble with my commanding officer. This wasn't the wild and violent streets of Baghdad. This was civilized Boston.

# # #

As a Boston, undercover cop, possessing a 5th degree, black belt in Judo and a third-degree black belt in Karate, I've trained the best of the best in deadly kill or be killed, hand-to-hand combat. Whether Green Berets, Army Rangers, Delta forces, or Navy Seals, I've trained them all. Now, when I'm not on the job as an undercover cop, I train Boston Police officers and SWAT on how to better defend themselves and to keep themselves safe from injury or death. As an undercover, Boston police detective, putting my martial arts skills to good use, I'm assigned to go after the worst of the worst in the most dangerous neighborhoods.

A detective sergeant first class, in the way of Hieronymus Bosch, not taking shit from anyone, constantly given dangerous duty, I'm assigned to go undercover where other officers won't go. I've faced murderers, motorcycle gangs, drug dealers, cartel members, and violent desperadoes with little more than my SAP gloves, my martial arts skills, my combat experience, and my brains. A surprise choke hold from behind after throwing someone to the ground hard has a way of not only knocking the wind out of them but also taking the fight out of them, too.

Yet, as if I had a death wish in the way of Mel Gibson as Martin Riggs in Lethal Weapon, I routinely go into dangerous and potentially deadly situations without backup. With my face covered and concealed as if I'm a Ninja warrior, whether by sea, by air, or by land, they send me in when a situation calls for a violent confrontation and without having me blowing my cover. Having served two tours of duty each as a Navy SEAL in Iraq and Afghanistan with top secret missions stateside in between, having done it all and going beyond the call of duty, I don't fear anyone, certainly not these four amateurs.

Losing count after a while, at last count, I had personally killed more than 100 men. Using my M4A1 assault rifle, my trusty SIG Saucer P226 pistol, my Ontario MK 3 knife, or my bare hands, I was trained to be a fighting machine and a lethal weapon. Besides, there were only four of them with none of them having an automatic weapon. As if I'm a reincarnation of Jason Bourne, they don't stand a chance against me. With them helping to keep my fighting skills sharp, I was looking forward to taking revenge for them humiliating the lady by stripping her naked against her will.

Seriously, just as the lady iterated in her screams, how dare they? Who do they think they are? What made them think that they could gang rape a woman in broad daylight in the back alley of a busy Boston Street?

# # #

Finally, before they mounted her and stuck their cocks in her pussy, in her mouth, and up her ass, seemingly coming from out of nowhere and taking them by surprise, I made my presence known. Emboldened, I blatantly announced myself when I calmly walked in the middle of them while keeping the woman behind me. The woman used my interruption to quickly pull her brassiere down over her naked breasts and pull up her panties and her pants to cover her naked pussy and naked ass.

Colorfully inked with lots of detail, I caught her staring at my Navy SEAL tattoos. Obviously, the right man for this job, she knew what they were, what they meant, and who I was. If it wasn't enough that I was a Boston detective, I was a Navy SEAL with mad, martial arts fighting skills.

Surprising me, no longer showing any fear, instead of taking the opportunity to run away, she remained there to, no doubt, see what I'd do and to be there should I need her help. Mesmerized by her good looks, one-in-a-million, the closer I got, the more beautiful she was. I liked playing the part of being her hero when there's been so little appreciation and respect for local, law enforcement lately.

With everyone armed with a gun nowadays, whether legally registered and licensed or not, no one talks or uses their fists to settle arguments anymore. They just pull out a gun, point, aim, and fire. Showing no concern for women or children, they don't care who they hurt or kill. They shower bullets into crowds of innocent pedestrians and shoot through windows of homes. With everyone angry whether in a restaurant, a café, a bar, a store, or on an airline, and with there more guns than there are people, it's no longer safe to be out and about anywhere in America.