Spirit Of The Badge

Spirit Of The Badge Page 13

by Ingrid P. Dean

  The Grim Reaper – Part 3

  I walked into the house around 4:30 A.M., too exhausted to even be tired. My shoulders and hips ached. Everything hurt. I kicked off my shoes, tossed my gun and gun belt on the sofa, pulled off my shirt and threw it over the back of the recliner. I made a trail from the back door to the refrigerator. I reached for a Coke, then put it back. I grabbed a beer. Then I grabbed another beer and opened them both. I took an old, insulted 32-ounce mug out of the cupboard and poured both beers into it. I walked back to the recliner, threw my uniform shirt on the floor, and sat down. I took a big drink of the ice-cold beer and leaned back. Something was in my pocket. It was the rosary—I still had Johnny’s rosary—his “rose.”

  I touched the first bead. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee.” That must have been where you were tonight, Lord. You must have been with Thee, because you sure weren’t with me. ‘Ol Johnny and I could have used a little help from you tonight, man. You could have covered my ass a little.

  “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.” I wonder if Johnny knew what that meant, Jesus being the fruit of thy womb. Mary is the mother of Jesus. I should have explained that to him. He said he never went to church. I probably should have told him about that. Hell, I didn’t think he was going to die! I wonder why the young and innocent die and the old farts like me keep on living? Just doesn’t seem fair.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” I prayed for Johnny and I prayed for Wanda. I tossed the rosary over to the sofa. I would take it back to Wanda tomorrow.

  I finished the beers. It was starting to get light outside. I decided to go out and feed the steers—they would be surprised to see me this early in the morning. As I started down to the barn, it began to sprinkle. Thunder was rolling off to the south. I fed the steers and the other livestock and ran into the barn just before it started to rain. The rain was pounding on the steel roof.

  I decided to make myself comfortable, so I sat down and put my feet up on some bags of bean seed. Oh, to be a kid again. Those were the days. Didn’t have to worry about anything. I relaxed into my bean bag chair. It felt good; it smelled good. I thought about Johnny wearing the rosary around his neck. He thought it was a necklace. I laughed out loud, just me, the animals, and the rain on the roof. We sure live in a strange world. I laughed again. I laughed until I cried. Tears came to my eyes. I started to look back.

  CHRIST! DON’T EVER LOOK BACK! I started to cry. I cried out every tear in my head. Twenty years of tears. Twenty years of never backing down. Twenty years of never apologizing. Twenty years of never looking back. I laughed. I cried.

  Finally, I slept.

  The Grim Reaper slipped into my dreams.

  Appeared in the rear of my barn.

  I sat up with a start when he called me by name,

  His gravely voice, his cold stare, his “Death” charm.

  He’s invaded my dreams many times in the past, but never spoken a word

  Tonight he had something important to say, a message he thought must be heard.

  He told me that Johnny’s time had come, that it was his turn to go.

  I put up a formidable fight, but he’d come to get Johnny’s soul.

  “God didn’t abandon you, Mike, as you lay in the street all alone.

  He needed you to turn loose your grip, so I could take Johnny home.

  The decision was made to take Johnny back, the decision was made up above,

  You held him as long as you could, my friend, with your faith, your caring, your Love.”

  The reaper then laughed, he laughed right out loud, a laugh I’ll never forget.

  It was the raspy voice from the accident scene, it stood the hair up on my neck.

  “So, it was you along, you bastard, you ass, inciting the crowd with your chants.

  I wanted to kill you,” I said to his face, “I would have, if given the chance.”

  “It’s my job, don’t you see?” he said, as he laughed, “I must say it’s a job that I dread.

  “You cops just don’t understand God’s way, give up, let it go . . . Johnny’s dead.

  “You cops are all the same, I might add, never back down, apologize, or look back.

  “But I know when you’re frightened and sad . . . .I know when you re-live the past.”

  “My hood’s off to you and to all of you cops, all of you mortals in Blue,

  “I have to admit I admire your style, because, I was once a cop, too.”

  With that he laughed and just faded away . . . it’s his laugh I’ll remember the most . . .

  The Grim Reaper had been a cop in the past; the Grim Reaper was a cop’s ghost!

  I awoke with a start. Was that a dream or did it really happen? The sun was out. It was 7:15 A.M. I had slept for two hours. As I walked back to the house, I saw my wife in the window. She waved, wondering where I’d been all night.

  Michael Thomas, Retired

  Flint Police Department

  How Could this Possibly Happen?

  Several years ago, when I was on patrol, I received a call for police assistance regarding a car/motorcycle crash. My partner and I responded to the location. When we arrived, we found a male subject lying face down in the ditch. It was the motorcyclist, who was pronounced dead at the scene.

  We noticed the car with heavy damage to the passenger side door. The motorcyclist had come over a hill, just as the car was pulling into a driveway on the road. The motorcyclist was speeding. The driver of the car could not avoid the collision in time, and the motorcyclist hit the side of the car at full speed.

  The driver was white as a ghost. He appeared to be in total shock. Shock is not rare in such a situation, but this man appeared to be in a trance. He stared blankly as he recalled what had happened.

  He explained, “I’m from over 150 miles away from here. I drove north to meet my friend, at this house. I was just pulling into his driveway when the motorcycle hit me. We were planning a fishing trip to Canada. I haven’t been here in a long time . . .”

  The man was in “the Zone” and I wasn’t about to interrupt him. I couldn’t identify what his stare was all about, though. All I knew was that something was very wrong. It was as if he’d had his own near-death experience.

  “When the motorcycle hit my car, I saw the man’s body fly into the ditch. There wasn’t anything I could have done to avoid it.” He was shaking his head slowly as he spoke, as if I wasn’t there. “I get out of my car, but suddenly I see my sister-in-law running down the road. She is screaming. She is running to the man in the ditch . . . my SISTER-IN-LAW!” The man hesitates.

  “Officer, I thought it was a dream . . . I thought, how can this possibly be? My sister-in-law, she lives downstate, over a two-hour drive from here. I thought I was seeing a ghost. Then . . . it all suddenly dawned on me . . .” The man’s voice trembles and trails off in silence, as I’m trying to comprehend what he is saying.

  He sadly utters, “That was my brother on the motorcycle.”

  I said, “What?”

  He continued, “I knew we each had a friend in this area, but we never knew each other’s friends personally. We had no idea we’d both be here today. I haven’t even seen my brother in quite some time, because we live so far apart from each other. I can’t believe we’re in this same town together! How could I be here just in time for him to hit me?”

  I stood there, astonished, feeling great sadness for the man. As we sorted things out, I learned his brother was helping a friend repair his motorcycle. He was simply test riding his friend’s motorcycle when th
e accident occurred. Neither brother knew they would see each other. What were the odds that a man kills his own brother in an accident so far away from both of their homes?

  What were the odds that this could happen?

  Karmic Happenings

  Early one evening, I was patrolling alone and decided to stop a vehicle with its taillight out. As I walked up to the car, the male driver jumped out. He was noticeably upset.

  “Please, officer. Don’t arrest me! I’m suspended,” he begged. “In fact, I’m very suspended. I don’t have a license. I know there is a warrant out for me . . . please don’t arrest me.” He was actually shaking. I genuinely felt sorry for him, but cautiously directed him to return to his car.

  I said, “Calm down. No matter what happens, everything will be okay. Be seated in your car and let me run your name through the computer. Let me see what is going on for you.”

  He would not stop pleading. He said, “I have this date. I have a date with a woman tonight—the first date I’ve had in years. I know she’s the one! If you arrest me today, she’ll never go out with me!”

  I thought to myself, If he is making up this story, then he is one fabulous liar because his tears, disposition, and behavior seem incredibly real and indicative of a truthful person. When I ran his name through the computer, he was very suspended all right. He had been arrested on two different occasions for driving while suspended and he had many points on his license dating back several years. Apparently, he was suspended because of his poor driving. In this case, however, I hadn’t stopped him for a driving violation, merely having a taillight out.

  I walked back to the car. His voice cracked as he spoke. “This-this w-woman, is my s-soul mate. I-I know she is . . .” he sniffled. “I-I’ve b-been looking for her for l-lifetimes! I-I know you don’t believe me, but if you arrest me, w-we w-will n-never marry l-like we’re s-supposed to. If you arrest me, I-I’m sooo s-screwed! I-I’ve been so lonely, and finally I f-found her.” I could see he was crying, plus I believed him.

  In my department patrolmen have discretion and are empowered to make decisions—whether to write a citation, for example, and ask the person to appear in court later, or to physically lodge a person in jail. What made my job difficult sometimes was that as a female officer I was often harshly judged by my male peers and accused of being too soft.

  This man’s arrest would have looked great on my statistics, but I felt it would clearly screw up the man’s life unnecessarily. He was respectful and honest with me, so I chose to let him go. I listened to my heart. I wrote him a citation for driving while suspended and told him to walk across the street to the gas station and call a taxi. I warned him he was not allowed to drive and then I left.

  I am sure he probably drove off in his car after I left, but I didn’t care. He hadn’t committed any traffic violation and I knew he would show up in court. It was going to cost him several hundred dollars in fines to take care of the matter and he’d probably lose another year of driving privileges. I thought nothing more about the matter and by the next day I had completely forgotten the incident.

  Two years later I was still a patrolman, and I was feeling down and out because I’d been passed by several times for promotion, most likely because I was a softy. When I stopped people on patrol, I tried to be fair. When I was dispatched to crime scenes, even the most non-serious in nature, I treated people with care and dignity the way I would want to be treated. In many cases I could have said, “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. This is not a police matter,” or “I’m sorry, this is a civil matter, you’ll have to go to small claims court,” or “There were no laws broken and I have ten other calls I must go to today”—but I didn’t. I helped everyone I could, even if it really wasn’t my job. I was beginning to believe my department penalized me for this behavior, for being a true public servant, so I was disgruntled.

  One night, I stopped yet another vehicle with a taillight out. This time, however, when the driver jumped out of his car I could tell he was angry and ready for combat. Plus he smelled strongly of intoxicants. He was obviously drunk with bloodshot eyes and slurred speech. He could barely stand up. I knew instantly I was about to get into a fight.

  I said, “Sir, please get back in your car.” It appeared like he wanted to run.

  I said, “Okay, sir. You are now under arrest.” And the fight was on!

  Because it wasn’t dark yet, I did not have a partner. I was on single-man patrol. As I tried to put handcuffs on the man, I was asking for backup on my radio prep. Central Dispatch could hear the man screaming in the background. He was calling me every dirty name in the book. Although I was in the best shape I had ever been, I was only five feet, two inches tall and weighed 128 pounds. This man was big. He had to be five ten and at least 250 pounds. I thought, I’m totally screwed! I didn’t think I had a chance of avoiding injury.

  He was resisting my putting the cuffs on him; soon we were tumbling in the snow bank. As we wrestled I thought maybe the snow and cold weather would affect his agility, but he just seemed to get stronger and stronger! He took several swings towards my face, which I managed to avoid. I was now eating quite a bit of snow and my hands were numb. It definitely seemed like I was going to get the worst of it.

  As I continued rolling and doing somersaults in the snow with this man, I noticed the headlights of a semi-truck pull in and park behind my patrol car. The truck driver, who was fortunately a good-sized man himself, ran to my rescue. It was a bit humbling to me, but I was grateful he came to my aid.

  He towered over the drunk, lifted him by his collar, and said, “This little lady said you’re under arrest. You’re under arrest!”

  The truck driver tossed the drunk in the backseat of the patrol car. Somehow during the havoc I had managed to cuff the guy. I slammed the patrol car door and said, “If you break anything in my patrol car, I’ll submit for a warrant for destroying police property. That’s a five-year felony!” I was peeved.

  As I shook the snow off my pants, I sheepishly looked at the truck driver and said, “Thank you. That was very nice of you to stop and help me. I am truly grateful.”

  He looked at me and said, “We got married!” I looked at him blankly. “You don’t recognize me, do you?” He grinned.

  I surveyed his face and said, “No, I’m afraid not, though you do look a little familiar.” I always say this to people when they recognize me but I don’t recognize them. It softens the blow to the other person, but I had absolutely no idea who this man was or where I might have seen him before.

  He said, “I am the man you stopped two years ago, my car had a taillight out.”

  I wondered, Does this man realize how many cars I’ve stopped in the course of two years? Geez! I politely said, “Gosh, I can’t remember who you are. I’m sorry.”

  “You stopped me on M-72, remember? I had a suspended license, and when I told you I had a date with my soul mate, you decided not to take me to jail.”

  Then I remembered. “Why, of course,” I said, “you’re the man who was so upset about losing his lady friend. Yes, I remember!”

  The truck driver said, “I recognized you instantly, even though I couldn’t see your face, rolling in the snow bank . . . I knew it was my turn to help you now!”

  I hoped he didn’t see my face turn red. Like most people, he recognized me from behind . . . I have an unusual pear-shaped body. I tried to hide my embarrassment with another “Thank you.”

  Then he added, “And I want you to know, I got my license back, went to truck driving school, and we did end up getting married! You made a real difference in my life.”


  Now my heart melted. That moment I started to feel better about the work I do.

  The man said, “I believe in karma . . . I believe it was all supposed to happen this way.”

  I thought, He has a lot of wisdom. What goes around, comes around—what a strange—but fortunate—series of coincidences! Although, maybe it really was karma.

  A Trooper’s Debt on Christmas Day

  Brian sat in his patrol car on December 25, 2005. He was parked on a wide turnout on I-395, where he could watch the cars heading north out of Spokane. He was looking for DUIs and speeders, aiming his Falcon at cars that looked like they were “over.” It was almost noon and there was a lull in traffic.

  He put the handheld radar on the seat beside him and turned up the FM radio. Christmas music was playing and Brian tried to count the number of Christmases he had worked as a trooper. He thought it was nineteen, counting the one he was working.

  When he was a young trooper, he worked the first Christmases because he needed the money. The later ones he worked so the younger men could be with their families. Ten service stripes on his shirtsleeve and the lines on his face marked the thirty years he had spent working the road.

  For some reason, Brian remembered back to the big argument that went on in his family for years. It started when Brian was four or five years old. His mother was a devout Baptist and she figured that since Brian was her only son, he most certainly was going to be a Baptist minister. His dad, on the other hand, was a logger who worked in the mountains between Colville and the Canadian border. He owned five logging trucks, two skidders, a big yarder, and had seven fulltime employees. More than anything, he wanted his son to become a doctor—not a pastor—and for sure not a logger.

 

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