Spirit Of The Badge

by Ingrid P. Dean

  Dinnertime is when the battles took place. Young Brian would take a bite of meatloaf or pot roast and scrunch down in his chair as the shelling began. “My son will become a Baptist pastor and we will send him off to Bible College! When he graduates, he can come right back here to Colville Valley and pastor a nice church, close to his mother!”

  The big logger’s face would get red and he would struggle to keep from saying something he might regret while he slept on the couch. “Woman, it will be a cold day in a hot place before that happens! That boy has the makings of a surgeon and I have not roasted and frozen in the woods most of my life to see my son live like a pauper. Doctors make good money and they get respect—not like a gyppo logger. When he is practicing medicine he can give lots of money to a church, but this boy is going to be a doctor!” The arguments took place at least once a week.

  When Brian was eleven, his dad gave him a ring that was one-of-a-kind. The jeweler in Colville that crafted it told Brian’s dad that there was not another ring like it in the state. It had a wide gold band and in a strong setting in the center of was a large tiger eye stone. The jeweler placed the ring in a small box and as he wrapped it, he gave a few last words of advice to the logger. “I made the band man-sized, so he can grow into it. I will resize it for free if it’s too big by the time Brian is eighteen. The tiger eye stone is supposed to bring courage, energy, and luck. It was worn by Roman soldiers for protection in battle.”

  Brian’s dad waited until his wife was at the grocery store before handed the gift to his son. “This is what a doctor wears, son. Keep it hidden until your ring finger is big enough to wear it. And don’t tell your mother about this ring, even if she buys you a wooden pulpit to practice preaching on.”

  The summer of 1974 was hot, with lots of forest fires. In the early fall, the fire danger in the Colville National Forest was so bad that all logging was shut down for a couple of weeks. So, Brian’s dad declared a holiday and the family left for Spokane on a warm Saturday morning.

  His parents were playing nice with each other; talking and chuckling as they passed by Deer Park and sailed on towards Spokane. The trooper that pulled in behind them paced his dad at twenty over and turned on his light bar and rolled the big logger over to the side. The trooper walked up to the driver’s side of the car and wrote his dad a ticket for less than he could have.

  Brian watched every move the state trooper made and noted every detail of his uniform, hat, badge, and gun. He listened to the words the lawman said and how he conducted himself without arrogance, but with dignity. It was as if a hidden door opened for Brian—he knew beyond any doubt he had found his calling.

  The next seven years flew for Brian. By his senior year, the ring fit perfectly and he wore it with pride, picturing a Roman soldier, strong and brave, or a Washington State Trooper. The battles for his future became wars; but even though his mom and dad were both stubborn, he was their son—and he had a double dose of resolve. He only grinned when they badgered him about his plans.

  In late August, the letter Brian had hoped for came in the mail. His mother, with the look of a general who had lost a war, handed her son the envelope from the Washington State Patrol in Olympia. His dad’s scowl grew as Brian opened the letter and grinned from ear to ear. Brian had been accepted as a cadet and his class would start in January. There were several months of wailing and gnashing of teeth by his parents—but Brian became a trooper.

  For thirty years he lived the life and wore the badge. Along the way, he lost his dad and his marriage. He had a daughter in Spokane whose husband was in Iraq.

  His daughter and son-in-law had a daughter named Ellie, who was eight years old and was the light of Brian’s life. He adored the child, and she loved him back. She named Brian Paw Paw before she could walk.

  Brian broke out of his reverie and checked a passing car with his Falcon. He thought again about his folks and the turns in the road that life took. Sometimes, lately, he wondered if becoming a pastor or doctor wouldn’t have been a better way. A trooper’s life wasn’t for everyone, though he had found himself, found his reason in it.

  He had stopped speeders and drunks and been to a thousand wrecks, where without his help some people would have died. Many times he got blood on his uniform, trying to keep a victim from bleeding out or giving up. He remembered the one he called the “Christmas Wreck.”

  Brian had been twenty-one, with only two years on the job. A family was headed north on Highway 2, towards Newport, when the father lost control of the car on black ice and slid into an oncoming milk truck.

  Brian was the first on the scene. The trucker’s injuries were minor since he sat above the car. The father was unconscious with a concussion and several fractures. Brian saw the passenger, a woman, who was in bad shape. At least one arm was broken and she was covered in blood. She had been cut by a shard of glass across her upper chest and her brachial artery was spurting blood. Brian went around to her side and, with hands as strong as the logger who sired him, put direct pressure on the gouging wound.

  Far away, he heard the ambulance siren. When he saw the blood the woman had lost, he felt helpless and alone. What happened next made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  A small boy, maybe six, had been behind the passenger seat, afraid to come out after the wreck. He was bruised, but had his seat belt on and was in one piece. The boy leaned over the seat and studied the trooper and his mother and father. Then, with words the young trooper would never forget, the boy prayed. “I call to you in heaven, and I know that you can hear me. I do not ask for myself, because I know that you will take care of me. I ask for my dad and my mother, that you help her to live. They need each other. Thank you.” The little boy watched the big trooper, who was covered with his mother’s blood, as his strong hand kept pressure on the wound. Eventually an ambulance arrived to take the victims to the hospital.

  A call from Kim, the dispatcher, broke Brian’s reverie. She asked Brian to call her back on his cell phone. He always laughed and joked with Kim, even in the most stressful situations, as a way to maintain sanity. Kim wasn’t laughing or joking now. She was quiet and reserved. There was a long pause before she spoke. “Ummm, Brian, I have some bad news. Your daughter and granddaughter were involved in an accident about a half-hour ago. A drunk T-boned their car on the passenger side. Your daughter is in stable condition, but, umm, your granddaughter has a punctured lung, several fractures, and internal bleeding. They don’t expect her to make it.”

  Brian was shaking as he ended the cell call. He told dispatch he was enroute to Deaconess Hospital. He noticed, as he drove down Division Street, that there were Christmas lights that he had never seen before. And he couldn’t remember Gonzaga University being lit up like it was. He was in a slow-motion grieving stage.

  The best thing in the trooper’s life would soon be gone. Ellie was the sun that rose and set in his life. He parked his patrol car in the hospital parking lot and walked up to ER. He found a nurse he had known for years and asked her to tell him the truth about Ellie. “Brian, she is in bad shape. The prognosis is not good. She will be operated on in the next hour. The doctor on duty is young, but he is good. I’ll come find you when there is a change.”

  Brian walked numbly, putting one foot in front of the other, to the empty waiting room. The grieving trooper stood six-feet-two. He was a mass of muscle and bone. He was a master marksman, and had never lost a fight—but as he sat in the deep cushioned chair he felt helpless. He covered his face in his hands as the worst nightmare of his life played on.

  The place was empty as tears made his big hands glisten. After a few minutes, two voices came into the room, just two men passing through on their way to a family gathering. They lowered their voices when they saw the grieving trooper and were almost out the other door when one of
the men stopped in mid-sentence. “It’s him! It’s the trooper with the ring!”

  Five minutes later, one of the men sat next to Brian while his brother, Dr. Ashley, scrubbed for surgery to operate on Ellie. Dr. Ashley was known by his peers as one of the finest surgeons in the state of Washington.

  For the second time in his life, Brian heard the voice, much older now, as a prayer was sent for help from above. “I call to you in heaven, because I know that you hear me. It is probably not fair that I call on you to pay my debt, but this is not the first time. This is the trooper who saved my mother from bleeding to death. My brother, the surgeon, would not have been born a year later if it were not for this man. I am asking not for myself, but for this man, that you keep his granddaughter in this world. He needs her. So, I ask you to pay my Christmas debt. Thank you”.

  Pastor Ashley, who pastored the largest Baptist church in Spokane, sat beside the trooper, while three doors down his brother operated on the young girl. The surgeon labored, but so did his brother and also the angels, strong and kind, who came not to take her with them, but to bring her back.

  Brian did not work on December 25, 2006. It turned out he needed most of the day as it took him six hours to assemble the playhouse he bought for Ellie and two hours for them to enjoy tea and cookies.

  Tom Brosman,

  Senior Telecommunications Specialist

  Washington State Patrol

  Frog Time

  I am a police polygraphist. A young girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders walked into my examination room one morning. She was pretty, but shy and introverted—at first, she didn’t want to look at me. One of my initial thoughts when I shook her hand, was how sensitive yet powerful she was. And although little had been said—I already knew, somehow, she was truthful. As with everyone who enters my office, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and remained neutral. I could tell it would take time to gain her trust.

  As we reviewed why she was here and talked briefly about her home life, thoughts of my grandfather, a man of Gaelic tradition, went through my mind. My grandfather loved frogs. He said frogs had a beauty and magic behind their appearance. I remembered saying to my grandfather, “Oh, you mean like in fairy tales, when a princess kisses a frog and it turns into a prince?” He laughed and said, “Why, yes! Most fairy tales have some Gaelic tradition.” My grandfather was a wise man. I didn’t know why I had suddenly remembered all of this.

  As the polygraph examination progressed, I could tell this young girl was different. I sensed that she was aware. I reminded myself that my sole purpose in being here, though, was to determine her truthfulness.

  I allowed her to speak about her life, to share how she felt, and to give her side of the story. She was accused of stealing deposit money from a place where she worked. The case facts and circumstances seemed so clear that the employer had temporarily suspended her. The more I listened, however, the more she opened up, and the more I realized she probably didn’t commit the crime.

  The strange part was when she started to talk about a pet frog she had when she was younger. She said she loved frogs, but that she accidentally killed her frog one night when she forgot about him. She explained the house had become so cold when the heat went out that the water in the frog’s tank started to freeze. When she finally remembered her frog the next morning, she found him frozen to the layer of water. She cried, then laughed, and finally said, “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this . . . maybe it’s because I feel like that poor frog, frozen and unable to move. You’re the only person who has listened to me and what I have to say. I really didn’t do this crime! The facts look bad, I know; but I didn’t do it!” She was teary-eyed; but sweet and sincere.

  I reminded myself our frog connection had nothing to do with the polygraph test itself—but how freaky was this? I’d just thought earlier about my grandfather and what he said about frogs—and now she’s telling me about a pet frog she loved that died. And then she sees the frog’s death as a metaphor for her own position: accused of a crime and unable to prove her innocence! I thought to myself, Without even running the charts, I don’t think she did this crime. I know I’m not supposed to judge, and I’ll remain neutral . . . I could be wrong . . . but there is something just too weird going on here about frogs!

  Everything about the polygraph examination went smoothly. I showed her how polygraph works, and we ran a practice test. She was relieved, but still apprehensive.

  I ran three charts total. I was fairly certain she was passing the test; but as always, I score out the charts when I’m finished. I do this in the same room with the subject, while continually watching his or her behavior out of the corner of my eye. She waited patiently, but concerned, as I scored each chart. I allowed her to get up and stretch. She drank her soda, and then sat back down.

  Suddenly I saw the happiest, biggest smile on her face—like she’d had a sudden revelation or something. “What? Did I do something silly?” I asked, as I finished up with her chart evaluation. Her eyes welled up with joyful tears, as she stared underneath the table, her head half-cocked as she strained to see something better. My chair seemed to be in the line of her vision. She looked dreamy. In a soft-spoken but jubilant and confident voice she proclaimed, “I passed! I know I passed the test!”

  I gently smiled and said, “How do you know?” I knew she had definitely passed, but I hadn’t given her my decision yet.

  She giggled and said, “There’s a FROG underneath your table—in the corner, half-hidden behind that old flowerpot . . .” Her eyes gleamed with inner knowing as she looked at me.

  I spun my chair around and, sure enough, underneath the table was a ceramic frog—a beautifully handcrafted frog—that I had never seen before! I knew instantly my wife must have put it there. She always said she’d surprise me with a frog one day, and she had visited the office a couple weeks ago.

  I don’t understand what to make of this synchronistic incident, but it certainly is a wonderful and mysterious concept. The young lady passed the polygraph test with flying colors, so I didn’t need the frog thoughts to help me—though it did make this exam a mystical and spiritual experience.

  Murder 101

  Bill Brady, a pillar of the community and assistant quartermaster at the VFW hall, was dead. He had been shot six times. Unfortunately, there were no leads in the case. The victim was not involved in any criminal activity nor did he associate with people of questionable character. It appeared, in fact, to be the perfect murder. Everyone loved Bill very much, including his best friend, David Goldstick, who had found him dead.

  A crime-scene investigator, Sgt. Steve Hickman, told me that the bullets that killed Bill were .380s and I should be looking for a .380 in my investigation. I reviewed this information with my team and then we dispersed to conduct initial interviews. In response to a message I received from the Holy Spirit, I decided to interview David Goldstick myself.

  As a police officer, I don’t often talk about the messages I receive from the Holy Spirit because I don’t want to be labeled by fellow officers as a religious nut or somebody out in left field, but the truth is the Holy Spirit of God gives me guidance and direction in my life. So, when the thought Interview David spoke to me, I selected David Goldstick as my person to interview. I met David at the scene of the crime and asked him about the events that led up to his finding the body, his association with Bill Brady, and his family and friends. As we sat in the patrol car and talked, David came across as truthful and sincere. I was not suspicious of him at all. I also asked him if he had any guns. He answered, “No, my mom doesn’t allow any guns in the house.”

  Afterward, when I was back at the office, I learned that David did have a gun registered, though it was a .357 magnu
m not a .380 like was used in the killing. The inconsistency made me curious, so I decided to ask him to return to the scene and be re-interviewed. He agreed. As before, I talked with him in the car.

  David acted confused when I confronted him with the safety registration card. He swore he didn’t have a .357—had never owned one. At this point, he seemed a bit uptight, but understandably so. He had found his best friend dead; that would be traumatic for anybody.

  We were parked in front of the VFW building. There had been a fire there recently and the building was under construction. A makeshift office had been established next door in a pole barn owned by Bill’s daughter and son-in-law. It occurred to me that the murder might be about money. When I asked David where the VFW’s financial books were kept, he said in some filing cabinets in the office next door. Maybe money was missing and that was the motive for Bill’s murder.

  I asked David if the filing cabinets were kept locked and he said yes. I asked who had the keys. He said there were two sets. He had one set, and the other set was Bill’s. I decided to secure all the information in those file cabinets so it could be analyzed. I asked David if we could we get the keys and he said, “Yes, we can do that.”

  At first he said the keys were in his house and then he said they were in his car, which was at a house where he worked as a caretaker; but then he said, “No, wait . . . they’re in my house.” That is when I got the second major message from the Holy Spirit: Obtain David’s set of keys now.

  “What’s at your house?” I asked.

  “The keys . . . maybe. Well, just take me back to my car.”

  So we took a four-minute drive to where he was working as a caretaker, turned into the driveway, and I pulled up behind his black Jimmy. When I parked the car, David got out, and said, “Wait here.”