PTSD – Page 2 – Ex Cop Tales

Suicide

Wednesday

I was working the afternoon shift in a marked patrol assignment. Once I had my cruiser loaded I called in service to Dispatch.

“Baker 12 copy a suicide in progress.”

Someone had called in and said a subject was threatening to kill himself. The caller related that the subject was in the water, at the boat launch, and had a knife to his wrist.

I go like a bat outta hell and arrive within minutes, having just a few miles to cover between the Station and the location. When I arrive I find the subject waist deep in the lake with a dull butter knife to his wrist. He starts telling me to back up or he was going to kill himself.

“What’s your name friend?”

“John”.

“John drop the knife and get out of the water. I can find help for you”.

John complied almost immediately and began apologizing for his behavior. I walked him back to his apartment talking with him along the way. Suicidal subjects can be dangerous but I didn’t sense that in him. He was just a skinny, wet frightened man. He was alone and confused.

On these types of calls our policy dictated that a team of Mental Health professionals be contacted. I called them and briefed them on the situation and they came out and interviewed John. After a couple of hours they decided that John’s threatened suicide was nothing more that a call for attention and scheduled a follow up visit with him. Everyone agreed that John wasn’t a danger to himself or others and we all left.

Thursday

This was the Second time I was dispatched to John’s apartment – another suicide in progress call. John called Dispatch and said he was going to hang himself. Upon arrival (Single entry door into the common area of 4 apartments – 2 up 2 down) I see John at the top of the stair landing with a clothesline around his neck and the other end around the banister. I just walked up the stairs and cut the rope and took John back inside his apartment. Again I called the Mental Health pros and they again responded to the scene. After a few more hours of interview they again stated that John was not a danger to anyone and that he was only calling out for attention.

Saturday

This was the third time I was sent back to John’s on a suicide in progress within my work week. John was becoming a problem. Again John called it in himself, telling the Dispatcher that he was “Really gonna do it this time.” I didn’t run a signal and took my time getting there.

John was back in the water but now he had a sharper knife. It took me a little longer but I talked him into dropping the knife and coming out of the water. I took him back to his apartment and again called the Mental Health people.

This time the team decided they would not respond to the scene. The Psychiatrist said, “Michael create a story that will impress upon John the potential consequences of his actions. Find some way to tell him that he may cause a greater harm”.

Hummmm…

I hang up the phone and started talking to John…

I act shaky and tense. “John you ain’t gonna believe what just about happened. I was running a signal to get here to help you and I almost ran over a little girl. She was playing at the entrance to your apartment complex and I didn’t see her rushing to get here. Man it was so close. My heart is still beating a mile a minute.”

“Here feel this”, and I placed his hand over my heart. Whatever he felt was in his mind as I was wearing a bulletproof vest.

While still holding his hand to my chest I looked him right in his eyes and said, “John, I almost killed that child and you would have been to blame. You’ve got to stop doing this.”

John’s eyes widened and for the first time I think he did realize the consequences of his actions. Tears stung his face and he was remorseful.

“I’m so sorry Deputy Mike, you don’t have to worry about me calling you guys anymore.”

Sunday

I got called back to John’s for the last time. A neighbor heard a gunshot. I got there quick and found the front door to John’s apartment slightly ajar. I think he left it that way for me.

I pushed the door open, gun in hand, and entered. I saw John in the living room sitting in a big recliner. He had placed a .45 caliber handgun under his chin and pulled the trigger.

What a mess…

NOTE: I felt a little funny for creating such a vivid image for John but this one doesn’t bother me. I tried my best to help but couldn’t.

Shit happens…

Peace

Some have gone to Hell and back to find themselves. I survived the journey and I’m stronger because of it. In this Place and Time I am the best Me I have ever been…

I write in the voice of who I was and not the person I am today. Many of you will feel empathy, sympathy and pain for my words. Try not to. Feel for the victims, their lives and deaths matter.

I am honored to have lived the intense life I have. I have defended those that couldn’t defend themselves. I stood shoulder to shoulder with my Brothers. People have risked their lives for me and I for them. I lived in a violent World where your reputation was everything. Truth mattered.

How many get a chance to live in this World?

My Definition of Peace

Mine is a “Peace of Mind” and not some numb disconnected thing. I did not find this Peace by sitting on a black cushion in some dark room making weird noises. I found it within me. I am a hillbilly Buddha having discovered my own enlightenment. I don’t want to be Tom Cruise or an NBA star. I love being me and being a part of the life I create around me.

I found my Peace in the Deserts and Mountains of Utah and Nevada years ago. Back then I lived wild with only my dogs. I avoided all human contact and rode into the backwater towns for supplies under the cover of darkness. I began to find ways to heal myself.

Everyday I stood in a steep walled canyon screaming “WHY” until I could scream no more and “WHY” didn’t matter.

I wrote everything I could remember that haunted me. The deaths, the bodies, the betrayals. The failures, the near misses, the luck, the survivor guilt. Every night I would burn it all and start over the next morning. I pounded my fists into the red dirt and howled into the night like the wounded Animal I was. I learned how to forget – how to forgive – how to find a place for my Memories. I was troubled by my past and found my own way through it. I learned to look inward to find what caused me to react to the World in the ways that I did.

For me it started with rage. When I had my career I had explosive fits of rage. The rage had a home in me and served me well in the fights but when the career was over I didn’t want to lose control of my mind anymore. I waited and watched. As a new rage would build in me I would do my best to sense every aspect of it. To smell, feel, taste it. To feel it building. Once I was familiar with the beginning of my Rage I waited for it and visualized putting a trash can lid over it. I tried and failed many, many times to stop it.

Then one day I was able to stop my rage. In that moment I was changed forever. For the first time in my life I felt the reins of my mind in my hands. I was in control and things have been better ever since. I have shared this technique with others who have been effected by PTSD and it has been helpful for some of them. I have not experienced an explosive fit of rage since that day. I learned to take control of other parts of my mind that I didn’t like to. Fewer things bothered me.

This is the Peace I speak of. A Peace of knowing oneself. Of being able to look inward and control what causes you pain or pleasure. To not be troubled, to know what makes you tick.

This is the Peace I’ve found

Michael of the Distant Mountains

Recruits

When I trained Recruits at the Sheriff’s department I would make this request of them. Before we began I had them bring me a photograph of themselves. I told them to make it one that showed their likes, who they were.

Once I had my hands on this photograph I would have a very serious conversation with this new recruit. The words went something like this.

“I will teach you to be the big bad ass police, how to drive fast – kick ass and carry a gun but you have to make a promise to me now”.

“When this ride is over be it a year or a career you will TRY to go back to this person (pointing at photograph). You WILL be changed by this. You will become hard, suspicious and mean in some ways. Always remember who you were”.

I would then tuck the photograph in their breast pocket and tell them to always keep it there as a reminder of this promise.

I have spent years searching for myself. These writings are part of my journey.

Bad day for Frank

Frank was my mentor and he is a Brother of mine. He is a fire plug of a man who served as a submariner before becoming a Cop. We experienced much together. After my first 3 years on road patrol I was promoted to Detective. It was there and then that Frank and I formed a bond that endures to this day. It was Frank that taught me the art of the Interview. He taught me the guilt that consumes some men wants to get out. You have to create a way for it to happen. No matter how horrible or disgusting the crime you will have to “understand”.

During the interrogation of a pedophile I have said something like this, “Look I understand how this happened. Your niece was bouncing around on your lap and your dick got hard, you wouldn’t be a man if it didn’t”.

The hook was set. He thinks I’ll understand his particular perversion. It all makes me sick to my stomach to think about it now.

The confessions were worth the price.

I digress. I started writing about a bad day for Frank…

Frank and I were on the Hostage Negotiations Team or HNT together. Frank was a seasoned veteran of the Department with a varied background. His primary assignment was Polygraph operator. He conducted two interviews each day.

We were both on call for any HNT call outs. Most of them went something like this.

A drunk gets pissed because his neighbor’s dog won’t quit shitting in his petunias. The drunk blast the neighbor’s dog in half with a shotgun while it’s hunkered up. The police get called and the place is surrounded. The drunk takes a pot shot out the window. SWAT and HNT make the scene. Most times, after hours and some sobering up, the perp would surrender.

Well, that’s the way it worked most often.

In the “Old Days” things were done differently. Now negotiations rarely take place face to face.

Decades ago Frank was called out on this job. A Vietnam veteran had returned home and had trouble adjusting to his reclaimed life. He drank too much. He was pissed off at the VA for not giving him the meds he thought he needed. Then he got arrested. Then he got a bad case of cancer. Then his wife left him, taking his daughter with her. Then she sent the Sheriff’s Office out to check his well being. Then he barricaded himself with a shotgun under his chin.

Frank entered the residence and did a face to face with this desperate human being. His name was Frank too. He sat on the end of the bed with the shotgun between his bony knees. Only once, over the next 2 hours, did he make eye contact with Frank.

He spoke of Vietnam, of cancer, of his daughter. He howled out in real emotional pain. Frank listened and tried his best to reach out but he knew he wasn’t getting through. Frank had real problems without solutions.

Frank of Vietnam began to cry. He wanted his daughter to get his death benefit and life insurance payments. He knew that if he committed suicide that would not happen. It would be one of the last things he cared about. His love for his daughter was powerful.

SWAT had the place surrounded. Vietnam Frank said he was done talking and he told Frank to leave the room. Frank begged him over and over not to do it.

“You don’t want to witness this” said the man of short time.

“I can’t leave” said Frank.

For the first time Vietnam Frank looked Frank right in the eye…

“Sorry Bro” – BOOM

In that moment Frank was changed forever.

Frank would pay another price. He told everyone Vietnam Frank had leaned over to reach his coffee cup and the shotgun accidentally discharged.

Everyone knew he lied.

A dead man’s wish was fulfilled.

Justice is sometimes strange.

Crackhead Red

I worked as an undercover narcotics officer for years. I was loaned out to the Michigan State Police. These years were some of the most intense and enjoyable of my career. I was part of a Buy Bust street crew, the Crack Attack Team (CAT). We targeted gangs that sold crack cocaine on street corners and their dope houses. There were lots of cold hits, drive-ups and controlled purchases. We banged our own doors (made our own Search Warrant drug house entries) – sometimes three a day. We conducted Trojan Horse Operations – We assisted other departments with everything from surveillance to busting hookers – Everything was fucking funny.

This happened then…

CRACKHEAD RED

My throat was dry and every muscle tight as I shut off the ignition. I gulped the last of the 40 ouncer and shoved the empty under the seat. I could feel the tape of the wire pull against my chest as I rolled out of the beater. I could feel the heat of the transmitter taped to my back. Under my breath and into the wire I muttered “Fuck you Flash” just to let him know I still loved him.

My brothers would cover my ass yet again.

This was my first undercover narcotics purchase since being loaned out to the State Police. “Rolex”, the paid informant, knew the crack slinger as “Red” and that he was out of Detroit and twitchy. Red had based his one man operation out of a Michigan Avenue flop motel.

There would be no intros on this one. My best and only plan was to walk up to the door and knock. What happen from there was the great unknown…

FOUR HOURS EARLIER:

Shamu was on the ram and I was third through the door. Festus was right in front of me, my hand on his shoulder. The door exploded into wood splinters and shrapnel. Rebel lets loose with a War Cry.

Into another crack house with extreme force and determination we go.

Shouts of “State Police, Search Warrant“ and “Get down” fill the air.

ONE HOUR EARLIER:

I dump my raid gear at the O and get ready for the cold deal with Red. Rebel is in the bathroom with me, helping tape the transmitter to my body. He cracks one joke after another throughout this dance of ours. Him with the tape and jokes, me with my pants around my ankles. He reminds me to get a 40 ouncer of State Police purchased beer for the ride. Rebel’s jokes ease the tension as always.

In his deep southern drawl Rebel whispers into my ear, “Ya know we’re gonna have to quit meeting like this”.

We test the wire before leaving the O.

RED:

I pound on the door and notice the matching rhythms of my beating heart. Red answers.

Red has reason to be twitchy. He has moved into the territory of others and set up shop. He pays tribute to no man. He is an independent owner/operator. I can tell he deals to feed his habit which, from the looks at him, must be a monster. He is a man that hasn’t slept in days and knows his run is coming to an end.

Passed out in the bed, face down, was a $20 crack whore I’d arrested many times before.

“What the fuck you want”?

“Crack motherfucker, what the fuck you think I want”. That seemed to piss him off but his hunger for money to feed his hunger for Crack took over.

“How much you want”?

Well it turned out that Red was fresh out of Crack but he knew where we could score some “right around the corner”. My plan evolves to include a walk to a crack house with my newest best bud Red. Off we go. I can feel the transmitter riding up my back.

I figure that between the wire and the surveillance team somebody might stand a chance of figuring out the newest plan.

So we walk into a rundown neighborhood just off of Michigan Avenue. Most of the homes were two stories and split into rentals. I notice Festus drive by and feel better about the plan, or lack thereof.

Boom, Red makes a right turn into a backyard and we’re up the stairs and pounding on the door of this newest target. I had an uneasy feeling that the surveillance team might have missed my sudden change of direction. I would learn later that my suspicion was right, the team knew I was in one of three houses but that was the best they had. I didn’t see any address as the door opened. Inside Red and I go.

This newest shit head then did something that sent the hairs on my neck rising. He barricaded the door with a 4X4 timber. Not only did the team not know where I was but if they did they weren’t getting in without a tank. On top of that the transmitter was in and out.

Fuck me, stay cool.

So Red and shit head go into the kitchen leaving me with the babies and the babies momma. Well it turned out that shit head is fresh out of Crack too but he knew somebody that could bring some right over. The plan evolves again.

So there I am for the next 90 minutes sitting in a upstairs loft looking out the window watching Sesame Street with the kids and the crack heads.

Finally the crack dealer shows up. He takes one look at me and “No fucking way am I selling to homie. He looks like a fucking cop”. Red, my newest best friend, then starts lying his ass off telling the dealer he had known me since we were babies and how his daddy use to fuck my momma. Too fucking funny.

The deal(s) go down and the dealer immediately leaves. Red and shit head and the babies momma all start pinching my bag. I start bitching, grab what’s left and head for the barricaded door. My new best friend Red didn’t even say goodbye.

Out the door I go into immediate Chaos.

Shamu comes flying up asking where the hell I’d been. He fills me in on the intermittent wire issue and the Team not knowing where I went. About then Red comes out higher that hell from his just smoked rock. Rebel and another Team member chased him down and tackled him head first into the neighbor’s rose bushes. I see them dragging him back out right the way he went in. He resembles a bobcat attack victim. One down.

I look down the street and see two of the surveillance vehicles have pinched the dealer’s vehicle against the curb. Flash is pointing guns and screaming orders. Two down.

Neighbors start to come out of their homes.

I hear sirens in the distance fast approaching our location.

I look at Shamu and say “I think we’ve caused enough damage here, our work is done”. He belly laughs and I load up with him as he takes me back to the flop and my beater.

TWO HOURS LATER:

There is a tradition within undercover circles that goes something like this. When you “Get your cherry popped” you pick up the bar bill for the whole team.

Not only was my team bellied up at the nearest bar but two other crews showed up along with the big boss. We broke bread, laughed and relived the funniest parts of the day.

Popcorn, one of my bosses, leaned over and asked “So how does it feel to buy drugs for the first time”? I chuckled and said “Popcorn that wasn’t the first time I bought drugs. That was the just first time I bought drugs for the State Police”…

12 HOURS LATER:

Log evidence and write numerous arrest reports and get ready for the next deal or door.

PHOTO:

Me – Then. That’s a uniform you can’t take off. I was shooting for the Charlie Manson look. I got profiled by other Cops more than once and often followed by security while shopping. Family events were interesting.

A solution

A quick funny one…

I was riding midnight shift and had a partner that dozed off all the time. This was pissing me off and I needed a solution.

I waited until he was nice and zonked out. I eased the patrol car down the boat ramp. I drove in as deep as I dared. I thumb on the overhead lights hit the siren and scream “GUN”.

As expected Sleepy busts his door open and rolls out. The plan worked to perfection.

About Me

I was a Police Officer for 25 years. I worked for a large Sheriff’s department and had a very successful career. I received many awards, promotions and special assignments. I was a Homicide Detective, a Hostage Negotiator and a Police diver. I was awarded Law Enforcement Officer of the year, twice. I received the Medal of Valor. I ended my career as a 1st Lieutenant in charge of the largest district the Sheriff’s Office patrolled.

This is a collection of my life experiences. I will also write about my personal journey to find myself after the career ended, of finding my Peace.

Thanks for visiting…