Cop Tales – Ex Cop Tales

Now – The Peace Patrol and a Mission

December 15th, 2020 – Crestone Colorado

I believe every man should have a Mission that is greater than anything else.

A distant horizon, a mountain top, a direction of travel – The place that my path leads me. To be in service to something greater than self or Clan. To find something you can swear an Oath to. The people in my life are important and I would die for them but I always have my Mission.

I have found mine in the Peace Patrol.

Stupa of enlightenment – A place I catch and project Love Beams

I live in a small Colorado mountain town nestled in the wiggly toes of Grandfather mountains. I am embraced and held up by the beauty and Wild Places just outside my front door. This town is unique and often referred to as the spiritual crossroads of the World. Many have been called to this place. It’s a loving community filled with Teachers, Artists, Writers, Hippies and other beautiful people.

I was drawn here like a moth to a flame. One day, when I was volunteering at Orient Land Trust, Rosie asked if I wanted to go to Crestone with her. I was low on supplies and didn’t have anything else to do and thought why not. We covered the backroads between the spring and the town filled with a great conversation about Rosie’s life in Crestone. She was and is well respected and a pillar of the community. She would become my gatekeeper.

Rosie told me of the death of her beloved husband Ed in intimate detail. She then asked me if I wanted to visit the Pyre where he was cremated, it was on our way. I barely knew what a Pyre was but I said yes.

Once inside the circle of bamboo fence and witness to the pyre itself Rosie began to cry and relived for me the open air cremation of her Ed. She told me how the community had gathered around as the sun rose. How she had placed Ed’s guitar on top of him before the fire was lit. How she and Ed’s children had lit the four corners of his pyre. She spoke of magic, tears and love. Hot stinging tears spilled down my face as I thought to myself, “I don’t know what these people are up to but I’ve got to be a part of it”. There and then I made myself a promise to move to this town.

*I would later volunteer to be a member of the fire team with Crestone End of Life Project*

I posted on facebook that I was looking for a room. Rosie vouched for me and Anrahyah took me in. The preverbal wandered had found a home.

Back to a mission and the Peace Patrol

Covid had just struck and I began to have security concerns for my town. The local Sheriff is stretched thin and I knew it. I started asking around if there were any other retired law enforcement or military people willing to stand with me in defense of this town. That led me to Kofi.

Kofi is an ex-gangbanger raised on the streets of Gary Indiana. Our backgrounds could not have been more different. He was to become one of my best partners ever, and I’ve had many great partners, Batman and Robin once again. Kofi is a man of honor and earned respect. Tough as nails with a gentle heart, a rare man who I love.

Slowly we started building a team. There are 15 of us now. Kofi already had a strong group of men surrounding him that had been doing similar work for the past years. We built from there.

We trained and found a foundation of our core values. Kofi brought the 42 Ideals of Ma’at to us which the team adopted as our oath.

Sophiah Yaa Fyah Bey™ on Twitter: "42 Ideals of Maat and 42 Negative Confessions of Maat. One in th rising and th other before rescing. Yah can also say "I will not"

We are not Warriors because Warriors need enemies and we have none. We are Protectors and Keepers of the Peace. We are prepared to stand between these people and whoever would threaten or prey on them. We come with open hearts and strong will. We stand together in this work.

We have gathered a group of Grandmothers around us and ask them to Guide us, Lead us and Hold us responsible for our actions.

We met with the Sheriff and received his blessing.

One time Kofi and I identified an active meth house. A woman, who had been at the dope house for three days and nights smoking meth, ended up pounding her knuckles bloody against my door at midnight. When I answered the door I could barely understand her rattled speed freak talk. I did pick up on threats of assault and knew it was tied to the dope house around the corner from me.

I called Kofi to back me up. He was there within five minutes.

Kofi asked the freak if he could smudge her with sage (it’s a hippie thing). She agreed and Kofi smudged her with the wing of a hawk. She did seem to calm down and Kofi moved into the good cop role.

He turned and said to me, “Brother we have to catch this woman. We are called on to protect the women, the children, the elders and the Chief. The Universe delivered her to your doorstep.” In that moment I loved him more.

We spent the next three hours driving this woman all over the valley. No one would take her in. Kofi took her to his home and put her up in his casita. Over the next days Kofi and his wife would take the woman to her mother, who refused to even speak to the her, and two homeless shelters before finding a place for her.

Kofi and I later decided to have a little talk with the meth dealer. I drove up across the street from the dope house just as our primary suspect was driving away. I waved him over to my van. I asked the dealer, “Do you know who I am” as I stared hard into his eyes. He said no. “Have you ever heard of the Peace Patrol”? Again he said no. I told him he should ask around because he had our undivided attention.

I decided to take a different tact. Rather than argue over whether or not he was running a dope house, which I’d already confirmed though numerous informants he was, I went in this direction.

“Young man I’ve done a deep background investigation on you and I want to tell you this. Almost every person I spoke to told me what a fine student and young man you use to be, what happened”. It was the truth.

The dealer, addicted to his own shit, was broken to tears as he said he wanted to be that again. Kofi said, “Young brother let us help pull you back into the light but you gotta stop slinging dope and defiling our women and community with your poison”.

The young man nodded in agreement, having indirectly admitted to selling dope. He invited Kofi and I to visit anytime, unannounced. He closed down his operations shortly and a nice family moved in the once dope house.

Another time I was in town when someone contacted me and related that there was a home invasion in progress in the Baca. The Sheriff had already been notified. It just so happened that two other Peace Patrol members were in town. I swooped them up and we responded to the location. Our intent was to only get eyes on the location and surveil it until the Sheriff arrived. When we got there we discovered the Sheriff’s car in a nearby intersection in a head on configuration with another vehicle. Both vehicles had their driver’s doors wide open. No one was present. The hairs on my neck rose. I told the team we had a new focus, to find the Sheriff and back him up.

Within minutes we located the Sheriff, he was fine and thanked us for our quick response and backup. The case turned out to be more of a squatter.

Another time most of the team was in town right after a meeting. Kofi’s niece came running up to him trembling, eyes brimming with tears, and said that a man in the brewery was calling her a nigger. I looked at Kofi and said, “I’ve got your back”.

As we walked across the street the drunk was already heading out. I stood 6 feet away as Kofi approached him. I could hear the drunk calling Kofi a nigger and saying he uses that word all the time and we should all “Get fucking use to it”. Kofi explained that it wasn’t acceptable here or now.

I saw the drunk take some bridge work out of his mouth and put it in his pocket, a tell for what he was about to do. I closed the distance a little.

The drunk pushed Kofi in the chest and drew back his right fist. Kofi launched him into the middle of the street and was atop him. I dove on the pile and ended up with my left hand around the drunk’s neck, his head pinned to the ground drawing back my right fist to put his lights out when I stopped and said,

“Brother we can still make Peace” and just like that he released his hold on Kofi and I didn’t have to fuck him up. Beautiful, the old me would have never given him that chance.

After the pile was unwound we learned this. While Kofi and I were in the pile with the drunk another drunk, a visitor to the town, pulled a knife and started towards us while we were fully distracted.

An “Outer Team Member”, ex-military of just hard hitters who back us up, saw this and disarmed the perp. I’ve been stabbed before and was thankful it didn’t happen again.

Another time I met a new visitor to town who felt called to be here. He is an Iraq war veteran with a traumatic brain injury and a raging case of PTSD, a three striker. Just being around him triggered my wires but I tried to reach him. We did have a connection and he showed interest in joining me and the Peace Patrol.

One morning this happened. The Iraq Veteran sent an image to my phone of a fixed blade knife in his hand with the message, “Get to Jeff’s now before I start killing some motherfuckers”. It just happens that I know and love Jeff.

First I call the Sheriff’s department and tell them to start rolling something to Crestone, that I didn’t have the address but I gave them some crossroads nearby. Next I call Jeff and get no answer. I sent a message to the Peace Patrol with all the information I had, grab my .45, and bust out the door.

When I arrive at Jeff’s I can hear Tom in a full rage. He is running around the house threatening to kill everyone present. I make a quick call to the Sheriff’s office to update the address and let them know I’ll be out. The dispatcher let me know that backup was 30 minutes out.

Sometimes I’m more hippie that ex-cop and this was one of those moments. As I hung up with the dispatcher I felt Tom’s rage in the air. I suddenly felt that Tom might try to disarm me, he knew I carried all the time and was half my age, or force me to shoot him. Don’t laugh ex-cop buddies but I made the decision to disarm myself and locked my weapon in my van. I was prepared to risk my life to save his. If I was still a Cop the proper tactical approach would have been to fill my hands with the .45 caliber semi-automatic weapon, use available cover, quietly approach, ready.

Then and there I remember another time and wonder why is it always knives. The duality of my Life. Read my chapter Medal of Valor to know where my mind was.

I walked into another shitstorm.

First I was relieved to see the knife back in it’s sheath on his side. Tom was pacing back and forth and would occasionally pick up a baby head size rock and threaten to chuck it at the people he focused his rage on. The Empath could feel his howling pain, how lost he was. In his mind he was a trapped animal wrapped in wire. He was wounded, his past crashing down on him all at once. Two other Peace Patrol members arrived and set an outer perimeter. I was happy to have the back-up.

Tom recognized me. I just kept close to him in case I needed to take him down. I got close to that when he armed himself with a length of lead pipe. I held space for him as he raged up and down the driveway. I kept him from crossing the line and breaking the law, I was the little voice in his ear saying stop. At one point I got him to stop his rage and just hug me. I could only hold him for a minute before he bolted for the nearby woods.

The sheriff arrived and everyone was separated and sent on their way. As wild as this incident was no crime had happened. Our Mission was accomplished, the Peace was held.

Later we tracked down Tom and found him in town. We explained to him that neither Crestone or the Peace Patrol couldn’t help him and his time for leaving had come. He admitted that he was still too violent for our town. We dug in our pockets for the $30 it took to fill his tank, bought him a burrito and a couple of bottles of water and sent him out of town. Money well spent.

In conclusion I think the concept of a community Peace Patrol is just what the Nation needs. I imagine a future with a Sheriff’s department on one side of the building and the other side is the Peace Patrol. Not everything requires a gun. This would free the Police to do their work. We ask our police departments to do to much, to wear too many hats.

My path has lead me to this place, every step. I would rather be with these people, here and now, than anywhere else. So I write my book, plan patrols and wait for the phone to ring – Thankful to be of use.

The death of my Father

I wrote this almost five years ago

My Father died today and this is the last conversation I had with him:

“Dad this is Michael your Son, can you hear me?” I stare down at him, frail and gray curled on the hospital bed. He mumbled something I could not understand.

“Dad – We will take care of all the things you were once responsible for. We will take care of Mom and keep her safe. ”

“Dad – We will all survive once you are gone. We will miss you but we will find our way without you.”

“Dad – All is forgiven. Rest easy knowing you will leave here surrounded by Love and Peace.”

“Dad – Your life had meaning and you changed many people for the better. You worked hard and accomplished much and you should be proud of a life well lived. You did good.”

“And finally Dad, know that you’ll be remembered. We will laugh and cry over our memories of a life lived together, with you.”

I then painted for him, with words, a picture of his boyhood home in the green hills of Kentucky. I reminded him of listening to the Grand Ole Opry on a big radio between twin beds while his beloved brother Frank giggled next to him, both young and healthy, planning their next escapade. I spoke of Blackberry cobbler, cold milk and starry nights. I stirred up a Dream for him from the embers of his Life. My Dad called out Frank’s name, the last word he would speak.

“Go easy Dad, I Love you.”

My Dad, Glen Ray Fulcher, took his last breath a couple of hours later.

Peace surrounds me…

Timothy

I had some difficult assignments

It was my job to search for the lifeless bodies of the young, hidden in the murky depths, or under layers of ice. I would cling to the triangle we had carved in the ice, suspended at the moment of courage, the edges of life. A rescue diver already suited up next to me. The time has come to push my body under the ice and search for the beloved and recently missing.

Focus only on tactics and training. The fear would come later, sometimes in the middle of the night.

I was on a team of SCUBA divers responsible for Search and Rescue (USRT). Over the years I dove most of the lakes and rivers in the County. I searched for bodies, cars, weapons and other items of evidence.

The children were the hardest. A family would have their world torn to the bone in the missing minute and the question, “Where’s Timothy”, and the slow sting of panic settles in. Each moment more frantic than the previous.

I was part of the blur of sirens and uniforms, but I was different from the rest. It was my job to go in the water and search for Timothy. As I suited up it was my eyes that you would ask your questions and pin your slim hopes on. Mother’s eyes brimming with tears, trembling lips mouthing mournful pleas. Terror has arrived.

Most often we would find their missing loved one in hours. Sometimes it was after days of diving. Swimming underwater with a rope in tow in wide sweeping arcs. Covering every inch, to shove my hands into the cold mud, like oatmeal. I could rarely see, happy to sneak an occasional clear view of my dive console. Always finding the missing by touch rather than sight.

The startling terror of finding a fellow human so dreadfully out of place. It was always cold and dark. Just a touch of gravity as we danced on the lake bottom.

Timothy is right here, 40 feet under the ice.

I tug the line and get the free lift to the surface with this lifeless child clutched to my chest. I pass him through the hole to the awaiting hands of the real life savers (and a job I could never do) the EMS EMT guys.

I hear the screams of a mother…

These experiences aren’t unique to me. Some Officer, Deputy or Trooper did these same things today, many witnessed much worse.

Maybe someone else needs to know that we can survive the past and live in this day.

The Nightmares of Others

I walked in the nightmares of others.

I wake in the night eyes wide open. The echoes of a scream bounce around the dark room. The scream fades to nothingness. My heart thumps the inside of my ribcage like a panic crazed rabbit trapped in wire. I gasp in a full breath, which seems like my first. Every muscle has fired. What just happened? I feel beaten, I remember…

I was training another rookie. This was a crack infested gang neighborhood and I was on the prowl for my favorite prey, gang bangers with guns. It was early enough that the zombies of the night hadn’t risen yet, hadn’t had their first red pop. The sun was just setting.

The radio barked our call sign and sent us into my continuing nightmare. A neighbor was reporting the sounds of a child crying, possible child abuse.

I rolled a couple of traffic stops on the way, hoping to snag a warrant arrest. I had responded to this type of call many times in the past. Most often some kid got his rear end smacked for some good reason and was still trying out the high notes on his vocal cords.

We stopped a couple of houses short and walked towards the flat ranch. We assumed the customary positions on either side of the door. I rapped the aluminum screen door hard with my streamlite.

I always wanted people to know that it was the Police or your worst nightmare (or sometimes both) knocking. No time for confusion.

No one answered. I was sure I had the right address and thought I heard the muffled sound of a child from a front bedroom. Suddenly the inside lights went dark. Strike One, something isn’t right. I bang harder and shout “Sheriff’s Office, open the door”. No answer, I hear the kids again. I step off the porch and hoist myself up to one of those high sideways windows. The bedroom is dark, I can just see a couple of small children huddled in the corner. I shout into the bedroom and tell the kids it’s the Police and to come open the door. A dark figure shot from the room into the hallway. I expected the door to open….

Nothing

I looked in the window again and a whispered voice said, “Momma won’t let me”. Strike Two. The hairs on my neck rose like a wild dog. Adrenaline began its familiar course, slam the heart and spike the brain. I am alive and ready for anything.

Time for a plan. I quickly explain to the rookie that I was going to give the door a couple of kicks, hoping to convince whoever was inside to let us in. If not I had already decided I had enough to take the door down.

Again I called out “Sheriff” as I placed my 11 ½ squarely into the lock. The first kick loosened everything up nicely, I went to shoulder it the rest of the way when suddenly the door flew opened and I spilled into the darkness.

The rookie was right with me. A quick scan revealed only the mother present in the front of the house. I told the rookie to stay put while I checked on the kids…

I have witness horror many times in my life. Most often its one idiot against another. Violence inflicted upon the innocent is absolute horror.

I walked down the hall into the confining darkness, what was that smell? I opened the door and met my victims, all three of them. The oldest was a child of 7, standing guard over her two younger brothers, the youngest still in diapers.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness while my hand searched for the light switch. There was nothing in the room but a mattress and the kids. Why do they look wet?

Pop goes the light. A new nightmare begins to chisel itself into my gray pudding. Is this Elm Street? The bitch had beaten these children, all three of them. Streaks of blood run from the walls. Railroad tracks of misery are etched into their naked bodies. Their skin glistened with dark blood. They were shaking like dogs. I screamed out some obscenity.

Strike Three.

My eyes fell upon the she bitches tool of terror, a 2 inch leather strap with a big silver buckle. I made one full wrap around my fist, leaving the buckle dangling, and headed back down the hall. The bitch saw the rage in my eyes as I neared her. She knew what I had witnessed, she knew what she had done. The rookie was dumbfounded as I charged with murderous intent. He blocked my way and screamed my name. He saw the blood on my hands and uniform. “What did she do”, he begged over and over.

I swung the belt once and didn’t make contact. As I drew back for another try I saw the stomach of the she bitch, stretched to its outer limits with her next intended victim, like some over ripe pumpkin.

Suddenly my zeal for the task at hand waned. Some gears in the back of my mind stripped themselves. Somehow beating the dog shit out of this pregnant she bitch didn’t seem like it solved much.

I told the rookie to call it in and I went back to the bedroom.

I sat on the floor next to my huddled victims. The oldest daughter hugged my neck and whispered, “It will be alright”. I cried and hoped she was right. As I sat with this child, awaiting her ambulance, it was she that comforted me. She was the bravest person in that house of horrors. I was humbled by her courage.

It was she that lived this nightmare. This was her life, I was just passing through. She had become the Mother and protector of her small brothers, living their days in confusion and pain.

I realized that in her short life she had experienced more agony and torment than I had in a career of Law Enforcement.

Ambulances, Detectives, Sergeants find us important. The wheels start to turn.

I go to the hospital and I thank my rookie on the way. Once in the ER I interviewed my victims. I asked, what did you eat for breakfast and they said “Hotdogs and eggs”. I asked what they had for dinner and they said, “Hotdogs and eggs”. I asked, “what else do you ever eat” and their immediate reply was “what else is there”?

That is what I smelled, burnt hotdogs and eggs. I hate that smell to this day.

The she bitch was slightly crazy and had isolated the kids for years. There had been no outside contact with anyone and no school for the oldest. They had lived their lives locked in that flat gray ranch house.

There would be no justice tonight. The children were placed in Foster Care. This is where most Cops lose the story. The end, or what happens next, is rarely discovered. This nightmare would have another ending.

A better ending.

Some months later, during the summer, I was on the hunt. I heard a gunshot from a distance. I raced towards an intersection where I thought the shot came from. I pulled to the curb and turned off the scanner. I thumbed the radio to main freq only and lowered the window. I listened and waited. I pulled on my leather gloves.

Out the window I see three kids coming my way. A girl wearing a bright pink dress, which perfectly matched her pink bicycle. Two young boys followed, one pulling the other in a red wagon. They stopped on the sidewalk next to my car. I didn’t recognize them, still focused on the next moment. They began to talk. The middle brother said to the sister, “That’s him, that’s Deputy Mike”. The girl stared into the car. I knew her in that instant. We talked, we hugged. They excitedly told me of living with “Auntie” and how Momma was getting better. I hoped so.

Gunfire erupted two blocks over. I told them to get in the house and raced around the corner.

I never saw them again, or only in my dreams…

Tomb of the unknown Child

I have mixed feeling about this post. I feel that I might be disgracing the memory of this child by telling of her death. But if some further good might come from it then should I post these words?

This is my Tomb of the Unknown Child.

A lifetime ago…

　
I was on the afternoon shift working 4 pm till midnight. I had enough time on the job to be considered “Senior Deputy”. After about 5 years you start to earn your pay, until then its all a learning curve. I had a rookie with me, just fresh from the police academy. I had seen his type before, a lifelong dream to be a Police Officer. Bright eyed and bushy tailed and he didn’t know shit from Shine-ola. Some make it but many don’t, always hard to predict the winners from the losers. I thought picking a career path at 5 years old was akin to setting a trap in one‘s future, often hard to un-spring.

People should be careful what they wish for. Before the shift would end this Recruit would be doubting his choice.

Fall in the Midwest can be and often is brutal. This was one of those days. A harsh freeze with blowing snow had jumped us. Wind that bites, pockets of blinding white, every footstep squeaks like rusty nails being pulled from old wood. Winter has arrived with the power and fury of a rock slide. A lifeless day when no wild thing would move without reason.

The sky was grey blue as we loaded the cruiser. I stowed my 12 gauge under the leading edge of the front seat. I blip the siren and test the overhear light. Two bulbs under a canopy of blue plastic make their slow rotation and that low whir-whir-whir sound as the rubber belt twisted its never ending course. The take-down spots on either side lit our trunks as we transferred gear. Finally I checked the medical kit, a green ammo box full of Korean War era bandages. All neatly arranged (but slightly yellowing) grey boxes, each wrapped in crisp cellophane. When opened you would find a white bandage wound as tight as a chunk of wood. Cartoon images on the package told which bandage was for what injury. Government cost cutting run amuck.

“Lights, camera, action” I called out to the recruit, “Mount up little brother”. Into the night, into the gathering storm, into another nightmare we drive. Lives would be changed and lost. Things would forever be different for all of us. I can’t remember who I was before this day.

I knew that we were in for a shitload of accidents and I needed to serve a subpoena outside of my patrol area. I cleared it with dispatch and headed for the address, which was in a rural farming community. A small town that didn’t grow beyond it’s initial footprint in the slow twitch of the past 150 years. A four corner town with mammoth oaks down both streets converging at the blinking yellow light. A beer store and a couple of old Churches. Two lanes of blacktop intersecting at 90 degree angles. A checkerboard land split into squares by wire and post. A flat place of cornfield stubble and harrow scars, tinged white by the snow swept out to the distant horizon.

The wind hissed against the wire.

We pull into our destination after a 30 minute ride. The car door yanked against my hand as I opened it. I tag the witness with the subpoena and jump back into the warmth of the always running cruiser. I told the rookie to call us back in service and returning to our area of patrol. As he did the dispatcher asked if we could check the status of an “unknown accident” not far from our location.

As I approach the yellow light intersection I expect to see mangled automobiles, as these sort of crossroads were notoriously bad for T Bone crashes and they always spread out like a hillbilly yard sale. Instead I find nothing. I’m just about to grab the mike and tell dispatch the call was unfounded when I noticed lumps in the road. I turn the car and my headlights lit this stage of horror.

“Those are people” I scream at the now wider eyed and more confused rookie.

“Fuck“, I say to nobody in particular. I can see a car up ahead, on the right shoulder, beyond the carnage. I thumb the trunk release and grab the medical kit and yell at the rookie to re-position the patrol car to close the road, start popping flares and get us some firefighters or EMT out here pronto.

I would again like to point out that I have all the respect in the world for the emergency medical personnel who experience these situations on a daily basis. I have no idea how they do it. I worked in a city and could rely on a quick response from either the fire department or ambulance, or better described, people with medical training that far outweighed mine.

That would not be the case this night. As our situation worsened so did the weather and road conditions. The radio called out a cascade of bad accidents with confirmed injuries. Dispatch had even pulled the Sergeant out of the office to handle calls.

I hear the rookie call for help and by then we both knew we had serious injuries. I was about to find out how bad.

I can remember the finest detail of the next few moments of my life and the ending of another. This is a memory that will never leave me. At times it is almost visible, like a scar. I have learned to live with it. It is part of me.

The rotating blue beacon froze falling snow in time and space like jewels in the dimming light. I start to take notice of a woman screaming. The screams come from the car on the side of the road. I can just see her rocking back and forth behind the wheel. She is screaming, not words but something more like the sounds of a wounded animal, all throaty and dark, guttural. Her screams are muffled by the windows that slowly fog over. A crimson red spider web spreads out from the center of the windshield.

Groans and moans, more animal sounds at my feet.

The father is conscious but completely overtaken by shock. He has suffered an exposed compound fracture of his femur, or upper leg bone. I’m surprised as there is little bleeding. I know that shock has removed his ability to feel the pain. He drags himself on the ground, like a dog that had been hit. I looked at my med kit and this injured human and thought, I haven’t got anything in here that will fix that, and walked towards the next victim.

I took a quick look over my shoulder and noted the rookie was back in the cruiser. I think he was suddenly re-evaluating his career choice.

Hello Mom. This family had been crossing the street together when they were struck by the screaming woman. Mom was lucky, she lost her arm, mangled at the elbow. I do have a bandage for that but she isn’t bleeding too bad either and I’ve got another victim that isn’t moving. Sorry Mom, gotta go.

“Oh no, little princess” I mumble. This final victim is a little girl child about the age of my daughter. I don’t know her name but I have thought of her every day for 20 years now. She was dressed for Church but now sprawled on the frozen asphalt, a marionette puppet with her strings cut, bright white against the swirling darkness of the road. I knelt beside her and listened to her breathing, guppy breaths, I know she is hurt bad. I scoop her head off the ground with my hand and feel broken skull. I breathed into this child and begged her to live. I screamed at her to breathe. I wish I was anywhere but here. Please live beautiful child.

After what seemed like hours I hear the wail of the approaching fire truck. I check this child for signs of life. The guppy breaths are gone. Her eyes are black pools of emptiness. I know she died in my hands. I have failed. The woman still screams in the distance, I feel like joining her.

A firefighter took over for me. I stumbled towards the ditch and toss my medical kit down the slope. I sat on the edge and fished out a Marlboro and lighter. At that time I smoked 3 packs a day, if it wasn’t bowling night. Try as I might I couldn’t get my Bic to flick. I look down and see a blood soaked cigarette and lighter in my hands. I laugh and drop them both. Behind me and around me was all the help I could use. I was trying to muster the strength to stand when a State Trooper tapped me on the shoulder, “You alright Bro” he asked. I shook my head and said, “No”. He said, “I’ll take this case, go home”.

This friend of mine and fellow officer relieved me from this nightmare, I still owe him for that. I drove the rookie to the station and radioed the Sergeant that I was going 10-7 (out of service). He didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t have any answers.

NOTE: I don’t write these vignettes of my experiences to gain your sympathy or praise. I write, this was my life, if I worked for the Circus I‘m sure it would be lighter fare. Feel compassion for these victims, these destroyed families. I was paid well for the job and always knew what I might have to do.

I couldn’t imagine being anything but the Police after I discovered life inside the tape.

I have no regrets.

Rat734

The Price We Pay

“I am what they trained me to be. I am what they wanted me to be.”

As I looked up I see my PTSD doc had tears in her eyes. I had just finished telling her of one of my scars. She asked for it so I told her what it is like to hold a dead child in your hands and curse the sky.

“Michael do you know what it means to be in a state of Hyper-arousal or Hyper- vigilance?”

“You mean me having my head on a swivel? I was trained to be a human recorder. To see which hand the gun is in, to witness the wounds, to remember everything and be able to testify to the Truth of it all later. I put that shit in my long term memory banks. The military calls it Situational Awareness. I had to live in this state to survive in the World they asked me to bring Peace to. I haven’t found the “OFF” switch. I honed this skill that you now use to identify my PTSD. That’s pretty fucked up.”

Second card 078

A long pause followed in which she offered no answer. Her question caused me to drifted into my past…

I was on patrol in the dark with another rookie at my side. This one wasn’t getting it. I had worked with him on his skills of observation for the past week. He had the eyes of a civilian and I wanted him to have animal eyes, to see everything. I decided to teach him a lesson. I waited for him to pick a car and make a traffic stop.

We approached the suspect vehicle in the customary manner, the rookie made contact with the driver and I covered him from the rear fender. I noted three occupants besides the driver. We retreat to the patrol car to run checks on the driver.

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The lesson begins…

“Rookie don’t even think of looking up. If you do I swear I’ll make you walk back to the station house. Do you understand me?”

A quiet “Yes Sir” comes out of the rookie.

“Let us imaging another scenario, I just got blasted in the chest by one of the passengers and I’m laying in the ditch with a sucking chest wound. Now let’s imagine that the suspect vehicle has fled the scene. You’re in the ditch with me holding my cigarette pack against my wound and you have your radio in the other hand. Let me hear your broadcast to get me help and to catch those that harmed me – GO!”

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The rookie fumbled – this is what he didn’t know. He had no idea where we were, the color or model of the car, the number of occupants, no part of the license plate. He was clueless.

“What are you gonna do rookie – I need an ambulance?”

“I’m gonna run up to that house and ask for their address.”

“That’s great but who is gonna keep pressure on my sucking chest wound? Are you gonna let me die?”

More stumbling by the rookie. I sensed the great dump of stress I had caused for him. His heart was racing as if these things had really happened.

“Rookie this is serious work we do. Get your head in the game or get out before you get someone killed.”

We kicked the stop without issuing any tickets.

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After this lesson this rookie did have his head on a swivel. He began to notice everything. He became what I wanted him to be and is still a very successful Police Officer.

I suddenly realized that maybe even now he was visiting his PTSD doc and telling them how he became hyper-vigilant and how he came to live in a state of hyper-arousal.

I felt a twang of guilt for having created another like me…

078

A Life Lesson

January 19th, 2019 – Orient Land Trust

Something amazing happened to me yesterday and I’m still trying to understand my lesson. First I have to tell the back story.

32 years ago I was a Homicide Detective and I investigated the most hideous case of my career. Two killers had abducted a child and gave her a painful, lingering, terror filled death. A month ago the Prosecutor’s office subpoenaed me back to Michigan to testify in a re-sentencing hearing for one of the killers of Mary, the 13 year old victim.

When the Prosecutor called I asked what he needed from me. His answer was, “Michael I need you to bring the horror”. He mailed me a thumb drive containing my old homicide book. It was filled with Police reports, confessions, crime scene photos and an autopsy report. As I prepared for this case I picked scab and twisted bone within my mind – Nightmares found me again. I flew to Michigan and spent days testifying in Court. I was the State’s only witness to the dusty facts, the stuff of my nightmares. In the end we lost as the Judge, without leaving the bench, ruled in favor of the killer. She vacated his life sentence and made him eligible for parole.

I was thankful for the opportunity to speak the Truth for Mary, to again stand for her Justice, but I was stunned by the ruling. I felt I had failed her.

I staggered to my rental car parked in the multi-level city parking structure to find a $50 parking ticket slipped behind the wiper. I guess it’s going to be one of those days.

But then everything I had carried for 32 years was about to shift. I had an epiphany as I drove through the dense Michigan morning fog that hung to everything. I turned on the radio of the rental car, for the first time. The random station dialed in by some stranger was in the middle of Cyndi Lauper’s song Time after Time. I remembered that was Mary’s favorite song and it played at her funeral. I pulled to the roadside and listened to the words for the first time.

Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you
Caught up in circles
Confusion is nothing new
Flashback, warm nights
Almost left behind
Suitcase of memories
Time after Time

After my picture fades and darkness has turned to gray
Watching through windows
You’re wondering if I’m okay
Secrets stolen from deep inside
And the drum beats out of time

If you’re lost you can look and you will find me
Time after time
If you fall I will catch you, I’ll be waiting
Time after time

Silent tears streamed down my cheeks as the song ended. I felt as if Mary had found a way to speak directly to me in my moments of confusion and doubt.

Back to the epiphany – I met Mary once as she laid on her autopsy table. She became my ghost as I froze that image of her tiny bullet riddled body in the deep cellular walls of my brain. On the side of the road I freed her of that. I’m going to think of her as my Guardian Angel – My Protector – Not my Ghost. I also thought I should free her from that death image, from this day forward when Mary enters my Mind I’ll imagine her before December 30th or I’ll imagine her in what Space she might now posses.

Maybe I have haunted her in the place she is now. I want Peace for her.

And now to what happened yesterday – I was at a hot spring when a young couple entered the pool with me – as our conversation flowed I told them what I just shared with you.

When I told them of my promise to Mary to remember her before December 30th (the date of her death) the woman asked, “What year”? I told her 1986.

She said, “That’s the day I was born” – I was stunned, shocked and knew there was a greater lesson in this for me. She was the first person I told this story to after the case ended. What are the chances of that?

She then said, “Maybe I’m her”. She was born 6 hours after Mary was murdered.

So what do you think? Is my lesson that I’m in the right place at the right time, how could these coincidences happen otherwise. Is it a lesson in reincarnation – did I meet Mary, beautiful, healthy and at peace.

In the end I came to realize that I had been given another gift. The Universe took down off my shelf this most horrible thing and asked me to make Peace with it.

I did.

If you’re interested in the rest of the story here is a link.

The Execution of Mary Hulbert

A Rookie’s Last Lesson

It’s 2 AM as I rolled the blacked out patrol car down the alley and parked. A crisp fog hung in the air and silver globes surrounded the streetlights. This morning was as damp and dark as it had ever been. The time had come for this Last Lesson with my rookie.

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This Recruit Deputy had ridden under my wing for two months after months with other Field Training Officers. He had passed all the tests and was as close to being a full grown Police Officer as I could make him. Tomorrow I would set him free – He would be on solo patrol for the first time in his life.

I had taught him how to walk into a room with command presence – where everyone instantly knew who was in charge. I taught him how to speak with the voice of ten men, filled with brimstone and determination. How to look into a man’s eyes. Lessons in how to shoot, how to stand, what to watch.

Lessons in cover and concealment, law and order, threats and dangers.

I taught him that we are always Men of Honor – we don’t lie – That the People give us the power to arrest and kill them – we, at the very least, owe them an obligation of Truth.

I sat on the fender of the cruiser and lit a cigarette as the recruit stood nearby.

I begin, “Cub pay attention because this will be one of the most important lessons I can offer you. We don’t Quit – We fight through our fear and pain. Sometimes you may not see a clear path to victory but know you cannot lose. Enter every battle with a Warrior’s Mind.”

A car turns down the alley away from us.

I continue, “You have to swear an Oath to me right now. If the worst should happen, should your heart be blasted out the back of your chest you still have about 4 seconds of life left. Kill the mother fucker that killed you. Draw your gun, fight to your end, never quit.” I take a long draw on my Marlboro as I collect my next thought.

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“We all die alone unless we die together.”

The young Brother then swore his Oath to me. We hugged in the fog, in the dark, in the honor of his promise.

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PS: I have been reminded to remind you that I write in the voice of who I was on that day. I am a time traveler but I can only travel back into my own time…

Trojan Horse Operation

Trojan Horse Operation – Ypsilanti Township – When I was Lion Strong

What I’m about to tell you happened at the peak of the Blood and Crip gang war. Street corner crack cocaine trafficking had reached it’s Zenith and many corners were occupied by a crack cocaine dealer (in the open) and a gunman (hidden). Drug trafficking turf have been claimed and paid for in blood and gangs claimed ownership of their corners. Crack cocaine was the newest national epidemic and the zombies of the night moved among us, robbed us, killed us.

My Brothers and I fought them back in the dark while you slept.

This is the story of one operation.

The bosses had decided on a new plan of attack, a Trojan horse operation. About 20 of us signed up for this overtime operation but to be honest I would have worked the detail for free. I loved this stuff – These assignments were always exciting, dangerous and unpredictable. We all met at Station #2 for a briefing but we all knew what we were in for. We were to be dropped into a “target rich environment” and expected to run down the rabbits.

We broke into partners for protection. Three partner crews were in marked patrol cars and assigned to the outer perimeter, two partner crews were in unmarked surveillance cars and assigned Scout responsibilities. I was one of the remaining ten, veterans of operations like these, Tucked in the Truck. We were the jump out crew and were to stay hidden until the time was right.

No one was to run off without cover and the buddy system assured that. Each of us was clad in armor and dangling flex cuffs hung from our ballistic vests. The time had come for a last press check of weapons, magazines, flashlights, handcuffs and a thumbs up to your partner.

As I mount up my adrenaline begins to build and my focus becomes more acute. I felt more than human – I was a part of this team – we had plans – we had targets. Muscle memory flashes it’s bright light, I tingle with anticipation of the night. In the moment I know I love this. We were ready.

We ten pack tightly side by side into the rear of a U-Haul moving truck. The floor was wooden and splintered as we tried to sit without stings. One of the surveillance units made a pass down Calder street and by our intended jump out location near the edge of a city park. “Be advised there are more than a dozens gang members on the corner and they seem twitchy – They gave us the stink eye,” the Scout advised.

The undercover officer begins to drive us and the truck to the park.

The bosses had decided to double roll the dice. Not only were 10 cops about to be air dropped on an active drug street corner but they wanted a cocaine buy to go with it. The Undercover officer was to drive up and buy crack and we would bail out after the deal went down.

One of the Cops in the back of the truck starts flashing his light against his newest piece of gear, a glow in the dark POLICE jacket. “What the fuck are you doing Bill” I ask. He says “I don’t want any of you fuckers shooting me in all the confusion were about to create.” I laughed but couldn’t argue with his logic.

Someone ripped a two note fart, more laughter and threats followed.

“ONE MILE” the driver calls out.

The Undercover Officer begins to give a description of a possible suspect as the truck rolls to a stop “I can’t see his cover man” and then he went quiet. A hushed deadly silence overtook all of us in the rear of the truck. Any tiny movement or noise could endanger not only the Undercover Officer but the whole operation.

We wait and listen.

U/C: Hey Gee you straight?

Dope Man: Yea Cuz what you need?

U/C: How about two twenties?

Dope Man: Let me see the cash.

20 seconds pass…

U/C: Good deal (Our signal to bail and catch whatever ran)

The rear door of the moving truck flies open and all of us hit the ground at once. I was instantly reminded of some wild rodeo except made for Cops. One of my Brothers let go with a war cry at the top of his lungs.

I recognized a half a dozen gang members when I jumped from the truck. All I could see were assholes and elbows as they ran towards the park entrance. Many of them were already career criminals and If they were caught they were looking at decades in prison.

The work begins…

The U/C had giving a good description of the crack cocaine dealer and I had him in my sights from the time my feet hit the ground. I ran after him into the darkness – he was my single target – my partner with me. This thug was ours, we cut him from the pack hoping someone else had the hidden gunman – this thug’s cover.

I trusted my Pack – I trusted my partner – I trusted my skill – I trusted my Heart

The calm clear eyed animal within me chased down this Thug. All sounds stopped as I closed the distance and slammed him to the ground. After a short struggle the cuffs were on. He was a stunned animal, he was my prey.

I hear my own heartbeats first as I re-entered the World.

We take the crack dealer back up to one of the waiting marked patrol units which now flooded the area. From one of the cars I could hear the theme song from the Cops show playing. “Bad boys bad boys what you gonna do, what you gonna do when they come for you.” Most of the other Thugs were captured and a couple of stolen handguns were recovered. I notice a neighbor give us a thumbs up from behind his curtains. I appreciate the intensity of my life.

It was a good night. A lot of thugs went to jail and no Cops got hurt and I made overtime. What more do you want?

The Execution of Mary Hulbert

January 7th, 1987 Township of Superior, County of Washtenaw

The Circuit Court Judge would say that this was the most heinous crime in his 30 years of judicial experience.

The snow was sideways on that day, the Sun invisible to me. The wind screamed of horror and places not to be. Terror had claimed another victim, a child of just thirteen.

I was the newest Detective having been promoted just a couple of months earlier to work minor crimes. My caseload consisted of burglaries, larcenies, check cases, pawn shop investigations and the like. All of the Detectives worked out of the main station. I was surrounded by the Salty Dogs and Sperm Whales of the department. Grayed, grizzled and often grumpy most of them had worked major cases for decades. I had earned my way into the Detective Bureau but I was a cub among bears.

Dispatch called upstairs and told the Sergeant a child’s body had been found in a wooded area by a couple of rabbit hunters. One of the hunters would say, “In the thickets, I saw something, looked whitish. The closer I got, the more it looked like a body. It looked like someone dressed up a dummy, maybe trying to scare us. At first I thought it was a mannequin, I knew a mannequin didn’t have a belly button. The body was frozen and waxy looking with snow on the eyes. I took my gun and touched her side thinking to hear the knock of plastic, I didn’t. Then I touched her fingers and they bent back.”

He tried to stay with the body but got frightened and ran after his buddy and towards his car. They drove to a nearby preschool and called the Sheriff’s office.

A scramble to find the Truth begins.

The Sergeant tells me to stay put and to start checking missing person(s) reports as everyone else bolts for the door. All of the Detectives descended on the crime scene which was an open area away from the city, some might call it the beginning of the country. Large blocks of trees crossed by farmer’s fields, everything bordered by dirt roads in one mile squares, 640 acres between. Majestic oak trees stood between fence and furrow, with field stones cleared over a hundred years.

It didn’t take long to discover an adjoining jurisdiction had a report of a missing 13 year old girl and the description matched what the Detectives were calling in from the scene. The victim had suffered multiple wounds to her body and we were all but certain it was Mary. The clothing and physical description matched. The pieces began to fit.

Mary Ann Hulbert was last seen with Steven Stamper and Christopher Machacek, both 16 years of age. A neighbor drove Mary to the entrance of the trailer park where Stamper and Machacek were waiting for her. Mary had confided to the neighbor that she thought she was pregnant by Machacek and she was going to talk to him about it. She fiddled nervously with a screwdriver in her pocket and said she had it “just to make sure” she didn’t get hurt, it was her protection. The neighbor watched Mary get in the Bronco with Stamper and Machacek and ride into her Nightmare, never to be seen alive again.

I knew Stamper and Machacek from my time in uniform patrol or street work. I’d contacted them often on traffic stops and during minor criminal investigations. I considered them low-level punks with attitudes. I knew where everybody lived and who they associated with, I knew their Grandmothers and neighbors. I relayed what I’d discovered and knew to the Detective Sergeant.

Next the principal Detective, the Sergeant and I responded to the homes of Stamper and Machacek. We told them we were investigating the disappearance of Mary and asked for their assistance in finding her and if they would come down to the Station. They both agreed and traveled to the station in their cars with family members. At this point Stamper and Machacek were considered witnesses. When they moved from witness to suspect would become a key legal issue and nearly cost us the case.

Interviews

One of the reasons I was promoted to Detective was my ability to obtain confessions during the interview process. I worked hard to learn effective interview techniques and obtained many confessions.

Here is quick rookie lesson. When I went to someone’s house to interview them as a suspect I would look for something to connect to them with. If I saw bowling trophies on the mantle I would ask, “Did you ever bowl a 300?” If there was an old beat up car in the backyard I’d ask, “Man is that a 57′ I wish I could find a sweet ride like that.” The problem with this is you have to know something about what you’re talking about. If I asked the bowler if he ever bowled a 400 game he would think me an idiot, rightfully so. Take time to make yourself human before asking the hard questions. Shake their hand and look them in the eye. Call the Doctor by his first name, call the janitor “Sir.”

Lesson over, back to the past.

I don’t know what the Sergeant was thinking but he assigned me to interview Stamper and Machacek with the senior Detective. Maybe he saw it as a training opportunity, maybe it was because I was good at getting to the Truth. For whatever reason I was thrust into the biggest case of my career, the weight of it nearly crushed me. A Life was lost, others changed, never the same.

Stamper and Machacek were interviewed separately and in the presence of their legal guardians. All of their statements were tape recorded.

They both told a story of picking Mary up and later dropping her off near her school. There were enough inconsistencies in the telling that the hairs on my neck began to stand. Their main story was rock solid but the little details were screwed up. They both gave the exact location where Mary had been dropped off but when I asked which way she walked away one said she went left, the other said right. When I asked where she sat in the Bronco one said the front the other said the back. Slowly they were moving from witnesses to suspects but they stuck to their lie.

At some point the senior Detective made a major mistake, which he would compound later. He said to Machacek, “There is no way I can let you go home tonight.” Defense Attorneys would argue this statement was an indication Machacek was under arrest and should have been immediately transported to the juvenile detention center which was required by Michigan Law.

We weren’t getting any closer to the Truth and I decided to gamble. I told Machacek that Stamper was at the station and being questioned by other Detectives and watched the blood drain from his face. Stamper was the weaker of the two and Machacek knew he could fold at any moment. I told him their stories better match up and they would be compared to find the Truth. The artery on the side on his neck bulged.

Machacek requested a tape recorder saying he was going to tell us what happened to Mary. I think he caved in to panic and decided to tell his lies first. He was again advised of his Miranda Rights.

Machacek said that he and Stamper drove Mary to the wooded area.”We went back in the field and Stamper told her to take off her clothes, and so she was fighting for a little while and then Stamper hit her so she took off her clothes and he put a blindfold on her.” He said Stamper shot Mary six or seven times with a .22 caliber rifle and then reloaded. Mary tried to run away and that was when Stamper shot her dead. “She was making noises and stuff and I was tripping out”, Machacek ended by saying he had helped Stamper conceal Mary’s body by dragging her by the feet into some nearby bushes. On the way home Stamper said, “I never killed nobody before.” ”He was praying and stuff saying I hope God forgives me”, Machacek said. They drove to Stamper’s house where they cleaned the Bronco and the rifles. An agreement was made to tell the lie about dropping Mary off at the entrance to her school if anyone asked. Next they fixed themselves a meal of hoagie sandwiches and root beer floats and said in front of witnesses, “We should wash our hands after what we just did.”

The following day, New Year’s Eve, they partied with friends.

One down.

I entered the interview room where Stamper and his legal guardian were. I advised him of his Miranda Rights and he indicated he understood them.

“Bad news Steve, Chris just gave you up on a taped statement. He said that you are the one that shot Mary.” I sat the black leather cassette tape player between us. I savored the moment, the tension, I turned over four kings – I played part of the tape. Stamper told me to “load a fresh tape” because he was going to tell his side of the story.

Perfect.

Stamper’s statement unfolded with greater detail that Machacek’s.

Mary called Machacek and told him she was pregnant and that he was the father. Stamper and Machacek drove to Mary’s neighborhood to pick her up. On the way they stopped by Stamper’s house and picked up two .22 caliber rifles and ammunition. One of the rifles was a recent Christmas gift from his grandmother. They drove to the front of Mary’s trailer park where she had agreed to meet them.

Stamper said they did not want to kill Mary but were trying to induce a miscarriage. Their plan was to shoot guns at her and scare her enough to cause a miscarriage. He drove her to the isolated wooded area north of Ypsilanti and not too far from her home.

Once there Machacek told Mary to strip off her clothes while they were all still in the Bronco. “You heard them, take them off” Stamper told Mary. “Then she was getting lippy with Chris. I told her to shut up. She was sitting there with a screwdriver in her hand, playing around. I said why don’t you quit playing around and pointed my finger at her. She slapped my finger. I slapped her.”

Stamper said he blindfolded Mary with an ACE bandage and, “She was laughing the whole time, thinking it was all just a joke”, he said.

She was told to get out of the Bronco, wearing only her bra and panties. She stood with her back against the tree as they told her, clutching a stuffed toy dog to her chest she had picked up when getting out of the Bronco. Mary said her fear was they would leave her alone in the field, a worse fear was yet to be realized. She began to cry out her last moments of life.

Stamper said Machacek “snapped and fired about 20 rounds at Mary.” Stamper could hear Mary moaning after the first burst of fire. He asked Machacek “What are you doing?” Machacek then fired the fatal bullet. Stamper said “Shes dead.” He (Machacek) said ”I know she is dead” it really didn’t seem to bother him. Stamper said he took his hat off and asked the Lord’s forgiveness for this. Stamper denied ever firing his gun at Mary and said he only fired into the ground at Machacek’s insistence. Afterwards he helped Machacek hide Mary’s body under a bush and they drove back to his house.

Autopsy

I met Mary for the first and last time the following day. She was on the autopsy table, more child than girl, a porcelain doll – lifeless and still – just 13 years old. To see her reminded me of a gangster’s death, her body riddled with bullet holes. She had been shot from the front and back, in her left collar-bone, left shoulder, chest, armpit, navel and hip bone. One deformed bullet remained in her body and the rest were through and through shots. I touched my body in the same places as her wounds and try to imagine the pain, the fear, the end. I had to know what happened, it was my sworn duty.

The pathologist testified Mary could have survived every wound with the exception of one, The fatal bullet that passed through her side and into her heart and lungs.

She wore a small gold ring with a heart-shaped stone on her tiny finger. This would be something her mother could clutch to her chest during the dark nights to come. Something to kiss, something to hold, something to cry over. A silent witness to a life taken, a testament to innocence stolen, a memory of Mary.

As I touched Mary’s hand I made a promise to her. “Mary, I will do my best to find Justice for you and hold those that did this responsible.” I spoke the words into the still air over her body.

Court

Seems like this would be a fairly straight forward case, right? WRONG, it was FUBAR from the beginning.

The senior Detective, the one assigned the case, compounded the “There is no way I can let you go home tonight” statement to Machacek by telling the person responsible for transcribing the tape to leave that part out. A small mistake became a potential attempted conspiracy to obstruct Justice. The Sheriff relieved him of his investigative duties and demoted him to civilian. This would be his last criminal investigation.

At that time Michigan Law required a petition before a Juvenile Court Judge to obtain permission to try a juvenile as an adult. The senior Detective was having his Miranda Rights read to him in the Judge’s chambers before he could testify. He was under threat of criminal charges because of things he had said and done. The Detective Sergeant moved into the primary or lead investigator seat, sitting next to the Prosecutor. There was only one problem with that is he didn’t know shit about the confessions, the critical part of this case.

The time line and details of the unfolding investigation had to come through my testimony. When and how Stamper and Machacek moved from witness to suspect became important, especially in light of the “Ain’t nobody going home statement.”

A Walker hearing was scheduled before a Juvenile Court Judge. This would be an evidentiary hearing to determine if the defendants statements were voluntary. If Machacek and Stamper’s statements were thrown out the whole case could be lost under the Fruit of the Poisonous Tree doctrine (even though everybody knew they were guilty). They knew and revealed things only the killer(s) could know.

Fruit of the Poison Tree Doctrine

This doctrine holds that evidence gathered with the assistance of illegally obtained information must be excluded from trial. Thus, if an illegal interrogation leads to the discovery of physical evidence, both the interrogation and the physical evidence may be excluded, the interrogation because of the exclusionary rule, and the physical evidence because it is the fruit of the illegal interrogation.

This is the ultimate Cop penalty, the black flag and is used to punish bad Cop behavior. The pressure was on and I felt it like no other time in my career. There was a real possibility these cold-blooded killers could walk. I had to get my testimony right. I carried case files everywhere and memorized timelines, the when and where, the evidence, who said what. I paced the floor many sleepless nights anticipating questions the team of defense attorneys might ask the next morning.

The hearing before Judge Woods lasted for 7 weeks (not a typo – 7 fucking weeks of testimony – a State record) and I testified for days on end. How many ways can the same questions be asked? My own testimony was thousands of pages long and the Court hired an extra person just to keep up with transcribing the testimony.

In the end, and with a stinging rebuke of the Senior Detective’s conduct, the cases against Machacek and Stamper were bound over to Circuit Court for trial. The Judge agreed that these juvenile defendants should be tried as adults and said they were “beyond rehabilitation in the Juvenile Justice system.” She allowed Stamper’s statement to stand as evidence and threw out Machacek’s. The case moved forward.

Once in Circuit Court the same questions and legal arguments had to be answered. The voluntary nature of the statements was tested. Over and over I was questioned about when Stamper and Machacek were first considered suspects. All of this had to be answered before the real evidence could be presented. The guns and bullets, shell casings, photos of wounds and all the rest. The Circuit Court Judge allowed back in to evidence Machacek’s statement.

At the conclusion of the trials Machacek was found guilt of Murder in the First Degree and Stamper was found guilty of Murder in the Second Degree.

Sentencing

In October of 1988, nearly 2 years after the murder of Mary, they were both sentenced. Michigan doesn’t have a death penalty and Machacek’s First Degree Murder conviction resulted in a mandatory life sentence without any possibility of parole. That’s Life, all day long Life, no getting out of prison Life. Stamper received a Life sentence with an eligibility for parole. Both were 18 years of age when sentenced.

United States Supreme Court Decision

In 2012 the US Supreme Court ruled that laws requiring youths convicted of murder to be sentenced to die in prison violate the Eighth Amendments ban on cruel and unusual punishment.

“It is a great tragedy when a juvenile commits murder most of all for the innocent victims, Chief Justice Roberts wrote. But also for the murderer, whose life has gone so wrong so early. And for society as well, which has lost one or more of its members to deliberate violence, and must harshly punish another.”

I disagree with Chief Justice Roberts.

This was one of the most cold-blooded, cruel acts I ever investigated. Stamper and Machacek conspired in the cold light of day to murder Mary. They collected the weapons and picked the place of her execution. They formed a firing squad and killed Mary to save themselves, that was their plan, to cover their asses.

I was in that interview room and carefully listened to the words of these killers. I believe the Truth lies between the statements and what was not said. Where half-truths dance with absolute lies a thread can be found. What follows is my considered opinion of what happened to Mary in her last moments of life.

In the woods Mary knew she was in danger and she fought for her life. She pulled out her weapon, the screwdriver, only to be disarmed by Stamper. They slapped her and forced her to strip naked for their amusement. They tortured her, they dehumanized her, they filled her with terror. Together they lead her to her place of death. They sentenced her to death by firing squad and carried out her execution, a cruel and lingering death filled with fear, agony and pain. I believe Machacek shot Mary and that Stamper did fire once into the ground, right through Mary’s side and into her heart. I wonder if he felt good for putting her out of her misery? He stood over her dead body and asked for forgiveness, for what?

I don’t believe Mary was laughing.

Stamper and Machacek should die in prison and I will do everything within my power to make that so.

Even now, I prepare for the day when either come up for parole. I gather old reports, news articles, talk to partners of my past. I stay in contact with Mary’s Mother. I twist bone and pick scab – I open another clay jar. I try to remember it all. I will be ready.

I made a promise…

For the rest of the story click this link – A Life Lesson