By and by, police officers are honest, decent, dignified folks who want nothing more than to do noble things for people. They seldom run out and capitalize on the good things they do because then their motives for sharing are challenged. Ultimately, police officers are no different than anyone else. Everyone likes to receive some occasional validation. In my opinion, however, police officers do not get much validation because people forget they are human.
The public gets caught up in the stereotypical image of what a policeman should be, based on what is depicted and expressed on television. The public only sees cops in dramatic Hollywood stories and gets an inaccurate perception of who the human being is behind the badge. Thus, we have done nothing more than build stereotypes that have become part of our collective consciousness of a public who wants to see through the cops’ eyes but gets little exposure to the reality and truth of their humaneness.
The first two decades of the transpersonal field largely focused on the high end of human experience. In the formative years, the transpersonal perspective was often thought of, exclusively, as anything beyond normal human comprehension, such as altered states of consciousness, extrasensory perception, near-death experiences, astral vision, and other intuitive states. These examples do shape a significant part of the transpersonal perspective; however, such incidents are becoming less of a focus now as the transpersonal perspective expands and advances towards a more complete and all-inclusive view of the human heart and experience.
This book is a reflective and unusual examination of unexplainable situations and phenomena. The stories imply a greater force or intelligence within and beyond ourselves, which we have, perhaps, not explored enough. Additionally, many stories show good quality police work that is a result of highly developed skills in awareness, attention to detail, and in noticing things out of place or “not right.â€
Interestingly, the officers who submitted their stories were perfectionists to a fault. Like a police report, their stories had to be accurate and were corrected if only one word was off. I consider all these police extremely credible and am honored that they shared their experiences with me.
I ask you, the reader, to consider the possibility that we are all experiencing a shift in paradigm, not only in law enforcement, but in other professions and within our own collective consciousness. Consequently, more and more reliable and believable professionals are starting to acknowledge extraordinary experiences that imply a compassionate interconnectedness among people.
Lastly, it is my hope and prayer that readers will gain a deeper understanding and appreciation for the psychological, emotional, and spiritual aspects of police officers. I believe that police officers, their departments, and society in general are entering into a new era for the criminal justice system. The new era not only includes cutting-edge technologies and practical, client-based, problem-solving approaches to law enforcement, but also includes a developing appreciation and respect for the more receptive, intuitive, and creative aspects of police officers who have to deal directly with the human condition. Police work does go beyond “just the facts, ma’am.â€
This book will demonstrate that reality.
SPIRIT
OF THE BADGE
Angels & Apparitions
Shared observances and interactions with angels and apparitions are valuable because they expand our grasp of possibility. While death may remain a physical reality from a scientific point of view, these recorded experiences lessen the sting and fear of death. That is what makes these encounters so transpersonal.
“Angels are messengers, but sometimes we misunderstand their language.â€
Linda Solegato
“An angel is someone who helps you believe in miracles again.â€
Author Unknown
An Angel’s Shield
In 1992, I worked the 12th precinct (now the Western District) of the city of Detroit in a marked uniformed patrol unit. My regular partner and I had been separated by a shift supervisor who didn’t like either one of us. I was paired with a desk officer who had little street experience. As we went out on the road, I hoped it was going to be an average day.
As it became dark, we found ourselves driving north on Wyoming Road near Santa Clara. There was a red light at the intersection and all traffic was stopped. The car in front of us was occupied by three guys and had license plate BNL661 (I’ll never forget that number). The car stopped momentarily and then drove through the light. My first thought was that the light was stuck, but then it turned green.
The occupants of nearby cars looked at my partner and me as if to say, “You’re the police. Do something about it.â€
We activated our lights and attempted to pull the car over. The occupants began to argue. We could see them yelling at each other. They weren’t going fast; they were just cruising. But they weren’t stopping the car either.
I advised our dispatcher of the situation and the direction we were traveling. The car turned down a side street and parked. Instinct told me to stay further behind than I normally would on a traffic stop.
As I started to exit the patrol car, the person in the front passenger seat leaned out of the door window and fired at me with an Intra-tech 9mm Uzi-style weapon.
Everything happened so fast, he fired at least three shots before I realized we were under fire. I quickly re-entered the police car to get to the radio to call for help. I shouted, “Officer in trouble! Twelve-11 under fire!†As I reached for my weapon, I could see bullets tearing through the metal hood of the patrol car on an angle toward the driver’s door—my side. I knew if I exited I’d be hit.
Then the gunman fired a shot directly into the windshield of the patrol car at face level. I should have been killed. It should have hit me directly in the mouth. However, the bullet flew up, deflecting off the windshield. I knew the windshield wouldn’t take another hit without being penetrated. I had no choice but to get out of the car to fire because my shots were not effective from a seated position.
As I started to leave the car, everything went into slow motion. I saw a golden light fill the car and heard a voice say, “Don’t worry. You’re going to come out of this fine. You won’t be hurt.†It was a calm male voice. I believed the voice. It felt as if a shield had been raised up in front of me. I knew that I wouldn’t be hurt!
I exited the police car. The gunman was still shooting. I aimed and fired my weapon, causing the driver to floor the car and speed away. I emptied my magazine as the gunman and his accomplices fled. I was not harmed at all.
I looked around and saw my partner’s hat in the street; the passenger door was wide open. The first thing I thought was that my partner was hit. I searched around the patrol car and advised dispatch that I couldn’t find my partner. Moments later, additional police cars arrived, one with my partner in the backseat. It turned out my partner ran from the gunmen after the first shot.
Physically, I had been left alone—but spiritually I had the best backup in the world. I am alive today because of divine intervention.
Free As a Bird
My mother, whom I loved dearly, passed away at the age of sixty-two. She was a lifelong smoker, which severely impaired her health during the last ten years of her life. She suffered through several strokes, open-heart surgery, and other major health problems. Eventually she was homebound; connected to a thirty-foot air line and nasal cannula.
My father had passed away, so Mom lived alone. Basically all she could do for entertainment was read or watch television. To give her something to do, I bought a bird feeder and birdhouse and hung them in the tree that stood in front of her kitchen window. Her favorite pastime soon became sitting on a stool in the kitchen to watch the birds—some days for hours at a time.
She enjoyed watching the many different birds that came to the feeder. Her favorite were the chickadees. They were always
so busy and happy—and they traveled in groups. Whenever I came over for coffee, Mom would tell me how she loved the chickadees best. During one of our last conversations before her death, she told me that she wanted to be one of them—she was tired of being tied down and wanted to be as free as a bird. This was early November.
A few days before Thanksgiving, Mom became very ill. She did not want to go to the hospital because she felt she would not come home this time. I basically forced her to go to emergency; where she was admitted into the hospital.
My nephew, Jason, had come down from Marquette to go deer hunting with me. Jason was only fifteen and never had a father. He had a difficult life, so as his uncle, I acted as his father figure and had gotten him addicted to deer hunting. When Jason arrived I told him that his grandmother was very ill and that we probably would not go hunting. Jason was disappointed but said he understood.
We went to the hospital and visited Mom. Before I went in the room, I spoke with a nurse who was also a personal friend. She told me that my mother was failing and that she would probably pass away in three to seven days. Jason and I then visited with Mom separately, for about an hour apiece. When I spoke with Mom, she said worriedly, “Ken, this time it is different. What is happening to me?â€
Although I tried to make her feel better, she told me she thought she was dying. She then asked if I was going to take Jason hunting that day. I told her no. It was windy, dark, and miserable outside. We would just stay in town and then come back later in the afternoon to visit her again. Mom insisted I take Jason hunting, stating it was her wish that I do so and that I was not going to disappoint him or her. She told me point blank to leave, go hunting, and that when we came back later we had better have a deer hunting story for her.
I hugged and kissed Mom good-bye and left, promising to do as she asked.
I told Jason that we had been ordered by Grandma to go hunting. Jason was happy about this; even though I told him her situation was dire. Jason loved his grandmother—and he would be sad when she died—but her death had been expected several times during the past few years. We agreed to follow Mom’s orders.
When we reached the woods I sent Jason down the trail by himself, to a deer blind I had prepared for him earlier that fall. To make him feel better, I told Jason I was also going to hunt, but that I wanted to stay near the car. After he was out of sight, I sat on the hood of the car, thinking about Mom and our life together. I did not get my gun out as hunting was the last thing on my mind.
I had parked the car in the middle of a small field. After about an hour, the weather abruptly changed from dark and dismal to bright and sunny with a light breeze. I spotted a lone bird flying across the field toward my car. As it came closer, I was amazed. It was a chickadee, about the size of a robin, which is huge for this type of bird.
The chickadee flew right to the car and landed next to me on the hood. It then flitted around the car, perching on the hood next to me several times. It would not leave. Eventually I found myself talking to the bird. The situation was extremely odd; the size of the bird, the fact that it was alone, and that it was so friendly and unafraid.
After a time, I heard a motor and saw a truck coming down the road. I recognized it as belonging to my best friend, Charlie Willour. I instantly knew why Charlie was there. Mom must have died.
As Charlie drove up, the chickadee flew in front of my face and then left. Charlie got out of this truck and gave me the news I expected hear: Mom had died about one hour earlier.
I knew my mother had visited me for the last time. She had come to say good-bye and to assure me that she was happy and at last as free as a bird. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that freedom for some does come in death.
In loving memory of Trooper Robert Marble, who recently passed away in an off-duty traffic accident.
An Angel’s Warning
When I was young, my mom said she had a guardian angel to watch over us especially whenever we traveled or did something risky, like race motorcycles. She said she always sent along her angel to take care of us.
Both of my parents died in 1987; my dad from a long battle with cancer, my mom of a broken heart (they died within twelve hours of each other). Since then, I have always known that my mom’s angel watches over us, and I have called upon her many times to protect my own kids.
In 1997, another trooper and I from the Detroit Post volunteered to transfer to Benton Harbor. I figured Benton Harbor would be a lot like Detroit, plus it would be a break from the regular stuff at the Detroit Post.
Benton Harbor was a lot like Detroit, just on a smaller scale. One common practice was that when we came to a red light while patrolling, if traffic was clear we treated the light like a stop sign—stop, look both ways, and then drive through. The philosophy was get the job done, don’t waste time sitting at a red light.
On one particular night I was driving, and we had been stop-signing red lights all night. About three in the morning, my partner and I approached a green light at a blind intersection in downtown Benton Harbor. The tall buildings on all corners prevented me from seeing any possible oncoming cars. I said to my partner, “We’ve been going through red lights all night, I think I’ll stop for this green light and balance the scale.†I had no sooner stopped at the light when a car came screaming around the corner, driving at a high rate of speed through the red light! If I had not stopped at the green light, we would have been broadsided. My partner and I looked at each other in amazement. Both of our jaws were dropped as we stared at each other in awe. We both knew we had been divinely protected. I knew my mom’s angel had saved me once again. (Of course, we chased down the car and took appropriate action.)
Spirits of the North
I’ve never been what you might call “poltergeist inclined.†I enjoy a good horror movie as much as the next person, but I always dismissed alleged true tales of wandering spirits as figments of overactive imaginations. I always believed each strange occurrence had at least one logical explanation.
This was, of course, before I began working the late-night shift in City Hall at Skagway, Alaska.
Skagway’s City Hall and police department are housed in the McCabe College Building. The local court, Magistrate’s office, and Trail of 98 Museum also share the space. This grand old structure was built in 1900 as a woman’s college and was, for a time, the only granite building in Alaska.
As with any old building, it had the obligatory creeks, groans, and murmurs. Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell me it was haunted. I say this now with some certainty, even though it may damage any reputation I have left as being a practical man.
After a break-in period, my first duty assignment was working the midnight shift. Sitting in the office during the wee hours, I would occasionally hear a few strange noises, but never gave them much thought. One early morning, however, changed my perception of what goes bump in the night—forever.
I was working on some much-neglected paperwork at my desk. The building was silent except for the faint hum of the Macintosh computer and my fingers performing a slow dance on the keyboard. Fighting off sleepiness caused by a daytime person trying to be nocturnal, I struggled with a rather boring theft report.
I had nearly completed the narrative when I heard a door close. The door was in a rear hallway off of the court chambers. I recognized this door because of the many times I’d heard it close before. It was attached to a police storage room where uniforms and other equipment were kept. The solid oak door was at least two inches thick. An ancient brass knob and lock-set hinted at its age. The door would not stay open on its own and, if not held, would quickly slam shut behind you. As the door was swinging it made the most hideous screeching sound.
After hearing the door close, my first thought was that someone was in or had been in the storage room. This idea was quickly dismissed because the entire building was dark when I
arrived. My second thought was that someone left the door propped open and whatever was holding it gave way.
I wasn’t the least bit nervous as I rose from the desk and confidently walked through the dark courtroom and into the even darker hallway. After some fumbling around I turned on the hall light and approached the storage room door. I pulled on the knob and found it properly latched. Upon opening the door, the equipment room was dark, as it should be. I turned on the light and all of the contents seemed to be in order. I turned off the light and let the door shut on its own and was treated to the loud screeching and confident slam. Before walking away, I pulled on the knob one more time. It was locked. Satisfied, I returned to my desk and began making finishing touches to the report.
A few minutes later, I again heard the loud screech and the finality of the door slamming shut. This made the hair on the back of my neck rise to attention. Spooks were not on my mind at this point. I knew SOMEONE must have opened the door.
I pulled my weapon and made my way back to the dark courtroom using my best there-might-be-a-bad-guy-on-the-premises stalking maneuvers. I listened for signs of an intruder. As I crouched outside the door, all was silent in the hallway. My left hand reached for the light switch and the bulb snapped into action. I pounced forward, gun pointing down the hall, prepared for whoever was breaking in or out.
Spirit Of The Badge Page 2
