Spirit Of The Badge

by Ingrid P. Dean

  The being in the middle said that they needed my help. His lips did not move; communication was telepathic. His request was the same as you’d hear from a friend or neighbor. I willingly agreed to help. Something happened, but I don’t remember what it was. The next thing I remember is looking up and seeing a huge craft hovering. I see a second craft about four hundred feet away from the main one. I sense that time has passed since I first communicated with them but I can’t tell how much.

  I am now in a semi-paralyzed state; very, very tired, as though I had done a lot of work. I am breathing heavy and damp with perspiration. It takes all of my strength to just stand up. My arms hang down at my sides and as I am looking up at the craft I notice something out of the corner of my eye. Laboriously and with all the strength I can muster, I look to my left and realize there are two other men (humans) standing near me. We are about six feet apart from each other. They are also looking up. I do not know who they are. They look to be in their thirties. Neither of them seems able to talk or move either. They look as paralyzed and tired as me. They are breathing heavily as well and looking up. There isn’t a sound to be heard or a breath of air moving.

  A bright light at ground level is behind us and illuminates the area, including the craft hanging in the air; but I can not turn around to see the source. I then realized that the small gray beings are gone.

  The next thing I remember is looking up at the craft in the night sky. There is a thunderous sound and an opening two- to three-hundred-feet wide appears in the sky. It is amazing! I can see blue sky and clouds through the opening—but it is still night time where I stand. Clouds are “turning into themselves” around the opening. I can think of no other way to explain it; the clouds are “turning into” themselves around the opening which is round. Then, in the blink of an eye, the largest craft flies into the opening, followed instantly by the second ship. Then the sky closes up.

  Again I hear a loud clap of thunder. With that, I awaken from this strange state and find myself inside the house. However, my eight-year-old daughter is now sleeping on the living room floor, which is weird. What the hell just happened to me? I wonder. I grab my kids’ crayons and start drawing what I saw.

  I notice it is about 5:30 A.M. At this point, I’m in a daze and a normal morning starts shortly thereafter. My wife goes to work, my daughter to school, and I don’t share my experience with anyone yet. As usual, my wife calls me from work later that day. She tells me that our daughter woke up in the middle of the night, around three-thirty, and saw a lot of bright flashing lights outside our upper roof dormer window. My wife told her to go back to bed but instead our daughter went to sleep on the living room floor. My jaw dropped to the floor when my wife told me this because I had not said anything to her about what had happened to me. I had received confirmation that my encounter had really happened.

  Later, I talked with my daughter about that night and she said she saw about eleven flashes of light. That’s all she counted before she got scared and put her head underneath the covers. She waited a little while before looking again and, when she didn’t see the lights anymore, she ran up to tell my wife.

  If my daughter awoke between three and three-thirty and I found myself back inside the house at five-thirty, what happened to me during those two plus hours? Why did I feel so tired? And, most importantly, why couldn’t I remember anything in between? I was sick with flu-like systems for a week after, which was odd because I seldom get the flu—especially at the end of summertime.

  I filed a report with The Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) and they have been supportive and helpful. MUFON said that I’m one of only a few people who remember the hole in the sky. They also said it’s not unusual to only remember the beginning and the ending of such an experience.

  Two scientists came up from Detroit and Indianapolis to do exhaustive testing and a complete search of my property. They inspected a small tree in the backyard that dropped dead only one week later. They also found some plants dying off and they took soil and leaf samples. I have not heard anything back as of this time. I believe the investigation is still ongoing.

  There isn’t a day or an hour that goes by when I don’t think about this. The experience doesn’t run my life but I am constantly playing the incident over in my mind. This was an extraordinary experience, one I never thought would happen to me; but it did and my life will never be the same.

  Afterward I was driven to make a model of the UFO and I also designed a rudimentary picture of the hole in the sky (see image on page 184). The photo below is of the model I made to depict what I saw. The craft had vein-like lines going around the outside of the main sphere. These red veins had a glossy appearance. The two smaller white globes on the ends of the beams seemed to glow slightly.

  Not Ready to Go

  The police department I used to work for is located in a small historical town in southwestern Michigan. We would have occasional drug traffic on I-94 between Chicago and Detroit, but otherwise it was a quiet, uneventful retirement community.

  One morning, my partner and I were called to a natural death at an elderly lady’s home. The well-kept house was decorated with lavender Swiss-like shutters and surrounded by aromatic, colorful flowerbeds. I remember thinking what a pleasing place this would be to live.

  When we entered the upstairs bedroom, we found several of the lady’s relatives gathered sweetly around her bed, grieving and saying beautiful things about her and the life she had led.

  My partner had investigated many natural death situations before, but this was my first. Although she looked peaceful, she was obviously deceased. I checked her pulse carefully, just as a matter of showing concern. She lay under the bed covers, wearing a soft paisley nightgown, with one hand on her heart—an unforeseen victim of a heart attack. We were told she was an active, spirited member of the community and highly vivacious. Although almost eighty, no one expected her to go this soon. I chuckled at the spicy romance novel sitting on the nightstand.

  Her body was stiff to the touch and her face was an ash gray with deep lines indicating a joyful, happy life. I could tell she liked to smile. As usual, I lifted the bed covers to make sure nothing about the death appeared suspicious.

  While my partner continued taking notes, I phoned the coroner. The lady’s daughter went downstairs to get us some coffee and give us space. We didn’t object. It was a kind, warm environment. We were in no hurry to leave.

  My partner bent over the body, to check the carotid artery for a pulse once more—a standard operating procedure. I commented, “She’s been dead over an hour. I don’t know why we always overstress this crap.”

  At that moment, the dead lady’s hand slipped off her chest and her chin and chest rose, as if to clear an airway from her throat to her heart. She took a deep, powerful breath, and then exhaled with seemingly deliberate intent! The breath was commanding, quick, and authoritative. We both jumped back in shock. My partner dropped his pen and let out a suppressed shriek and said, “Oh shit! She’s still alive!” His expression was priceless. I’m sure mine was, too.

  After a few seconds of stunned silence, reality set in, and I regained my composure. Defiantly I leaned over her and said, “Bullshit. You are dead. This ain’t funny!” and inspected her face more closely. It is not unusual for a dead body to let out gases and carbon dioxide, though this incident seemed well after the fact. According to the family it had been at least an hour since she died. I started to think the time line that they gave us was wrong.

  No sooner had I finished talking when the dead lady suddenly took another desperate gasp for more air—sending me springing backwards in alarm, like a scared kitten, nearly tripping on my shoes. I thought this is far from normal!

  I exclaimed, “Holy shit! This is crazy. She is dead. This ain’t right.” And the
n she took another frantic distressed heave for air. I thought, She’s trying to resume her life again—or give me a heart attack!

  “It’s-it’s like she’s trying to jump start herself back to life,” my partner gasped. It was as if he had just read my mind.

  She took a third breath, but discontinued in the middle of it. Then, as suddenly as she inhaled those two and a half breaths, she abruptly stopped. She exhaled and rested forever—as if realizing it was no use, too late, her death forlornly inevitable.

  My partner felt the same way I did. There was no reasonable explanation for the occurrence. The account is what it is.

  My partner and I left the room and indulged in a cup of decaffeinated coffee, wishing it were Jack Daniels, as we politely, but awkwardly, talked with the family members downstairs. We mentioned nothing about the incident, though I did kindheartedly affirm she must have been a determined old soul who loved life to its fullest. My partner added, “I don’t know exactly why, but I feel that way, too.”

  The Amazing Shot

  My most memorable spiritual experience as a police officer occurred in 1990, when I was a member of the state police Emergency Support Team (E.S. Team). We are the crisis managers of the agency and called upon whenever there are barricaded gunmen involved or very dangerous situations that require extra support or specially trained personnel.

  My team was requested to assist on a domestic violence incident. The situation had already escalated to two deputies down (both shot and lying behind their patrol cars bleeding) and a woman whose right arm was nearly blown off and who was bleeding to death inside her house. Her seventy-five-year-old husband, Gordon, had Alzheimer ’s disease and had shot all of them. He would not allow police to take his wife, though he did let EMS inside. They applied a tourniquet to the woman’s arm, but she was gradually fading away.

  As a team we decided we would take a life in order to save a life. This was the first time the E.S. Team had ever made this decision. The team leader, therefore, was reluctant. Though the plan sounded callous, the man’s wife was bleeding to death. Once the man was shot, the entry team could go into the house and extricate the woman to safety.

  The lady was dying and our negotiation tactics were failing, so I volunteered to be the shooter. I was one of the best shots on the team. I could accurately shoot seven out of ten .12-gauge shotgun primers at fifty yards, with only a 4-power optical scope! I was good. (Primers are one-eighth of an inch in size.)

  I grabbed my 30.06 rifle and got into position. The plan was to call out to Gordon over the P.A. system, wait for him to cup his hands around his eyes, and then shoot him between the eyes when he looked out. He had already looked out the window like this several times. The front door had two long, narrow windows, each about eight inches wide, which are common on trailer front doors.

  We called to Gordon over the P.A. and, as anticipated, he cupped his hands and looked out the narrow window. I looked through my riflescope, had a perfect shot, but suddenly I couldn’t do it. I saw his elderly innocent eyes, his face—it was like looking at my grandfather! I lowered my gun and my spotter said, “What’s the matter?”

  I was somewhat stunned. I lied and said, “My scope fogged up.” I raised my rifle again. During this moment of compassion and indecisiveness, I prayed to God that I wouldn’t have to kill this man.

  However, a formal decision had been made for me to shoot him between the eyes. My prayer and my actions were contradictory. I reminded myself that our intent was to save the woman inside, so I aimed at the man’s head and took the shot. The man fell back. He never jumped, flinched, or turned.

  When the shot was fired, my scope and vision was dead-on Gordon’s forehead above the bridge of his nose. I did not shake or shank the shot. The bullet hole in the window is proof. The hole shows where I aimed. If Gordon were standing upright again, the bullet hole was placed exactly between his eyes. And the shape of the hole shows the bullet went straight in.

  However, the bullet actually hit his right shoulder, far away from his head. He lived! This is a bizarre and unexplained mystery. The crime lab went to the scene and measured. There is no explanation as to how the bullet hit Gordon’s shoulder instead of killing him. The bullet experts could not explain how it happened, given the nature of the shot. The bullet hole in the window clearly went through the center of the window at eye level—and squarely! To hit his shoulder, the bullet hole would have had to have been lower and to the left.

  Because police always want definitive explanations, several officers suggested that I just shanked the shot; but even they know that didn’t make any sense. The bullet hole in the window clearly shows I didn’t shank it. If I had shanked it, the hole would be in a different place.

  God answered my prayer and moved the bullet. There is no other explanation. God, through the power of His own Law, can do anything. And this time he defied the law of physics. The bullet must have moved after it went through the window even though, physically, we think this is impossible. Witnesses know Gordon never jumped up or swung his shoulder into the bullet.

  Interestingly, immediately after the shooting, I could only see black and white. My eyes could not distinguish colors. Dr. Kaufmann, our departmental psychologist, said that I was in psychological denial because I didn’t want to hurt anybody.

  I think my temporary color blindness was a symbolic message from God as well. After this incident, my vision about life changed from black and white to color, and so dramatically! This temporary visual impairment was indicative of the change in my spirit. I became more thankful, more grateful, and more spiritually courageous.

  An Electrical Guest

  I woke up in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm. I couldn’t get back to sleep so I got up for a drink of water and then lay back down in bed, eyes wide open. A small night-light enabled me to see everything in the room, including a beloved photo of an old mystic hanging on the wall. My parents taught me to love thunderstorms; they usually relax me. I lay in bed and watched Mother Nature’s electric show.

  Suddenly a ball of dancing lights came through my open bedroom window and stopped about four feet in front of me. I was so shocked I couldn’t move. It looked like Christmas tree tinsel chopped up in tiny, elongated pieces. It was about two feet high and two feet wide. As it flickered and crackled in front of me it emitted a sound like squealing rats. “E-e-e-e-e-e-e!” it screamed.

  A wave of fear raced through me. Instinctively I thought, This is electricity! I could get electrocuted! This is not a good situation! I looked at the copper jewelry hanging on the wall next to me and wondered Is copper a conductor of electricity? Then I gripped the wooden sideboards on my bed and thought, I sure hope this wood grounds me!

  The ball of light hovered in front of me for about seven seconds. It seemed to look right at me as I clung—frozen—to the wooden bed frame. An arm of it reached for the copper; then it appeared to change its mind before exiting out my bedroom door! It left as fast as it had come.

  When my autonomic nervous system finally settled down and I could breathe again, I assured myself I was awake and that I was totally sober. I got up for another drink of water and, eventually, went back to sleep.

  In the morning my boyfriend, Bill, came over. I hesitated to say anything to him about the ball of lights, wondering if he’d believe me. He tends to be conservative. As he was flipping through the Sunday paper, I said, “Honey, I saw something really weird last night.”

  Half-interested, he said, “Yes? What happened?” as he continued to scan the paper for an interesting article.

  Instead of hem-hawing along, I blurted, “A ball of lights came through my bedroom window last night—when it was thundering and lightning outside. This ball was huge! It hovered and flickered right in front of me. It started to . . .”
/>   Suddenly Bill let go of the paper, leaned forward, and said, “Did it make a sound? Did it go ‘E-e-e-e-e-e-e’?” He looked as white as a ghost!

  I was stunned. He had made the exact sound of the phenomena, without my prompting him.

  I exclaimed, “That’s the sound it made! How did you know?”

  He said, “I saw that same thing when I was little boy in Kentucky. I believe it’s the aftereffects of lightning. Very few people ever see this, let alone see it inside the house. You’ve seen something that only one in a million people get to see!” His voice grew thoughtful. “Like when you throw a stone in the water and then the waves come out . . . that was a wave of electricity after lightning hit!”

  I was surprised and excited Bill knew what I was talking about. I also shared with him that I thought it seemed to be some sort of intelligent being; I swore it looked at me.

  I decided to phone the television station and speak with the meteorologist on staff. At first he did not take me seriously; but after I explained who I was, he listened more intently. Unfortunately he had no explanation for the phenomena. He thought it could have been static electricity. I said, “No way. It didn’t look like static. It looked like needles lit up; like a gigantic cluster of cut-up Christmas tinsel. And it made a very obvious sound.” He said he wished I had videotaped it.

  I finally said thank you, hung up, and thought, The media is just like attorneys. They want proof, everything presented to them on a silver platter . . . oh, whatever! I know what I saw, and Bill knew too.

  Burnt Offerings

  I was only thirty yards away when the subject saw me. It was only by chance that he did. A porch light came on at a house on Junction Street in response to my partner’s gunfire. When he turned momentarily in response, his eyes fell on me. I could see in the look that the shock nearly turned him to stone. His throat erupted in a primal scream of rage—or was it fear? I knew at that moment that never before in his life had he felt the humiliation of that emotion. He tossed away the rifle he held in his hands and bolted.