Spirit Of The Badge

Spirit Of The Badge Page 9

by Ingrid P. Dean

  But life is seldom what you think at the time

  And how could they know, the green cadets standing in the line?

  They drilled and saluted, and drilled and drilled again

  And sweated beside each other, the women and the men

  They went to EVOC class and learned to PIT a car

  Domestic violence, changing flats, and more

  Three cadets were cut, then two more

  From a class that was learning and growing full bore

  Those who remained in that class

  Found they needed each other to pass

  No longer strangers from far away

  They were comrades who helped each other stay

  Months later, they got their commissions

  And hoped their dream lists were not illusions

  They became troopers for the state of Washington

  And took their places with others more seasoned

  They worked their beats and honed their skills

  Most looked back to Academy days fondly still

  To their first days as cadets so green

  With strangers as different as they could be

  Whom time and pressure made so dear

  Friendships strong, abiding, sincere.

  Life did have a joke to play

  About how they felt on that very first day

  About those “strangers” who were in their way

  Who would cheer for them, protect them til retirement day

  The cadets from that class in Shelton

  When life was looking kind of barren

  Would share their comrades’ highs and lows on life’s trapeze

  When things were going well, or they were in the grease

  That Academy class, troopers now, work between the doors

  From Idaho’s green border to Westport’s wave-tossed shore

  Writing citations, working fatals, doing reports, and more

  Most are grateful for their hopeful journey that began at the Academy door

  Lessons of the Heart

  Emotional intelligence as a quality of the infinite Self goes far beyond our ego; it goes beyond Freud’s superego of conditioning and habituation. It is not just a counterbalance or an opposite of our IQ. It is powerful. The integration of both the rational and the intuitive comprises the full extent of our aptitude. Some people have a high degree of intelligence in both areas, while others have little of either. I believe police officers in particular have the potential of becoming highly developed because they are forced to use both their rational and emotional intelligence to stay alive. Police officers see things that most people never experience.

  “We now have scientific evidence that the heart sends us emotional and intuitive signals to help govern our lives. . . . Because of this new evidence, we have to rethink our entire attitude toward ‘following our hearts.’ . . . As a society, we need to take the concept of heart out of confinement in religion and philosophy and put it right in the ‘street’, where it’s needed most. The heart isn’t mushy or sentimental. It’s intelligent and powerful, and we believe that it holds the promise for the next level of human development and for the survival of our world.”

  Doc Childre and Howard Martin with Donna Beech,

  Beyond the Brain: The Intelligent Heart

  What Child Is This?

  It was the middle of the night. The bars had just closed. I arrived at the scene of a single-car accident. A car had a hit a telephone pole with such impact that the telephone pole was completely obliterated and was lying horizontal on the ground. The car was resting on its roof. The lights from my patrol car intermittently shined on the vehicle, and I could hear emergency vehicle sirens on their way.

  The female driver was thrown from the vehicle. It was apparent that she had been drinking. I could smell intoxicants on her breath as she lay motionless—actually sleeping—on the ground nearby. I attempted to talk with her, but she was so drunk she didn’t even know she had been in an accident.

  As the ambulance neared, I looked at the mangled vehicle, thinking how lucky the woman was to be alive. I don’t know what it was, but something drew my eyes to the vehicle’s interior, just as the patrol car lights lit up the scene like a strobe. I saw a little boy—standing erect, his feet firmly planted on the interior of the upside-down roof! Amazed, I blinked my eyes to focus. He was only about three feet tall, probably about four years old. Each time the light shined on the car, I saw him.

  I ran to the car and searched for a large enough opening so I could reach him with my arms. He didn’t seem to know I was there. He was in shock. He just stood straight up, like a soldier at attention. He was sniffling and quietly moaning, as if he had been taught not to cry. His left arm looked broken and limp as he held it.

  I reached through a crumpled window and carefully lifted the boy. Wonderingly, I took him out of the vehicle and cradled him in my arms, as though he were my own son. I gave him a teddy bear that I carry in the patrol car and said, “There now, everything will be all right.” He clutched the stuffed animal with his right arm, as though he would never let it go.

  After inspecting the scene, I couldn’t figure out where the boy had come from. How did he survive the accident? The car was hardly recognizable. How could I have missed him inside that mangled mess? There was no blood on him. Was he thrown from the vehicle and then walked back in? Or did he end up in a seat and then extricate himself?

  There is nothing terribly more significant about this incident, except that I will never forget the vision of him standing inside that car, alone, hurt, and confused.

  Love Train

  Skagway, Alaska, a town with little more than 850 residents, is nestled within an impressive array of mountains that claw at the sky. These rugged peaks provide a nearly impassible barrier to the Canadian interior.

  Today, in early spring, when lawns have turned green and lower elevation trees explode with new life, the old steam engine is brought out of storage for the season’s first run through White Pass over a narrow-gauge track that was installed in 1897. This is always a highly publicized event, with many local residents riding the inaugural trip over the pass. Old Number 73 has left the station and begins its long journey toward White Pass.

  I am working the 4:00 P.M. to midnight shift, fighting a bout of cynicism and generally feeling sorry for myself. All the problems associated with a twenty-something life surge through my head. Even in the land of my dreams, Alaska, the thought of life passing me by is overpowering. As I drive up to the railroad shops on Skagway’s north end, I am in no mood for the strange vehicle that is parked beyond the cluttered buildings.

  The car sits alongside the tracks, far beyond the rail yards and near the Gold Rush Cemetery. From a distance, I can see two people in the front seat. The car is an old Chevy Nova which, apparently, has driven its share of bad roads. A battered Yukon license plate hangs awkwardly from the rear bumper.

  Suddenly angry, I drive toward the car grudgingly, feeling obligated to investigate the suspicious intruder. As I slowly pull up from behind, Old Number 73 is picking up speed. In my present mood, I am already furious with the vehicle’s occupants for forcing me to provide police service. I park at the rear bumper and angrily exit my unit.

  A poorly dressed middle-aged man steps from the car and meets me halfway. He seems to be somewhat embarrassed. “Am I doing something wrong, officer?” he asks, avoiding eye contact while looking down the tracks.

  “Let’s see some identification,” I scowl.

  “Yes, ah, sure, officer. Anything you want.” He pulls out a battered leather wallet from his pocket and removes a Yukon driver’s license.

  “Canyon?” I say, surprised he has traveled so far in this wreck of a car.

  “Yes, sir. I was able to get my shift at the mine covered. We headed out thi
s morning,” he replied, still looking for the oncoming train.

  “So . . . what brings you to Skagway?” I sarcastically ask, more out of annoyance than suspicion.

  “My son likes to see the train. It’s kind of special for him. He’s been waiting all winter for the first run.”

  I look beyond the Nova and can see black smoke from Old Number 73 slowly making its way up the tracks. At least the train will pass soon and they’ll leave, I think, wishing the locomotive would hurry. They weren’t doing anything wrong, minor trespassing perhaps, but nothing serious. I just wanted them gone and out of my hair. Forcing myself to continue the investigation, I bend over and look inside the car at the guy’s son, expecting to see a young boy.

  He must have been about my age. A birth defect has caused his present condition. Weak neck muscles are unable to support his head, and it flops from side to side, but he is constantly looking down the tracks. Skinny arms with twisted hands uncontrollably swat at nothing. A long string of drool drains from his mouth to a large wet spot on his collarless shirt.

  A battered wheelchair lays in the backseat, folded, to complete this depressing collage.

  “Train, Daddy! Train, Daddy!” he spits out with glee.

  The train is indeed approaching, as I stand quietly with absolutely nothing to say.

  “We drive down each year for the first run of the season,” the man says, looking distantly at the approaching smoke. “My son likes trains. He likes the rumble they make.”

  Mentally, I beg him to stop talking. I have heard enough.

  “We left early this morning. The trip takes a long time because we have to stop a lot.”

  Please, just shut up. I don’t want to hear anymore, I scream to myself.

  “It sure does make him happy. Whenever he sees a train on TV or in a book, he smiles. This one’s his favorite though.”

  Inside I struggle for something to say, but words won’t come. Five minutes ago I was filled with anger—and now, three hundred seconds later, I am awash in emotions I hardly understand.

  “Train, Daddy! Train!” his son squeals, his hands flailing up and down.

  Old Number 73 roars by us like black thunder, shaking the rail bed with heavy antique power. The boy laughs and screeches as his father walks around to be near him at the passenger door. I watch father and son share a moment of simple joy. A joy I took for granted, at least until today.

  He is not a man of money, of that I am certain. The day off work is no doubt one without pay and will surely affect his monthly bills. But, he loves his son so much he has sacrificed this day to please him. I feel sick inside. How could I be so self-involved? My mind swims with various biblical passages from my youth, each fitting this scene like a glove.

  Self-sacrifice and undying love—a lesson is being learned, right here, right now. I can feel it inside me.

  I watch the pair as the train finally passes and disappears around the curve. Choking back tears, I walk toward them. Still excited, his son is trying to call back the train. They face a six-hour drive after this brief moment of joy. I have a sudden urge to do something. I owe it to them for my self-righteousness, but am having trouble keeping my composure.

  “Old Number 73 will be back in about an hour. You get to see it again before we go home,” the man says, smiling down at his son, who claps and squeals as he squirms around in the seat.

  I am pacing in a circle. I want to leave. This is not a comfortable situation for me. That was it! I was not comfortable! My God, I thought, what have I become?

  “ Sir, once the train is back at the station, it will make another run tonight. Would you and your son like to ride up the pass?” I ask, determined to make up for my internal cynicism.

  The man frowns and walks away quickly from the car. He lowers his voice, so his son cannot hear.

  “I checked on the tickets officer. They’re very expensive. I only have enough gas money to get home,” he says, looking at the dusty ground.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” I reply as I wipe the corner of one eye. “The conductor owes me a favor. I’ll get you both on for free.”

  “You sure officer? You don’t have to do that.” He is staring much too directly into my eyes.

  “Yes, I do, sir,” I say, hoping he will not ask me any more questions. “You wait here with your son and watch the train return, and then meet me at the train station. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “My son will like that a lot,” he says, looking away.

  “I know he will.” I turn to leave while I can still talk.

  I drive to the railroad office and find a parking space among the many vehicles in the lot. I had lied about the conductor’s favor—I purchase two passes for the next ride.

  Tourists are pouring out of the parlor cars when the father and son arrive at the station. It is not easy to get his son loaded in the observation seat, but we manage.

  Standing back on the outside step, I watch these two people become so excited for what others take for granted. I love the way I feel inside. My own concerns are fading away and becoming insignificant.

  Minutes later, the engine belches black smoke and the whistle blows its evening song.

  Before leaving the station, I purchase some train souvenirs and pick up a brochure displaying Old Number 73. The man had locked his car, but my slim-jim tool quickly takes care of that obstacle. After I place the items on the front seat and relock the car door, I return to patrolling—with an inner peace I hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Excerpt from the book Alaska Behind Blue Eyes by Alan L. White. For more information, visit www.alanlwhite.com

  In loving memory of Sergeant Dennis Finch, Traverse City Police Department, who died in the line of duty.

  Denny

  I am not a religious person, though I am cognizant of unexplained happenings and the uncanny timing of certain events. My deepest questioning about “the order of things” occurred when my friend Denny Finch was shot and killed by John Clark, a mentally deranged individual.

  John Clark’s neighbor phoned 911. Something was wrong. John was pacing in his yard with a gun. She considered him dangerous and was concerned about her and her neighbors’ welfare. Denny answered the call and offered his assistance since he had talked with John many times before.

  When Denny arrived at the Clark’s home, John was delusional. He thought the police were the Mafia and that Denny was sent as the hit man.

  Unknown to Denny or any of the local police, John had an arsenal of weapons and ammunition in his basement that included both automatic and semi-automatic long guns and pistols—even a .50-caliber sniper rifle.

  I was finishing my shift and getting ready to unload when I heard Central Dispatch request a patrol unit to guard a neighborhood intersection. There were not many details given out over the radio, but I decided to answer the call. After sitting in the patrol car at the intersection for about forty-five minutes I figured out there was a man with a gun and that police were evacuating nearby houses.

  As I wondered what had inspired me to guard this particular intersection, I noticed an elderly couple walking their little dog. They seemed to be heading towards the standoff. Even though they were two blocks away from me, I felt compelled to stop them. I quickly ran up to them and said, “Excuse me, Sir. Ma’am. Please . . .”

  Before I could finish warning them, a barrage of gunshots rang out—so loudly and in such close proximity that I dove for the nearest tree!

  Suddenly I realized I was only ten feet from the gunman, who was standing in the front doorway of his house. I looked in back of me—the entire police perimeter was behind me! In my attempt to protect the couple walking their dog, I had put myself in the middle of a gun battle!

&
nbsp; At that point, Denny backed out of the doorway and fell down backwards on the porch. The deranged man was still standing in the doorway, with an assault rifle in his hands. I drew my weapon and fired several rounds at him. I knew Denny had been shot several times and I wanted to get to him. John disappeared through the doorway, so I thought I had hit him with one of the rounds from my gun.

  The porch where Denny lay was about three feet off the ground. I quickly crawled to the edge, which had a thick railing around it. I was about twelve inches from Denny’s face. He was moaning. I could see that he had been peppered with bullets from head to toe and that he was unable to help himself in any way. (I found out later he was shot twenty-three times.)

  Denny begged me, “Get me off of this porch, please. I don’t want to die like this. Get me off of this porch! Please!”

  There is something about looking into a dying man’s face and feeling his pain. I knew I had to do something. However, the only way to get Denny off the porch was to go up the steps, walk in front of the doorway, turn left, and then drag him back down the steps. The railing around the porch was so thick I couldn’t possibly pull Denny through or over it.

  I knew the suspect could shoot me—but the need to help Denny was greater than my fear.

  So, I just did it! I was petrified. I counted, “One. Two. Three. Go!” I ran so fast up the stairs, I nearly broke my nose! I plowed into the side of the house before I turned left, then grabbed Denny under the armpits, and dragged him down the steps halfway across the front lawn.

  I had wanted to move Denny in a “rescue carry” over my shoulder, but his one leg was almost severed. I was afraid it would fall off. His leg was only dangling on muscle and skin. Denny was not wearing a vest and he had been mercilessly shot up. I had to keep him close to the ground so his limbs would not fall off due to gravity.

 

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