Spirit Of The Badge

by Ingrid P. Dean

  I got a chair and stood on it to reach the alarm. When I opened the cover, I discovered there was no battery in the alarm! My wife also confirmed the fact that the alarm had no battery.

  Did residual power cause the alarm to ring? We had been in the cottage for a week without the alarm sounding. Any residual current would have been dissipated. The alarm was connected to no other power source. There was no combustion or smoke present. It was the simple type of circular alarm with plastic housing that operated from a 9-volt battery. It never sounded again during our stay.

  How could this have happened?

  The Trooper’s Riddle

  by Tom Brosman

  Shannon was a trooper with just a few years on.

  It was a job that suited her and she worked from dusk til dawn.

  One night a Camaro flew by at 90-plus

  Shannon lit it up and took after the car in a rush.

  Dispatch had ran the plates by the time she rolled the Camaro over

  And walked up beside the car that was parked alongside the shoulder.

  A teenaged girl behind the wheel was cussing and throwing a fit.

  “My dad is a senator, just so you know. Now give me a warning and git!

  He has a lot of influence all across this state

  And if you let me off, I’ll tell him you cut me a break.”

  The trooper kept her cool and wrote a modest citation

  The violator’s expression as she signed was a battle declaration.

  Three weeks later on a July day, Shannon’s sergeant called her in.

  “There has been a serious charge placed against you by a senator about his kid.

  The papers I am serving you say you yelled and cussed at his girl

  And that you called her the “B” word twice and other insults hurled.”

  Eventually, the charges were dropped, but they took their toll on Shannon.

  She lost a lot of sleep and felt betrayed, like she was shot at from a cannon.

  Finally, she kind of got over it and summer passed, then fall

  Christmas was just up ahead, her favorite time of all.

  She had to work on Christmas day, but her dad always made dinner.

  She had popped a couple of DUIs by noon and warned a passing speeder.

  The afternoon went slowly, with few vehicles rolling by.

  At three p.m. dispatch sent her to a wreck where the RP thought the girl driving had died.

  It was lights and siren to the blind curve on a knoll

  Where the driver of a Camaro had sheered off a power pole.

  The driver inside the crumpled car groaned faintly through the broken glass

  And blood in gouts was flowing from a deep arterial gash.

  “I need an aid car with some blood and call the PUD.

  I’ve got to help the victim now before she bleeds out in front of me.”

  The trooper applied pressure at the point to make the bleeding stem

  And she thought it was so ironic that she had saved the driver again.

  She signed out of service at her house, working an hour over

  And she took off her bloody uniform and stood underneath a good warm shower.

  She called her dad to tell him she’d not be there til a quarter til.

  Her dad met her at his door and hugged his darling girl.

  He had made a table full of food and had a tree that glistened.

  Oh, he had been a trooper, too, and knew there was a time to listen.

  Her mother had been like that, too, had that cloudy look when a storm was brewing.

  He made small talk as they ate, of fruit trees, weather, and BBQing

  He looked across the table to everything he held dear

  “Care to tell your dad what caused those wiped away tears?”

  She should have known that her dad, who’d been a troop for thirty years,

  Could sense her mood a block away with instinct heeded, needed over the years.

  She glanced around the table at the ham and salad and pie

  But her father’s favorite food was from his fruit trees he’d canned and put by.

  He had been so lost when her mother died, with a daughter and a house and the patrol.

  But he pulled it off to get her raised and she loved him for it all.

  “Well . . . it’s a riddle, Daddy, really and one that I can’t solve.

  I work so hard to protect and serve with all of my resolve.

  I cited a speeder way last summer and she accused me of close to crimes

  I was cleared after a month of sleeplessness and a fair amount of crying.

  “Today, I saved that speeder’s life in a wreck that she had caused.

  There is no doubt in my mind I won’t get any thanks or applause.

  Where’s the justice in a system when troopers risk their lives

  Only to be wrongly accused, like the slice from betrayer’s knives?

  “How did you deal with a system for over thirty years

  When the very person that you rescued could give you grief and fears?”

  The father chuckled to his daughter, which was not what she had asked

  He dished some homegrown fruit for her and filled her empty glass.

  “Daughter, try the prunes, I picked the plums and canned them in sweet juices.”

  The young trooper humored the older one, knowing that hurry was useless.

  She placed the pits on the edge of her plate and the juicy pulp she enjoyed

  Until, at last, the man was ready to hand down a tool that he had employed.

  He, too, had been in spots before when the helped citizen helped himself to the trooper.

  It had taken him years of pressure and frustration to find a way that was smoother.

  But he had found some peace with a system that had brought him consternation.

  “When you went to Shelton, I knew that someday we would have this conversation.

  “If you allow it, the trooper’s life can fuel resentment and frustration.

  Consider the prune pits on your plate, my daughter, and learn a valuable lesson.

  Unless you are suicidal, you don’t eat the prune with the pit.

  There is a downside to carrying a badge and you are up against it.

  “Some of those you try to help will take a swipe at the blue shirt as you wear it.

  The answer to your riddle is that you can’t have fruit without the pit.

  Don’t try to swallow the fruit whole and don’t let bitterness build up in your soul.

  Or the pit will choke you and bitterness will make you old.”

  “Vision is the art of seeing things invisible.”

  Jonathan Swift

  Dreams & Intuition

  Innovations in science and technology have been inspired by dreams and intuition, yet our culture oftentimes dismisses these avenues as legitimate ways for pursuing research or investigation. Receiving insights in these extraordinary ways can be a source of survival—our intuitive intelligence is capable of interacting with facts and situations that go beyond what is available through our five senses. In our line of work, we utilize anything to save lives.

  “The intellect has little to do on the road to discovery. There comes a leap in consciousness, call it Intuition or what you will, the solution comes to you and you don’t know how or why.”

  Albert Einstein

  The Fatal Vortex

  It seems like only yesterday when I was sent to a house alarm call that could have resulted in fatalities. Typically most calls are false alarms. Whether the wind blows open a shutter or a resident accidentally sets off the alarm—usually house alarms are harmless. I believe that only by Divine grace am I alive today to share this story . . .

  I pull into the driveway at the same time the key holder a
rrives. The key holder is the person an alarm company calls when a house alarm goes off. In this case, it is the homeowner’s thirty-year-old son.

  I tell the man to stay by his car until I secure the area. He says, “I know my mother is home and everything’s cool, but I don’t know what is going on.”

  I check the doors, windows, and garage entranceway for any possible forced entry, but everything looks secure. I say, “Go ahead and open the garage door.” I remind him to stay by his car while I check the inside of the house.

  I enter the dimly lit garage and walk to the door that leads into the house. I knock on the door and announce, “State Police!” and push open the door.

  At that moment, a white-haired elderly woman steps out of nowhere and slowly points a .20 gauge shotgun directly in my face!

  Even though I have turned on the garage light, she doesn’t seem to notice I am a uniformed trooper. In my attempt to escape the “fatal vortex” and un-holster my weapon, I stumble backward but do not fall. The fatal vortex is that hypothetical space we’re taught about in school; that space shaped like a funnel that you never want to be caught in.

  I was definitely at the tip of that funnel. I had no safety zone and no spatial advantage.

  As I try not to lose my balance, I hear CLICK. The old lady has actually pulled the trigger! Not only does this sound signify my life may instantly be over, but it also means she means to shoot!

  Somehow I know this woman is the resident and not an intruder. I wonder why I didn’t draw my weapon before I stepped into the garage, which is what we are taught to do as a precaution. I am grateful I didn’t because I might have shot her if my gun had been in my hand. I yell at her repeatedly, “I’m a police officer! I’m a police officer! Don’t shoot! Look at my uniform! I’m a police officer!”

  The woman’s son starts yelling at her, too. Who knows what this woman is thinking? How can she not see my uniform? It takes both of us to convince her I am the police and not there to hurt her. It is a miracle she does not kill me.

  After I settled her down, I asked, “What were you thinking? Didn’t you hear me knocking at the door? Didn’t you hear me say ‘state police’? Why didn’t you call 911? They would have told you who was knocking! When you press the panic button for the alarm, police are supposed to come and help you, right?” (According to the alarm company, she had pressed the panic button.)

  As I’m scolding her and trying to regain my composure, I open the double-barrel action to make the weapon safe. Out pops a shotgun shell! I can see that shell moving in slow motion . . . jumping out of the chamber into the air . . . spiraling . . . twirling . . . dancing . . . and then finally hitting the floor with a THUNK and rolling to its final resting place between my two feet. I didn’t have to pick it up to know it was a heavy unspent round and that by the grace of God the gun hadn’t fired.

  It humbled me to realize how close I had come to death. And, to make matters worse, I found out she was the widow of a state trooper. I could have killed a fellow trooper’s wife!

  I shot the gun outdoors. There was nothing wrong with it! The woman pulled the trigger—I should have been killed.

  There are some things that have happened to me in this job that I just don’t talk about. This is one of them. I don’t know why I didn’t shoot that woman, especially after she pulled the trigger. How did I know she was really a “good guy?” Whatever you want to call it—intuition, a sixth sense, or an angel—I depended on it—and we are both alive.

  A Special Spot

  Worried parents reported that their sixteen-year-old son was missing. They thought he had run away, but they had no idea where. When I arrived at their home, something didn’t feel right. I asked the parents more questions than usual. I asked if the boy got good grades in school and if he had any troubles he was dealing with. They said his grades had gone down recently and that he was on anti-depressants.

  When the parents mentioned anti-depressants, I got a very clear thought: This is not a runaway complaint. I don’t know why the word anti-depressant triggered this thought, because usually it doesn’t mean anything to me. I know that anti-depressants are often very helpful to people, even children.

  I looked in the boy’s bedroom and saw two unopened packs of cigarettes by his bed. I thought, What sixteen-year-old boy leaves two packs of cigarettes behind? Most teenagers carry their cigarettes with them, especially if their parents allow them to smoke. This was the second hint that the incident was not what it appeared to be.

  I didn’t want to ask, but I did: “Do you have any weapons in the house?” The father said yes and that he had already looked. All of the cases were present. I asked if he had opened the cases, and he said no. I told him to go check. When he returned, he reported that a rifle, a Ruegar .280, was missing. I suddenly knew their son was probably dead, but I didn’t say anything. Not yet. It was the third clear thought that came through my mind.

  I got the urge to take a look outside. Sure enough, I found footwear impressions in the snow that appeared to be the boy’s—and they seemed to lead into the woods.

  The snow was patchy this time of year, so I called Dispatch for canine assistance. While I waited for the dog and handler to arrive, I telephoned the boy’s best friend. I asked if there were any special spots where the boy might have walked. I knew most teenagers have one. Because the snow was minimal, I knew that even with a dog, it might be difficult to track the boy unless I had an idea where to head. Sure enough, the boy had a special spot.

  When the canine officer arrived, the dog picked up a scent. It was an overcast winter day. The canine handler, the dog, and I followed the boy’s scent toward his special spot. I was glad I had called the boy’s best friend for directions so that I knew we were on the right track. As we walked I realized how breathtaking this area is. The near-pristine woodlands, hilly terrain, and sand dunes of Leelanau County, Michigan, are absolutely gorgeous. The smell of the pines was pungent and pure. What a pity this young man has taken his own life, when there is so much to love about this land and life. I already knew we’d find him dead.

  We continued to follow the boy’s scent. The trees opened up into a small open area in the woods. This was his special spot. We saw him. He had shot his head off with the missing rifle. I was so thankful I had trusted my intuition and hadn’t allowed the boy’s parents to come with us. The bloody scene was too gory for any parent ever to see.

  Although it was hard and their grief unbearable, the boy’s parents were relieved I had found their son.

  I thought about this case several times afterward. If I had treated this situation like a routine runaway complaint, the boy’s body might never have been found. Corpses are often eaten by animals—sometimes without a trace left—especially in this area of Northern Michigan known for its vultures, eagles, and coyotes. I am sure many of my fellow comrades also rely on intuitive thoughts. Most of us seldom, if ever, talk about it, of course. Policemen are expected to rely on logic and “just the facts.”

  The Skull in the River

  As a forensic artist and road patrol trooper for the State Police, I have worked on many interesting cases. Little did I know that a cardboard box placed on my desk one sweltering August day would contain one of the most challenging and emotional cases of my career. A year earlier I had completed a facial reconstruction course at the FBI Academy in Quantico.

  The box contained a human skull and was my second skeletal case. The first case I worked on was still unsolved—the charred body of a black female was still at the morgue, waiting to be identified. This new case held little more promise. It had already sat on a property room shelf for nine years.

  As I leafed through the police reports, I learned that
the skull had been dredged out of the Clinton River, which runs through Mt. Clemens, Michigan, in 1992. A construction worker on a bulldozer thought he had found the “biggest mushroom he had ever seen.” When he jumped off the earthmover to kick it from its position in the soggy marsh, he was shocked to discover it was actually a human cranium. The rest of the body, including the lower jaw, was never recovered.

  Although missing person reports were carefully checked, the skull remained unidentified and was packed away in a property room at the sheriff’s office. In the summer of 2003, the property room was cleaned out and the skull was sent to a Michigan State Police crime lab for possible DNA and comparison purposes. One of the senior members at the lab suggested it be sent to a forensic artist to do a reconstruction. Several weeks later, the skull was placed on my desk.

  First I took it to the Michigan State University Anthropology Lab, where I asked the anthropologist to examine it and give me a biological profile of who the person I would be reconstructing. He told me it belonged to a Caucasian male, between the ages of eighteen and thirty. Since I wanted to do a three-dimensional reconstruction with clay, the missing mandible posed a huge problem. The lab was nice enough to let me borrow a specimen from a body that had been donated.

  I fished through several boxes of bones in the lab labeled “Caucasian males” before finding one with a similar bite pattern. With my borrowed jawbone and several x-rays of the seven teeth that were left in the cranium, I took the skull back to my post to start work.

  For the next eight months, I juggled the reconstruction in between normal working duties. As the face began to emerge, I began to get a feeling about what this man must have looked like. For instance, I could see that his teeth had been extremely well cared for. He could afford a dentist and he took good care of himself. From this I assumed his socio-economic place in life.