Rule Bound: Rookies and Rogues

978-0-9936719-0-6

Chapter 1

Sid knew this would be a long afternoon shift. The scheduled 12 hours was to start at 4pm, but he was in early. He had a post-mortem to attend. The deceased was a 48-year-old man; he had passed away at his home early yesterday evening while sitting on a recliner watching a hockey game. The family had just returned from a Chinese, all-you-can-eat buffet where the victim probably consumed too much of the all-you-can-eat cornucopia of not-so-healthy food.

The coroner had ordered the PM because of the dead man’s younger age and what seemed to be good health just before expiring. No history of illness. The deceased had only complained of a small spare tire of fat around his midsection. Otherwise, the married father of two didn’t complain much, according to his wife and family.

Sergeant Sid Cruickshank had been called to the scene that evening, as per force policy, to inspect the area of the man’s demise, ensure that witnesses were properly interviewed and confirm whether foul play was suspected or not.

This death interested Sid more than most, if only for the reason that the victim could have been him. At 50, Sid was probably 20 pounds overweight, at 6’1" and 225 pounds, but he loved all sports and played many regularly. Sid thought himself a healthy 50-year-old and still looked good in his police uniform. Sure, there were some family genes in play – blood pressure issues and elevated cholesterol – but they were being managed by the smallest doses of prescription drugs. Sid was curious as to what killed this guy.

As usual, Sid brought with him a junior officer to takes notes at the PM. These things could be a little unsettling to a new officer and Sid felt it was best to get the officers early in their careers to witness the procedure as soon as possible. This time around the officer was Matt Kerr, not so junior, but all the same these things were always good for experience. Matt had been to several autopsies during his five years of police experience with the Ontario Provincial Police.

Geeze, Sid, I’ve got that search warrant to finish and the notes to boot. This is going to be a long night. You couldn’t have dragged a day shift officer with you? This was just a minor whine as Matt got into the passenger side of the cruiser.

Ah, quit your whining, Sid responded. These are all good for you, especially if and when you move into the criminal investigation world you’re aiming for. What happens if they find out something really weird caused this guy’s death? You’ll be right on top of things.

Matt knew Sid was right and that was the last of his whining. He was on OT (that meant time-and-a-half-pay) and he could always use the extra cash. And he loved a good whodunit.

The trip to the hospital took about 30 minutes and the two officers discussed everything under the sun. Matt had been on Sid’s platoon since he was a rookie. Matt loved his job and, like Sid, played every type of sport. They had lots in common.

The hospital morgue was basic and sterile. The pathologist was already in the room prepping the table. The assistant called in sick so the officers would be lending a hand. No big deal.

The body was identified and the officers had their notebooks open and ready as the procedure began. Matt helped lift the body onto the working table. The usual examination of the exterior began... finding nothing of any concern. The y incision was then made from collar bones to the pubic area. Matt was okay with all of this. Sid had trained him well and Matt knew how to keep his mind busy while the nasty business of cutting open a human commenced. He didn’t particularly like the sound of the first lengthy incision and he hated the smell of the skull being cut open with that little Rotozipper-type saw. But everything else, he could handle. He had gone moose-hunting with Sid and a few other boys and the first field dressing of a moose was a real eye-opener. Gutting and quartering the animal out in the bush was a chore, let alone carrying the hunks of meat out of the bush.

Once the human victim had been opened up, everything else was science. That’s what Sid had told him the first time he attended a PM and he was mostly right. The big clippers were then used to cut through the ribcage so the pathologist could examine the organs. Each organ was removed from the core, weighed and examined. Samples were taken from the liver for toxicology and sealed. Unlike in the TV shows, the report would not come back for at least a week or so, maybe more, depending on the urgency or any suspicious findings. The stomach contents were sampled and the pathologist remarked on the stomach’s fullness.

This guy had a real pig-out prior to kicking the bucket. Chinese food, right? The pathologist looked at the officers as Sid nodded to confirm the question.

Ah yes, the all too famous ’all-you-can-eat buffet’ deep-fried egg rolls, chicken wings and those yummy greasy, filled-with-fat spare ribs and sweet-and-sour chicken balls. Gotta love it. The pathologist had an attitude today.

Sid again nodded in confirmation while looking at the inch-and-a half yellow ring... a curd-like fat attached to the skin around this guy’s midsection. Christ, I gotta lose some weight and no more Chinese for a while anyways, Sid thought.

The examination continued without anything disturbing being found. The last organ to be looked at was the heart. The pathologist remarked on the weight and the size. A little bit enlarged but nothing out of the ordinary, as he held the fist-sized organ cupped in his hands. He rolled the once pounding heart in his hands as he examined it. As quickly as he took it from the body, he laid the organ on the slab and retrieved a large butcher-type knife. Let’s have a look, shall we? He began to slice the heart in its full length. At this point, all three people were looking over the operation like someone would look at trying to put a needle of thread into a buttonhole. The three heads almost touching each other over the stainless steel examination table. The slivers of heart were cut very thinly. The pathologist got into about the fifth or sixth slice before he commented.

Ah hah, folks, I think we have our villain. See here, this is not normal. He pointed to a small noodle-sized artery which had a bulge in it.

"There is a fork or a ‘y’ split here and there is a big clog at the ‘y’. He made one further slice, showing the outcome of the problem.

There is the blockage. There is not supposed to be this split there. The artery is supposed to be straight, yunno, ‘tubular’. Blood is supposed to flow straight through here. Bad plumbing. He’s had this imperfection since birth. Shit happens. The pathologist looked over at Matt and then at Sid, raising his eyebrow.

Poor bastard, probably never knew what hit him, Sid replied, looking at Matt and the pathologist.

So that’s it, that’s what killed him?, Matt asked.

The pathologist nodded in confirmation. It’s amazing what will come up and bite you in the ass. This is life. Live every day.

There wasn’t much left to say or do. The rest of the examination went on without any new revelations. The officers completed their notes and proceeded back to the detachment to start the rest of their shift. The weather on the way to the office did not look too promising. The damp cold air seemed to imply some kind of snow or freezing rain or both. Sid could feel it.

During the trip, Matt spoke. Yunno, it’s fine for us doing this kind of thing. I mean it has to be done. Meanwhile, this guy’s family is at home and his wife can’t figure what the hell is happening and is in total disbelief. Like one day they’re all out as a family and the next thing you know she’s lying in bed by herself staring at the ceiling saying ‘what the fuck am I going to do now?’

Sid didn’t respond and just kept driving. Matt was bang on and this kind of stuff happened every day to someone. Man, I’ve got to lose weight.

---

Shit. The word barely escapes the plume of breath which passes Angela Marsden's lips. She's still a true rookie, a young black woman born in Jamaica brought up in the tough Jane-Finch area of Toronto. She was trying to prove herself to her new OPP family. Briskly sprinting across the snowy parking lot behind the detachment, the weight of her mistake translating into clenched fists and white knuckles. Her head's too hot to notice the stinging wind of the Ontario winter air. Her very first ride-alone without a coach officer was marred by an embarrassing error. Angela had just responded to a call for service and, having taken a cruiser and left the station, she then proceeded to run out of gas. Punching the combination of the frosty back door through the garage and walking past the washrooms, kitchen and cell block, Angela is quickly met with exactly what she expected in the office area.

Oooh, the other members of the platoon call out in unison, as if Angela was a schoolgirl being sent to the principal. Her head stays down until she reaches the Sergeant’s office and the door is shut behind her.

What took ya so long?, Sid asks, slowly making his way back to the beat-up swivel chair behind his desk. Before Angela can even respond, Sid digs into her, Run out of gas? The four words hurt, but Angela convinces herself she deserves it. As Angela’s stomach seems to sink into the chair she's sitting in, Sid sternly goes over the policy of completely checking the cruiser's readiness. For further humiliation, he emphasizes the importance of cleaning your gun, making sure the handcuffs are off your bedpost and in their allocated belt pouch, having fresh underwear, and no booze on your breath from the night before. Got it?, he asks, his eyes fixed on Angela's. She nods. Good. Get out of here. Unbeknownst to Angela, the members of the platoon have brought an orange gas container into the office, written her name on it, and placed it on her desk.

As Angela walks past the grinning faces towards her desk, Sid appears at his office door. Now that we’ve all had our fun with the rookie, I would like to know who the ass-wipe was that didn’t fill up the car at the end of the last shift. The officers' grins melt away fast. Leaving a car low on fuel has happened before. Look after each other, for Christ's sake. Freezing rain began to pelt the windows behind Sid, forcing him to raise his voice. See that, as he pointed to the window. That out there, my friends, is shit. And it means a lousy rest of the shift. Stay off the goddamn ‘slab’ unless you have to respond. The ‘slab’ was the name used to describe Highway 401 which, in the area of Morrisburg, was flat as a pancake and separated farm fields and small wooded areas. The open fields, followed by small patches of woods, would often result in roads covered in windblown snowdrifts and spots of (invisible) black ice.

The Morrisburg Ontario Provincial Police detachment is located just off Highway 401 approximately an hour drive from Montreal and three hours from Toronto. Despite the seemingly quiet surroundings of the Eastern Ontario countryside, this particular area around the 401 is notorious for its dangerous winter weather conditions and nasty multi-car pile-ups.

The other issue which law enforcement had to consider was smuggling; having two border crossings into the USA in close proximity. It was constant affair.

Inside the wide rectangular brick of a building, the officers' devotion to their work is intercut with an indisputable camaraderie. Achievements and mistakes are met with nearly indistinguishable remarks and glances as officers walk past one another. This is the general work area for the constables, where they toil away, play and mentally abuse each other. The ribbing and sarcasm all start here. A job well done, a mistake made or an action thought of as a dumb move can often be the highlight of the day in this room.

The sergeant’s office is separate from that of the grunts. Cordoned off by thin walls and a wide glass window, its door is almost always open. If the sergeant/supervisor has caught wind of a bone-headed move and requests the attendance of the perpetrator, the constable having committed the folly must first pass the brother-and-sister gauntlet of team members. Make no mistake; if you screw up in this world, you really must be prepared to face the music. It may become even more serious than initially pondered by the victim. If you really mess up out there, you walk into the office, and nothing is said by your peers. Tack on the added feature of the lack of eye contact, and realization quickly sets in that the error made is more serious. The consequences of the forthcoming meeting with the sergeant will hurt even more. Let’s face it, for most police officers, this is their second family.

Platoon Sergeant Sid Cruickshank was often called Sergeant Crank because of his sometimes less than sunny disposition, along with the audible similarity to the latter part of his family name. After a stellar 30-year career, he's entitled to such a demeanor. Nostalgia could be blamed for any bitterness which has developed, especially in more recent years, despite the closeness of his platoon.

Sid settles in for his afternoon shift. He sees Matt Kerr park himself at his desk as Sid changes the radio dial to his favorite blues station. The country stuff would just not do on his watch. Sid acknowledges Matt with a look. Rookie, got your notes caught up from that PM you were just at?

Even though Matt had five years’ experience under his belt, he was still Sid’s rookie.

Love that blues, Sarge. Matt didn’t really care one way or the other, but he knew Sid was a big blues fan. Sid had told him he once played the bass guitar for fun; he wasn’t any good and it didn’t last long. Sid’s oldest son got hold of the bass guitar and fell in love with the sound and the beat of the instrument. Without the bass guitar, the music is nothing, Sid would say. He had told Matt that one of his sons made off with the guitar while at university, and became good enough to buy a very good five-string bass. He then gave his father’s guitar to his girlfriend. Sid was miffed by the fact that his son and his son’s girlfriend were no longer an item. Who knows who has my guitar now? Kids, Sid would say, pointing his finger at Matt, who was the same age as his son. No respect.

Sid would often remember the remarkable respect and teamwork back when he was a rookie. Camaraderie was important. If you wanted to become a police officer, one of the entrance interview questions would always focus on whether or not an applicant played any organized team sport. The emphasis on team played a large role, more so then than now. Even when you were off duty, you did things together. The older officers often spoke about these times with affection. In Sid’s mind, this attitude appears to have changed and many of the senior officers took notice. It seems as though in the new age of policing, police officers have better, more important things to do, and the shifts are longer. Police officers, like nurses, are now working 10-to-12-hour shifts. When the shifts are completed, members are often physically exhausted and they go home. The members of Sid’s platoon don't hold his recollection of times past against him. Their respect for the sergeant helps mute Sid's cutting sarcasm and sharp wit. His commitment, especially to the greener officers, is unmistakable. Shaking off the atrophy that so often is present among officers approaching retirement, Sid eagerly accompanies the rookies in a ride-along. It provides him ample opportunity to educate them in the avoidance of fucking up.

Initially, most cops hate paperwork. It takes them away from doing what they love. Unlike some senior officers who are winding down their careers, finding as little work as possible, Sid still cares. Sid is with his platoon on a constant basis. He would much prefer riding with one of the rookies, rather than sitting in the office doing reports. Sid would often assign an older senior officer who is proficient in report writing to go over the platoon’s paperwork while Sid went on a ride-along to monitor one of the rookies. He liked to educate these officers with his experiences. He always said: You learn by your experiences. You learn by making mistakes. I suggest that all field officers should refrain from making the same mistakes more than once or twice. If you are unfortunate enough to be unsuccessful in having heeded my advice on this and continue in this area of fucking up, you will hear from me. More often than not, the junior officers would also hear it from the rest of the crew. It was often a tough crowd.

The experience gained spending the last 15 years of his career working on the Canada/U.S. border allowed Sid to become well-versed on the policing difficulties at hand. The only thing between the United States and Canada was the St. Lawrence River. Between Massena, New York, and Cornwall, Ontario, there is an island which was also a First Nations’ Indian reserve. Morrisburg was about 40 kilometers from this border crossing. The reserve was a haven for organized crime and smuggling. From people-smuggling to contraband of any kind, to guns and money, Sid had seen it all. Then there were the accidents. He had witnessed and investigated his share of stupidity, the crazy driving and wild vehicle mishaps. From New Canadians, immigrants who didn’t have a clue on how to drive in the winter, to truck drivers who cared less about anyone else on the road, there were plenty of stories. The blueberry blondes who couldn’t walk or see straight, but felt it was perfectly safe to drive 60 kilometers an hour on a highway where everyone else was zipping along at 130 kph. There was the added pleasure that Sid would savor when he dealt with some of the Americans he had encountered. Whenever Sid met an American who had lost his way, managed to drive into the ditch, or have one too many Jim Beam’s, Sid was not averse to letting the person know a thing or two. Meeting Sid did not often turn out well for the subject being educated at the School of Cruickshank. Sid did not solely level his sarcasm at his platoon members. After he had lost patience with whomever he was dealing with, he would give that person a taste of his dry wit as well. The delivery of a package of choice quips was administered to the unsuspecting American visitor. Sid managed to give the new visitor his usual Canada lecture in his crusty fashion. Yes, our money is funny-looking. The province of Ontario is twice the size of Texas. Not all of us say ‘eh’ and I don't have a pet polar bear.

Upon returning to the detachment, Sid wouldn’t hesitate to comment on the recent meeting on the roadside. Those Yanks are so self-absorbed. They don't know a goddamn thing about us. But then again, why should they care about us? Canada is a big place; yet only 35 million people – give or take one or two New Canadians – live here. We’re simple folk, nice people, really. To the Yanks, we are people of no consequence. Typical Sid. That is why he's known as Captain Crank. He was so eloquent. To his platoon, he was teacher and chief. To the Public, he was just one of the 8,900 members of the OPP stationed throughout the massive province of Ontario.

---

Keep to the back roads. You’ll be sitting targets on the 401, what with those nice flashing roof lights. They'll come right for you. Sid's experience gifted his platoon members with a constant barrage of anecdotes. Life lessons. Lessons to keep you alive. In this case, Sid was referencing an occasion in '99 when he was a supervisor-in-training. He relayed this story to his team. I was one of four new sergeants returning from training at the Academy in a cruiser, driving home on the 401. Sergeant Ron James, now long-retired, was driving. The roads were snow-covered and the snow- banks were piled high in the ditches and the median. Making our way back to the station, we came across a vehicle that had lost control and ended up in the median. The ass end of the car was hanging out of the snow, affecting traffic traveling in the passing lane. Sergeant James activated the roof lights. We set up flares and traffic cones and the four of us returned to the warm confines of the cruiser to await the tow-truck. Sitting in the back seat, I noticed Sgt. James stiffen and press his head into the seat's headrest.

What’s your problem, Ron? Sore neck or what?

Nope, just want to be ready and brace for the next idiot to pile into the back of us.

It wasn’t 30 seconds after that comment that I followed James' gaze into the rear-view mirror. I cranked my neck back only to see the traffic cones flying into the air one by one. He recalled that the cones appeared to have an explosive charge under each one as they popped into the air. The Dodge Caravan, hauling a trailer, was moving at a speed far too fast for the shitty road conditions. The rental vehicle with trailer in tow, probably carrying all the life possessions of a newly welcomed soon-to-be-Canadian, went by the cruiser with bat-out-of-hell speed, swerving from side-to-side. It came within a foot of the police cruiser, ultimately veering into the snow- filled ditch. Sergeant James always maintained that drivers, especially the New Canadian drivers, seem to be drawn towards the bright flashing lights when they lose control of their vehicles, like a moth to a flame. Sure enough, when we went to observe and check on the well-being of the occupants of the ditched minivan, the driver had just exited and was climbing out of the ditch through the deep snow. He advised all of us in a foreign accent and broken English that he hadn’t observed the flares, roof lights or bright fluorescent cones until it was too late. Be prepared for anything. Sid finished his story, leaning against the vacant desk closest to his office.

---

With Angela still coming to grips with Sid's reprimand, Matt Kerr starts his night shift with the paperwork. Matt is considered the rising star of Sid's platoon. Sid is very fond of Matt and has taken him under his wing since Matt's very first day at the detachment. Not partial to the menial traffic work so often afflicted upon his peers, Matt was becoming a very accomplished criminal investigator. Soon to be rewarded for his crime initiative techniques, he had just been selected for transfer to the Eastern Ontario Crime Intelligence Unit. Matt had solved several minor investigations involving drug, contraband and currency seizures and the Crime Intelligence Unit was looking for a replacement. Matt knew the smuggling world and how drugs were coming in and out of the area. Sid would call Matt a natural. Despite his non-rookie status, Matt was one of the officers Sid would often accompany in a ride-along. There were several occasions while on patrol with Sid where Matt would identify a vehicle solely on a hunch. Intuition served Matt well and he was able to notice the slightest of inconsistencies. Sid would often be amazed when Matt would say to him, Hey Sarge, you’ve been way too cranky lately. Let's go out on the road. Come on. Let’s see what we can find.

Sid was used to this request coming from Matt. It wouldn't take long, once Matt was out on the slab to find a target. He observed things; looking for the right type of vehicle and the right type of driver, Matt would then say to Sid something like: I’m going after that Ford van. I don't like how it looks, or the way that guy is driving it. Matt would look for identifiers, something wrong, something out of the ordinary. There was something that just didn’t sit right with Matt. There was always an item or issue that would trigger Matt to think that the vehicle should be stopped. After Matt had stopped the van and spoken to the driver for a few minutes, the driver would be asked to exit the vehicle and walk to the back of the vehicle and stand in front of the cruiser. The driver would then open the rear door for Matt who would uncover garbage bags filled with loose marijuana or some other type of contraband. Sid would make observations about Matt’s safety and cover him from the passenger side of the cruiser the whole time. This was a typical road stop for Matt. He had the knack. Tonight, however, Sid had plans to go out on patrol with Angela.

---

Angela liked that Matt still had the rookie go get ’em attitude and she liked Matt. In the back of her mind, she was anticipating the date they had planned for tomorrow night after their string of evening shifts would conclude. Sid could sense the growing affection between the two officers. If they were going to keep on like they were, Sid knew it wouldn't work with them being on the same platoon. With Matt's imminent transfer to the Crime Intelligence Unit, Sid also knew the loss of his best officer meant he wouldn't have to put up with the budding romance for much longer.

With her latest run-out-of-gas blunder, Angela would go out on patrol this lousy evening with Sid. He knew that the team should be out there dispersed, driving slowly, patrolling the villages off the 401, able to respond to any call. Angela was just completing her first year on the job and had finished all her basic training. Sid was sure she was going to be a good policewoman. Angela had a good head on her shoulders and she was always eager to learn. This was another officer who had started from day one on Sid’s platoon.

Sid and Angela would soon get ready for patrol. Sid’s plan was to stay close to the slab, just in case something happened. It always did on a night like this. The icy roads and foreboding presence of Highway 401 awaited them.

Chapter 2 The Rogue

The strange thing about criminals these days is that they often tend to find ways to meet and get intertwined. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason as to how they manage to interconnect. Or so it appears at first glance. Take Hector Jimenez and Lucien Lacroix. Hector is an auto body specialist from Buffalo, New York. Lucien is a Haitian gang member from Montreal. These two didn't meet by coincidence. They met for convenience.

Hector was an excellent body-man. He worked at his cousin’s shop in Buffalo and made a decent wage, for a body-man, but it was not enough. Hector also moonlighted, using the shop at night. His cousin had turned a blind eye to Hector’s night operations. His night work involved helping out some of his Asian friends; he had met them while playing cards at an underground gambling Texas Hold’em place in the industrial park. Hector liked the extra cash so he modified vehicles for his friends, but not to make the vehicles look good or run better. The body-man modified cars to conceal things... to smuggle money, guns and drugs. Gas tanks, door panels, hidden compartments were his specialty. Once he was finished, his work was usually covered up with the original body panels or carpeting.

The money he made from this sideline job allowed him to gamble without his girlfriend finding out. He didn’t want to piss her off. He wanted a long-term relationship.

Lucien was more basic. He moved guns and on the odd occasion maybe some drugs. Haitian-born and living in Montreal, he moved guns from the U.S. through Toronto to his buddies in the Montreal area. He lived in the east end and had been involved with gangs for as long as he could remember. Lucien was a nasty piece of work. He always managed to take the extra step in making sure people did what they were told. He had taken his share of physical abuse along the way. He was a street fighter of the worst kind. There was always a finishing touch to his brutality. He was becoming a force as a gang member.

In the New World Order of crime, there seemed to be more affiliations between crime groups. Criminals met people they had to meet in order to get the job done. Gone are the days that the Italians worked with Italians and Bikers worked with Bikers. Asian gangs no longer working separately. This is no longer the norm. Since when did Bikers use Haitian gang muscle to do their dirty work? Chinese ecstasy producers and Vietnamese marijuana growers are using East Indian truckers to move their drugs across the border into the U.S. This was happening now. This is business and it is all about getting the job done. Different groups are being contacted to complete different tasks. There were the old rules and now there are new rules. It was all about the business and making money.

This type of association contributed to an unusual type of team and was very disturbing in the eyes of law enforcement when putting these pieces of an investigation together. These issues were being examined by top officers in the puzzle-palaces of law enforcement agencies on both sides of the border. These associations between criminal groups were the new twist and of great concern. To target an organized crime group for its criminal activity was no longer the case. Investigators had to look at the big picture and case-by-case in order to be successful in an investigation.

Lindsay Dinh is a petite waif of a thing from Duluth, Minnesota. Lindsay is a hairdresser by trade. She has red streaks in her hair, cut short and styled by the best: Style by Lindsay. She always dresses fake Gucci. She has a cute, colorful tattoo of a Tokay gecko on her neck just behind her left ear. Lindsay recently arrived in Buffalo and has been placed in contact with an Asian group from the Buffalo area. The first leg of her trip was by train. The second part of her trip will be by car en route to Montreal. This trip relates to Lindsay’s second means of employment. She has an aunt in Ottawa. On occasion, and at the request of her Auntie Minh, she has delivered the odd package here and there. Lindsay is performing a test-run delivery. She has been delegated to complete the mission with Hector Jimenez. Hector will drive one of his modified five-year-old Mazdas. They are leaving from the Buffalo area for Montreal through eastern Ontario. Hector had driven his car earlier in the day to a place owned by a friend of Lindsay’s and left it there for a few hours. He just picked up the vehicle. The car now has $200,000 in US cash neatly stacked in bundles in the door panels of Hector's modified car – courtesy of Lindsay’s friends. Hector is not asking a whole lot of questions and neither is Lindsay. She knows the amount. Hector hasn’t got a clue what’s in the car and doesn’t seem to be overly worried. It is amazing the people you meet, especially in the world of gambling. Even more so if you owe people money. Hector owed money.

In Asian terms, Lindsay is known as a horse. It's late February. Lindsay is not happy. She thinks that it’s bad enough she lives in Duluth but to have to travel this distance with the possibility of poor weather doesn’t make her feel any more pleasant. Winter in northern New York and the area between Montreal and Toronto can be a real pile of slop. The end of February means anything goes. Some nights, the cold and snow are as bad as memories of deep winter and on other days, there is the feeling that one could wear a spring jacket and the spring flowers are soon to be popping up. On this night, winter is fighting to stay alive.

As they leave Buffalo, guess what? It is snowing; In Buffalo? What a surprise. When doesn’t it snow