Month: July 2015

© 2015 – 2019, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.

© 2015, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.

It was one of the few perfect summer mornings in Michigan filled with blue skies and cool breezes. I had signed up to work overtime to fill a short shift or I would have taken better advantage of the good weather.

By 8 am I had my cruiser loaded and called in service.

“Baker 12 prepare to copy a death investigation – Fire Department on scene”.

The Dispatched call sent me to the Ford boulevard High Rise. This group of apartments stood 8 stories tall and was mostly filled with senior citizens.

Here I’ll have to give a short Cop Lesson. As Deputy Sheriffs we were sent to all unattended deaths to conduct a preliminary investigation into the circumstances of the death. If it was suspicious at all we called in the Detectives and maintained scene security until relieved. Sometimes the deaths weren’t suspicious. These would include terminally ill patients that had been sent home to die. In these cases the Deputy would contact the patient’s physician and ascertain if the death was in fact expected. If the physician indicated yes then the Deputy would conduct a cursory examination of the body and surroundings for anything suspicious in nature. If the death was expected and nothing was suspicious a report was written and the case closed.

Back to this perfect morning.

I pulled into the front of the building and parked near the front doors. I notice the Fire department rescue truck leaving the lot.

I took the elevator to the fifth floor and knocked on the door. I was greeted by a young attractive woman who introduced herself saying “I’m the Granddaughter”.  She had obviously been crying and still clutched a crumpled up snot rag in one fist. I introduced myself and told her I needed to conduct an investigation. She invited me in and offered a cup of coffee, which I declined. We sat on the edge of the couch as I pulled out my clipboard and necessary reports. I began the interview of the Granddaughter.

I had a habit that when I spoke to family about the recently deceased I never spoke in a past tense. I found their minds often hadn’t had time to process the fact that their loved one was gone.

“How old is Grandma?”

“She is 83 years old”.

I went on to discover her doctor’s name and that she had been ill with cancer for years. After a few minutes I told the granddaughter, “I’ll have to examine your grandma now”. She pointed me towards a bedroom door.

I opened the door and observed a frail bony figure under a white sheet as she laid on her back in bed. The sheet was pulled up just under her chin. I could see the top of the her head which was covered in long hair nearly as white as the sheet. I walked around the bed checking for anything suspicious – nothing.

Now had come time to examine the body. I grabbed the sheet and pulled it from the body of my victim…

This frail woman with shocking white hair sat up in the bed and began screaming in my face. All I could do was stumble backwards repeating over and over, “What the hell is going on”.

A cascading comedy of errors was the cause of my confusion. The granddaughter had awoken and thought that her grandmother wasn’t breathing. She called 911 resulting in the fire department being called as a rescue run. The fire department made the scene before me and checked the victim and found her only to be sleeping. They were leaving as I arrived and assumed I was there on other business. The granddaughter assumed I was a “Master EMT” and that was why I needed to examine her grandmother again.

I explained that I was trying to conduct a death investigation but grandma wasn’t cooperating.

I wandered back to my patrol car shaking my head. I picked up the mike and advised dispatch that the call was unfounded.

Dead air followed for a few seconds. Remember that I was sent on a death investigation and an Unfounded Status didn’t make any sense to the dispatcher.

“Baker 12 repeat”.

“I said the case was unfounded – no report”.

“How so Baker 12”?

“Well I’m no doctor but when that woman sat up in bed and screamed in my face I was pretty sure she wasn’t dead”.

My buddy Lester, a big hard hitting hillbilly Cop, requested a sub-channel on the police radio with me. He started laughing and calling me Deputy Lazarus and telling dispatch that they should send me to all the natural deaths as I could raise the dead.

Sometimes funny shit happens…

© 2015, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.

Seventeen Years and One Day ago

During my career I lost more Brothers than I am prepared to count. I lived my life surrounded by strong men who did courageous and dangerous things. This is the story of one of them.

Richard Roost was know as the SCUBA God and he was the owner of the local dive shop. He was there from the beginning of my dive training. Richard was knowledgeable and committed to the Sheriff’s Underwater Search and Rescue Team (USRT).

Richard wasn’t an employee of the department but rather donated his time as a Reserve Deputy Sheriff. He taught me to be a better diver and I would advance to Divemaster under his direction.

Richard was a man’s man. He traveled to many exotic places and was always surrounded by beautiful women. Many wanted to be him. He had a quiet absurdness and I always enjoyed his company. During dive team call-outs he was a calming influence. He worked to keep me safe and shared his strength and confidence with me in my most stressful moments.

We had been through the Shit together.

On July 8th 1998 Richard was diving alone on the wreck of the Andrea Doria at a depth of 240 feet when he went missing. No one is sure what happened but days later his body would be discovered in the Cabin Class lounge wedged under a table.

Just before the trip Richard said, “When I dive the Doria my life will be complete.”

Richard dove from the Seeker but it was fast becoming known by another name, the Morgue boat.  Sixteen divers had lost their lives while diving the Andrea Doria and some while diving from the same boat.

I stood Honor Guard over my Brother’s body in the old Church his family had attended since the days of his Grandfather. Colored light and dusty smells mixed next to his heavy oak casket. Richard was buried in his family’s plot in a small cemetery in Hillsdale County. I stood at rigid attention as they lowered my Brother into the ground.  My jaw clenched, fighting back the hot stinging tears. I grabbed a fistful of dirt and threw it in the hole as I said my goodbyes and made my promises.

I salute and walked away into the grayness.

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© 2015, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.

July 4th 1991

I was working 8 pm to 4 am and got saddled with a late arrest. It was a muggy Michigan morning and I didn’t get home until 6 am.  I tossed and turned through hours of attempted sleep. I finally dozed off into one of those fitful sweaty wrestling matches with the pillow.

Sometime after noon my pager started its dance on the bedside table. I grabbed it and saw the code for a Underwater Search and Rescue Team (USRT) call out. I dialed dispatch for the details.

Two boys, both non-swimmers, were missing and presumed drowned near the Ford lake picnic area. I lit a cigarette and got dressed. I was out the door and in my POV (Personally Owned Vehicle) and northbound before I needed to flick the ashes. I always kept my dive gear in my vehicle and organized for a quick response. The location was less than 20 minutes under normal driving times. I made it in 10.

Two things will get a Cop driving balls to the wall. The first is a 10-13 or Officer needs emergency assistance and the other is a child in danger or not breathing. It is all about measuring and balancing the potential risk against the potential benefit.

When I arrive things are chaotic. There were hundreds of people, including a number of Township Officials, near the shore. As I start to drag my gear down to the water’s edge I see a Deputy with the family at a nearby picnic table. This was an image I had witnessed dozens of times but it always stung my eyes to look. I tried not to make eye contact and to go unnoticed.

I get a quick one minute briefing from the Sergeant as I‘m huffing down another cigarette and gearing up. He tells me that a witness saw the boys struggling at the surface of the water and then they submerged.

I told the Sergeant to take the witness to the exact location they were when the boys went under. I hoped to triangulate a better last known position than we presently had.

“How long have they been under Sarge”? – “About 40 minutes” was his answer.

In cold water drowning there is a real possibility of reviving a drowning victim within the golden first hour. Because of this I decided to dive solo and not tethered to shore. I was in my Viking dry suit and in the water in two minutes.

I was working on hunches, luck and hope. I imagined being the boys as I entered the water. I walked deeper and deeper and the lake bottom began to drop quickly. I arrive at the marl bottom 20 feet later on my knees. A thick cloud of mud rose up and swirled around me. I turned to my left and there was the first boy. I grabbed him and pressurized my Buoyancy Vest, bringing us both to the surface and within yards of the shore. Deputies jumped into the water and took the boy from me. As I was turning to go back for the other boy I see Tim, a fellow USRT Team Member, and he’s already suited up. Tim and I swim back to where I had found the first boy. We submerged and within minutes found the second. We swam him to the surface and the waiting hands of the ambulance crew.

Both boys were being worked on by the ambulance and fire department crews. CPR was in progress right behind me but I was numb to it. I sat on the muddy bank with my fins still in the water wondering if this was another nightmare. I was asleep in my bed just 45 minutes ago. AMBU Bags and excited orders filled the air. I saw the Deputy walking the family farther away from the scene. It all seemed so familiar, dreamlike. Please let this be just another nightmare – Please let me wake up in my bed…

A couple of minutes later the Sergeant came by to check on me. I had him open the rear facing seal on my dry suit. “Sarge how long were they in the water”?

“Less than an hour”.

I tried my best but Kassim Ballard, age eleven, and Anthony Wilkes, age twelve, died that day.

A few days later I got dressed in my best Class A uniform, checked out a marked unit and drove down to the boys funeral in Detroit, all on my own time.

As I approached and signed the book the crowd parted. No one extended a hand. No one asked who I was. I signed my name to the book and added “USRT team member”.

I heard someone say to the family, “You ought to sue that mother fucker”.

I turned and left.

 

© 2015 – 2016, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.