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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
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