Dave Case's Blog

I Just Want to Say... Thank You!

Dave here! I want to extend a huge THANK YOU to the 1,786 people who entered the Out of Cabrini Kindle edition giveaway.

As a writer, having just one person interested in reading your work is a blessing. Over 1,000 feels incredible!

If you want weekly updates on all things Cabrini, follow me on Facebook and Instagram.

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Out of Cabrini

Thanks once again. Your support truly keeps me inspired--and grateful. And as always, stay safe!

My Top 5 Favorite Ways to Celebrate National Book Month

My Top 5 Favorite Ways to Celebrate National Book Month.

1. Use That Library Card

Libraries certainly aren't dying--but they still need our support! I enjoyed being a part of Berwyn Public Library's event this past summer. I really appreciated the opportunity Quinn Stitt and the Berwyn Library afforded me. Nothing beats sharing the stage with fellow authors!

2. Attend Your Local Book Signing

Not sure where to find local authors and their events? Many libraries and bookstores will have a local author section. And of course, once you've identified an author you like, check to see if they have a website or Facebook page to peruse to see if they have a signing in the works. And check out the happenings section in your newspaper (yes, those still do exist!). Meeting fans and new readers is truly special, and I've been lucky to host a few book signings these last few months.

3. Get Through Your TBR List

We're all guilty of it: the endless pile of books on the nightstand. Give yourself a challenge to start a new book or two this month. And even a one sentence review can bolster that author's exposure to other readers. I'm always truly appreciative of anyone that takes a moment to whip up a review, especially if you liked the novel, lol!

4. Enter a Giveaway

Goodreads is my favorite place to snag a free book. I'm currently running a giveaway myself! Cozy up with your own copy of "Out of Cabrini" in my Kindle edition giveaway: https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/en...

5. Listen to an Author Interview

Weather a little too cold for your liking or you can't find a book signing involving your favorite author? I love getting to know my favorite writers through podcasts (and even appearing on them, too). I sat down with my friend Russell on the PONetwork Podcast, where we talked about what makes a compelling character, what advice I have for aspiring writers, and more.

Listen here: https://www.davecasebooks.com/

Did I miss any #NationalBookMonth traditions? Leave yours in the comments. And as always, stay safe!

The First Time a Gun Was Pointed at Me

"The First Time a Gun Was Pointed at Me."

Police work is a dangerous job.

Grown men and women running around the city with guns pursuing men, and a few women, who have chosen to prey on people of our communities is fraught with risk.

I honestly don’t know how many times in my career I had run into situations where I pointed my weapon at another cop, or had another copper’s weapon pointed at me. I spent a lot of time running around after criminals and predators on the south and the west sides, and the north side, too, for that matter. Those pursuits being in both uniform and plainclothes.

(Note: for those not familiar with Chicago, there isn’t really an east side, other than a little slice of the city (neighborhood) that hugs our border with Indiana on the far south side.)

When I came out of the Chicago Police Academy on November 19, 1986 (why that date sticks in my mind I have no idea), I remember wondering if I’d ever find myself on the wrong end of a gun being pointed at me. I remember thinking what it would be like facing down that yawning black hole that promised death and/or great bodily harm?

I know . . . I wasn’t too bright back then, some, well, plenty of people would argue I’m still not too sharp today.

How would I react? Would I react?

In the academy, we had some recruits freeze in training when faced with having a gun pointed at them. Some ducked. Some looked to hide.

What would I do?

You couldn’t help but wonder. Post academy, I was self-aware enough to know that I didn’t really know. Sure, we’d been trained and hopefully I would revert to my training and respond accordingly.

But, I asked myself, will you ever really know until it happens?

I imagine there are plenty of Chicago cops who never have had to discover how they would respond. In fact, maybe its most of Chicago’s finest haven’t looked down the barrel of another person’s firearm. I hope that’s the case.

I am in no way casting any aspersions on those officers who haven’t had the experience. It’s not like we go looking for it, I know I didn’t. But I tended to be . . . assertive and worked with aggressive officers who were assigned to districts with the highest violent crime rates and/or trends and shootings. There were always, and still are, shootings.

All of that said, I found out what it felt like and what I would do when faced with having a gun pointed at me. But it wasn’t anything like I’d imagined it would be. Sometimes that’s the trouble with imagining ahead of time. . . Playing the “What if?” game. Regardless, I still highly recommend playing, “What If.” It’s saved my hide many times.


The Beach Watch Party

Which brings me to the indelible memory that’s stuck with me for several decades.

I was still on probation, not long off my field training, when an academy classmate, who worked in a different district than I did, invited me to a watch party. It was spring, and his watch was having a party on the beach in their district, the Twenty-first, which has been shuttered for years now. Watch parties could be rambunctious affairs hosted when the men and women of the watch about to rotate off of afternoon shift for the day shift would get together to blow off some steam. This occurred once every three months.

Billy assured me this was going to be low-key, just a few of the straight afternoon officers that didn’t rotate had decided to get together. They called it a watch party, but he said it wouldn’t be twenty people all together.

Having lived in the city less than a year, and working a lot, I wanted to get out and meet more people. My circle of friends was pretty small and somewhat limited compared to how many I had in Minnesota, where I primarily grew up.

I arrived at the beach, it was dark, and chilly, and so a fire had been built in the sand. I saw Billy and we spoke, but he got pulled away for some reason or another and I found myself alone amongst a group of strangers, cops, but strangers nevertheless.

I had on a jean jacket, but was still a little chilly with the breeze coming off Lake Michigan, so I stepped up to the fire. I was by myself, but people were all around me.


The Confrontation

As I stood there, frankly thinking maybe I’d made a mistake because, other than Bill, I was the youngest person there, someone spoke.

"Who are you?”

It was a guy sitting with his back to a low concrete wall, his arm around a woman’s shoulder, their feet stretched toward the fire.

I looked around, not sure if he was talking to me.

“Yeah,” he said, “you. Who are you?”

Now, I have to admit that I was perhaps a little cocky. I worked in Englewood which was a fast district, full of gung-ho coppers and they had rubbed off on me . . . maybe, a little. I detected an edge to the seated cop’s voice and I found myself getting irritated. Didn’t he know I was a cop?

I guess I wasn’t answering fast enough, because he stood.

“I asked you a question,” he said.

He was short, like five foot seven or eight, and was heavy, carrying most of his weight in a pear shape and his breath was redolent with booze.

“I’m the fuckin’ life guard,” I said, admittedly not helping the situation.

This cop pulled his snubbed nosed revolver from his waistband, and pointed it at my face.

Only a few feet separated us.

I saw the deep darkness of the barrel, the silver colored hollow point tips of the rounds in the adjacent chambers of the one in battery. I saw the hard eyes of the man holding the gun out at arm’s length. He was wearing a jean jacket too.

And I felt the heaviness of my Smith and Wesson .45 caliber semi-automatic, having not purchased an off duty weapon as of yet, weighing down the back of my jeans (How I hate to admit wearing denim over denim, a fashion faux paw to be sure, especially in the big city, maybe not as much in 1987 as now, lol).

But this was a cop pointing a gun at me. And I knew he was a cop. I don’t remember thinking about getting shot. I only wanted to get my hands on this asshole who had the audacity to pull a gun on another officer of the law.

He pulled the hammer back on his snubie.

The ominous click sent a chill up my spine. The revolver was in single-action mode now, and only the slightest pressure on the trigger would cause it to discharge.

“I fucking asked you a question, smart ass. Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?”

Somewhere off to my right, a woman screamed.

Apparently, this little drama had caught her attention. Maybe his companion was used to his behavior, maybe she was shocked, I don’t know, but she’d been quiet.

People started yelling at him to put the gun away. His drunken expression slackened slightly and his hand with the gun slowly lowered.

I was flooded with relief and a boiling anger.

As I started around the fire to break the son of a bitch’s neck, I felt arms circle my waist and Billy was talking to me and trying to hold me back, with little success. I’m Six three, two hundred twenty-five pounds, NFL tight end size.

“It’s not worth it,” Billy said. “He’s not worth your job. You’re on probation.”

Like a beacon cutting through a fog of anger, I managed to take a breath and allowed myself be led away. My blood was boiling.


Years Later

This was many years ago, but the memory dwells inside my skull and occasionally resurfaces. It’s something I’ll never forget.

Be careful what you wonder, because sometimes you get thrown a curve.

I’d had my first experience of having a gun drawn and pointed at me, and by the grace of God I got through it.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be my last, but it was a life-lesson that kept me on the right road.

Justice will be served . . .

Justice will be served . . .

In less than 24 hours, the long-awaited Macbeth thriller “Chicago Justice” launches. Dave Case continues the “Out of Cabrini” saga bringing to the page the heart-pounding realism one can only get from patrolling the streets of Chicago and dealing with the gangs of Cabrini Green and their spreading influence.

How quickly do you read? Read the saga from the beginning: Out of Cabrini

Free "Out of Cabrini" Chapter download: www.DaveCaseBooks.com

Justice is coming . . .

Justice is coming . . .
Out of Cabrini's sequel Chicago Justice debuts in two days - June 28, 2025!

Stacey Macbeth lives for fast-paced chases and even a brawl or two. But when an old foe re-emerges on the scene, he remembers just how perilous things can become.

How quickly do you read? Read the saga from the beginning: Out of Cabrini

Free "Out of Cabrini" Chapter download: www.DaveCaseBooks.com

The countdown begins . . .

The countdown begins . . . Chicago Justice drops June 28th!

In just three days, return to Macbeth's world in a thrilling sequel that proves that sometimes, danger really is around every corner.

That means there is still time to read the first in the series, Out of Cabrini

Free "Out of Cabrini" Chapter download: www.DaveCaseBooks.com

Honoring Officer Krystal Rivera

Remembering a life lost in the line of duty.

As the Chicago Police Department gets ready to lay Officer Krystal Rivera to rest, I have no words to adequately express my grief for her, her family, her friends, and her co-workers over this tragedy. With this being an incident of friendly fire, it in no way lessens the tragic loss. Certainly, the family and friends standing over her casket, or the officers waiting in long lines, I know I’ve waited hours before, to pay their respects would agree with that statement.

And let’s not forget that she and her partner(s) were actively pursuing a wanted criminal, which clearly makes her death in the line of duty, not that I’ve heard that being called into doubt. But, in today’s society, I think it is worth saying in the event there was someone, and I use the term loosely, out there wondering.

I’m not looking to make a comment about what happened to Officer Rivera other than to say it was tragic and I share the sorrow and heartache being felt by department members and city residents alike.

Any loss is one too many, and the CPD has had nearly 600.

Reading the accounts of the incident and talking to former partners and colleagues have reminded me that there, but for the grace of God, go I.

Rest In Peace Officer Krystal Rivera.

#AlwaysRemembered #NeverForget

Father’s Day is about being grateful

Father’s Day is about being grateful

My own dad always downplayed the whole Father’s Day celebration. He wasn’t a particularly emotional man, and outside of being rather particular when and what he ate, he was pretty low key.

I find myself following in his footsteps, relative to downplaying Father’s Day and have always encouraged my kids to do for their mom and not to spend money on me. And now with the divorce, I most certainly have toned down any approach to the day.

And I have worked many Father’s Days, as do all first responders.

For me, Father’s Day is about being grateful, thankful for my dad and everything he did
for me, and our family, including modeling adult behavior, and thankful for my own kids, for
their health, for their love, and for the opportunity to watch them grow into adults.

There are many men and women who have had that opportunity ripped from their grasp, and it’s easy for us to take it for granted. I know I do. I’m so very grateful for the time I get to spend with my kids. They’re young adults now and busy AF.

I can’t talk to my dad anymore, except in my heart. The same with my mom. So, I am very appreciative to see and hear from my children on Father’s Day, on any day really. I have no expectations beyond that. I know I’ve expressed to them my deep love, but it’s important for me to reinforce that with words and actions, knowing someday I won’t be here to tell them I love them or give out hugs.

How many words were left unspoken between myself and my father? I don’t know, but there are quite a few, I’m sure. I’d like to ensure my kids will always know in their heart of my undying love for them. I have found myself telling them, in hard times, that there is nothing they can do to stop me from loving them. Sure, I can get mad, but the love will always be there. That will never change. I’m going to make sure they know, beyond a doubt, that I love them with all my heart and each of them make my chest swell with pride.

God bless one and all, fathers and mothers and sons and daughters, too. I wish you all a
safe and happy celebration.

Dave Case

"Man, you white boys is crazy."

"Man, you white boys is crazy."

Zito shook the CD at the arrestee.
“‘Ame a sog. ‘Ame a sog, assole.”

Macbeth pushed the prisoner back toward the store, as sirens blared in the distance. He shook his head, spun the prisoner to face him and
stopped.

“What my partner’s so eloquently trying to say is that if you can sing one song off that CD, you can go free.”

The guy stared at them, his breathing still hard and labored. He looked away, toward the store and car.

“Man, you white boys is crazy.”

FREE CHAPTER DOWNLOAD!

Ever wonder where the legend begins? Meet Stacey Macbeth on his beat—where crime rarely rests and danger lurks around every corner.

Chapter One of Out of Cabrini is available now—FREE at www.davecasebooks.com

Start reading today. The streets don’t wait; you shouldn't either.

#MacbethMonday
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Buy the book now: Out of Cabrini

"There Is No Getting Used to This"

"There Is No Getting Used to This"

Reflections from a Cop on Funerals, Community, and Memorial Day

Where I live in Chicago, we’re surrounded by cemeteries. Cemeteries, cemeteries, cemeteries and more cemeteries. Which makes the neighborhood ripe for funeral processions. We have the infrequent gangbanger funeral pass through, where the occasional mourner doesn’t let conventional funeral procession protocol dictate how they drive, or whether they can’t resist the urge to let the random bullet fly up in the air as they make their way to the gravesite.

But we also have police funerals, and less frequently, firefighter funerals. Now, I have been stuck in cop and fire funerals, and they can be admittedly long, hundreds and hundreds of squad cars, trucks and various engines and apparatus. It can be frustrating and overwhelming.

I have to think that some of the drivers that find themselves stuck in traffic get a little heated, and I can understand that. I have to imagine that there are those in our communities that roll their eyes when they hear another first responder has been killed, thinking only of the inconvenience caused by the traffic tie-ups and the heavy news presence of the sacrifice the police and fire make. Yada yada yada.

And, yes, I understand that, even sympathize to an extent.

Having ridden in too many of those processions though, I can tell you firsthand how inspiring and comforting it is to see the people line up on the side of the streets, roads and highways with signs and banners of support and condolences. Thank you to each and every one of you. I wish I could wrap you in a hug and give back some of that love.

A classmate of mine, Ronald Michael Ryan, of the St Paul Police Department was killed in August 1994. I went to his funeral, my Chicago Police checkered hatband stood out, particularly with my height.

Waiting to mount up in the procession, a local cop approached and thanked me for making the trip, not realizing I was a friend of Ronnie’s.

That cop said to me, “I suppose you’re used to this, where you’re from.”

I shook my head, but I don’t remember responding above a whisper, saying something to the effect, “There is no getting used to this.”

And I was grateful to the people of Minnesota who came out and lined the streets and roads and highways with banners, signs, handwaves, and tears that day. But that was 1994.

Things changed in 2020, especially in Minnesota. It’s 2025 now, and there has been some coming around to a less hostile environment.

I’m a cop. I’m proud to say that I’m a cop. My kids are proud that I’m a cop and that their mother is in law enforcement as well. It is a calling for me. Like writing, though I don’t have to practice applying a tourniquet to any of my extremities from being an author. Yet still I wouldn’t change it for the world. And neither would ninety-nine percent of the men and women who put on that badge daily. We’re lucky to have them. God bless.

Happy Memorial Day.
Dave Case