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© 2015, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.
Sometimes I’m asked what I miss about Law Enforcement.
I miss beating the dog shit out of a man that would beat his woman in front of his children. For much of my patrol time I averaged one domestic violence case a shift, most resulting in an arrest. Some involved a side trip to the ER to treat the bloodied, beaten recently arrested fuckwit. I always thought that if you wanted to fight the Police it should sting a little bit.
In the beginning of my career there were no Domestic Violence laws on the books. We could make an arrest only if we witnessed the assault or if the case could be classified as a felony.
I was taught how to provoke the perpetrator into taking a swing at the Police.
Another Christmas story…
Christmas was just around the corner and the streets were heating up. During the holiday more people would be at home getting drunk, depressed and despondent – soaked in cheap whiskey. Living in The land of Shadows.
I was riding solo patrol and was dispatched to a domestic violence call. The location was within a two story apartment complex built on the edge of a real ghetto. I had been to this apartment before on a similar call. This time a neighbor heard fighting inside the apartment and called 911.
When I arrive I could hear loud arguing coming from inside the apartment. I listened at the door for a moment. The Perp was accusing his woman of cheating on him. He was screaming how he was gonna kill somebody. When I’d heard enough I pounded on the door.
He answered all huffy, “What the fuck you want – nobody here called the Police” he said with a deep southern drawl. Before me was this white male, thin but muscled. He was wiry and wired for sound. He was trying to control his temper with little success as veins throbbed on his forehead mixed with beads of sweat.
“It don’t matter who called, I’m here now and I’m going to make sure everybody is all right.”
“The fuck you are, you ain’t coming in my house.”
I pushed him aside with one stiff arm and entered the apartment. That pissed him off more. I saw the woman sitting at the kitchen table with her head down and her hair covering most of her face.
“You alright Ma’am?”
“I’m fine Deputy – I don’t need any help.”
I questioned her and she denied any assault had taken place and said they were only arguing. The whole time I was trying to talk with her he was yelling, “Don’t say nothing.”
She looked up and her hair fell away from her face. He had hit her so hard the flesh under her eye was split. Tears and blood mixed on a face that was once young and beautiful but now filled with howling pain. I was stung by it, Anger and Rage rose up within me.
I turned on the hillbilly that would hit a woman like this as he was ordering me out of his apartment. I got in his face and leaned in. I poked him in the chest, hard, with my finger. I whispered into his ear, “You are one punk Mother Fucker. If you’re so tough why don’t you leap – Leap little Froggy.”
And he did, he swung on me. This guy was a fighter, a striker.
Its always hard to tell who is going to be a good fighter and who would roll up into a ball when punched. This little son of a bitch was a scrapper. I punched him as hard as I could right between the eyes and he just smiled. The fight was on as he punched back, I tasted blood.
First we crashed into and broke the kitchen table. I keyed my prep and called for back-up. Next we spilled into the living room and both of us fell to the floor, taking the coffee table with us. We stood up and went over again this time taking out the Christmas tree as we landed on top of the gift wrapped packages.
I was able to get behind him and apply my best technique, the choke hold.
COP INFO: As a rookie I had been trained by older Deputies how to apply this choke hold. The objective was to pinch down on both Carotid Arteries and deny blood flow to the brain. This choke hold would later be outlawed by policy. I guess too many Perps died in it’s application. It saved my bacon more than once.
My career was over before the days of the Tasers. We were more “Hands On” back then.
Back to this fight…
Well dear Brothers – I’ve got this man by the neck and have clamped down with all my force. He starts bucking like a bronco. My knuckles are bloody, my muscles tense. I ride him like a pony and keep the pressure on his neck. Finally he starts to do the funky chicken, legs flailing and eyes bulging – Brain letting go. This was my favorite part, pushing his face into the stinking carpet as he lapsed into unconsciousness. I hear echoes of my Warrior past – Distant Drums – I smell Smoke and Fire.
I’m having a great time and was just about to release the choke hold when I saw something that I’d remembered for the rest of my life.
There, hunkered up under the last standing table, was a small shaking tearful boy about 6 years old. He resembled a dog shitting peach pits, twisted up into a ball. I held eye contact with him as I choked his father into submission and busted up his Christmas.
I can’t explain it now but I felt bad, like it was somehow my fault.
He became the Poster Boy in my mind for all future Domestic Violence calls. Whenever I’d be pissed off about having to do yet another DV case I would think of him.
The child that lived in violence.
© 2015 – 2017, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.
NOTE: I needed to tell the stories of PTSD and Medal of Valor before this one would make sense and you might better understand my actions.
“Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.” Sun Tzu – The Art of War
This happened so long ago that the Statue of Limitations has passed. Now I can tell of crossing paths with the Italian Tourist.
I had been living in Kodachrome State park for a season, the time had come to move on. I was moving to Otter Creek to be closer to the Pretender, the first women I chased and caught after the end of my marriage. Later I may write of her – She was another intense experience and looked just like Lauren Becall.
It was during my time at Kodachrome that I slowly re-entered society, a better Michael. I was finding my happiness. I lived in an ancient motor home with my dogs. By day we built trails with pick and shovel. At night we visited with happy campers, travelers and people of different places. I grew stronger with all the physical work. I wrote in the mornings while drinking black coffee from a hand warming mug. I slept under stars so thick I couldn’t tell them from camp smoke. Red sands became bed – Black sky became covers – Night air became dreams.
Kodachrome is a magical place, a bowl basin awash in glorious desert colors. Shadows and rock are Witness to the passing Ages – I stood humbled by the Place – Grounded to the Earth – Right where I was supposed to be – Surrounded – Safe. Kodachrome and the people I met there were an important part of my Journey.
I loaded everything up, hooked the trailer to the motor home, and whistled up the dogs. The last thing I needed to do was ride into town to say my goodbyes to the locals and pick up a few road snacks. I mount my finely tuned German motorcycle and carved a way into town on a twisted purple road. I stood on my foot pegs and pumped my fist skyward in celebration of my Freedom. I felt unleashed, stronger.
I pulled up to the pumps and filled the tank on my motorcycle and decide to just leave it and run in the store for quick goodbyes and salty snacks. I dangle my helmet over the mirror, threw my jacket over the saddle, and walked into a crowded store.
I took up a position forth in the checkout line and found everything I needed right there. A commotion caught my attention, a ripple in the flow of the herd, something is wrong.
There he stood in all his glory – the Italian Tourist. The hairy legged, yellow plaid short wearing, five foot nothing – fat man that he was. He had hoisted a bag of Kingsford charcoal over his head while screaming, in broken English, at the cashier over the price. He was in a full rage, face red, veins throb, muscles tense, filled with anger – Ripe.
Mary, the sixteen year old cashier and daughter of the owner, cowered and burst out in tears. She leaned as far away from the threat as she could, her back against the calendar filled wall.
Shit was about to happen. Muscle memory and past training took over. Without thinking about it I advanced behind the Italian Tourist and caught his neck in the bend of my left arm. I pulled him off-balance and into my old favorite position. He was on his heels walking backwards more interested in his next breath than anything else. The charcoal drops to the ground. I throttled him more, making sure the fight was out of him, as we spill into the parking lot. His wife ran towards us from their rented motor home. I pushed him and he fell on his fat ass in a dusty pile.
“You better just Get!” I told him. I think he’d had enough of me and scurried away towards the wife and hopefully back to Italy, the land of cheap charcoal.
I really wasn’t too interested in having contact with the Police so I jump on my motorcycle and raced back to camp and was gone within the hour.
I never got to say my goodbyes.
© 2015, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.
October 8th, 1994 – Mayflower Motel – Pittsfield Township – County of Washtenaw
This happened when I was back in uniform and working road patrol on a day shift. I had made my bones and was the Junkyard Dog of the Department. I was difficult to manage, rough looking, not easy to pet but nobody stole your shit while I was on duty. I often led the shift in quality arrests and investigations and trained the best rookies and because of that I got away with more than most. My mustache was always outside of the department guidelines. My boots resembles suede and were beyond needing a coat of Kiwi.
I worked hard. I was at peak performance and running on all cylinders. I knew my place within the department and took full advantage of all the bullshit I could get away with.
I frequently drifted outside the bounds of my designated patrol area to back-up Ypsilanti City PD or Pittsfield Township PD or for any fucking reason I felt like. I got a lot of unfounded citizen complaints and I was the subject of more than one lawsuit against the Department.
Back to this snowy fall day. The Police radio was quiet and I was listening to the Michigan vs Michigan State football game on AM radio. My patrol unit was wired up with my personal Police Scanner, which I used to keep track of anything going on in adjoining jurisdictions.
The Pittsfield PD channel crackled to life “All units prepare to copy. A white male subject just entered the Mayflower Motel and has taken a hostage at knife point. The subject has barricaded himself with the hostage in the kitchen area”.
I think to myself, “Damn that sounds juicy”, and begin to work towards the motel and out of my patrol area. I didn’t advise Dispatch of my intent to assist Pittsfield.
I arrive in the parking lot and see several Pittsfield Township marked units scattered around the buildings.
The Mayflower motel and lounge was a low series of buildings which included a dozen motel rooms densely packed together. In the center of the parking lot was the kitchen, restaurant and lounge parts of the business. The motel was once at a crossroads for many people traveling from Detroit to Chicago but had been bypassed by other roads. Wounded by progress, it had begun it’s death spiral serving the occasional customer as profits diminished and the buildings called out for repair. For years it had been used more by illicit daytime lovers than passing travelers. Red Brick dashed dusty dreams where Love was made and lost.
“Dispatch be advised I’ll be out at the Mayflower assisting Pittsfield Township”.
As soon as I stepped out of the cruiser I was in the middle of an unexpected shit storm. I approached the door that opened to the restaurant. Just outside the door were two uniformed Township Officers with their guns at the low ready.
I called out to the one I knew the best. “Hey Jim, I’m a negotiator want me to take a crack at this guy”? Without hesitation Jim says “Go for it Rat, He’s got her in the kitchen”. I asked what he was armed with and was told a knife.
As Pittsfield Officers were trying to lock down the perimeter I stepped through the door and into another nightmare scene. I could see the Victim, Marylou Marker. She was sitting on the floor with the Perp right behind her, his back against the far wall. She was sprawled out like a rag doll, legs akimbo in front of her. He had a knife pressed to the center of her chest and was telling her if she moved again he’d stab her in the heart. The Perp was using her body as a shield and only exposed a small portion of his head, one eye – one ear, directly behind Marylou’s head.
I was 20 feet away and considered attempting the shot, to hit the Perp in the forehead the next time he stuck his head out. I was one of the better shooters on the Department but thought it way too risky.
The Perp saw me and called out, “I want to talk to you!” He recognized me as a County Sheriff and thought I outranked the others. “Keep your hands where I can see them”, he said. Perfect I thought, this is just what I want. I start to slowly walk towards the Perp’s position with my hands in the air. When I got within 10 feet he began screaming for me to get back. I didn’t back up but I couldn’t close the distance any more. There I stood in the kitchen doorway.
Again I can remember the finest details of what happened next.
Marylou, the hostage, was the mother of the business owner and was well into her 60’s. She had her hands crossed over her heart as the knife pressed against the back of her top hand. Her eyes were filled with fear and terror, all white and red and wide open staring at me. I was sure this was the worst moment of her life. There were injuries to her chest and hands from the constant pressure of the knife tip. The front of her blouse was covered in blood.
The Perp had picked up the knife when he entered the kitchen and took Marylou hostage. It was one of those cheap serrated steak knives, flexible with a black wooden handle. It had been used a thousand times before. It was about to be used for the last time.
“I want a helicopter, the State Police and Channel 7 news here right now.” Perfect, I begin to negotiate. Negotiations are about venting steam and passing time. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a SWAT officer in the kitchen but blocked from view of the Perp or Victim. He was trying to line up a shot. I expect to see the Perp’s head explode any second, Be Cool I think to myself. Pans rattled on the rack, the Perp tensed and began shouting “Get Back – Get Back.” He pressed the knife tip into the back of her crossed hands a little deeper. More blood seeped. More damage done. Closer to the Line.
I stood my ground and asked his name. He lied and said James. I told him I was working with the bosses to get the helicopter and the news crew but it would take a little time. Marylou continued to stare into my eyes. I had to ignore her as even acknowledging her could only increase her perceived value to him.
“James you gotta be careful with the knife” I said. He wasn’t and continued to get more and more agitated with Marylou because she was trying to push the knife tip from the back of her hands. I can see she is getting more small injuries to her hands as he presses the tip deeper and the blade bent.
I knew I wasn’t getting through to this guy. I couldn’t keep him focused. During my approximate (10) minutes of negotiations I offered to exchange myself for the hostage. He considered but refused. He positioned himself to better be shielded by Marylou’s body. She grows more panicked and desperately fearful. I put my hand behind my back and made a gun signal to the perimeter Cops. I was telling them to shoot this guy if they could. I was signalling that I didn’t think I could save Marylou with words. It would take something more.
The Perp screamed at Marylou “If you don’t quit moving I’m gonna stab you right through your fucking heart.”
Everything I’m about to tell you happened in fractions of seconds.
The Perp stabbed Marylou twice through her hands as they were crossed over her heart, he was trying his best to stab her heart. She push the knife away and he sliced her open. Blood spurted.
I draw my service weapon and closed the distance between us. He sees me, gun in hand, and drops completely behind Marylou. I dive on the pile and ended astride the Perp’s legs and Marylou is gone.
He comes up, knife in hand, and stabs at my heart. I raise my left hand partially deflecting the knife thrust and get stabbed in the back of my hand. The knife skims off and contacts my bulletproof vest and bends. If he had picked a better weapon to begin with I might not be here today.
I could have shot him. I should have shot him.
My 9mm Glock was in my right hand. I brought it with full force into his left temple. I felt bone break and he slouched. I gave him another, just like the first, for good measure. He was bloody and unconscious, the threat was over. Mission accomplished.
I was bloody. The room was bloody. Other Cops hog tie and cuff the Perp. The bosses descend. Ambulances are called and Marylou is transported to the hospital with treatable wounds (She would live longer but always filled with fear. She would never be the same).
I grabbed a couple of paper towels and try to stop the bleeding from the back of my hand.
I can remember thinking how surreal everything seemed and that I should savor the moment. Time was frozen as I wandered into the front bar lounge. I walked behind the bar and fixed myself a rum and coke and sat in one of the red swivel chairs. Someone drug the Perp by his ankles into the room with me. He was face down bleeding into the beer stained carpet. I hear his gurgled breathing as he struggled to find new airways through his broken nose and face, the sounds a snoring puppy makes.
“Fuck you” I say in his direction.
My First Lieutenant makes the scene and comes into the lounge area where the Perp is still unconscious and bleeding out on the floor. I have a drink and the Lieutenant examines my wound and starts to order up an ambulance for me.
“Fuck that LT. I haven’t taken an ambulance ride in my whole career and I sure as shit ain’t gonna start over this. If you want to order up an ambulance for somebody dickhead over there could probably use one.” I thumb towards the Perp.
The LT rolls the Perp over, says “OH Shit”, grabs his prep and starts ordering an ambulance for the guy that really needed one.
I laugh and finish my drink. I left a five on the bar.
Good Times.
© 2015 – 2020, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.
This will be painful for me. I will pick scab, twist bone, open jars. I will allow you to look through my eyes, to feel what it’s like to be me.
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 (The Nightmares of Others).
I always sit with my back to the wall, aware, ready. I anticipate the worst and dread it’s arrival. An overwhelming sense of doom begins to build in the center of my chest. Dark shadows hide imagined threats to the farthest edges of my World. Tears press against the backsides of my eyeballs for no apparent reason. Something is about to happen, I can feel it on my skin and in the air I breathe. I hear hoof beats as I walk in the Valley of the Bones.
Some of us are Protectors. We appoint ourselves to watch over the Flock, the Herd, the Pack, the Tribe. We cannot do otherwise. I was raised to be a Protector being the oldest of four and by a father who believed in the old scripture, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” I took beatings early and sometimes for my younger brothers and sister. I became numb to pain.
Later, when the playground bullies would make themselves known, classmates came for me. I was bigger than almost everyone else, I still am. I became numb to the fist.
Today, if I witnessed someone committing violence on a weaker person, I would have to find a way to make it stop. I know this about me and I prepare for my future battles. I still train for the fight.
PART TWO:
Langford Spring
My mind responds to echoes of the Past and dances in that dust of long ago. I am reminded of things at strange times and in strange ways. It happened again just the other day.
I had nothing to do as I sat in the ruined foundation of another man’s dream. Here, on the edge of the frontier, Langford had built an imposing two story structure of boulder and mortar, chinked together to last the ages. He had fought rattlesnakes and Mexican bandits to hold onto this dream. In the end the Restorative Hot Springs Bath could not stand against the ravages of the Rio Grande. Countless floods had their way with the old building leaving only four low stone foundation walls. The hot spring water still follows some old chase and then overflows and spills from the foundation into the river.
The Sky was steel grey and just a breath of wind as I dip myself into the waters up to my neck. This day would not rise above 70 degrees. The Rio Grande was as high as I’ve ever seen it and filled the banks between Texas and Mexico with small white caps. I lazed away a couple of hours soaking in the 104 degree spring and having pathetic conversations with transient tourists. I watched as they came, one after another, down the narrow path between the river and a cliff of stacked rock. They came huffing and puffing and I recognized most by their new hats.
One of the visitors stuck her foot in the pool for less than 3 minutes, withdrew her leather bound travel journal from her new backpack, and wrote of the experience for 6 minutes. Her red faced hubby squatted on a nearby rock, his mind lost in thoughts of work. I was glad not to be them – not to meet them.
I glimpse ancient pictographs painted against the cliff face and was reminded of another time monument which I can measure my Life against. What was important to Mr. Langford and these ancient people has no meaning today. A calm peace settles around me.
I am having another perfect day when…
A young mother and her son Abe arrive and enter the pool. Abe is a rambunctious 2 ½ year old. He’s a tow head and has a round pot belly of a new born pup. His energy is boundless as he begins to climb on the stone wall that divides the raging Rio Grande from the calmer waters of the hot spring.
It begins…
I can see a possible future where Abe tumbles head first over the stone wall and into the swift water. The Mother is distracted and unaware of the danger. I have lived a life where dead children have been pulled from murky waters, the images are locked in my Mind, I am Witness. The memories begin the Dance, my mind and body react to the past. I am a time traveler but I can only go back into my own past – to live it again. Troubled I get up and leave the pool but I take up a position downstream (just in case). Thankfully a high clump of river reed blocks my vision of Mother and Son and river and rock.
My heart pounds – my mouth is as dry as cotton – my vision narrows – echoes ring in my ears – Adrenaline courses through me – I am entirely aware and on point – I am ready for anything. Its’ the old Fight or Flight reflex and I’m trained to Fight.
Outwardly nothing shows as the storm rages. Inwardly I begin to have the same old conversation with myself. “It’s nothing Rat – relax – be cool.”
When…
I hear the mother call out “ABE – ABE!”
I run to the water’s edge and begin to visualize how I will spot Abe in the river. He will be face down and head first in the current and nearer the Mexican side. I will have to swim hard to reach him. I can see all of this. Every nerve has fired – I know this feeling – Its all up to me.
When…
Abe comes running down the dirt path with his Mother right behind. She coos and chases him in a bent over goose fashion. They both scream with delight as they pass by me, standing and watching for ghosts at the river’s edge.
Fuck PTSD
© 2015 – 2016, Michael Fulcher. All rights reserved.