Cops – Ex Cop Tales

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

A shared nightmare

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This happened a year after the Tomb of the unknown child and The Christmas party.

Again, I was working a second job for cash. During the fall I worked for a family business that operated a haunted barn and offered hayrides. Most often there were no problems and my job was to keep the cash box from being robbed. I was their hired gun.

It was a cold and foggy evening so I went into the small ticket booth to warm myself in front of the propane heater. The customers had slowed to a trickle. In the ticket booth was a young woman I had known for years. She was barely out of her teens and was considering her college choices. Everyone who worked there knew me as Deputy Mike and that I was a Cop.

The woman began to ask questions about being a Police Officer. She went on to explain that she was considering a career in law enforcement and wanted my input.

My first reaction was to think she was a bad fit for Law Enforcement. Too tender, too much white meat. I felt she would be crushed by the requirements of the job. I wanted to find an easy way to dissuade her from this idea.

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She then asked, “Deputy Mike what’s the worst thing that ever happened to you”?

Perfect, she gave me this opportunity to tell the story of the death of the marionette puppet on the side of the road. During my career I was with more than a dozen people who were suddenly and unexpectedly ripped from life. One minute to be alive and the next fighting for their last breath. Some went easy and others fought all the way. Often I could do nothing more than say, “There, there it will be alright”. I was honored to be with them as their lives ended.

Some left a deeper scar than others. This was one of my worst.

Again I drifted into the fog of telling but this time I told only of the emotion of the moment. The pain, the blame, the memories. I told her how Police work is a 100% win proposition and when we fail we blame ourselves. “If I had only driven faster to get there, If I hadn’t been fucking off in first aide class, If I had just pressed harder on her chest, breathed more into her lungs…”

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I told her after the child died in my hands I went home and pulled my sleeping daughter from her bed – made popcorn – put My Little Pony in the VCR – held her and quietly wept.

I didn’t know what else to do…

I told it as softly as I could but I wanted her to know the emotional consequences of her potential choice.

When I returned to the present she was sobbing. She looked at me and said…

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“You don’t know do you? I was the screaming woman in the car”.

I didn’t know. When the Trooper released me from the scene (which was just around the corner from the haunted barn) the woman in the car was still screaming. I supplemented his report but never asked any questions about the case. It turns out the family crossed the street right in front of the screaming woman and she was not at fault.

By the strangest of coincidences I had told the story of my nightmare to the screaming woman.

She didn’t become a Cop.

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NOTE: My intent is to someday turn this blog into a book. I would appreciate your comments or thoughts. Consider clicking the Facebook share button (bottom of each story) if you liked something I wrote.

Thanks for stopping by…

Mr. Morse

The hard Desert work was behind me and I began to live among Humans again. I had made Promises to Myself that I would forever keep. I felt alive and free. My eyes still scan the horizon for imagined threats but that is what they trained me to be. This is what I will always be. Echoes of my Past linger in me. I accept this.

…

In the fall of 2010 I volunteered at Otter Creek State park until the weather drove me away. I cut the tops out of dying cottonwood trees. The saw freed the smell of ancient spice from the wood. I enjoyed my work.

…

The nearest place to get food was in Antimony, not even a town just a bend in the road. I rode there under a canopy of yellow leaves and gray skies. The café side of the joint is separated from the tin can aisles by a one step up lunch counter. Old green linoleum with sides painted bright white time after time. I hung my motorcycle jacket over the swivel seat next to me.

When I spend time in small towns I like to get to know the locals on a first name basis. I often get the local price on everything from gas to bread. Jeri ask how I’d been as she poured my coffee. Jeri was one of those women every man likes to have a conversation with. She spoke is slow measured sultry tones. Dark hair framed her intense smile. She was fit and destined to always be beautiful.

I first saw Mr. Morse as he approached the third seat and carefully mounted it, his cane propped against his side. I guessed him in his late 80’s but bright and he carried himself with broad shoulders. His hair was crew cut. I recognized this old warrior as he ordered only coffee. I was trying to drive the chill from my bones and decide what to do next.

We talked casually of fishing for a moment. Mr. Morse told me that he had been coming to Otter Creek for a dozen or more years, since the death of his wife. He told me he once had a dog.

He then asked me how my day was. It is this question that often causes a shift in my conversations.

“I’m having the day of a lifetime Brother, but I have many of those. Sometimes I string them into weeks, months or years. I live a life other men don’t even know exists. I live a dream of my own making.” I spoke the truth.

Mr. Morse smiled broadly and extended his large hand. We introduced ourselves. A few people milled around on the grocery side of the business. We went unnoticed as I asked him what he did during WW II. He proudly told me that he had trained bomber pilots. He knew exactly how many to, 44. He began to describe the type of aircraft he flew.

I stopped him, “Mr. Morse could I ask a difficult question?” He said yes…

“Of those 44 men that you trained do you know how many survived their tours and returned home?” His crystal blue eyes flashed, I saw tears well up in his face.

He said, “No, I couldn’t… maybe half.”

Without missing a beat Mr. Morse began to tell me of the last moments of his wife’s life. She had been subjected to some minor surgery and he was with her in post-op. She suddenly and without warning suffered a brain aneurysm and died in his presence. In that moment He began his new life alone.

I expressed my sympathy for having suffered such a terrible wound. To have made it through the hard and scary part only to lose her when all seemed hopeful. Tears spilled down his cheeks.

We continued to talk. Someone walked past. We were in a bubble – just Mr. Morse and I – unseen.

He suddenly asked me if he should get a dog. He explained that he had a fear of dying and leaving the dog with no one. I told him to go to the nearest shelter and get the oldest dog they had. I explained to him that he was denying a dog the gift of his friendship.

His hand quivered as he pushed a crumpled dollar bill a quarter and a dime across the counter with one bony finger.

He patted my shoulder and mouthed his thanks as he left. I wished him well.

Later Jeri told me he got a fuzzy old dog.

Christmas Party

I have told the story of the Tomb of the Unknown Child before…

I had to attend a Christmas party hosted by my ex-wife’s boss. She worked for a vice President of something surrounded by other vice Presidents of nothing. They were a bunch of Harvard and Yale grads, pretentious and inexperienced. I was not impressed by any of them.

At that time in my life you wouldn’t have liked me. I made decisions in 1/5 of a second and expected the rest of the World to do the same. I was moody, suffered from depression and had a mean streak. I spent my nights surrounded by pimps, thugs, hookers and thieves – everybody lied. I didn’t trust anyone but other Cops.

I had sunk to the lowest point of my life. Most have heard of Suicide by Cop, I was the reverse, I was a Cop looking for a shoot-out. I searched to find someone to put me out of my misery. I was first through the door, first to the bar fight, I quit wearing my bulletproof vest.

This was just before Christmas and like all good Cops I was working a second job for cash to give my kids a Christmas morning they would never forget.

I was sleep deprived and in a foul mood.

I put on my best Court suit (I owned 3 at that time) and tried to catch a nap in the car as my ex-wife drove us to the venue.

It was a stylish affair with a free bar filled with the best liquor. I took up a position near the door, with my back to the wall, and tried my best to avoid contact with anyone. I drank more than I should and watched.

In the very center of the room was a congregation of the pampered puppies. They were beginning careers with the fresh scent of their ivy league past hanging on them. I watched the loudest one as he hogged the conversation. I could just hear him bragging about his latest trip to Spain. I watched a chunky gold Rolex watch slip up and down his skinny wrist as he spoke. In that moment I realized that watch was worth more than my entire yearly pay and all the Christmas cash I was trying to raise for my kids. I bit my lip and growled under my breath.

The little Prick heard me and looked my way…

After he finished his vacation story he said to the other puppies, “Lets go talk to the Cop”.

They all approached and surrounded me. Their glasses clinking with ice and liquor. All with polished broad practiced fake smiles. My heart beat faster – Fight or Flight feelings rose up. I felt trapped and angry.

As they neared I leaned over and whispered into the ear of the Prick, “Don’t fuck with me”. He looked shocked but continued, “So Deputy Mike tell us what its like to be a Cop”.

I said loud enough for most in the room to hear me, “You want to know what its like to be a Cop do you? Well I’ll tell you what its like to be a Cop”.

For the first time I spoke of the child dying in my hands days before. As I told the story I drifted into a fog of reliving it. The words spilled from me. Instead of telling it like I’ve written earlier I told them of every broken bone, of every pool of blood, of the sounds, of everything I saw. I gave them the full gore version.

“AND that’s what it’s like to be a Cop”.

When I came back to the present children were crying and being dragged away from me by their mothers. The room then fell silent. Ex-wife looked at me with disgust. The party was over.

I stood up with clenched fists and looked at the Prick. “I told you not to fuck with me”, and I walked out of the room.

I was never invited back to another Christmas party

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.