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War Story
By John W. Morehead
Sergeant, 18 years,
1961-1979, Retired, Baldwin Park PD, CA.
I thought that I might submit
a true story of how police work in days of old might
compare to today’s. Lots of things have changed.
The one thing that hasn’t changed is the team
work and the camaraderie and the self-esteem one
gets from doing a good job, and in being recognized
and appreciated for what you do…
I was born and raised in a small
town in the East San Gabriel Valley, about 14 miles
southeast of Los Angeles in Southern California.
Population was around 20,000. The town incorporated
in January 1956 and that’s when it formed
its own Police Department. In 1961 I joined the
reserve force and a year later I became a full-time
cop.
This was a small bedroom community with very little
industry and it was known for its high population
of ex-cons. This was back in the days when bars
and topless joints lined the streets. We had the
Cat’s Meow, The Winner and The Three Pigs.
You can just imagine the clientele we dealt with.
At the time my story takes place,
it’s the mid-1970’s. The city had grown
to just under 50,000 population. We had a very large
gang presence. About fourteen different Latino gangs
were split between the Northside and the Eastside
and each one had factions named similarly to Little
League Baseball teams -- T-ballers, Pee Wee’s,
Minors, Majors, etc. The gangs started recruiting
young kids and then worked their way up into the
eighteen year-old’s and older. GangBang fights,
stabbings, shootings, robberies, you name it, became
an aspect of daily police work.
I had survived the old salts
running the department and finally worked my way
through the seniority lists, made Detective and
then Sergeant. This, of course, was in the days
before the Policeman’s Bill of Rights and
there was no after-shift overtime allowed for report
writing, and on-call was unheard of. I was assigned
to the Detective Bureau and there we had a tight
ship with seasoned detectives and great clearance
rates. One day the Chief calls me in and tells me
he has a problem in the Patrol Division. There were
a bunch of cops, both rookies and seasoned officers,
who were considered “problem children”.
Their supervisors were having trouble dealing with
them. The Chief had this idea that I would be able
to handle them and so he was assigning me to the
Swing Shift along with all the problem officers.
He said if anybody could straighten them out I could.
That sounds flattering but the real story was that
the Chief and I did not see eye to eye and he was
thinking he could set me up to fail and thereby
manage to get rid of me and a bunch of so-called
malcontents all at the same time.
The first briefings with my new
squad were short and sweet. I was responsible for
four citywide “Beats”; I took charge
of the Swing Shift and we hit the streets. What
we found out there was uncontrolled chaos. Gang
fights, shootings, Stop-and-Robs, auto thefts, etc.
After the first week I decided it was up to us to
take back control of the city. I called my guys
together and told them that we were through with
the gangbang b.s. and from then on they were going
to stop every carload of known gang members and
then they were to call me to the stop so that I
might have a chat with them.
Once there, I would introduce
myself as Sergeant Morehead. I would then individually
introduce each of my officers to them. I advised
them that we were in control of the city from 4
p.m. to 12 midnight and if they committed any crimes,
no matter how small, during those hours they were
all going to jail as suspects, as co-conspirators
or as onlookers. And, not only that, but their cars
were going to jail, too. I knew that the worst thing
you could do to them was to impound their rides.
That, to a gangbanger, was sacrilegious.
It took about ten days of stopping,
talking, arresting, harassing, impounding, and confiscating
their booze, drugs, weapons, etc., until they all
finally got the message. Our arrest stats were very
high and the gang activity diminished significantly
between 4 p.m. and midnight. And it was not very
long until the gang members began to respect the
Swing Shift. When we would see them on the street
or in their parked cars, they would wave and say
“Hello Mr. Morehead”, or Mr. Deluca,
or Standish, or Gutierrez or Lira. After a few weeks
we had literally eliminated all gang activity from
4 p.m. to midnight. We could then get down to police
business.
Over the
next several months, our shift had the highest stats.
We had more felony arrests for robberies, burglaries,
and auto thefts. We took the most reports, issued
the most citations and had the most drunk driving
arrests. The only overtime slips turned in were
for court appearances. My officers came into the
station voluntarily before the End of Watch to complete
their report writing and we covered for each other
in taking and writing reports. No one called in
sick, ever!
But at 12:01 a.m. the gang activity would hit the
fan. Stop-and-Robs, drive-by shootings, window smashes,
and so on were on the rise. The Day Watch and Graveyard
Watch cops wanted to transfer to our Swing Shift
Watch and their supervisors complained all the time.
Finally, the Chief, fed up with all the complaints
from the Watch Commanders about all the transfer
requests and the increased gang activity after midnight
and before 4 p.m., called me into his office and
demanded: “What the hell are you doing
out there, Sergeant?!”
And I told him, “Taking
care of business, Chief, just like you told me to.”
There is no secret as to how it all happened. I
took a bunch of fine cops, both rookies and seasoned
veterans, who were mistakenly thought of as malcontents
and shaped them into a well-disciplined team. Together
we analyzed the situation in our city, developed
a solution and implemented a plan to make our jobs
easier, more fun and ultimately rewarding. We succeeded
in what we set out to do and every cop in the department,
from the patrol officers to the supervisors to the
Chief, viewed us with respect. And I’m proud
to say that our Swing Shift squad is still legendary
in the department.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Officer Down
By Cheryl Schulte
Police Officer,
Overland PD, St. Louis County, MO, 5 years.
October 31st, 2000. Most people
would associate this date with a fall holiday. That
is how the day began for me, with the thought that
this particular day was dawning as Halloween. I
will be honest with you; this was not my main concern.
My focus was not on this day being Halloween. It
was that I had gotten into trouble at work. I had
gotten into so much trouble, in fact, that my department’s
Internal Affairs investigator had recommended that
I receive a day off without pay.
Suspension should be a four-letter
word. I believe that everyone in the police profession
knows an officer who has been suspended for one
reason or another. The reason I was being suspended
was because I had gotten into one too many accidents
with my patrol vehicle. Some of the accidents were
my fault but others weren’t. (I still feel
really bad about the dog that ran straight into
my fender. The dog survived.)
So I awoke on October 31st, 2000
feeling extremely angry at the world and at my place
of employment. I recall that I spent the majority
of the day stomping around my house while dwelling
on the injustice of it all. I replayed every accident
in my head and all of them seemed relatively minor
to me. (Except that one where I hit the two trees.
They survived, too.)
There I was, whining about my
day off to anyone who would listen. I was mad at
the world and I didn’t care who knew it. The
shame and embarrassment of turning in my badge and
gun was nothing compared to the humiliation of facing
everyone the next day. My “day off”
was right in the middle of the week and I would
be in the station an hour before the commander who
had my badge and gun. Would I have to sit at role
call without a badge and gun? They might as well
make me sit in the corner. This must be their version
of a “time out.”
Well, I had made it through most
of the day and was sitting in my kitchen with the
evening news on in the background. I was so wrapped
up in my self-righteous anger that, at first, I
missed what the shaken reporter was saying about
a breaking story. The tense quality of her voice
finally penetrated the veneer of my self-pity and
I felt a chill start at my spine and then spread
all through my body as the news began to sink in.
There had been an altercation that had resulted
in an officer being shot.
The fact that a fellow cop had
been shot instantly angered and saddened me as it
always does but this time I immediately focused
all of my attention on the story being played out
on the television set. And then my heart sank as
the reporter announced that the fallen officer was
Sgt. Richard Weinhold of the St. Louis County Police
Department. The name had special meaning to me,
as he was one of my instructors at the St. Louis
County Municipal Police Academy Class #139.
I could not believe my ears.
Though I had not seen Rick Weinhold since graduation
more than two years before, part of my corrective
punishment for my propensity for auto accidents
was being sent to a two day driving school at the
academy. I had gone to the school just a few weeks
before and had seen Sgt. Weinhold at the academy
on the eighteenth of October. He had visited my
classroom and had greeted all of the officers present.
He spent some time joking around with us, and seeing
whom he recognized from his years as an instructor.
That was to be his last week at the academy as his
assignment was to be changed from instructor to
road supervisor.
I listened in complete disbelief
as the reports came in throughout the night. Officers
had been called to a home where the homeowner wanted
his friend, who had been acting increasingly strangely,
to be evicted. The homeowner told the officers that
he was afraid of the man, his one-time friend, and
that he had been locked out of his own residence.
Because the St. Louis County SWAT Team was unavailable,
Sgt. Weinhold decided to make entry to the residence.
The officers entered the small
home through the basement and Sgt. Weinhold was
the first to walk towards the basement stairs. While
in the stairwell, he was ambushed by a man with
a shotgun who opened fire. Sgt. Weinhold was hit
and the shocked officers carried him from the scene
and placed him in one of their patrol vehicles.
They raced him to the closest hospital while, back
at the house, a tense standoff ensued. After five
hours of negotiation, the suspect gave himself up
but it was too late for Sgt. Weinhold; he had been
pronounced dead when he reached the hospital.
My day of self-pity had taken
on a surreal quality. The focus was no longer on
me. I began to think about how Sgt. Weinhold had
truly touched my life in ways that I hadn’t
appreciated at all before then.
There were those long days at
the range where other academy recruits and I struggled
with handgun qualifications by practicing our shooting
incessantly. One by one, all but two other recruits
and I had qualified. This was on a Thursday and
I was told that we would work on qualifying the
following week. As the other recruits were preparing
to leave, I was pulled aside by one of my instructors
who told me to gather my things. Once I had gotten
everything together, the instructor walked with
me toward the parking lot while the rest of my class
waited for dismissal. I could tell by the look on
my instructor’s face that something bad had
happened. When we rounded the corner I saw my mother
and a family friend waiting by my car. They had
come out to the range specifically at the end of
my academy day in order to tell me that my grandfather
had been found dead from a heart attack that morning.
Though I was able to stay with
my family for most of the weekend, I felt I had
to go back to the academy on Monday since we were
only allowed to miss two days total or we were subject
to dismissal. The Monday that my grandfather was
buried was the day I was greeted at the academy
with the news that it was time for our training
in pepper spray. After being sprayed with mace we
were required to fight off four attackers for three
minutes, then run to our car, and then radio for
“help.” By the end of the day I was
teary-eyed, red in the face, blind, and unable to
breathe. (Incidentally I didn’t have any acne
problems for roughly six months after that –
the mace dries up your skin rather effectively).
I got through it all by trying to focus on the task
at hand and by trying not to let myself think of
my grandfather. But after this ordeal I think that
it was probably understandable that I wasn’t
looking forward to the next day of training –
the range.
There were three recruits who
hadn’t yet qualified and it was Sgt. Weinhold
who was the instructor assigned to get the three
of us through the course. I was at the range bright
and early the next morning. The first recruit qualified
and then the second recruit qualified. All too soon,
I was the only one in my entire academy class who
had not passed the qualification course with my
handgun. Finally, it was just Sgt. Weinhold and
myself on the range.
I made my way through the entire
course once. I failed. I shot again, and failed
again. The third time was not any better. I was
dwelling heavily on my grandfather and everything
that had happened to me during the course of the
past few days. Frustration and discouragement brought
tears to my eyes. I know Rick Weinhold saw right
through me, saw my unshed tears. But I couldn’t
look at him; all I wanted to do was give up. I was
going to quit. But then Sgt. Weinhold made me look
him directly in the eye while he talked to me for
several minutes. He made me focus on what he was
saying; he single-handedly derailed my negative
train of thought. He told me in a matter-of-fact
way that he knew that I could pass the course and
that he fully expected me to do so. Then he ran
through the proper shooting procedures again. After
he was through, he said that we would complete the
course one more time, and that it would be the last
time we would have to. His absolute faith gave me
the confidence I needed and made me more relaxed
than I had been all day long.
I took a deep breath, thought
about my grandfather, and said a quick prayer to
God. I began to shoot. When I was done I was in
shock. I had never scored such high marks on the
shooting course before, and I still have not scored
as high to this day.
I ended up graduating the academy
with the rest of my class. At the age of twenty-one,
I was able to stand on the stage at graduation and
receive my police certification from my father,
who was a sergeant at my department. When my dad
presented me with my certification, with the both
of us in uniform, it was a special father/daughter
moment that I will remember for the rest of my life.
I believe I was able to achieve my dream despite
the doubts I had in myself because there were people
around me who believed in me and their faith kept
me going even when times got a little hard. Sgt.
Rick Weinhold was one of those people.
That October 31st, I stayed glued
to the television set for the rest of the night
waiting for news updates while I called the very
same people I had complained to only hours earlier.
This time I was sharing my grief.
I had never really spoken with
Sgt. Weinhold about anything personal during the
time I knew him. He had touched the lives of countless
people and through his death, he was reaching even
more. I gained so much respect for him. I had met
Weinhold, even knew him personally, but I had not
really ever known the person that he was. As I watched
the late night broadcasts, I did learn several things
about him for the first time.
In addition to being an academy
instructor for a number of years, as well as winning
the instructor of the year award, he was very involved
with his church. He even played a musical instrument
during services. He had started a Christian support
group for police officers. His wife was a nurse
and that they had three children together - all
of who adored him, as did his colleagues at St.
Louis County.
I did not sleep very much that
night.
The next day I went back to work.
The commander with my badge and gun had come into
the station an hour earlier than normal in order
to deal with a few new officers who were scheduled
to start working that day. I took possession of
my firearm with gratitude. It was the very same
gun that I’d had in the academy and Sgt. Weinhold
himself had fired it almost three years ago while
demonstrating to me the proper way to shoot. But
it was with a heavy heart that I accepted my badge.
It was now encircled with a black band, which symbolizes
mourning for a fallen officer. This was the first
time I was wearing the black band for someone who
I had known personally.
On the day of Sgt. Weinhold’s
funeral I went to the funeral home with several
other officers, detectives, and personnel from my
department. The response from the law enforcement
community and concerned citizens was overwhelming.
I stood in line with my father and my co-workers
for over an hour as hundreds came to pay their last
respects. There were so many mourners that busses
were used to transport them to and from the funeral
home. I was sad, thinking about how I would not
be present for the funeral procession to the cemetery
or the burial ceremony as I was scheduled to work.
Inside the funeral home I saw several instructors
from my academy class whom I had not seen for several
years and up toward the front I saw Sgt. Weinhold’s
family, including his wife, standing next to the
Chief of Police and the commanders from St. Louis
County P.D.
My father, who was now a lieutenant,
walked ahead of me and greeted the widow and the
chief. He introduced me as his daughter and explained
how I had been a student of Sgt. Weinhold’s
while in the academy. I tried to tell them, briefly
and sincerely, how Sgt. Weinhold had helped me through
a difficult time in the academy. I told them that
I’d never really told Sgt. Weinhold how much
I had appreciated all of his help and that was why
I needed to tell them how much it meant to me. I
owed him that much at least. I believe they understood
and the three of us stood there for a moment fighting
back tears.
After the funeral, there was
a televised interview with Sgt. Weinhold’s
wife and there was something she said that I would
remember forever. She told the reporter that the
week before her husband was killed, their youngest
child had asked her daddy what Heaven was. He explained
his concept of Heaven in great detail and told her
that one day, far in the future, they would all
be together there. Sgt. Weinhold had not known what
would happen but he’d used one of his last
moments on earth very, very wisely. But then Rick
Weinhold had used all his time wisely and had lived
his life in the moment and for the betterment and
safety of others. I believe that Heaven is where
he is right now. I can only pray that I will be
blessed enough to share his company again. And I
know that if I do, I will not hold back. I will
finally thank him for what he did for me.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Officer Down
By Scott Partridge
Sergeant, Retired after
16 years; Metro-Dade PD, Miami, FL.
This letter was written in response
to “Death on the Border” by Border Agent
John Malone and is dedicated to all fallen officers
and their brother and sister officers who survive
them.
I am so sorry for your loss.
You said that you were not a member of his family,
but in fact you were. Just as I am, and just as
every other man or woman who puts on a badge is,
and who, against all odds, pursues the "bad
man". We are inexorably linked by this common
cause, and by the constant unrelenting danger that
we face every day.
As I read your story, I found myself getting a lump
in my throat and flashing back to the times that
I have heard that "Officer Down" call
on the radio. And then later when the dispatcher
advises that the officer is a "Signal 45",
our code for deceased. It is a feeling like no other…
it is consummate and total grief, and it slams directly
into your soul. It was almost crippling when I heard
it called for my former partner and on the many
other occasions when I have heard it called for
friends and coworkers.
It doesn't matter whether you know the officer or
not. I didn't know your friend, but it still makes
me feel horrible. The only redeeming fact about
his death is that he died while "riding to
the sound of the guns" and that he was doing
exactly what he wanted to do with his life.
He believed enough in this country, its laws, and
his fellow citizens to commit himself to a very
difficult and thankless job. He chose not to be
an observer but rather to actually be in the arena.
I have retired from the job, but I still slow down
when I see an officer on a traffic stop to make
sure that he or she is all right. I usually don't
know him, and for the most part, he doesn’t
know me, but when I show him the
badge and ask him "Are you QRU?” (all
right), he knows right then, as I do, that we are
in fact related, and that I am prepared in that
instant to risk all that I am and all that I have
to insure that he remains safe. He knows that because
he would be just as prepared to do the same thing
for me or for any other officer.
Grieve for your friend, just as I will, but rejoice
in the fact that you had the opportunity, the honor
and the privilege of knowing such a man. Keep him
in your heart, learn from the incident, and steel
yourself for the same kind of grief in the future,
because, sadly enough, if you stay in this business
you will probably experience this again. Treasure
your friends and family and leave nothing unsaid.
Most importantly, stay safe.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
War Story
By John M. Carpino
Deputy Chief of Police,
Oakbrook Terrace PD, Oakbrook Terrace, IL; LEO,
28 years.
I work for the City of Oakbrook
Terrace and, at the time this story takes place,
I held the rank of Lieutenant. We have a sworn force
of nineteen (19) officers and service a community
that has a daytime population of approximately 35,000.
Oakbrook Terrace has a 31-story office building
as well as 30 other office parks and the city is
home to the busiest intersection in the state of
Illinois (22nd. & Rt. 83). We have 7 hotels,
25 liquor license establishments and an off-track
betting parlor. We may only have 2,500 residents,
but as you can see, we have a full plate with all
the commercial business in town.
It was June of 1994 and a serial
bank robber was on the loose in DuPage County, which
is just west of Cook County/Chicago. The stick-up
guy was described as a male, white and possibly
Italian, who would commit the bank jobs during the
week by alerting the tellers of his intention by
passing them a handwritten note.
I was about to leave town for Las Vegas and needed
to take care of a few last minute errands beforehand.
It was a Saturday and I was with my family and on
my way to the bank in Oakbrook Terrace when I stopped
at, where else but a Dunkin Donuts. While there
I ran into my patrol sergeant, John Kolberg, and
we spoke briefly about my family vacation plans.
Then we were off to the Oakbrook
Square Shopping Center where my wife and 10 year-old
daughter planned to do some shopping while I made
a stop at a local police supply/gun shop to drop
off my gun for repairs while I was away. We made
plans to meet later at the bank, which was in the
same center. After dropping off my gun, I strolled
over to the bank across the parking lot, stopping
just outside to have a cigarette while I waited
for my wife and daughter.
While enjoying my cigarette,
I observed a customer exit the bank and thought
it was odd that he had on sunglasses and was wearing
a heavy jacket on a hot June day. I also noticed
that Sgt. Kolberg had pulled into the drive-up facility
at the bank though he hadn’t noticed me.
Then a teller came running out
of the bank and I asked him what was wrong. He told
me that the guy in the glasses and jacket had just
robbed/stuck-up the bank. I tossed down my cigarette
and told the teller to alert Sgt. Kolberg at the
drive-up and to sound the alarm. Then I started
after the stick-up guy down the sidewalk, realizing,
as I was walking, that I had just left my gun at
the repair shop. I saw Sgt. Kolberg exiting his
squad car, walking toward the stick-up guy, and
getting ready to announce himself. But I didn’t
want the stick-up guy to challenge Sgt. Kolberg
to a gunfight so I ran up and tackled the bad guy
right on the sidewalk.
I can honestly say that the only time I’ve
ever pulled rank on the job was when I directed
Sgt. Kolberg to hand over his gun as he cuffed the
stick-up guy. The entire brief but memorable incident
was done-like-a-dinner in about 45 seconds.
And, yes, this was in fact the serial bank robber
who was responsible for 7 other similar bank robberies.
Not surprisingly, he had a bad heroin habit. It
turned out that the guy was not armed but he had
the note in his waistband demanding money and purporting
that he was armed.
I can honestly say that this was the longest 45
seconds in my 20-year career.
In 1988 I had arrested another
bank robber at the same bank after responding to
a call and locating the suspect/offender a few hours
later in Chicago. Then, in the winter of 2000, I
pulled up to the same bank and heard a call for
a bank robbery that had just occurred, but the bank
teller, unfortunately, had waited too long to dial
911 or I might have encountered my third stick-up
guy at the same bank. It seems like I should finish
off my with just one more stick-up guy call at that
particular bank, but as I plan on retiring in December
of this year, I have only 6 more months to catch
one.
After all was said and done, I
did not win any money in Las Vegas as I had used
up all my luck at the bank before I left town.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
War Story
By Brent Larson
Patrol Officer,
7 years, City of The Dalles PD, OR.
Being a police officer is much
like being in the armed service. In fact, many departments
come right out and say that they are paramilitary.
Having been in the military myself, I can see and
understand the comparison with law enforcement.
While in the army, near the end of my basic training
cycle, I had to clean trashcans for the first (and
only) time. Though it was a small thing, the experience
still made me feel like I was truly a bona fide
member of the service. It was a rite of passage.
Later on, my rite of passage as a police officer
came while I was on bike patrol.
The first vacation I took after being hired as a
police officer was a trip to Germany where I had
been stationed while in the service, about two years
earlier, as a Maintenance Officer. Being an avid
bicyclist, I took my mountain bike with me and really
enjoyed riding it around Germany, particularly through
the cities of Mainz and Limburg. Upon my return,
my Chief, amazed that I had taken a bike to Germany,
promptly signed me up for three months of bike patrol.
My duty was to commence the following year during
the hot summer months. Not surprisingly, no one
else had volunteered for this duty because of the
heat and the fact that the geography of The Dalles
doesn't lend itself to quick responses on a bike
unless the location of the trouble is downhill.
Not being one to look at the downside of things
I decided to focus on the positive points. I would
be getting paid to work out and I’d get to
spend my workdays riding a bike. What can be better
than that?
So one hot day the following summer,
I'm riding through one of the neighborhoods in town
and I see a mom and her two kids looking up in a
tree. Since I notice they’re upset about something
I naturally stop to see what the problem is. They
tell me that their pet cat is way up in the top
of this tree and won't come down and they are concerned
because of the approaching thunderstorm looming
large just west of town. We all turn to look, and,
yes, there are thunderclouds on the horizon. Now,
I'd already heard sage advice on the subject of
getting cats out of trees from the senior Sergeant
of the department, Sgt. Bill Turner (now retired)
when he had remarked rhetorically, "Have you
ever seen a cat skeleton in a tree?" But looking
at the worried expressions of the mom and her two
kids, I didn’t want to appear overly insensitive
to their plight so I applied my new police officer
problem-solving skills to the task.
I realized immediately that climbing the tree was
not an option because the limbs even closest to
the ground were up too high. I inquired but the
worried trio did not have a ladder either. When
I spied a garden hose with a pressure nozzle on
the end, I had an idea. I told mom and her kids
that it wouldn't be pretty, but I was fairly sure
that I could get the cat out of the tree if they
really wanted me to. They endorsed my proposition
and told me to go ahead. After having one of the
kids charge the hose to full power, I let her rip
on the cat and down he came into the arms of his
waiting family, wet and disdainful, but otherwise
unharmed. As I rode away on my trusty steed, feeling
pretty good about myself, I realized that the experience
of getting a cat out of a tree is the classic cliché
caper for a police officer. Since then, I’ve
run the full gamut in the types of calls I'd handled,
from the really serious and stressful, to the small
and innocuous. But it was this incident that made
me feel like I was truly part of the brotherhood;
it was, it seems to me, my rite of passage into
law enforcement.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
War Story
By Garry L. Replogle
Corporal, Tampa PD,
20 years.
I was working an extra duty assignment
in a fast food restaurant in Tampa one night in
an area where there had been a series of late night
robberies. I was in uniform and I had arrived at
midnight and was wondering what I’d do for
the next six hours to keep myself awake. Around
2:00 a.m. I was sitting at a booth out of sight
looking at a boating magazine -- there are only
so many menus one can read –- when I heard
a commotion at the counter. I leaned across my seat
and saw an individual waving a shotgun around. The
manager was already on the floor and the gunman
was ordering everyone else to get down there with
him. I radioed in that I had a robbery in progress
and once I knew I had help on the way I slipped
out of the booth and confronted the gunman. I ordered
him to drop the gun and when he didn’t I fired
at him. One shot dropped him as he attempted to
flee. It was then that I noticed everyone else was
on the floor except for one other person who was
standing at the counter. He had been standing there
like he was ready to order but was now staring at
me like I was the last person on earth that he wanted
to see. Though I really didn’t know if he
was involved or not, as I handcuffed the injured
gunman I ordered him not to leave. While all this
was going on I saw a van in the parking lot take
off at a high speed. I radioed this information
and the responding officers located the van and
a pursuit ensued which lasted for several minutes
until the driver bailed out and attempted to flee
on foot. He was arrested after a brief foot chase.
When the paramedics were taking
the injured suspect away on a stretcher he told
the other officers who were questioning him that
the guy at the counter was with him. So he, too,
was now in custody.
I realized then that I’d
met Tampa’s Stick-up Three Stooges. The bewildered
guy standing at the counter had been the lookout
man. He had walked in and looked around. Not seeing
any threat, he motioned for the gunman to come in.
The gunman entered the restaurant with an unloaded
sawed-off shotgun thinking he’d get less time
if he got caught and it was unloaded. The lookout
man could have just walked away after the incident
if he had just lain down on the floor like the other
customers. Had the van driver just pulled out of
the parking lot at a normal rate of speed he probably
wouldn’t have even been noticed.
But their mistakes were our gain
-- the gunman ended up receiving 20 years. He now
has about 12 to go. The get-away driver got 10 years
for his involvement as the van was also stolen.
The lookout received 5 years and is out now. Anyway,
the events of that night did keep me awake and the
hours passed pretty quickly.
I never did finish that boating
magazine, though.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Line Of Duty: Officer Down
By David Pomeroy
Detroit Police Department.
I've been a policeman for 9 years
and have spent all but one year of it on the streets.
I have been involved in several shootings, one in
which an officer was killed and 3 other officers
were also shot. My partner, and friend, was critically
injured and lost his eye and was paralyzed from
a bullet to the head. In a nutshell, I've seen quite
a bit. I've watched children and adults die. I've
had many sleepless nights and still have nightmares
from the various shootings. The story I wanted to
share with you has nothing to do with any of that,
though. It happened a few weeks back and I don’t
think it is something I will ever forget.
My partner, Tom, and I had just
finished an arrest of a guy for armed robbery and
were an hour from the end of our shift when a run
came out for a 13-year-old boy who had hung himself
in a bathroom. When we arrived, the little boy was
lying on the bathroom floor, unconscious and without
a pulse. Lying next to him was the dog chain that
he had used to hang himself from a hook on the back
of the bathroom door. Tom and I picked the boy up
and carried him to our scout car so to transport
him because EMS was 10 minutes away. Another officer
jumped in the back seat and began CPR. We got the
kid to the hospital within 5 minutes and he had
regained a pulse by the time we got there.
Tom and I sat in the triage room
and watched the doctors work to bring that kid back.
Within 20 minutes, they had the kid's heart beating
on its own and I remember feeling like I had really
done something good. After they stabilized him,
the doctor came up to us and told us that although
he had a steady heartbeat, he had gone without oxygen
for too long and would most likely be brain dead.
Talk about having the wind knocked out of you. We
checked on the kid a few days later and our worst
fear was confirmed, he was on life support and was
in a permanent vegetative state. And the follow-up
investigation confirmed that it was an attempted
suicide and not an accident. We later learned that
the family had discontinued life support and the
kid had died.
Now, it’s only been a few
weeks but it haunts me to think we saved that kid
only to have him lie in a hospital bed with tubes
inside him for the rest of his "life".
The other thing that troubles me is what could be
so bad in the life of a 13-year-old that he would
rather die. I remember playing baseball for hours
on end when I was 13 and loving every minute of
my life. I can’t imagine what this poor kid's
life was like for him to want to die, but now we
have to live with the fact that we didn’t
do him any favors by helping to bring him back.
Epilogue. My friend and partner,
Scott Stewart, was killed in the line of duty last
month, on August 11, 2002. Though I had already
written the story above, I believe it’s fitting
to say something about Stewie, as we called him,
in these pages.
Scott Stewart was one of the finest
police officers the City of Detroit has ever seen.
His experience, knowledge and street smarts were
not reflected in his brief 5-year tour of duty,
as Stewie was wise beyond his years. Scott served
in the US Army during Desert Storm and returned
home to join the Detroit Police Department. I started
working with Scott in early 1999 after my previous
partner was shot and disabled. Scott and I were
partners and friends for the better part of the
last 3 ½ years and we were very close.
On August 11, 2002, Scott and
his two partners, working a plainclothes "booster
car", approached a large party that had spilled
onto the streets on one of the worst blocks in the
precinct. The officers observed a group of men gambling
in the middle of the street and decided to investigate.
They noticed one of the men walking away as they
approached and became suspicious and decided to
investigate him further. One of the officers then
noticed the suspect fumbling with his waistband
and saw a bulge that was consistent with a concealed
firearm. Officer Stewart approached the man, who
had begun to run, and ended up catching up to the
suspect on the lawn of a residence. Officer Stewart
quickly disarmed and cuffed the suspect, who was
carrying a fully loaded semi-automatic pistol.
Then two other men in the crowd
took off running and Officer Stewart's partners
began pursuit. As Officer Stewart began to lift
the man to his feet and escort him back to the unmarked
police car, the suspect’s brother-in-law,
who was angry that his relative got caught "dirty",
walked out from behind the bushes where he was hiding
and shot Officer Stewart in the back of the head.
The coward, whose name is not worthy to be mentioned
on anything but a headstone, was apprehended the
next day and is currently awaiting trial on first-degree
murder charges.
Officer Stewart was survived by
his parents, two sisters, a fiancé (also
a Detroit Police Officer), and many friends and
partners he had met along his brief 31 years on
earth.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
War Story
By David Kahler
Sergeant, Dallas PD, TX.
I think that what you are doing
is a noble effort. I, too, was affected by what
I saw on September 11th and wished with all my being
that I could have been there to assist my brother
officers. You are asking for stories -- well, after
13 years of law enforcement, I have a bunch of them…
Back in 1989 when I was just a
rookie, Hurricane Hugo came through my county. Everyone
was called in and a State of Emergency was declared.
I was working that afternoon and was en route to
backup another officer on a shots fired call. I
had been advised by dispatch that the road leading
to the call was clear of debris. Wrong! As I rounded
a curve, I came suddenly upon a large oak tree lying
right across the road. I hit my brakes but I slid
straight into the tree, completely burying my vehicle
in the thick branches. As I sat there contemplating
what new career opportunities might be available
to me, the rescue squad pulled up. They took one
look at my vehicle and shouted, "We are going
to have to cut him out!”
Well, figuring I was already in enough trouble,
and not wanting to end up as a headline on the front
page of the local newspaper, I replied, "Like
hell you are!” and kicked open the door to
the vehicle, extricating myself. As I climbed out
of the thick foliage to the applause of the Rescue
Squad, Emergency Management showed up and put a
“Road Closed” barricade up about 150
feet down the road from the scene of my personal
Waterloo. For the next hour I tried to explain,
first to the Highway Patrol, then to my Sergeant,
and then to my Captain, that the sign had NOT been
there when I first came down the road. My only witnesses,
the Rescue Squad, had gone off to another call,
leaving me to dig my way out of it, much as I had
from the embrace of the oak tree. Needless to say,
I took a lot of ribbing for that one. One of the
senior officers even videotaped the scene.
Another of my more memorable calls
concerns the time that I was dispatched to investigate
a reported Peeping Tom. Upon arrival, I heard a
great deal of yelling coming from the back of the
residence and then a man came running from behind
the house and close on his heels was a very irate
and very large woman. He ran past me, yelling the
whole way, and I observed a butcher knife sticking
out of his back, about midway down, right between
his shoulder blades. I noted that the knife was
quivering as he ran. The woman, wearing only a night
gown and robe, also ran past me yelling, “Give
me back my knife, you sonofabitch!”
Another officer managed to stop
the running man, and call for an ambulance, while
I was left with the unenviable job of apprehending
the woman. That was a fight, let me tell you. It
turns out that the woman had caught the man peeping
into her daughter’s window, snuck up behind
him, and let him have it with the knife. He was
treated and released from the hospital; she went
to jail. It was one of those sights I won’t
ever forget but, of course, it was all in a day’s
work.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Line Of Duty
By John Schembra
Sergeant, Retired after
30 years, Pleasant Hill PD, CA.
She had just turned sixteen
last week and life couldn’t be better. It
had been a great summer, hanging out with her friends
and taking trips with her family. She had been practicing
her driving, preparing to take the driving test
next week to get her license, and her mom had promised
she could drive for their outing today.
They were going to lunch at the
California Pizza Kitchen in Walnut Creek, her favorite
restaurant, then to Sun Valley Mall in Concord to
do some shopping for school clothes. It would be
a good practice session for her driving because
there would be some traffic, but not too much.
They left at 11:00 a.m. for lunch.
She drove the 10 miles to the restaurant, staying
at the speed limit and being very careful, pulling
into the parking lot 25 minutes later. She had trouble
maneuvering the car into a parking place, having
to go back and forth a couple of times until it
was straight and in the middle of the space. They
laughed over her difficulties but her mom made a
mental note to have her practice when they got to
the mall.
He left his house in Martinez
at 10:30 a.m., driving his pick-up to Orinda to
help a friend work on his car. It needed a brake
job, and they were going to change the oil and radiator
fluid at the same time. He drove slightly below
the speed limit, making sure he obeyed all the laws.
He couldn’t afford to be stopped by the cops
again. His license was suspended and he was on court
probation for three prior drunk driving convictions.
He was not supposed to be driving at all as part
of his probation, but he had been ever since he
was released from jail three months ago.
He parked in front of his friend’s
house and walked up the driveway to the open garage.
His friend had already started working on the car
and had removed the front wheels. At that moment,
his friend was sitting on a milk crate drinking
a beer. The friend reached into a cooler next to
him and tossed him a beer as he came into the garage.
Catching the beer, he popped the top and drank half
of it in three large gulps, belching loudly. His
friend laughed and fished another beer out of the
cooler for himself. When they finished those, they
began working on the car.
The mother and the daughter left the restaurant
at 1 p.m. The daughter was driving and she turned
left onto North Main Street and drove the seven
miles through Walnut Creek and Pleasant Hill to
the mall. Her mother had her drive to a deserted
part of the parking lot where she could practice
before they parked near the mall entrance. Afterwards,
they walked into the mall, laughing and talking
more like best friends than mother and daughter.
It took the two men 2 ½ hours to complete
the work on the car. During that time they finished
the other seven beers in the cooler, with the one
with the suspended license drinking four of them.
By the time they went into the house for something
to eat he could feel the effects of the alcohol.
Even with a buzz on, he had two more beers with
his food.
After lunch, they sat in the
kitchen for awhile, talking and drinking even more
beer, until 3:30 p.m. when he looked at his watch.
He figured he had better get home before his wife,
as she would be really pissed if she knew he had
been driving. She was going to be mad enough when
she saw he had been drinking. That, too, was a violation
of his probation.
He finished his ninth beer and left the kitchen,
walking to his truck parked at the curb. He got
in and after several tries, got the key in the ignition
and started the engine. Dropping the gear selector
into drive, he accelerated quickly, spinning his
tires as he pulled away. He turned right onto Mt.
Diablo Blvd., accelerating to 55 mph in the 35-mph
zone, weaving in and out of the lanes as he passed
slower vehicles. He turned westbound on Taylor Blvd.
and sped up to 66 mph in the 45-mph zone, heading
up the hill toward Pleasant Hill.
The mother and the daughter finished their shopping
by 3:15 p.m. She treated herself and her mom to
a smoothie that they drank while walking to the
car. She pulled slowly out of the parking lot and
turned onto Contra Costa Blvd. They planned to take
Taylor Blvd. over the hill into Lafayette. There
wouldn’t be too much traffic and once they
passed Pleasant Hill Rd. there were few homes or
businesses along the road and only a couple of stoplights.
It was two lanes in each direction, divided by a
4” concrete median. It would give her an opportunity
to drive a bit faster than she was used to, preparing
her for their freeway practice next week.
She turned eastbound on Taylor
Blvd. and drove at the 45-mph speed limit, passing
the Pleasant Hill Police Department and proceeding
over the hill and through the intersection with
Pleasant Hill Rd. She accelerated smoothly to 55
mph, the posted speed limit, and moved into the
slow lane. She sang softly to the song on the radio
as she drove up the hill.
His speed rose to 72 mph as he crested the hill
and started down. He pulled into the right lane
to pass the car in front of him, accelerating to
78 mph. As he rapidly caught up to the car that
now was in front of him he misjudged how fast he
was going. He suddenly realized he was closing too
fast and yanked the steering wheel to the left,
trying to go around the car. That much force at
that speed caused the back of his pickup to slide
to the right. He yanked the wheel the other way,
over-correcting the skid, causing his front tires
to hit the low median at an angle. His truck went
airborne for a short distance, knocking over a “divided
highway” sign on the median. When his truck
landed in the opposing lane he lost all control
and rocketed across both lanes toward the hillside.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a blur coming
toward her. She barely had time to react before
the truck hit her car at the left front headlight.
In the first two hundredths of a second the airbag
deployed, preventing her face from striking the
steering wheel. It didn’t matter, though,
as the force from the truck drove the engine into
the front seat area, crushing her chest and rupturing
her internal organs. She died almost instantly,
feeling nothing, no fear, and no pain.
Her mother was “luckier.”
She saw the truck coming and tried to brace herself,
which broke both her legs. Her left leg was shattered
when the engine was driven into the front compartment
and her right leg snapped just above the knee. She
cracked six ribs on her left side also. The worst
injury happened when her left hand was almost severed
at the wrist by the torn and twisted metal forced
into the front seat compartment, and she had some
internal injuries from striking the dashboard as
it was pushed into her seat. She would live, though
it would take several surgeries and almost two years
before she completely healed. The doctors re-attached
her hand, though she would never be able to use
it normally again and she would always walk with
a slight limp. Though her physical injuries would
heal she would never get over the loss of her daughter.
And him? When he struck the car, he slid forward
on the seat, breaking his right leg. His face hit
the steering wheel, breaking his nose and knocking
out a couple of teeth. He would heal and be as good
as new in six months.
The 9-1-1 lines all lit up with frantic callers.
The two beat cars were dispatched and I, as the
shift supervisor, automatically responded to the
scene. I sped there to the scene with lights and
siren on. From the sound of the dispatcher’s
voice, I knew this would be a bad one.
I was the second car to arrive
and immediately ran to the closest vehicle, a pickup
truck. The first arriving officer was already at
the bent and twisted wreckage of the car, leaning
in the passenger window. There was debris from the
two vehicles scattered across the road. Pieces of
metal and bits of glass covered the roadway and
oil and radiator fluid made the footing slippery.
The driver of the truck was semi-conscious
and moaning, and I could see he was bleeding badly
from his facial injuries. The interior of the truck
reeked of alcohol. I grabbed a T-shirt from the
front seat and pressed it to the driver’s
face to stem the flow of blood. When the second
beat unit arrived, I had the officer take over and
I looked to see where the first officer was. I could
see him leaning in the car, and, since I could hear
the sirens of the approaching fire truck and ambulance,
I walked to my patrol car, popped the trunk and
started taking flares out.
“Sarge, you better
come here,” called the officer at the destroyed
automobile. I felt a sense of dread when I heard
that, but walked quickly to the car. As I came up
to the driver’s side, I could see the twisted
metal and the engine in the compartment and the
upper torso of a young girl. She looked to be sleeping
though her face was ashen. There was no blood. She
was leaning forward over the engine, which had crushed
her against the seatback. I felt for a carotid pulse
knowing there would be none but hoping just the
same. Her skin still was warm though the life had
left her body. Fighting down the lump in my throat,
I closed her eyes and turned away.
It took the fire department a
half-hour to cut away enough of the car to get her
mother out so she could be taken to the hospital.
She barely survived.
It took another hour and a half
to remove the body of the driver, this young girl
who had her whole life ahead of her, a life cut
short by a drunk driver. She would never have another
birthday. Sweet Sixteen was her last.
He was the first person in California
tried and convicted for murder in a drunk driving
case under a new law passed a few months earlier.
He received 25 years to life, and would not be eligible
for parole for 18 years. Of all the cases I handled
in my 30 years with the force, of all the brutality
and death I have seen, this is the one that will
haunt me the rest of my life.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9-11: Line of Duty
On September 11th I awoke
and realized there was no power at my house. I got
up, looked at my beeper, and saw it was around 0930.
I work for the Virginia Tech Police Department,
assigned to the New River Regional Drug Task Force,
and I usually get to work around 0900. I jumped
in the shower then rushed to work. When I left there
was still no power at home. I never knew why we
had no power, but now it seems like it was an omen
of some kind.
When I walked in the Task Force
office everyone was glued to the TV. This wasn't
unusual as we often start the day catching up on
the news. Most of the guys were there: our coordinator,
S/A Harvey Spahr, an agent with Virginia State Police;
S/O Gary Thomas, an officer from Blacksburg PD;
S/O Cameron Pack, a Deputy from the Montgomery County
Sheriff’s Office; and S/O Kevin Tucker, an
officer from Christiansburg PD; S/A Chuck Eaton
from Virginia State Police was visiting; and Katharine
Wystrach, our office manager was there.
Kevin looked up at me and said
that planes had struck each of the twin towers of
the WTC and that another one had crashed into the
Pentagon. I said, “Yeah, whatever” but
then I could tell by the look on Katherine’s
face that he hadn’t been joking. She had family
in DC and L.A. and was anxious to reach them by
phone but could not get through. As I turned, dumbstruck,
to the TV, the first tower fell. Shaken, I tried
to call my wife, Erica, who was four months pregnant
with twins. I tried several times, but all the phone
lines were busy. When I finally got her, she said
they'd been listening to what was happening on the
radio, and that her boss was sending them home around
1300.
Around 1100, my pager went off
“911”. It was my Department saying that
we were all on call and not to be more than thirty
minutes away. Besides being a police officer, I’m
a volunteer firefighter and so I felt doubly helpless.
I told Kevin we needed to go up to New York and
help. I felt just as bad about the Pentagon in DC,
but the sheer magnitude of the tragedy was drawing
me to NYC. Kevin and Cameron both agreed we needed
to go and help but we just didn't know how to go
about it. I talked it over with my Police Chief
but she told me I was needed where I was. This totally
pissed me off at the time. In retrospect, I realize
that she was concerned with matters on campus. Who
knew what to expect? But the next day I asked my
Fire Department Chief, Jimmy Epperly, if we could
drive the department's Suburban to New York City.
He, being the coolest Fire Chief in the country,
said "Go if you must." I got an okay from
my PD and our gear was packed into the Suburban.
We planned to leave the next morning.
On September 13th at 0530 my
wife woke me and told me that something was wrong.
There was a puddle of blood in the bed, which scared
the hell out of me. Blood was running down her legs,
and when she got to the commode, clots were falling
into the toilet. I was terrified that she was losing
the twins and I was terrified that something would
happen to Erica – she is my high school sweetheart
and my best friend. Somehow I stayed calm enough
to dial 911.
I told the dispatcher I needed
Rescue, that I thought my wife was having a miscarriage.
My dad, Jimmy, also a fireman, always has scanners
on and he was the first one at my house that morning
along with my mom, Phyllis. Three or four town police
officers I’ve worked with recognized my address
and came over along with the Chief Epperly and Rescue
members. They transported us to the hospital and
that day began.
By 0900 it appeared that both
Erica and the babies were going to be okay but for
the next three days she remained in the hospital.
She’d had Placenta Previa and bed rest was
essential. We talked a lot in those days. She knew
how much I loved her and our kids, but she also
knew how badly I wanted to go to New York to see
if I could be of help so she gave me her blessing.
Everybody told us that it was
too late to go, that the TV kept announcing that
no more volunteers were needed in the city but we
didn’t listen and Kevin, Cameron and I were
on the way on the morning of September 20th.
The first glimpse we had of the
devastation of the 9-11 attack was when we saw the
NYC fire trucks lining the fence at Staten Island.
This was an unbelievable sight; they were crushed
like soda cans. Then, every mile or so, we started
passing large flatbed trucks hauling pieces from
the towers to Staten Island. Each huge piece was
marked with “WT I” or “WT II”.
Even from that distance, we could see the smoke
billowing up from the pile where the WTC had once
stood. We arrived at dark, exiting at the Manhattan
Bridge.
Officers were everywhere and
I mean everywhere! We already realized how lucky
we were to be driving the fire department's Suburban
otherwise we would have never gotten through. When
we came to the first bunch of officers blocking
the roads, they waved us through the first couple
of lights. We had an idea where we wanted to go,
but we didn’t know how close we could get.
An officer at about the third “checkpoint”
stopped us. From what I can remember he was a NY
Trooper. He asked where we were headed; we told
him that we had come to help and he waved us on.
After submitting our badges and driver's licenses
to three more groups of officers, we arrived at
the fence surrounding Ground Zero. We were finally
there, but we didn’t know what the hell to
do next.
We parked near a McDonalds where
free food was being distributed, got out and started
walking. The first thing I noticed was the smell;
it was like that of a house fire, only constant
and pervasive. Finally, coming upon the ruins of
the WTC, I encountered the most amazing sight I’ll
probably ever see: a smoking pile of rubble seven
stories tall. It was, and still is, unbelievable.
At about 2000 hours, we walked
back to a couple of tents we had passed on our way
in and volunteered our help but the people we talked
to said that most of the work was being done by
machine now and not by hand. Still, we had no intention
of giving up. A couple of people told us to check
at the Jacob Javits Center where workers were bussed
from the site to be fed and to get some sleep. We
headed off on foot, and again, the sights were unbelievable:
an avenue filled with nothing but empty trucks,
waiting to get in to haul off the next load.
We stopped to ask some officers
for directions and we noticed they didn't have patches
or badges. These six or eight men, we found out,
were recruits that had been pulled out of the academy
on September 11th, and put on the streets with no
guns. They had been working sixteen-hour days and
were worn out but they had finally received their
vests that day. That, they said, was something.
Further on, a whole line of refrigerated
tractor-trailers was stationed so that if a mass
of bodies were recovered at once there would be
a means of storing and transporting them. We must
have passed more than one hundred of these. I’m
not sure if it was unfortunate or not but they were
never needed.
We finally arrived at the Javits
Center. The military guards there turned down our
offer of assistance. By now it was probably around
2200 hours and it had been raining off and on, and
we were hungry. We decided to ask the next officer
we came to where to go to find something to eat,
maybe a hotel. The next officer was a woman, and
I'd give anything to have gotten her name or, for
that matter, the names of any of the officers we
talked with that day. It was while conversing with
her that I realized that if we couldn't do anything
else, we could at least talk with the officers and
give them some company for a few minutes. She worked
in the Bronx and had experienced just about the
worst anyone could experience as a cop on the street
but, she said, echoing what others had told us,
digging and passing buckets at “the pile”
was about as bad as it could ever get. I particularly
remember her talking about the public’s view
that New York cops were crooked. We set her straight
then, and told her that they were our heroes. We
told her that the whole country had rallied around
in support of those working tirelessly at Ground
Zero and about all of the flags and ribbons. She'd
been unaware of it. She'd been solidly working since
the 11th, around twenty hours a day. We could have
talked to her for days. She was so tired, and at
this point it was pouring down rain. We all hugged
her and, surprisingly, she thanked us. She knew
we hadn't been inside but she still thanked us.
As we headed back in the rain
to the Suburban, we passed by the recruits again
and stopped to talk with them. They were standing
near a row of about thirty ambulances, stationed
there just to assist the workers at Ground Zero.
During the half-hour we were there, two or three
ambulances left to pick up guys who had been injured
working.
Near our parking spot at the
fence there was an opening that was being manned
by about twelve NYPD officers. I decided to approach
them, with the hope of somehow getting inside to
Ground Zero. You could tell they were all tired
but they were laughing and talking. I asked one
of them about finding a hotel. He suggested one
nearby but said not to stay there unless it was
free for us. We were tired from the trip and all
the walking yet it still seems weird saying this
while knowing how tired the officers were that were
working there. We told one NY officer we stopped
to talk to about our desire to pitch in. This seemed
to strike a chord with him – our wanting to
help so badly but not being able to. We ended up
telling him all about ourselves. And we told him
how proud everybody was of them and about the flags
and all the support. When he learned that we hadn't
been in the gates to Ground Zero, he asked me for
my police ID and driver's license. Kevin showed
his too, as did Cameron. The officer said, good
or bad, this was all a part of history and he let
us through the gates. He told us to keep our badges
out and if anyone approached us, we should show
them our badges and ID’s and we wouldn't have
any trouble. It's probably wrong but I was strangely
excited about venturing into forbidden territory.
I knew that thousands of people were still missing
yet I felt as weirdly expectant as a kid at Christmas.
It was September 20th, at around 2330 hours when
we started walking into Ground Zero.
The first thing we saw was the
skeleton remains of several Trade Center buildings.
We had no idea where we were going or what to do,
but we were in. We walked, and stopped, and walked,
and stared.
There were guys everywhere, lying
down; they looked so unbelievably tired. Again,
we felt how badly we wanted to help, but now we
kind of felt like we shouldn’t be there, like
we were no better than tourists. But then we realized
that we weren’t the only people not working;
there must have been thousands of people just staring
at the ruins, watching the few machines, or watching
the few piles being excavated by hand. We circled
from behind the towers to the front near the American
Express building. We stood near the pedestrian bridge
that was unbelievably still standing. There were
hundreds of buckets stacked nearby; they were the
buckets that we saw on TV, the ones being passed
from hand to hand to remove the rubble. We stood
there for maybe thirty minutes and just stared.
It was so amazing; there was no concrete visible,
just twisted metal.
Something that struck me as particularly
sad was coming upon the last fire truck that had
been removed from Ground Zero. It had flipped on
its side and was no taller than I was. There were
SCBA bottles near it that were as flat as an empty
fire hose. A machine was digging near the truck
and when it stopped five or six guys using shovels
started digging. They dug for about ten minutes
then walked out and the machine started back up
again. Again and again.
We went up to the area where the
big trucks came in and out. They were sprayed off
as they exited to prevent the possibility of dangerous
germs spreading. The air was bad and most of the
people we saw were wearing respirators. An officer
pointed us in the direction where we could get them.
At some point in this endless night, an officer
asked for our red IDs; apparently every worker was
supposed to have one along with their other IDs.
We showed him our badges, and must have talked to
him for two hours. You could tell that the officer
appreciated the company and it made us feel great
talking with him. Maybe we were helping him a little
mentally. He told us they'd caught a guy posing
as a firefighter in order to loot and about a few
people that had gone into some of the nearby apartments
and stolen small items.
While we were talking to him
I noticed one very small building in perfect condition
which was surrounded by nothing but rubble. It was
one of those police officer emergency contact booths.
It seemed out of place and we asked why it had been
put there. He told us that it had always been there.
If anyone had been in there during the attack and
subsequent building collapse he wouldn't have gotten
a scratch on him. We saw a crushed fire truck just
up the street and debris as far as the eye could
see. And, just then, the bodies of two firefighters
were found near the fire truck we had walked by
earlier. One was carried out by other firefighters
and the other was hauled out on a Gator six-wheeler.
They were the only two found on the September 21st.
Later, we saw the fire truck hauled out.
We circled around back to the
starting point. The officer that had let us in was
still there. This officer had given us an intimate
view of one of the great tragic events of history
and all I had for him was a Virginia Tech PD hat
which I had gotten from the secretary before I left.
We talked for another hour. In thinking back, all
of the officers that we talked to were from different
precincts. Some of them didn't know anything about
the area they'd been assigned to but maybe they
didn’t’ need to, everything had changed
so much.
We left then to find a hotel.
We left the city by the Lincoln Tunnel that was
closed except to exiting emergency vehicles. We
found a hotel in New Jersey and slept until noon.
At 0900 on the 22nd we made it
back to Ground Zero, parking just down the road
from where we had the day before. We approached
the gate, showed our IDs, and went inside. We circled
around the same way we had the day before. We watched
dogs as they worked; they, along with their handlers,
looked like ants swarming over the piles. As we
made our way to a park in front of the American
Express building, volunteers walked up to us offering
drinks, snacks and food. At the park they had courtesy
phones set up so volunteers could contact families.
I called my mom and the local Fire Department to
let everybody know where we were and that we were
all right. There was an area in the park set up
as a memorial for the NYPD officers, the PA officers,
and the FDNY firefighters who had fallen there.
Workers constantly approached the memorial, stood
there for a moment in silence, and reached out to
touch the name or picture of their loved one or
friend.
Eventually we arrived at an area
which was often shown on TV; a black glass building,
with a large piece from one of the twin towers sticking
out of it, about twenty stories up. Workers were
in all of the surrounding buildings removing broken
glass. Another firefighter’s body was found
in a crane basket and as they were lowering the
basket, glass and other debris started falling from
the black glass building. It was really scary because
it seemed like a huge piece of the tower was toppling
down but it was only glass. But we all ran for it,
up a sidewalk and away from the building. A couple
of people got knocked down but nobody was injured.
Afterwards, everybody returned to solemnly watch
the body recovery. We all removed our masks and
hard-hats to honor the fallen firefighter. Later
we saw on the news that his was the only body recovered
that day.
We decided it was time for us
to head back to Virginia; we had planned to stay
for three or four nights but two had been enough.
I wanted to see my wife and my daughter Madison,
my parents, and my friends. As we left the area
in the Suburban, every officer we passed, at every
corner either waved or gave us a thumbs up and yelled
“Thank you!” I’m not sure that
we did much to help but I hope that our being there,
our simple conversation brought some comfort or
relief to those on the front lines.
Postscript: our twin boys, Oakley
and Rally were born on February 23, 2002 and Erica
was fine. We already have a beautiful little five-year-old
girl, Madison. Recently there was a report that
over 50 babies have been born to women whose husbands
were killed in the catastrophe. Erica and I feel
especially blessed with our family and our good
fortune.
May 30, 2002. I watched today
as they removed the last piece of debris from Ground
Zero. It brought back memories and a few tears.
I don’t believe I can express how that trip
to Ground Zero affected me; maybe only Erica understands
how I truly feel. Fire Chief Epperly still asks
me from time to time if everything is going okay.
I know he’s referring to the aftereffects
of what we witnessed in the aftermath. He told me
that his biggest concern about us going to Ground
Zero was the effect it might have on us mentally.
He told us of several firefighters that took their
own lives after the tragedy in Oklahoma. But we
were only there for two nights; I can’t imagine
the toll exacted on those working at the pile day
in and day out for all these months.
I think about those days a lot
and I only wish we could have gotten there sooner.
I have found that I rarely miss noticing 09:11,
both a.m. and p.m., on the digital clock. Somehow
I bet there are a lot of people out there who will
say the same thing.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Beat
By John W. Kolberg
Sergeant, 25
years, Oakbrook Terrace, IL PD.
I’ve worked in all aspects
of law enforcement from Police Officer, Evidence
Technician, Detective, to Sergeant. I’m the
co-founder and webmaster of www.SafetyCops.com,
a web site devoted to informing the public of crime
prevention tips and ideas. And I’ve also had
the pleasure of meeting with this book’s author,
and wholeheartedly support Randy’s noble project.
With the advent of the Internet
in the mid-nineties, I was bitten by the police
shoulder patch collecting bug. Many officers use
services like AOL to communicate with fellow police
officers, not only across the country, but also
throughout the world. I have collected patches from
across the U.S., Canada, Australia, and Europe.
I would find a chat room or forum devoted to law
enforcement, and invariably I’d find other
officers with similar interests.
When an officer would request a patch from me I
would send along a short letter explaining who I
was, what my agency was like, how long I had been
on the job, and what my duties were. When I received
a patch in return, often it was simply placed in
the envelope sometimes with the sender’s business
card, rarely with any written correspondence.
One day I received a request from an officer in
California for a shoulder patch. He was a member
of the Covina Police Department located in the Los
Angeles area. I sent the patch to him along with
my customary letter, and was surprised when I received
a reply from him asking me questions about our Chicago
winter. This was 1995, a particularly brutal winter
in the Windy City, so I tried to convey the lousy
driving conditions and cold to him in terms that
I thought a “Southern California guy”
might envision. I described driving in the snow,
freezing your balls off while handling calls, the
wet feet, the whole nine yards. He in turn responded
about how the L.A. area doesn’t go through
such extreme seasons and cold to him was putting
on a sweater for the day. This of course elicited
a cheerfully sarcastic response from me.
Our conversing back and forth continued for a year
and covered a whole array of topics from the weather,
to baseball, to our bosses, to crime. What we learned
over that time was that police work is universal
in nature. The type of calls and incidents we respond
to in the Midwest are the same as those on the West
Coast. Suspects commit strange and ugly crimes,
officers get shot and hurt, and civilians usually
don’t have a clue what it’s like to
do this job. The extreme stress, anxiety, fear,
and anger are offset by the sense of duty and pride
that the police officer feels. Few outside the profession
understand these divergent emotions. This is why
police officers tend to gravitate toward each other
for companionship.
So after this year of cyber-discussion, we decided
that we should meet in person. Now, remember we
had never actually spoken to each other, much less
seen one another. Being cops, who are naturally
suspicious, this was a major leap of faith. Of course
during our many chats we uncovered certain identifiers
and clues to confirm each other’s identity.
This was done subtly, but each knew what the other
was doing. Once we were convinced that we both were
who we claimed to be, I invited him to Chicago in
April for a Cubs game and a long weekend of sightseeing.
My wife and kids were nervous about my inviting
this stranger into our home. My co-workers simply
thought I was nuts. However, as other cops well
know, we in the trade develop a “sixth sense”
about people, and I knew it would be okay. I picked
Scott up at O’Hare and from the beginning
we hit it off. My family and I showed him around
Chicago and we were truly sorry to see him go. He
extended an invitation for us to visit him and stay
with his family in California. I had never been
to the West Coast before and my perception of it
was clouded by what I had seen on TV and in the
movies. It is, after all, called the land of “Fruits
and Nuts”. But I overcame my suspicions and
we went to visit him that summer. I was truly impressed
with Southern California and fell in love with the
area. Scott and his family were beyond hospitable
and we all had a great time.
Since our patch trade and first cautious meeting,
our families have met two more times. Again here
in Illinois and just recently we paid them a visit
in California. The friendship between us has become
firm and fast. Often, usually over a cocktail, we’ll
laugh about how something as simple as a piece of
cloth led to such deep mutual respect and friendship.
Police Officers don’t make
friends easily. Making a friend through the Internet
is even more remarkable given the suspicious nature
of our profession. This was without doubt the best
patch trade I ever made.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Beat
By Keith J. Bettinger
Police Officer,
21 years, Retired, Suffolk County PD, Yaphank, NY.
I am sitting at my desk, but what
I should be doing is cleaning the house. Since we
need to paint the room, and we are thinking of moving
eventually, I have packed away almost all my police
memorabilia. This includes all but one of my law
enforcement uniform patches. Right now, there are
over one thousand patches in a box waiting to be
mounted or placed in an album so they can be displayed.
However, there is one patch in a frame all by itself.
It sits on my desk because it is special to me.
The patch is not a fancy emblem.
It is just black and gold. All it has on it is the
name of the community, the word "POLICE"
and a gold star embroidered at the bottom. It is
not a new patch. In fact, it is rather battered
and worn. It is not the type of patch over which
most collectors would make a fuss but it has a history
and a story all it's own.
In January 1991, I was assigned
to work investigations in my precinct's plainclothes
unit. One afternoon I was sitting at my desk, shuffling
through my cases when the telephone rang. It was
a police officer from the Midwest calling to speak
specifically to me. He had read one of my articles
about living through the effects of Post Shooting
Trauma. He said he enjoyed it and it was informative.
Now he needed more information.
His brother, also a police officer,
had been in a shooting and he was worried about
his brother's physical and emotional well being
in the aftermath. He asked if I had any more information
on Post Shooting Trauma and he wanted to know what
he could do for his brother. He also wanted to know
if I would speak to his brother if he needed to
talk to someone.
I told him that I had written
a few more articles on Post Shooting Trauma, and
would be more than happy to send him copies. We
discussed the symptoms, what to look for, and what
he could do to if any problems arose. I let him
know that I would be more than happy to speak to
his brother and was available anytime he might need
me. I mentioned that I had a friend who was a police
officer and a peer support person who lived only
a couple miles from them so he would be someone
nearby if they needed immediate help.
The officer thanked me and wanted
to know what he could do to repay me. I told him
I appreciated his thinking so highly of my work
and that that was enough. I did add that I was a
patch collector, and said if he could send me a
couple patches from his area, it would be appreciated.
Some weeks later, I heard from
the officer. His brother was working his way through
the shooting aftermath; it was a struggle but he
was doing better. He said he wanted to thank me
for my help and he told me he would continue to
keep me informed of his brother's progress. He also
said he was working on obtaining some patches for
my collection. That was the last I heard from him.
One day, a few years later, I
was on the Internet in a law enforcement website
when I found the name and e-mail address of the
officer who had contacted me about his brother.
I sent an email and asked how his brother was, and
included a little dig, "By the way, where are
those patches?"
A few days later a large envelope
arrived. When I opened it, I found it was full of
patches. There were patches from his department,
his former department, and patches from neighboring
departments. There also was a patch from the department
where his brother, now a high-ranking supervisor,
had transferred to after the shooting. The last
patch I took out was the one that was old and beaten
up. It’s the one that now sits alone on my
desk in a frame by itself. It had a note on it that
said, "I know this doesn't look like much,
but this patch was on the uniform my brother was
wearing the day of his shooting. When he left the
department he kept that shirt. He took one patch
off and kept it for himself. I took the other one
for you. It belongs to you. Without your help I
don't know if my brother would be here today. If
there is anything I can do for you, give me a call."
I sat down and wrote a note to
let him know he didn't owe me a thing. I was paid
in full.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
War Story
By Robert “Robin”
Vercher
Captain, Pineville
City PD, LA; Retired
It is never too late for a veteran
police officer to get a good laugh out of a brand
new recruit (rookie). This is a story that I will
never forget and it is still as vivid to me as the
day it happened.
Mickey was assigned to ride with
me on the day shift and I was to be his training
officer for that day. He was fresh out of the books
and ready to show his knowledge of police work.
He was very serious about the job but also exhibited
a good sense of humor.
We had a small department but
we were well versed in a variety of routine, and
sometimes dangerous, calls. One learns to recognize
the difference immediately in most cases. And all
of these calls, dangerous or just routine, have
to be handled by typical everyday people dressed
in dark uniforms and sworn to uphold the law.
Mickey and I were dispatched to
a low income housing area to check out a report
of a disturbance. This could mean just about anything
and even a rookie knew that we could never be sure
what to expect. When we arrived at the location
I recognized the mobile home. I had been to this
residence numerous times and not once had my visit
turned out to be anything close to routine.
We started up the driveway to
the rear of the trailer. We could hear shouting
and other noises coming from back there so we knew
that that’s where the problem was. But then
a man appeared at the far end of the drive. We both
froze in our tracks: the subject was barefoot, wearing
only a pair of jockey shorts and was holding tightly
to a long screwdriver which he held in front of
him like a weapon. Mickey and I both had our hands
over our weapons but we didn’t draw them because
there was more to this description. The subject
also had an oval lamp shade over his head and masking
tape was loosely draped or wrapped not only all
over the shade but around the man’s head and
neck as well. The end of the tape was stuck in his
mouth and as we watched he began chewing on the
end of it.
Though I couldn’t see much
of the subject’s face I recognized him as
Crazy Jesse. I had contact with Crazy Jesse on numerous
previous occasions and such bizarre behavior wasn’t
unusual for him. He had a history of dealing and
doing all sorts of narcotics and though I didn’t
know of anyone ever having been hurt by him, he
was clearly paranoid and delusional.
As this was Mickey’s first
day out, I knew that I had to make the most of this
situation. I would find out what Officer Mickey
was made of in short order. I looked over at him
and though he appeared to have quit breathing, he
was still maintaining the ready position with his
hand on his unsnapped holster. He glanced over at
me and said, “Rob, watch out, this **** is
crazy!"
We were still approximately 20
to 30 feet from Crazy Jesse and he was still chewing
on the end of the tape and staring at us between
the strips. As we resumed our approach, I pulled
my baton out and ordered him to drop the screwdriver.
Crazy Jesse started mumbling something and then
he began to walk toward us; I ordered him to stop
and he complied but he didn’t drop the screwdriver.
Mickey said, "Watch out,
man, I’m telling you this **** is crazy",
and for the first time and I thought he was going
to draw his weapon. But Mickey and Crazy Jesse just
locked eyes, staring at each other like they were
taking lifetime pictures and trying to understand
how in the hell they each had become a part of it.
Finally, transfixed by Mickey’s unwavering
gaze, Crazy Jesse dropped the screwdriver to the
ground and Mickey’s color returned. We placed
Crazy Jesse under arrest for disturbing the peace
and transported him to the station.
Jesse still had some of the tape
drooping from his head and was mumbling to himself
when the Chief walked out of his office.
“What’s up, Jesse?”
asked the Chief.
“These people shot me,”
he said indicating Mickey and me. “But that’s
okay I caught it between my teeth.”
The Chief turned to me. “Is
this true, Rob?”
“Yes, sir, it is. But, like
he said, he caught the bullet between his teeth.”
The Chief nodded, satisfied, and
turned to Mickey.
"What’s up, Mickey?"
Mickey looked at the Chief and
answered, "Chief, that is the craziest ****
I have ever met in my life. But that training officer
is just as damned crazy!"
He was pointing at me as I was
walking out the front door of our police department,
laughing as I went. But that’s what you do
with rookies. You help them to sort out the difference
between the dangerous, the routine and the simply
bizarre. And if you’re lucky, you have a laugh
at the end of the day. I’m sure that Mickey
won’t ever forget his first meeting with Crazy
Jesse; I sure never did.
I knew that Mickey would make
a good officer and supervisor and he did. He is
now a Captain with the same department and we are
still friends.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
War Story
By Brent Larson
Patrol Officer, 7 years,
City of The Dalles PD, OR
One aspect of the job of
a police officer involves seeing the good side of
people. It’s easy to become caustic and pessimistic
about the nature of most of the people we deal with
but, several years into the job, I had an experience
that helped restore my confidence in mankind.
I think most officers will probably
agree that a necessary part of police equipment
these days is a good pair of gloves. I know some
officers like to wear their gloves most of the time
on duty. Others carry a pair of gloves in their
sap pockets or in an otherwise handy place so they
can get at then when they anticipate trouble. That
way, if they have time, they will slip the gloves
on before tussling with someone. It is important
that the gloves offer both protection and allow
one dexterous movement, as when writing or when
drawing and firing your sidearm, for example.
Now, I had a nice pair of leather
roping gloves that cost me thirty dollars, which
I used for such purposes. One morning while heading
home after a long shift, I unloaded my patrol car
while it was parked on the street. It seems that
after I had used the gloves I had left them on the
passenger seat of my patrol car then, when I was
carrying an armful of equipment into the building,
I must have somehow scooped them up along with everything
else. What I didn’t realize is that somewhere
between the patrol car and the building I had dropped
the gloves on the sidewalk. In fact, I didn't realize
this until I came back to work that night, at around
1730 hours. Hurriedly, I ran outside to look on
the pavement where the patrol car had been parked,
hoping against hope that my gloves would somehow
still be there. But they were not. This saddened
me but I guess I really didn’t expect to find
them.
As I walked back to the station,
however, I happened to glance at the large picture
window of one of the local businesses. Propped on
the ledge outside of the window were my gloves!
I was just amazed. After all, it was wintertime
and the gloves were expensive and of high quality
and looked brand new. I went inside the business
and asked the owner about the gloves. He told me
he had found them on the sidewalk that morning when
he came to work, recognized that they were nice
gloves and figured that someone would come back
looking for them, so he set them on the ledge in
front of his shop window. He couldn't see the gloves
from inside the shop, and of course there were lots
of folks walking by during the day, but there the
gloves stayed, all day long, until I returned looking
for them. Maybe it’s the little things that
count because that day, as I stuffed my good gloves
into my sap pocket, my faith in humanity was restored. |
