by Chris LeGrow
In a specially remodeled top floor, downtown apartment at Eleventh and Douglas, Ben Mitchell tapped a spoon against his water glass. Ten of Omaha’s wealthiest business owners, CFOs, CEOs, and COOs turned to him.
“Welcome everyone,” he said. “I’d like to veer a little off our usual course of business,” he said referring to their periodic meetings to discuss world conditions and political happenings.
Though varied in ages, they remained friends outside the group sharing similar core values: none of them liked attention, media or otherwise, and they knew how to get things done. They all respected integrity and dedication, and each cherished a solid work ethic. No dotcom Silicon Valley types here, no East or West Coast big money types. They were strictly Midwestern, proud of the “fly-over” designation derogatorily attached to their state on more than one occasion. They all loved the term The Heartland. The words encapsulated everything about the area they held dear. They’d built their empires on the principles embodied in the indomitable history of the plains and respected others who did the same. They called themselves The Bureau.
“What’s up?” Steve DeGoff, president and CEO of two multibillion-dollar military defense corporations, reached for the packet Ben handed him. “This is quite the place,” Steve said with an admiring glance around the room. “You acquire a new company?”
Ben glanced at the modern art decorating the walls that wasn’t quite his taste. “Nah. I had the place soundproofed, which meant a new paint job. It’s called surf and sand.”
“Surf and sand?” Steve asked. “Beige is beige. I don’t know where they come up with that stuff.”
Ben laughed and finished handing out his proposal. “You sound like you’re seventy—not fifty-one.”
“Sounds like somebody else I know,” Frieda Williams said and shot her husband, Bud, a knowing glance.
“What?” Bud asked. “I haven’t done anything yet.” The Williamses were pioneers of the insurance industry in Omaha. From their home city, they’d branched out not only nationally but internationally. Bud took early—very early—retirement at age fifty, and although they’d turned the day-to-day operations over to their children, they still kept their fingers in the pie and wielded considerable influence in the community and state politics.
Ben handed a spiral-bound report to Dan Roberts seated on his right. “I’m going to need your support every step of the way,” Ben whispered.
Dan, who started from a home office and built the largest architectural firm west of the Missouri River, nodded. “Let me know what you need.”
“What about the Platts?” Frieda asked. “Aren’t they coming today?”
The door opened and two women entered. Ben handed each the same portfolio he’d prepared. The two younger women hurried to take a seat. “Sorry we’re late,” Pamela Platt said.
“You know how parking is around here.” Bonnie Platt rolled her eyes. “There’s never enough.”
“Oh, please,” Pamela said. “She’s a lot like Dad—refuses to plug the meter and ends up driving around waiting for a free spot to open up.”
Bonnie stuck her tongue out at her sister who shook her head and laughed.
“You two certainly liven the place up,” Al Long said. “Tyler and I balance you out, I think.” He nodded at his brother, Tyler. Al and Tyler owned and operated the largest heavy machinery construction company in the region.
Tyler shrugged and gave a small smile.
“You always monopolize the conversation?” Pamela asked the quiet brother, earning her a bit wider smile.
“Ladies, shall we begin?” Ben asked.
“Sorry,” Bonnie said.
“If you’ll direct your attention to the most current homicide report I handed out,” Ben said, trying to maintain some semblance of control.
“Omaha made the list.” DeGoff tossed his copy of the Violence Policy Center’s article in front of him.
“Yes, it did unfortunately.” Ben nodded solemnly. “Proportionally more people of color died at someone else’s hand in Nebraska than anywhere in the country.”
“The report only points out those killed. If you add to it the number wounded,” Frieda said, “and the homes that were shot up, vehicles hit, I can’t imagine how high the number would be.”
Ben steepled his fingers in front of his lips in contemplation. “I’ve been talking to some friends in OPD command. The department is doing everything they can to rein it in, but they’re in a lousy position. When they respond, community leaders say they aren’t doing enough; if they send in a large response, they’re excoriated for excessive force and racism. Command is ready to throw up their hands and say, ‘Damned if we do; damned if we don’t.’”
Murmurs of assent waffled through the assemblage.
“Also,” Ben continued, “when cops are called to the scene of a shooting, they know gang members are mingling in the crowd, looking for people who cooperate.”
“The public is terrified,” Steve said.
“Who wouldn’t be?” Pamela asked. “You talk to the cops, your house gets shot up and somebody dies.”
“The collateral damage is getting out of hand,” Dan said. “No one can live like that.”
“No one should have to,” Pam said.
“And it’s the rookies that get assigned to those areas,” Ben said. “Have you seen some of them?” he asked. “They look like they’re seventeen.”
“Something wrong with being young?” Bonnie asked with a wink.
“No,” Ben said, “not at all. Just an observation.”
“So what’s this all got to do with us?” DeGoff asked.
“We’ve got a lot of experienced officers in some stage of retirement,” Ben said. “The young ones coming in think they know everything about police work, when the reality is that they watch too much TV.”
“Wait a minute,” Frieda said. “Why are we discussing this?” She speared Ben with a direct gaze. “Why is this our issue?” All of the members of The Bureau looked to Ben for an answer.
Ben paused until he was sure all eyes were on him. He was confident that what he was about to say would convince the others of the value of his plan.
Two years ago, I met up with a college roommate of mine, Captain Christopher Ross. We have a monthly lunch date. He was in a meeting, so I waited for him in the Criminal Investigations Bureau.
While I was waiting, the outer doors burst open drawing my attention while two uniformed officers burst through. Caught up in an intense conversation, they didn’t spare me a second glance. I could tell the younger man was a rookie still on probationary status. His demeanor gave him away, and I figured he couldn’t have been on the job too long. The second, more arrogant one had to be his FTO—field training officer—even though he too looked to be under thirty.
“A felony domestic violence incident,” the FTO was explaining to the rookie, “goes to CIB—the Criminal Investigations Bureau. Most of them on this shift are the freaking Ol’ Blues.”
“Ol’ Blues?” The rookie shook his head like he was confused, and I certainly was.
“Yeah,” his trainer said. “Guys so old they’re practically worthless. They can’t back us up on the streets cuz they can’t run worth beans. They carry the old .38 revolvers with six shots—a lot of good that’ll do in a firefight,” he told the rookie.
“Better than nothing,” the rookie had said.
“Not by much. They’re old school, can’t work our computers and always want us to do it for them. One has reading glasses hanging on his raid jacket next to his badge. Can’t read the freaking ID of suspects without ’em,” the trainer had said.
“Raid jacket?” the rookie asked.
“Oh yeah—you haven’t used those yet. When you work plainclothes, raid jackets are the black vests with POLICE written between the shoulders.”
So the trainer says, “Anyway, I saw an Ol’ Blue put his readers on to Mirandize a suspect. Looked like a grandpa trying to read a children’s book to a bunch
of kids. Made us all look stupid.”
An office door opened, and an older, balding, senior officer entered the room similar to the old guy the FTO had just described. This Ol’ Blue walks up to the pair of uniforms and says, “All right. Wha’dya got, kid?” as he loudly slapped the FTO on the back.
The trainer shot the rookie a what-did-I-tell-you look, and the rookie smiled back.
“We had a domestic violence call—felony assault,” the FTO explained.
The Ol’ Blue picked up the report and glanced over it. “Well yes it’s a felony, son, or you wouldn’t be talking to the likes of me.” Before either uniform could say another word, the older detective winced. “The lady found out her husband was having an affair, flew off the handle, and stabbed her husband in the throat with a fork. Ouch.”
The rookie perked up and added, “And she hit him with his cell phone.” The trainer shot him a dark look that I thought meant don’t make this any longer than it has to be.
So the Ol’ Blue’s eyes narrowed. He asked, “What kind of fork?”
“What do you mean what kind of fork?” the trainer asked. “It was a freaking fork, all right?”
The Ol’ Blue ignored the remark and rubbed his nose. “Sterling silver or stainless steel?” he wanted to know.
I saw the trainer give a long sigh and a shrug. The rookie rifled through the report.
So then the trainer growls at the Ol’ Blue. “Look, she got pissed, she yelled at him, grabbed a fork, and jabbed it in his neck. Just your run-of-the-mill emotional, heat of passion reaction to their argument. She just snapped.”
Ben looked at his fellow members of The Bureau. All eyes were on him.
He paused. “Sterling silver,” the rookie crowed, glancing at the Ol’ Blue over the report. The discovery earned him another withering glance from his FTO.
“First of all,” the Ol’ Blue had said and turned toward the trainer as though he’d had enough, “this was no emotional reaction; she didn’t just snap. Today is Monday, and from my observation of the facts, this lady has suspected her man of seeing another woman for a while now. This weekend she decided to let him do whatever he wanted without question. This morning she decided to check his phone, and my guess is there was another woman’s number or text there—hence smacking him with it—women are like cops sometimes.” He winked at the rookie, “They always want evidence.”
“So she gave him the weekend, knowing what he was going to do, collected the evidence, and confronted him with it. Then,” he had said not waiting for either uniform to speak, “not satisfied that her stinging words and accusations had hurt him enough, she cracked him over the head with the phone. Then having prepared herself for this the entire weekend, she didn’t grab just any fork from the kitchen. Noo-noo! She grabbed the good stuff—the sterling silver from their wedding. That fork held special meaning, so that’s the one she stabbed him with. She didn’t go off the deep end; she planned this all weekend long!”
“That makes perfect sense,” the rookie had muttered.
I was astounded. The analysis was incredible, but without the years of service, dealing with people and understanding them, it couldn’t have happened.
Finally, the trainer wiped the whatever look off his face and his entire demeanor morphed into begrudging respect.
“Is the guy at the hospital having it removed?” the Ol’ Blue had asked.
Both uniforms nodded.
“If he dies from that wound, we’ll have a homicide investigation, won’t we?”
Again both officers nodded.
“And the choice of fork gives us premeditation.” The Ol’ Blue had looked directly at the rookie. “And that means the little lady goes to prison for a long time.” This time he looked at wonder boy the trainer and said, “It becomes murder one versus your measly voluntary manslaughter, heat of passion crap. My aggravating circumstance versus your mitigating one. You’d get her a lighter sentence, which is exactly what she wants. Probably how she planned it except she just couldn’t resist the hidden dig. So the type of fork plays an important role here.” The Ol’ Blue slowly turned so that his entire body faced the trainer and stared directly into his eyes. “Don’t you agree?”
The FTO gave the Ol’ Blue a reluctant nod.
So having drilled his point home, the Ol’ Blue slapped both officers on the shoulders. “Good job. The information in your reports really helped me get a clearer picture on this. Those initial reports can be really helpful if they’re done well.”
Still seated in the corner chair, I marveled at the scene I’d just witnessed.
Ben slowly looked at those around his conference table and said, “Those Ol’ Blues are amazing. An idea started then, and now with your help, I think we can bring it to fruition.”
Ben let the silence drag out in a long pause. With everyone’s attention focused on him, he leaned back in his chair. “I think we can use some of those retired officers to shore up police services.”
“What?” Frieda asked.
“How?” Bud asked at the same time.
“Glad you both asked.” Ben smiled and pointed to the binder everyone held. “Inside you’ll find fifty names of retired officers with anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five years of experience. They didn’t want to retire, but due to their age, illness, or injury, they were forced to. These guys loved their work; they knew the streets and the criminals like nobody else. I’ve been researching them over the past six months and selected several for this project I’m proposing. Most of these officers are living on pensions. Some are in independent living or the basements of family members who still love them but don’t understand them. These guys need to be needed.”
“Why are there so many in need?” Bud asked. “Aren’t their pensions enough?”
“Or families?” Frieda chimed in.
“Lots of officers are doing fine,” Ben said, “but it’s such a stressful occupation that too many end up with family issues—children not speaking to them, savings accounts decimated by child support and alimony payments. Law enforcement rates of divorce, alcoholism, and drug use are triple that of the rest of us. Some of these guys are in bad shape. If they don’t have a hobby and a little money—well, let’s just say they have a much higher suicide rate as well.”
“So where do we come in?” Al asked.
“Imagine,” Ben said and leaned forward, warming to his topic, “if we could harness that knowledge and experience to provide them the camaraderie they’re missing—”
Looking at the back of his handout, Steve interrupted, “These are blueprints.”
“Exactly,” Ben said. “I haven’t been this excited in years. We can create a living center strictly for older, retired cops. A place built for their needs, designed around the only thing they knew all their adult lives: police work. I envision private rooms for those who need skilled care, complete with doctors and nursing staff, social workers if required. Everything that any other retirement home offers but specifically designed to look like the precincts of the late sixties and early seventies. All the familiar sights and sounds. These cops will feel like they did when they were young officers again.”
“Wait a minute,” Bud said and turned to his wife. “Remember that news story last week where they went to retirement homes and everybody—even Alzheimer’s patients—who were exposed to the music of their teenage years came to life?”
Frieda’s blue eyes widened with excitement, and she laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Yes. Just the sound of the music started them dancing. Their families cried when they saw their grandparent’s reaction. They thought it was a miracle!”
Bud turned back to face Ben. “It was like the old folks went back to a time when life was sweet and their zest for living came back.”
“I love it!” Pam said. “What a great service to these men who served the community for all those years! They’ve been beat up, spat on, and every other disgusting thing you can think of. They did the job that regular people w
ouldn’t.”
“Or couldn’t,” Tyler said softly.
“The public will love it too,” Bonnie said, excitement laced her words. “Imagine. All that experience in one place. They could even provide some sort of advisory board. A think tank for community crime prevention.”
The room was abuzz with possibilities. Ben smiled. This was what made everything worthwhile: the synchronicity of this group and the possibilities they created.
“They could hold weekly briefings with the police or neighborhood organizations and provide advice on addressing their concerns,” Pam said. “Who knows, maybe some real solutions to some of the city’s problems could be addressed. I love this idea!”
“Where were you thinking we’d build this?” Steve asked.
“Turn to page twenty-eight,” Ben said. “I think we’ve got the perfect site out west.”
Pages rustled and the room went silent.
“The old veterans’ retirement home?” Frieda asked. “The one on Maple, just outside the city limits?”
“That old place?” Bud said. “That was built—what—eighty years ago?”
“Exactly—but think about it. The structure is solid and well-built, the grounds are huge, and it would serve our purpose perfectly,” Ben said. “We’ll retrofit the entire thing with the latest medical equipment and staff. There are so many offices out there, we can offer a branch to the state’s Health and Human Services for no cost plus a wing for medical staff. We’ll open it to the local universities, medical schools, and their student internships.”
“That ought to get the government on board,” Steve said with more than a little sarcasm.
“Exactly,” Ben said. “Turn to page fifty-five. The final phase will be to implement our real project.”
“I thought the retirement center was the real project,” Steve said and flipped through the pages of his handout. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Ben said. He planted his hands on the table in front of him and leaned forward glancing from person to person. “Below this retirement home is the real purpose: helping the police fight crime.”
