Spirit Of The Badge

by Ingrid P. Dean

  It’s a Bomb!

  Report of a bomb threat in a large, crowded city park brings the Michigan State Police bomb squad running. The alleged bomb is hidden inside a McDonald’s bag that has been carefully and strategically placed on a park bench.

  Within minutes of the phone call, the entire bomb squad is in action. Big burly troopers wearing specialized suits and face-shields drive the armored truck into the park as close as they dare to the aforementioned park bench. In synchronized movements they guard the perimeter and advise the growing crowd of onlookers to be careful. “Stand behind the yellow tape! This is a dangerous situation—come no closer!” Typical cop talk. Typical cop activity: guarding citizens at all costs.

  The audience is transfixed as the bomb squad brings out the new robot (which the state police are very proud of, by the way). It is carefully brought into position by remote control—actually, awesome technology to observe.

  The robot’s arm is slowly and strategically extended towards the paper bag. It is just about ready to pick up the bomb to place it in the truck for detonation when, out of nowhere, a seagull dives towards the bag, snatches it up, and flies away with it!

  The bomb squad starts shouting and cussing at the scavenger. Some members grab their radios, trying to communicate with headquarters on how to best handle this change of events. Other officers scratch their heads in disbelief … and yet others start to chase the bird.

  “Hey—follow that bird!”

  “No, shoot it!”

  “NOOO! We can’t shoot it, the bomb will blow up!”

  “If it lands in the tree, then shoot it.”

  “He’s still flying, dumb-ass!”

  “Uh, oh . . . oh no . . . he’s landing . . .”

  “Oh, NO! He’s pecking at the bag!”

  “RUN, Forrest, RUN!!!!”

  Each time the bird lands, the crowd scatters in all directions. No sooner does everyone get re-situated then the gull changes its mind and flies off again! The bird does this at least three times, as if only looking for a wee bit of privacy to enjoy its prize.

  Since the bag has not yet exploded, Trooper Forrest finally says, “Hmm, maybe it’s not a bomb . . .”

  The bird eventually lands long enough to start pecking at the bag. As the bomb squad and crowd watch in anticipation, the seagull tears open the bag with its bill and pulls out a half-eaten hamburger and some French fries! The empty McDonald’s bag begins to drift away on the breeze, as onlookers laugh and clap and cackle. “Maybe you better chase the empty bag now, troopers!” Then someone offers, “I know—shoot the bird for littering!”

  Embarrassed, tired, and silent, the state troopers begin to load up the million-dollar robot. One of the officers picks up the bag and throws it in a nearby trash can.

  If they hadn’t experienced it themselves, this specially trained group of men would not imagine it possible for one small bird to bring an entire bomb squad to its knees.

  The Fatality

  It was not uncommon for me to be twenty or thirty miles away from a call or an accident. One day the dispatcher reported a rollover accident—possible fatal—and requested a car respond. I radioed in and drove to the scene even though I was more than half an hour away.

  When I arrived, I saw a car had rolled over onto its roof. There was no one inside. I did, however, find one body that had apparently been thrown from the car lying nearby, face up in the ditch. The strange thing is that the man’s legs and arms were crossed. This was unusual. I couldn’t help but notice how peaceful he looked. He was deader than a doornail, but he looked peaceful.

  Fatal accidents require hours of tedious and time-consuming investigating. Pictures must be taken, sketches made, and measurements noted. The investigator may have to re-create the accident scene in a courtroom several years after the fact, so I requested assistance from an accident reconstructionist from the crime laboratory. This will be a five-hour report before it is over, I thought.

  After I roped off the area and set out some flares, I returned to the car. As I was sitting in the cruiser, writing notes and recording data, an old Cadillac hearse pulled up. Two men were inside. They parked in front of me, waved hello, and smiled as they got out. I watched as they walked over to the body. Each man grabbed a limb and they started to carry the dead man toward the hearse.

  To say the least, I was surprised. I jumped out of my car and raced over them. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” I bellowed. “Put that body back just the way you found it and get the hell out of here!” I made it clear that I had not summoned a hearse and wouldn’t need them at least for a few more hours. I would call them when their services were needed.

  The driver and the assistant stood there, dumbfounded. At six feet four inches and 225 pounds, they were not about to challenge me. They could see I was not in a good mood and meant business. They returned to the hearse. After several minutes, one of them eased out of the vehicle and approached me. He said, “We were en route from our funeral home near Ft. Wayne, Indiana. We were transporting the body of a man who passed away the day before yesterday. We happened to come across this rollover just after it happened. Both the driver and one occupant were injured. Our hearse was full and there is more money in transporting injured people than dead people, so we put the dead guy in the ditch, loaded up the two injured individuals, and raced them to the hospital. Now, we are returning to pick up the original body.”

  I have had serious-injury accidents that turned into fatals; however, I never had a fatal accident that turned into an injury accident! Just goes to show, anything can happen!

  Note: In the 1960s, just about every small-town funeral home used its hearse as an ambulance when they were not using it as a hearse. This helped pay bills and gave morticians something to do in their spare time. I don't imagine you would see something like this happen today.

  Critters I Have Caught

  When I worked for a rural sheriff’s office fifty miles south of the Mackinaw Bridge, we had to do it all . . . if a citizen called, we went. No request went unanswered. I have chased many a critter in my day!

  One quiet afternoon the dispatcher called me on the radio to say, “Mr. Smith has a strange looking pig in his garden and he wants it out—NOW!” I remember the look on the pig’s face when it saw me. It smiled as if to say, “Catch me if you can, Copper!” I could tell it was none too happy to have its afternoon snack interrupted by an angry gardener—let alone me! Imagine a deputy sheriff in full uniform chasing a pot-bellied pig around the yard. After a not-so-high-speed chase, I gave up wearing those shiny patent leather shoes and stuck with boots (it got a little messy). But, with the grace of God and the help of two neighbor kids, we got that pig in custody!

  * ** *

  One morning a lady called to complain that her neighbor’s chickens were in her yard again, harassing her dog and eating the dog’s food. Well, duty calls . . . so with some Joe Montana moves I learned from watching football on TV, there I was, with a big ol’ fishing net in my hand, chasing squawking chickens as they ran all over the yard, flapping their wings with feathers flying.

  A County Mountie never gives up until the job is done! I took all thirteen birds into custody and transported them to the local animal shelter. The owner of the chickens had to bail them out the next day. After a day locked up in the pen, the chickens were rehabilitated, and the neighbor lady and her dog never had trouble with those pesky fowl again!

  * ** *

  I was patrolling in Onaway, a small village twenty-some miles away from where a motorist had reported almost hitting a small bear that was wandering around a busy highway like it was drunk. By the time I arrived, the scene was packed with onlookers, deputies, city police officers, a state trooper, firemen, and ambu
lance personnel. It looked like a big emergency with everybody but the SWAT team present!

  As I walked closer, I saw the bear sitting on its butt, swaying like a drunken sailor. Every time the bear tried to stand up, all of the onlookers and emergency service personnel would run back to the safety of their vehicles. The bear did not look that big to me. I decided it must be sick and needed to see a vet.

  Well, the local vet was out of town, so that meant Mr. Bear had to go for a nice ride. I requested another officer bring up the ACO truck and all the catch-all poles he could find. Luckily it was Sunday because Mary, a friend of mine who runs the animal shelter in a neighboring town, was nearby visiting her mother. I got on the radio and advised dispatch to call Mary at her mother’s and tell Mary I needed help with a bear.

  When Mary arrived, the two of us approached the bear with catch-all poles in our hands and got him moving. None of the “brave men” would come near as we walked him to the back of the ACO truck. Finally, we got a little help to hoist the bear into the truck. It was a sobering moment.

  Mr. Bear immediately started rocking the entire truck, trying to get out of the enclosed box. Mary and I transported it to the animal shelter in the next county (the truck rocked the whole way!) and requested a few deputies be there to assist us when we unloaded it.

  When we arrived at the shelter, two deputies were waiting—they really did not want to be there. When we opened the truck and got the catch-all poles back on the bear, so we could drag him into the building, the two male deputies drew their service weapons and kept them trained on the bear—just in case. They did not want to get too close to it or touch it. So, just the two of us, Mary and me, dragged the bear from the truck into the shelter. We got the bear in and locked him down.

  The next day when Mary went to check on the bear, she opened the door and he was gone. Her heart almost stopped. She looked up, and there he was—he had climbed up to the top of the fence in the holding cell. Eventually, the vet checked over the bear and found it had gotten into ant poison that someone had used outside his house. After the bear went through de-tox, it was fine. Before the bear was returned to the wild, a tracking collar was put on him.

  For several years afterward, every time I ran into a DNR friend of mine, he would give me an update on how the bear was doing. At the time of the incident the bear weighed ninety-nine pounds . . . he is much larger now.

  The Doper

  A long-haired doper visited his eighteen-year-old girlfriend while she was working at a pizza parlor. She was busy cutting up veggies when he walked in. She had recently heard that he was two-timing her so she confronted him. He admitted he was. She was upset that they had been having unprotected sex and that she could have contracted HIV.

  The knucklehead said, “Well, we all have to go some time.” When he turned to walk away, she buried a paring knife right in his back!

  Unaware of what she had done, he got into his car and drove away. When he finally leaned back in the seat to get out, he realized that a knife was in his back. An ambulance was called and my partner and I were dispatched to investigate.

  This creepy victim was known to have loud parties all night, every night. When his neighbors, who were out milling around, heard that he had been stabbed and would be in the hospital overnight, they were happy because they would finally get an uninterrupted night’s sleep.

  We were standing at the back of the ambulance when another neighbor came home from work and walked over to see what the commotion was. When he heard that Mr. Knucklehead had been stabbed with a paring knife and had driven all the way home with it stuck in his back, he asked us, “Can’t you arrest him for driving while im-pared?”

  Trooper Daniel Caviston, Retired

  Michigan State Police

  In loving memory of Captain Gary McGhee, Michigan State Police, retired, who recently passed away.

  When Bad Blood is Good

  It is May 1966. The Harrison Road Headquarters is the first Police Recruit School in the state to serve cafeteria meals to its entire compound. This is not necessarily a positive thing for the recruits.

  We affectionately call the head cook “Ptomaine Tom.” The food is tasteless and on Thursday nights we are served nasty cold cuts for supper. Little did I guess the unappealing fare would actually benefit me one day.

  One afternoon, when we were well into the term at the school, I reported for a demerit lap and was standing rigidly at attention between the carpenter shop and the gym. I thought I might have missed something, as there was no one else around. After I had stood there for what seemed like an eternity, Trooper Michael Anderson (later Major Mike) opened the window of the beloved “head” and barked, “McGHEE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE? RECRUIT McGHEE!” He had plenty of reason to know my name by now.

  “SIR . . . RECRUIT McGHEE, SIR. WAITING TO RUN MY DEMERIT, SIR,” was my reply.

  “AREN’T YOU GOING TO THE RED CROSS TO GIVE BLOOD?” was his next inquiry—in a voice that indicated I was.

  So, that is what I had missed. The entire recruit school had been scheduled to go to the Red Cross to donate blood. In my most courageous voice, I replied, “SIR, RECRUIT McGHEE, SIR. NO, SIR.”

  Anderson’s response was immediate and condemning. “WHY NOT, McGHEE?” I could tell we were about to become even better acquainted.

  “SIR, RECRUIT McGHEE, SIR. I NEED ALL I HAVE, SIR.”

  “GET UP HERE, MCGHEE,” was his prompt reply.

  “SIR. YES, SIR!”

  The entire school, including yours truly, was loaded onto the bus, and off to the Red Cross we were taken. No attention was paid to our screaming and kicking.

  After our arrival, we took turns having our finger stabbed (not pricked) by a nurse who had obviously been recently divorced from a state trooper. After poking a hole in my finger and squeezing a pint of blood into a tube of unidentifiable liquid, something was supposed to happen.

  Now, mind you, I don’t know what was supposed to happen, but in my case, it did not happen. This was good news to me, as I didn’t want to be separated from any more of my blood.

  Come to find out, all but three of the brave souls in Recruit School had the same result! The Red Cross staff advised the department that the recruits had insufficient iron in their blood for donation purposes.

  My blood supply owed a debt of gratitude to “Ptomaine Tom.” The ultimate outcome was predictable. Recruits began to receive a better quality of food . . . including meats and other sources of iron. We were appreciative, of course, but we never did go back to donate blood.

  Mama!

  Editor’s Note: The humor in this story is not the demise of the victim, but rather Elmer’s sudden reaction to an almost inconceivable moment. It was the visual of poor Elmer running out. Cops have a strange sense of humor that sometimes only other cops understand, but it is to cope with, minimize, and heal from certain unexpected moments like this.

  Late one night, my partner and I received a call on a possible suicide. The subject had been despondent and neighbors reported hearing a single gunshot from within the house.

  As we drove up, we saw Elmer walking inside the house. Elmer was a large man and had been with the local city police department since the 1950s when he started out as a volunteer. Eventually he was grandfathered into the department and never received much formal training. Elmer was a nice guy.

  As my partner and I were walking up the front walkway, we heard Elmer suddenly shriek, “MAMA!” and like a shot, he crashed through the front screen door and took it off its hinges. We immediately took cover, thinking the person inside was going to shoot at us. Poor Elmer was shaking and trembling all over. At first, he couldn’t speak.

  When he finally got control of himself, he told us what happened. He had entered the house and found the man face down in a large pool of blood wi
th a shotgun beside him. The lights were out. After some time, Elmer finally shined his flashlight on the dead body, when the man unexpectedly lifted his head and said, “Heeelp meee . . .” It was a horror-flick moment as the man was missing half of his face! The shotgun had only done half the job.

  The man survived and so did Elmer. We only laugh at the vision of chubby Elmer frantically crashing through the door.

  Hopeful Journey

  by Tom Brosman

  Five were from Seattle

  The sixth cadet from Orcas Isle

  Seven were from farms with wheat and cattle

  One drove a Lexus to Shelton in style.

  Spokane sent four sons and daughters

  Pullman two and one from Kettle Falls

  One came from Longview, beside Columbia’s waters

  A lineman from Richland sent his only daughter

  There were forty-three cadets in all

  From cities and farms and boonies

  They all traveled to Shelton

  To form a class of newbies

  Some had good cars and money to spend

  Some bummed rides from a friend

  They left behind all they knew

  Some were scared and lonely, too

  Most were nervous about the future at the WSP

  Oh, they had heard of washouts at the Academy

  Each wanted to be the best—and more

  But they felt alone as they entered the academy’s door

  Yes, they were alone and keenly felt it

  As they eyed the other cadets with just as far to go