Spirit Of The Badge

by Ingrid P. Dean

At this point, John reappeared in the doorway. Apparently, I hadn’t hit him—he had merely gone back downstairs to get another weapon as one of my bullets had jammed his gun.

  Fortunately I had enough time to move Denny to safety. More gunfire came my way, but I was not hit. Denny was immediately transported to the hospital.

  The doctors were able to keep Denny alive long enough so that his family and friends could see him once more and say good-bye. Even though Denny remained unconscious, his soul was still in the room. You could feel his presence before they turned off the life-support.

  I’ll never know what inspired me to answer this call for backup—but I can live the rest of my life knowing I helped a fellow officer get his last wish.

  A Sheepdog’s Duty

  Kayla’s bulging file lay on an already cluttered office desk, surrounded by student absence slips, class schedules, and two empty Styrofoam cups. Kayla was about to begin classes at Clare Middle School. She was twelve years old and in the seventh grade.

  The thumbnail photographs in her file depicted a happy child. Each image was of a little girl with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a crooked smile mugging for the camera. From kindergarten to seventh grade, only her gradual maturation showed—the eyes and smile remained the same. The large amount of paperwork the file contained was because Kayla was continuously moving. Her seven years of education took place in seventeen different schools.

  I ask the principals of each of my schools to notify me whenever we have a new student. I always meet with the child on his or her first day to introduce myself and explain what I do as a police school liaison officer. I offer the new students help in any way that I can and let them know how they can contact me.

  Kayla burst through the office door like she had attended the school for years. The two secretaries paused in their duties, a parent dropping off a student’s forgotten lunch money stared, and I put aside my normally reserved first-meeting face and did my best to stifle a laugh.

  Kayla was a G.L.K. The acronym in the Clare educational system means “Goofy Looking Kid.” Her dirty blonde hair was piled high in 1970’s fashion and held in place with a large plastic clip that seemed more suited for a bag of potato chips. Hanging from her ears and around her neck was an abnormally large and gaudy set of plastic costume-jewelry. Kayla wore a low-cut flowered sundress, six-inch black high-heeled shoes that were at least three sizes too big, and a dirty-brown canvas jacket. When she walked across the terrazzo floor, she sounded like a Clydesdale on pavement and looked like a prepubescent version of the character Mrs. Wiggins from the Carol Burnett show.

  She’ll never survive, I thought. The idea that in a few minutes this G.L.K. would be walking into a junior-high classroom brought only one conclusion: they’ll tear her apart! Kayla walked up to me and offered her hand.

  “My name is Kayla,” she said. “Are you the principal?” I told her who I was and what I did and a little about the school. Then I offered to walk her to class. She said okay and walked behind me in silence up the stairs to her classroom. Kayla was reaching for the door when I called to her.

  “Kayla,” I said, taking a moment to choose my words carefully. “If there is anything that you need help with, anything at all, you can always talk to me.”

  Kayla tilted her head and gave me a silly-boy glance. “I’ll be fine, Mr. White. Don’t worry about a thing. I really am fine!” She gave me another quick smile and walked confidently into the classroom.

  As I walked back downstairs, I was overcome with the feeling that there really was something special about Kayla. And I was right. Eventually, Kayla would change my life.

  It had been two days—two days of worrying about Kayla and wondering why I worried about her so much. The emails from her teachers telling me that she was doing fine did nothing to placate me.

  I wanted to check on her. The bell rang for a change of classes and the hallways filled in seconds with adolescent motion. I actually heard Kayla before seeing her. It was the clomp, clomp, clomp of those oversized high heels on the terrazzo floor. “Hi, Mr. White!” Kayla shouted from twenty feet away. She smiled and walked to me, still wearing the same flowered sundress, gaudy jewelry, and dirty tan coat.

  “I just wanted to check on you,” I said. “How are you doing?” I looked at her eyes, searching for any sign of trouble.

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. White! I am doing fine. Promise!”

  I looked at the throng of students milling around us. Kayla sensed my fear. “I really am doing fine,” she said. “I like this school and I am making friends!”

  I looked back at her eyes. “Remember, anytime you need anything, just call. OK?”

  Kayla gave her signature grin. “I know, Mr. White. You told me on my first day. Remember?” Kayla shook her head and headed off to her next class. I left the middle school, no more relieved than when I first arrived.

  For the next two months, I would check on Kayla once or twice a week. Each time she would clomp up to me in those oversized shoes and wearing that same, but always clean, flowered sundress. She would say she was fine and not to worry. Each time I would tell her to contact me if she needed anything.

  By the end of March, I did not need to say anything to Kayla because she’d just walk up and say, “I’m doing fine, Mr. White!” In April, I decided that she really was doing okay and discontinued my biweekly visits, although I would run into her occasionally.

  Another month passed since I last checked on her. It was late in the afternoon and I decided to see her before I left for the day. When I heard Kayla clomping towards me in the hallway, she smiled and seemed more upbeat than usual.

  “Mr. White!” she nearly screamed as she walked up. Before I could respond, she reached into her purse and pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper. “Here,” she said. “I wrote you a note. I colored the front myself!”

  The front of the note was indeed decorative. My name was written in bold hollow script that was intricately colored with a series of gel pens. I thanked Kayla for the note and she clomped off down the hall. A school staff member came up and we began talking. I put the note in my coat pocket while we were talking and left the school shortly thereafter.

  I was going on a fishing trip to my favorite trout stream. Trout camp. Spending the weekend with friends is what filled my mind as I drove home that afternoon. After a busy week in the school, it was nice to think about fishing and great times around a campfire.

  A couple miles from my home is a railroad crossing. The line of already waiting cars frustrated me as I stopped and tried to hurry the train. It was while sitting there, anxious and frustrated that my departure was being delayed, that I remembered Kayla’s note and cursed myself for having forgotten about it. As I pulled out the note, I took a brief moment to enjoy the wide mix of colors and appreciate the time she took to draw this for me. I opened the note and began to read:

  Dear Mr. White,

  Hay, what’z sup? Not much here, just writing you a letter about me getting raped by my mom’s boyfriend. It started 3 years ago at our house in Carrollton. He would wait till my mom was gone or was asleep.

  Then he would have me have sex with him. He would make me lay in the bed and take off my pants and shirt and then he would eat me out. When I tried to make him quit he wouldn’t. The last time was Tuesday. He took me to the store to get a pop and candy bar. He got me a root beer & two king-size NutRageous and then took me to the park by the river. He drank one beer after the other. He told me that since I liked the song “Back Your Ass Up”, to back my ass up, and then he made me have sex with him.

  The End.

  Love Kayla

  The car behind me honked as I put my truck in reverse and tried to move out of the line of cars. I worked my way aroun
d traffic and raced back to the police department. You could see my tire tracks on the pavement for almost six months after that day. I worked all night and did not go home until the man that violated Kayla was in jail.

  Kayla moved again at the end of the school year. I never heard from her again.

  I am now known as “Sheepdog.” And it is because of this little girl, who until meeting me did not trust anyone with her pain, that I decided to dedicate my career to helping the victims of child sexual abuse.

  Kayla forever changed my life.

  An excerpt from the book Promise Not to Tell, by Alan L. White. For more information, visit: www.alanlwhite.com.

  My Day in Court

  It was an ordinary morning at the State Police Post in Bridgeport, Michigan. I was just getting ready to go for a lunch break with Bill Estlack, the court officer at the time, when Central Dispatch sent out a request for officers regarding a possible suicide. Bill and I decided to respond to the incident since we were nearby.

  Dispatch advised that a distressed subject by the name of Allen had left a message on a friend’s answering machine stating he wanted to kill himself. Allen’s friend was concerned for Allen’s safety. Allen could not work anymore due to a serious back injury and was apparently severely depressed about it.

  When Bill and I arrived at an old dilapidated farmhouse, everything appeared quiet and serene. There were no vehicles parked outside, so we peered through one small opening on a garage window. Like many rundown residential buildings I’d visited, its windows were covered up in paper. We saw a pickup truck was parked inside.

  Since there was a vehicle, we assumed someone was home. We knocked repeatedly on the front door, but got no answer. Since the call we were responding to was a safety/welfare check, we had no choice but to enter the house. It is always uncomfortable going into a stranger’s house without receiving permission first. In this case, however, a man’s life might be in danger, so we let ourselves in.

  We checked all the rooms in the house and both of us called out Allen’s name. “Allen, are you in here? Allen, where are you?”

  There was no response.

  I noticed a door that was cut into the corner of two walls. At first it looked like a closet, because the door was locked with a simple clasp; but when we opened the door a couple inches and looked inside, it was actually a bedroom. We could see the soles of a man’s bare feet on the bed.

  We said, “Allen, are you okay? Can we come in? We are state police troopers. We want to help you.” As the door opened wider, we could see he had a gun.

  I said, “Bill, he’s got a gun! Don’t go in there!”

  Allen, who was half-dressed, sprawled out on the bed, and gripping a gun tightly in his left hand, yelled, “Go away! If you don’t get out of my house, I’ll stick this gun in my mouth and blow my head off!” Clearly, he was angry and in distress. What we didn’t know was that Allen had also taken a bottle of pills, which were perhaps impairing his judgment. He was slurring his words and moving erratically, so both of us knew something wasn’t right.

  Allen climbed out of bed, stood up, and staggered to the door. He was flailing his pistol as he walked. I can barely describe what this man looked like now because all I remember is looking straight down the barrel of his pistol, which looked like the opening of a canon to me!

  As he stumbled toward us, he kept yelling, “Get out of my house! This is my house. I don’t want you here! I’m going to kill myself, and if you don’t get out I will kill you first!” He seemed serious.

  Initially Bill and I tried to find a safe place to retreat to inside the house, but it was too small and cramped. There was no room for any safe cover. There were piles of clothes and junk everywhere—but nothing that could guard against a bullet.

  Even though we had every right to shoot Allen, since he pointed his handgun directly at us, both of us resisted shooting. We did not want to hurt him. Even though our guns were drawn in defense, we had come to save him. Bill and I made our way to the door and ran outside.

  I believe Allen wanted us to kill him, and it did seem like a case where deadly force was justified. We were in danger. At the same time, though, we also knew this man was mentally ill and probably in terrible pain.

  The emergency support team responded quickly to assist us, and eventually they talked Allen out of the house. At one point, however, Allen shot toward an assisting officer concealed behind the barn, who was covering the rear of the house. Bill and I were securing the front of the house while hiding behind a large oak tree. He said, “That man took a shot at me! Can you believe it?” I was glad he wasn’t hurt, but also that my tree was big enough for three people!

  Ultimately, Allen was arrested for felonious assault on a police officer and escorted to the county jail.

  When it came for his trial, both my partner and I were subpoenaed. I was one of the last witnesses called to the stand. I was only a two-year trooper, naïve, and this was my first time testifying at an actual circuit court trial. The defense attorney badgered me on the stand. He asked, “Well, if my client really assaulted you and pointed his handgun at you, why the heck didn’t you shoot him?” I sat there for a moment, shocked at the question.

  He added, “Aren’t you a trained killer? Trained to shoot anyone who puts you in danger? Aren’t you trained to shoot when a gun is pointed at you? If my client really pointed his weapon at you and was so dangerous, then why didn’t you shoot your gun?”

  It should be noted that in this type of an assault case, the prosecution has to prove to a jury, beyond a shadow of doubt, that this man did, in fact, point his weapon and threaten to kill us both. I knew Allen had pointed the gun at each of us, and I still remembered the “canon” pointed directly at my face! Nevertheless, neither one of us had chosen to shoot him.

  I looked at the defense attorney, still in disbelief that he had asked such a question, and replied humbly, “I- I didn’t take this job to shoot anybody!” You could have heard a pin drop inside the courtroom. Then I looked at the jury. I said, “My job is not to shoot people. I took this job to help people. My job was to save this man’s life!”

  Allen was convicted of felonious assault. And after seventeen years in the police business, I have never hurt or killed anybody.

  I pray I never will.

  The Little Boy

  I was the first police officer at the scene of a one-car accident, arriving only minutes after it happened. Except for my red patrol lights going round and round, the road was dark and lonely. It was the middle of the night. Whoever had called in this accident was nowhere to be seen.

  A woman had rolled her SUV and was smashed between the driver’s seat and steering wheel. She was dead. The silence gave a false sense of peace—until I heard the whimpering of a child.

  I walked around the vehicle, which was lying on its side, and saw a little boy lying underneath it. The roof covered and pinned half his body, while his head and arms were free. I was alarmed. There was no way I could lift that vehicle! I phoned to make sure help was coming. I prayed that just one car with a bunch of people in it would drive by. But nobody came.

  The child was conscious and in a surprised voice asked, “Are you a real state trooper?”

  I chuckled, “Of course I am, silly! I know, I’m just a girl, huh?”

  The boy gave a half-smile and then blurted out, “I want my mom! Where is my mom?” Suddenly marble-sized tears fell down his cheeks. I saw no reason to tell him that his mother had died. Instead, I tried to reassure him.

  “My friends are helping her. They’re going to take her to the hospital. But, you know what? I don’t have any children. Could I be your mom just for a while?”

  He nodded his head and said, “Okay . . .”


  I took his hand in mine.

  He was a sweet-faced boy with brown, curly locks. He had the most beautiful, big eyes I’d ever seen. He looked up at me seriously. “Am I going to die?” he asked.

  For a split second, I choked. He had obvious internal bleeding; things didn’t look too good.

  I regained my composure and without hesitation said, “No, you won’t die. You know, whether you decide to live in Heaven, or if you choose to stay right here on earth, either way . . . you will still be you, and you will still be alive. Nobody ever dies. We all live forever.”

  He looked into my eyes and I felt that he understood.

  With the hint of a smile, he squeezed my hand in trust. After what seemed like an eternal moment, he took his last breath and gently passed away.

  Public to the Rescue

  During my first few years as a female trooper (those young, ferocious years when you think you can do anything and want to prove yourself), I’m working in Bridgeport, Michigan. There is a popular landmark there known as the Zilwaukee Bridge, which extends over the Saginaw River. The bridge is very tall.

  The “Z”, as we call it, was undergoing construction. A large heavy sign has blown onto the roadway. Vehicles slow down, dodge the sign, and then speed up. I am certain it will cause an accident.

  I exit my car and refuse to look down because I am afraid of heights. Although I’m only five feet, three inches tall, I decide I can move this eight-foot sign—by myself. The sign is cockeyed and lies slanted over a concrete median. Even though I can lift it only partially, and know it is really too heavy, I am determined to move it myself. I don’t want to ask any male troopers for backup. I don’t want to be judged a “helpless female.” (I realize now how silly I was—a male trooper would certainly have called for assistance.)