Spirit Of The Badge

by Ingrid P. Dean

  Some cars have stopped before the sign, and others are going around it. I try valiantly to stand up the sign—not that I know what I’m going to do with it next.

  I actually have the sign almost erect when suddenly a huge gust of wind sweeps across the bridge! I totally lose control of the sign. It blows and topples backwards, way too heavy for me to stop. I am sent spiraling on my ass!

  Then the sign flounders and bangs on top of me and hits me square on the forehead! I’m not hurt, but I lie there motionless, because I’m too embarrassed to get up. I’m so embarrassed; I decide to stay underneath the sign! I pray, “Oh, please. Oh, please. Oh, please, God. Don’t send anyone over to help me. Just let me lie here. I’d rather DIE than be helped!” I’m thinking, Okay, nobody saw me. It’s okay, nobody saw me. I’ll just hide here for a little while longer and . . .

  But I soon hear the voices of public citizens—the battalion has arrived!

  “Are you okay, Trooper? Are you okay? Here, let us get this sign off you!”

  Here I am, a Michigan State Police trooper in fancy dress uniform with a noggin on my forehead and the biggest bruised ego you’d ever want to see. As I find my way, clumsily, from underneath the sign, I struggle to my feet. I am a bit confused and actually see a few stars. I can feel a huge round lump on my head the size of a golf ball.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Really, I am,” I say as I stumble (with citizen support no less) to my vehicle.

  “Are you sure, Trooper? Are you sure?”

  I nod in reply, totally embarrassed, as other citizens trail behind me like I’m the Pied Piper. To make matters worse, they seat me in my car and they go do MY JOB! They move the sign to its final resting place.

  My humiliation is not yet over. My partner, Jerry, hears about the incident (partners are ruthless) and he contacts the media. He tells the media everything that happened! Oh, yeah—he makes the story good and juicy, too, as detailed as possible. He finishes by saying, “. . . and if it wasn’t for those brave Michigan citizens, Trooper Bentley might still be under that sign today. Those citizens should be very proud of a job well done!” You have to be around the media to know how much they really dig this type of “human interest” story.

  Later that night, I turn on the TV. There they all are . . . reporters at the Zilwaukee Bridge, focusing their cameras on the cockamamie sign! I am at home by myself, listening, growing more and more mortified, as my face gets hotter and hotter. Then I see my face on TV—a close-up no less! The reporter finishes his story, stating “. . . and thank goodness Trooper Bentley only suffered a minor abrasion to the forehead and was able to work the rest of her shift. Who knows what could have happened if concerned citizens hadn’t helped her along.”

  Oh Ye of Little Faith

  I was on patrol when a 911 went out about a person hit by a car. A ten-year-old girl had been hit by a pick-up truck traveling sixty-five miles an hour. When I arrived on the scene, she looked like a full-grown adult because her body was so swollen. Both arms and legs were broken and turned in the wrong direction. I had to adjust her head three different times to keep her breathing.

  She and her sister had been running down the side of the road to meet their father, who was plowing a nearby field on his tractor. The victim ran ahead of her sister and was turning around in the road to run back to her sister, when she was hit. Unfortunately, her sister saw it happen. The father was now at the scene.

  We had the girl air-lifted to Detroit Children’s Hospital. Since it was the end of my shift, I didn’t phone the hospital for an update until the next day. I was certain the case was a fatal accident.

  The hospital spokesperson would not give me the list of injuries, even though I was the investigating officer. I explained I already knew she had two broken arms and legs. “I’m sorry. You don’t understand. It is not that we won’t give you this information, we just can’t. All I can tell you is that she has spent eighteen hours in brain surgery and it looks like she’s going to live.”

  I said, “So what does that mean?”

  The nurse said, “She’s probably going to be a vegetable; but it looks like she is going to live.”

  I thought to myself, Oh God! Why didn’t you just take this ten-year-old girl, instead of letting her live the rest of her life as a vegetable? It upset me. I reflected on this for awhile, then let go of the matter entirely—at least I thought I did.

  About six months later I was giving a career day talk at Brown City Elementary School, when a girl came up to me. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she said.

  I said, “No.”

  She said, “You were there, when my sister got hit by the truck.”

  My heart sunk deep into my chest. I realized I hadn’t let go of the issue, really. I didn’t know what to say, so I asked, “How is she?”

  “She’s doing great!” the girl answered. “Sometimes she forgets what happened a long time ago, and sometimes her left arm goes numb, but she is almost ready to come back to school! You should stop by our house because my parents would really like to thank you.”

  When I heard this, I thought, Oh, ye of little faith. My faith in God was restored. And I was reminded that I became a trooper to save lives and that I do make a difference in the world.

  Three Dogs

  A few years ago, when I was in police uniform, I visited the local Humane Society. I was interested in getting a dog for companionship as I had recently gone through a divorce and a work transfer. As I looked at the dogs, I thought to myself, I’ll adopt the first dog that comes up to me.

  As I wandered past the cages, I noticed a small shaggy mutt laboriously walk up to the bars of its cell and look at me. I thought, I know he is the first dog to come up to me, but I was hoping for a bigger dog, a more manly dog. I wasn’t ready to commit, so I decided to think about it over night and return the next day.

  I decided to get the dog. However, the following afternoon, when I returned to the Humane Society, I couldn’t find the dog. I thought, Good, somebody took him home! I went up to the lady to inquire. “I wanted that little dog that walked up to me yesterday. I thought he chose me as an owner. But I see someone has already taken him home.”

  Remembering me from yesterday, she shook her head forlornly. “I’m sorry, officer, but we put him to sleep this morning. He wasn’t well. He had kennel cough and we couldn’t afford to give him medicine or medical care. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were interested in him.”

  I was devastated to learn that the dog was euthanized because of my hesitation. I didn’t mean for this to happen. Streams of guilt and sadness reared their ugly heads. While still trying to recover from this unexpected shock, I looked at the other dogs. Somehow, today, the more manly dogs were no longer attractive to me.

  Then I noticed another small dog that must have arrived today. I know I didn’t see him yesterday. I could tell he was old and blind. He looked sad—kind of like me at the moment. He was curled up in the corner of his cell. He raised his head once and seemingly looked at me, but I doubt he saw me; his eyes were so milky.

  The attendant shook her head in disgust, “Officer, it should be criminal what that family did. They owned that dog for seventeen years and then just gave it up to the Humane Society. Apparently they were moving. What were they thinking? How can people do that to an old, faithful animal? They should go to jail! It’s just wrong. Nobody will ever take an elderly dog like that and he won’t last much longer.”

  My chest thumped in discomfort as I compassionately looked at the old dog. I was trying to determine the practicality of adopting him. It was impractical; the dog would need medical care. And, it couldn’t see well. And
, I also had the added stress of paying child support each week. All of these issues weighed heavily on my mind. The thought of bringing him home was out of the question.

  The dog looked at me again and then gave up. He put his head down as if to say, “Just go away. I’m may be old but I have dignity!”

  Then a very old man with a cane walked through the door. He moved slowly and carefully. He saw the dog instantly. The dog looked up at the old man, but then put his chin back down. It was as if the dog said, “Oh what’s the use? Just forget it! I’m too old, crippled, and blind. Don’t look at me like some freak in a circus. Why would you ever want someone like me? Go away! I know you won’t take me either.” Then the dog closed his eyes and shivered like old men do.

  Without hesitation, the old man said, “I’ll get that old dog.”

  My heart stopped—as if telling me, “See, dumb dumb! The old man listened to his heart and responded. Why didn’t you? I am so much bigger and more intelligent than the practicality of your brain!”

  The attendant said to the old man, “But, sir, I must warn you, he is a very old dog, blind, has arthritis, and needs shots. He . . .” Her voice trailed off as I watched the old man shuffle up to the locked gate.

  He spoke as if he had not heard a word she said. “I don’t care about that. I want to get the damn dog! Look, he’s all alone . . .”

  She unlocked the gate. The old man hobbled past the gate to the dog, which now stood up on all fours with some difficulty. The man insisted on picking up the dog. Briefly setting aside his cane, he managed to lift the dog with both arms. He said, “Hey there, old feller, your family died, too, didn’t they?” The little dog lay his head on the man’s chest, as if to say “Thank, God, someone came to get me. I’m going home now.”

  As he carefully walked out the door, I heard him mumble to the dog, “Come on, old feller, we can grow old and die together—even if we only have a few months.”

  I was ashamed of myself and vowed I would somehow make up for these mistakes. I saw that the language of the heart seemed far superior to the practicality of my head and that the old man and the dogs had taught me something.

  Two years went by. I never did get a dog and had voluntarily transferred to a police post five hundred miles north. It was bitter cold during the winter but Lake Superior and the land were beautiful. So, one day I parked my patrol car near the bay. As I ate a stale homemade sandwich for lunch I watched the water lapping over the edge of the ice, which sometimes extended two to three hundred yards out. The wind was blistery and treacherous that day, kicking up the fluffy snow on the portions of the bay that were iced over.

  As I was eating, I saw a few people congregating to my left. They were looking out over the bay and I wondered what they were peering at. I turned my car off and got out. I heard the most pitiful, ear-wrenching, animal cry for help that I ever did hear. In the distance, on the ice, was a small dog.

  I walked up to the group of people, all bundled up in their winter attire, but none willing to go out on the ice. One said, “We don’t know whose dog that is, but we think it is stuck in the ice. We don’t know how long it has been out there; we don’t think he’ll last much longer.”

  I heard the horrible howling cry from the dog again and couldn’t take it anymore. I said, “I’ll get that old dog,” and started back to the patrol car. One of the bystanders said, “But, officer, the ice is really dangerous right now! Notice there are no ice shanties on the bay. You could fall through the ice …”

  I interrupted, “I don’t care about that. I want to get the darn dog. Look, he’s all alone out there.” I retrieved my snowshoes from the trunk and put them on. The snowshoes were not required patrol car equipment but I was glad I packed them. I also grabbed a shovel, just in case.

  The snow and ice creaked under my snowshoes as I slowly shuffled my way to the dog. It appeared the dog had now lain down. I thought, At least the snowshoes are wider and bigger than my feet and seem to be distributing my weight better over this ice. The ice was, indeed, pretty thin. It was being insulated from the snow lying on top. I walked slowly and carefully to the dog.

  After what seemed like forever, I finally reached him. I looked over the dog carefully. It appeared harmless and its eyes were closed. It was shivering, so I knew it was still alive. One foot appeared stuck in the ice. I started feeling déjà vu. I thought, Have I been through something like this before? The dog looked up at me but didn’t seem to see me.

  It was obvious the dog was in shock. It must have been out here a long time, especially for the ice to freeze around its foot. I broke away the ice with my shovel and freed the dog’s foot, then carefully picked him up, and placed him inside my jacket. I said, “Hey there, old feller, where did your family go? Did they abandon you?”

  The little dog laid his head on my chest, exhausted, as if to say, “Thank God, someone came to get me. I’m finally going home!”

  Slowly and carefully, I walked back to the car, knowing that we could still fall through the ice. I hoped that the dog was going to live.

  As I lay the dog gently inside the patrol car, I remembered the old man at the Humane Society, from two years ago. “Come on, old feller,” I said, “maybe we can grow old and die together—even if we only have a few more minutes.”

  Fortunately, the dog made a complete recovery.

  Nobody ever claimed the dog.

  Symbols, Signs & Synchronicity

  In police investigations, symbols, signs, and synchronicity play similar roles, turning up much-needed information through sources not otherwise available. Carl Jung’s theory of synchronicity states that events widely separated in time and space cannot possibly come together by simple coincidence but must be guided by another power. Whether one is a Carl Jung enthusiast or not, most police officers would agree that there is a peculiar gray line between pure coincidence and divine intervention.

  “Chance favors the prepared mind.”

  Louis Pasteur

  “There is no such thing as chance; and what seem to us merest accident springs from the deepest source of destiny.”

  Friedrich Schiller

  The Grim Reaper

  The Rookie – Part 1

  My first Saturday night-fourth day on the job. “Car number six,” crackled the radio, “we have a report of a cutting at 765 Margaret. Advise on an ambulance.”

  “Car number six, okay,” I responded.

  I pulled my brand-new black leather gloves off the dash and put them on. Then I reached into the backseat and grabbed my nightstick. “Do you want me to turn on the siren?” I excitedly asked John.

  “No! Hell no!” he laughed. He had an easy, natural laugh. “There will be plenty of crazies there without us calling more in.” John casually grabbed his coffee off the dashboard while I sat beside him with my helmet and gloves on. I had my night stick in my hands, ready, although I didn’t know what for.

  John was a former Marine drill instructor and a veteran police officer. He had been in the trenches and was worn and battle-scarred. John was missing part of his right hand. I heard someone shot it off with a shotgun. I never heard the whole story. I never asked John about it either. I learned early on that you don’t talk about such things and that cops are taught to never look back.

  I liked John. He was smart. Someone said he had been through law school and had passed the state bar exam. He could have been an attorney but opted to remain a cop. He requested duty in the ghetto. No one asked him why.

  John finished his coffee, threw the paper cup in the backseat, and we drove to Margaret Street. My first big call—I didn’t know whether to take my helmet off or leave it on. Rookie lesson nu
mber one: always wait until your partner puts on his helmet before you put on yours.

  When we arrived, we met a big brawny black woman. She was naked and her arms were covered with droplets of blood where she had been cut in various places. She left a trail of red wherever she went. John called her by name. Wanda.

  Wanda was pissed off but not the least bit concerned about her nudity. I’ll always remember the stretch marks on her body. She was battle worn and rough.

  We found a white male in the bedroom, also naked. He was bloody but not from being cut. It was Wanda’s blood. The man was glad to see us. Wanda had kicked his butt!

  I didn’t know what to do. I was trying to act cool, like this was nothing new to me. I had spent the last four years in an ivy-covered building at Michigan State University. They hadn’t taught me anything about this.

  John and Wanda were walking around and talking to each other, like they were good friends. They acted like nothing was out of the ordinary. Wicked Wanda, her nickname, was still completely naked. Every minute or so she would casually wipe blood off her arms. John finally asked her if she wanted an ambulance. She refused.

  The man in the bedroom accused Wanda of stealing his wallet. Wanda denied it. She accused him of cutting her up. The man said nothing. I realized that Wanda and John were looking for the man’s clothes. I found his pants behind a rickety old chair in the living room. I picked them up and felt something in a pocket. It was his wallet. When Wanda saw the wallet, she pushed past John and attacked the man again!

  He was no match for her. He tried to defend himself but was not doing a very good job of it. John just let her go. I was totally confused. It seemed liked we should have been doing something other than standing by and letting Wanda kick this guy all over the bedroom.