Spirit Of The Badge

Spirit Of The Badge Page 18

by Ingrid P. Dean

  Even as he coursed along the fence row, his legs pumping furiously, I put myself in his mind and could almost hear his thoughts. How had this happened? He’d no doubt been chortling in self-satisfaction over being able to find my partner and me sitting unsuspecting in the unmarked scout car, and to sneak up—so he thought—behind us so easily. Then I came upon him from behind, found him in the dark. Why, by the blood of Zarabanda, didn’t I feel him approach? I could almost hear him shout. But he must have forced the distracting thoughts aside, because he pelted furiously toward Junction, with me in close pursuit.

  A fence enclosed the western end of the field he’d been hiding in, so I doubted he would head that way: a man might climb a fence when he came to it, but it would slow him down. I sensed that he would head toward Junction. I was right. As I lurched into stride and raced after him, I heard more shots reverberate from the direction of Merritt Street, where my partner apparently engaged an accomplice. No matter now. Nothing I could do. The chase was on.

  The subject emerged from the field and ran onto Junction. He crossed the street and continued eastward on Merritt, skirting another warehouse on that side of the street. I was only twenty paces behind. But I wasn’t young anymore. At forty-three, my wind was no good. He began to pull ahead.

  I was still only thirty paces behind when he reached the far corner of the warehouse and turned left. In the time it took to take two breaths, I reached the corner behind him. Despite my ragged breathing, I grinned with satisfaction. I knew this building, and I knew that the subject had fled into a blind alley—there was no outlet, the high walls of the storage buildings rose on all sides. The alley ended in an impenetrable wall of cement. He was trapped.

  As I paused at the corner of the building for the barest fraction of a second, I eased my head past the brick façade just far enough to peer with one eye down the alley. I was stunned. The cul-de-sac was deserted. The subject was gone! I thought at first that my eyes were deceiving me. I looked again, my whole head emerging from behind the wall. Nothing. I stepped quickly out and walked warily down the alley, my .357 Magnum revolver at the ready. Had some workman left a door ajar, permitting the subject to escape into a building? What rotten luck! But no, as I remembered, there were no doors, just the walls of the buildings . . . and the roofs were twenty feet in the air.

  I walked all the way to the end of the alley, my eyes searching every corner and crevice. There were no parked cars. There were no trash dumpsters. There were no stacks of crates. The alley stood as clean and empty as an airplane hangar. There could be no mistake: the subject had simply vanished.

  I holstered my weapon and stood for a moment in the darkness of the alley, the silence filling me. The cold, the sense of malignancy, were gone. But a trace of something intangible lingered in the air; a faint smell, so ethereal that I wasn’t sure it was really there. I sought it, tried to identify it, finally lost it. I let the quiet and the silence fill me completely. After a while, I smiled.

  I finally walked away, returning to Merritt Street and my partner, who was thankfully alive and uninjured after a shoot-out with one of the subject’s associates.

  Only when a lieutenant and an inspector arrived, took charge of the homicide scene, made notifications, and started asking questions, did I break out of my reverie and start talking to Magaly, the New York City magazine reporter who had been riding along with my partner and me for over a week.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, breathless, her hair disheveled. She was completely out of sorts over the shooting she’d witnessed only moments earlier.

  “Chasing someone,” I said. “Chasing our guy. It was him. I know it. But he’s gone. He got away. Disappeared.”

  Looking into her eyes, I could tell it was impossible for her to gauge my mood. She finally said, “Well, it’s dark. It’d be easy to lose someone . . . I guess it happens, huh?”

  “No, I mean he disappeared,” I insisted. “He just vanished, Maggie. He ran down a dead-end alley. I had him. I really had him. He was cornered. Then he was . . . gone.”

  “Well, he couldn’t just—”

  “He did.” I turned again and looked into the night. “He did.”

  Maggie shivered. “It’s him, then,” she murmured. As you say, Bill. It’s him.”

  I quietly nodded.

  Before the arrival of the homicide team, the lieutenant, with the consent of the inspector, took initial steps to preserve evidence and organize the scene. First, I ordered a scout car crew to go back up to the vacant lot where I had discovered the subject hiding and secure the area. They quickly found the rifle the subject had thrown away, nestled among some weeds. They let the weapon lay where they found it, and waited impatiently for it to be photographed, measured, and ultimately retrieved and tagged by responding evidence technicians.

  Next, the lieutenant requested a K-9 unit to come out to the scene to attempt a track of the subject. The dog handlers arrived within a few minutes and were directed to the waiting officers along the fence line in the vacant lot. The dog, a big German shepherd, immediately picked up a scent from the ground, as well as from the rifle. He pulled eagerly at his leader and struggled against the leash, pulling his handler along at a trot. “Find him, Rocky,” urged the handler, a young cop whom, Magaly said, looked like Andy Garcia. “Find him, boy!”

  The dog followed a strong scent all along the route I’d taken in pursuit of the subject, all the way into the dead-end alley, and down to its end. The dog sniffed nervously along the blank wall for a moment and then sat on its haunches, staring straight ahead—it was trained to do that after locating the person it was looking for. Rocky was doing his job. “There,” he was saying. “There he is—in the wall.”

  I never saw the subject again, and no arrests were ever made.

  Excerpt from Burnt Offerings by Charles W. Newsome, Detroit Police Department, Retired.

  The Lost Badge

  A young Canadian conservation officer in Sault Ste. Marie, Canada, shared the following experience with me as I was crossing the border into Michigan. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a badge on his jacket and curiously inquired about it. He pulled his badge from his pocket and stated, “See, I do have a badge, but let me tell you what happened.” He then relayed this extraordinary story . . .

  I wanted to kick myself. What kind of a police officer loses his badge? But that is what I’d done. And, in the middle of the woods, of all places! I searched and searched, but it was a losing battle. The thick layer of fallen bark and leaves was an ideal place for a badge to remain hidden. Every time I thought I saw something, shadows would move across the ground, revealing that what I had seen was only a glint of light filtering down through the leaves. Nevertheless, I returned to the woods the next day and the next, each time retracing my steps, even getting down on my hands and knees . . . but to no avail. It looked like I would have to break down and report the loss of my most treasured possession.

  Reluctantly, I decided I would make a report today; after all, somebody else might find it and use it illegally to impersonate a police officer. My cheeks burned as I thought about the ribbing I would get from everybody in the Ontario Provincial Police Department when they learned that I had lost my badge.

  But an unexpected assignment prevented me from sitting at my desk and writing up my report. A severe storm had ripped through the northernmost section of Ontario, more than one hundred miles away, and I was asked to travel there to report on the extent of the damage. I still hadn’t given up on my badge, and as I drove north I said a prayer that I would find it.

  When I arrived at the designated area, I found the forest was terribly distressed after the storm. Old mossy trees, pines, limbs, and brush had fallen everywhere chaotically. It looked as though the wind had lifted most of
the trees up and thrown them down into a pile of debris. I noticed an eagle’s nest had toppled, and the tree in which it had been built was nearly upended. What if there were baby eagles in the nest? I felt a strong urge to investigate. If there were birds in it, I could transfer them to a wildlife refuge.

  Carefully I picked my way through black timber, rocks, fallen trees, and brush, climbing and tripping as I made my way awkwardly through the devastated landscape. I expected the worst—the mother dead and her eaglets injured, starved, thirsty, perhaps the whole family dead.

  To my surprise, the nest was empty! I sifted through the leaves and bark—mother and babies had vacated the nest, and there was not a sign of disaster to the family. Relieved, I stepped back to admire how well the nest was put together and how cleverly constructed. This was the first time I had seen an eagle’s nest close up. Just the fact it had come down intact seemed a miracle. And that’s when I glimpsed something shiny sparkling through the leaves and sticks. I picked into the lining of the nest, and there, nestled safely inside, was my badge!

  For a moment, I couldn’t believe it. To say that I was astounded would be an understatement. I thought I was dreaming. The eagle had recognized a treasure and carried it to the safest place she knew, her home. And I, concerned about the safety of her children, had found it. What was the likelihood of such a sequence of events being just coincidence? How was it that I was the person chosen to drive one hundred miles to a forest previously unknown to me? If the eagle had not found my badge and carried it off for safe-keeping, perhaps I might never have seen it again. And why did I feel such an urge to look inside the nest? What humbled me the most was the complex series of steps I was led to take. And I didn’t even know it when I took them!

  The Kid

  Abandoned mines are extremely dangerous to explore and even to go near. In Utah, many are undocumented, especially on private property. Mine shafts are particularly hazardous because they are nothing but vertical openings that go very deep, some more than one thousand feet into the earth. People can fall into the shafts never to be found again, which makes abandoned mines and mine shafts ideal places to dump dead bodies.

  I am an undercover narcotics officer. A confidential informant told me that a body had been dumped down a winze of an abandoned mine shaft. Winzes are vertical drops; but within the mines themselves they are shafts that connect one level to another lower level, like an elevator shaft without the elevator. Winzes can descend to depths that are water-filled, toxic, and radioactive. I’m sure bodies can decompose quickly if culprits know what they are doing. (I do not recommend anyone ever explore such places. The shaft collars of these dormant mines are often loose and unconsolidated and the sides of the walls break away easily from intrusion.)

  I drive into the quiet countryside and get permission from the owner to investigate the abandoned mine on his property. I first search for any disturbances in the area—such as loose gravel, footwear impressions, and blood—anything to indicate that a body was dumped. I don’t see anything unusual. What I do find are old equipment, piles of waste rock all around, and a couple of old buildings left standing. I spot what I believe to be a mine tunnel, wide open. At least this is consistent with what the informant told me. You can’t always trust an informant’s information.

  I shine my light through the mine opening and see movement in a dark corner. It appears to be a child, about four feet tall. I immediately yell to him, “Police, come out! You are not in any trouble! It is too dangerous for you to go any farther! Hello?” There is no answer.

  I think it might be the rancher’s kid, but learn later he didn’t have any children. This is a desolate area and it doesn’t appear like anyone has been here in a long time—not even vehicles.

  Reluctantly, I step into the opening of the mine. I do not intend to proceed much farther. It is too dangerous. The opening is held up by old support timbers that seem safe enough and stable but could easily be rotted wood. I try not to be fooled by appearances. Such old structures can easily disintegrate from the weight of just one person

  “Young man,” I said, “this is NOT a cave! It is unstable and can cave-in! Come out!” I am anxious for the boy to walk out as I know the dangers of these places. Still, no answer. I walk into the mine a little farther, and I see movement again. “I see you! Come out! I just want to talk to you. You can DIE if you fall down a hidden shaft!”

  There is no answer—yet I know I am not seeing things. It has to be a kid. It moved on two legs and appeared agile. He moved quickly. I was certain the kid was playing games with me. Then I thought to myself, Okay, I’ll just be totally still and catch you on your way out. Then I’ll give you a good scolding and send you home.

  I stand behind a support beam for what felt like an hour; in reality, it was probably only twenty minutes. It was a hot day and time felt like it was standing still. A flicker of movement: I see the shadow again.

  But as soon as I see it, it disappears. And I swear I didn’t move a muscle. I start to second-guess myself and think, Well, it could be an animal. Maybe it is a bear or a mountain lion and is merely escaping the noon heat. After all, animals are known to den in these mines. I keep one hand near my pistol at all times.

  It must have been 100 degrees, even in the cooler recesses of the mine. I take a drink of water and it moves again. The shadow is definitely two-legged and there are two obvious long, slender arms. It is human alright, I think. I no longer doubt myself.

  “Come on!” I shout. “I could use your help right now! Talk to me!” It moves swiftly again from one support structure to another. I can’t see it clearly in the dark. I stand still for another twenty minutes. I decide to wait until it is close enough and then I’ll shine my flashlight on him. Admittedly, I am hot, getting frustrated, irritated, and tired of waiting. Nevertheless, I remain motionless and unwavering. When I’m truly beginning to doubt myself, I finally see movement again, coming closer and closer. He was almost within arm’s reach; I had him now! I surprised him. I shined my light on him in one swift click of the button. When he turned toward me, I saw a reptilian-faced creature that scared the shit out of me—and I ran!

  The instant the light shone on its face, it dove into the earth like it was water. Initially I thought he went into a winze, but there was not an opening. It was solid ground.

  I wasn’t seeing things. Its face was greenish-gray and reptilian. Maybe it was an animal; but no one has been able to convince me of that yet. It was too weird!

  Turn the page. On a scale of one to ten—with ten being perfect—I rate the accuracy of my memory at 8.5. I suppose it could have been a person in a mask, but in a dark mine? With no one else around?

  Flying Free

  I was dispatched to an accident on a country road about five miles out of town. A sixth-grade teacher on her way home from school ran over an eleven-year-old boy on a go-cart. She was driving fifty-five miles an hour.

  The child’s family lived on a hundred acres that were intersected by the highway. His parents bought him a go-cart and built him a track. Half of the track was on one side of the road, while the other half was on the other side. They instructed their son to always stop before crossing the road. He promised to observe this rule.

  Unfortunately, this fatal evening, the boy forgot to stop and look before crossing. He was hit by an innocent motorist and apparently was thrown from the go-cart.

  When I arrived at the scene, the driver of the vehicle, a middle-aged woman, was frantic and hysterical. She started running to a nearby field. “He’s over there! He’s over there! I saw him go over there! I saw him fly from his go-kart into the field! Oh, God. He must be okay. He must be,” she sobbed.

  The teacher darted into the field, just off the roadway, and I obediently followed close behind her.

 
; “He’s over here!” she called. “I know he is! He’s somewhere in these bushes.” We began running in circles . . . round and round . . . nonstop. We could barely keep our breath. The lady, now delirious, kept saying over and over again, “He’s got to be here . . . he’s got to be. I saw him fly over my windshield. He’s here . . . I know he is.”

  Suddenly I had a horrific thought. It somehow wound its way through my own confused and anguished mental state. I said, “Stop!” At first she didn’t seem to hear me. I ordered her again, “STOP! This is insane! Stop running!”

  She was panting. I was panting. I listened to my inner thought, now coming through as clear as day. The boy is under the car. I looked to the roadway and at the teacher’s car and said, “He is not here. He is under the car.” We proceeded to walk back toward the road.

  She protested, “But, but . . . but . . . I saw him fly into the field! He can’t be under the car. He was here . . . he flew over there!” And she pointed behind us.

  As I already intuitively knew, the boy was under the car. He was dead, probably killed instantly. I do not, however, believe the lady imagined seeing the boy fly into the field. I think what she saw was the boy’s soul departing his body. He was struck so fast and with such force that he flew out of his body instantly.

 

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