by Glenn Wood
The discussion on the way back to the station revolved around how I could have avoided being hit but I wasn’t listening as my brain seemed to have stopped functioning. When we arrived at base I walked up the steps and into the closed front doors without stopping. I don’t remember doing it, probably because I was suffering from delayed concussion at the time. The DC took me to hospital, where they greeted me by name and took me to the Glenn Wood Wing. They confirmed that I had a mild concussion (didn’t feel very mild to me) and suggested I have a few days off work. Again.
During my convalescence I became depressed. I couldn’t seem to do anything right in the police. I should never have taken my eyes off the druggie and the more I thought about it the more I beat myself up, making a far better job of it than he’d done. Even though no-one had said anything, I knew the incident had made me look bad in the eyes of the DS and I wasn’t looking forward to returning to work.
When I did get back, the rest of the month with DS Cawfee was really hard. I was called to one disheartening incident after another. The first was the type of job every member of the police hates doing - informing relatives of a death in the family. In my case it wasn’t just one death but two. A young Chinese boy had been told earlier in the day that his parents had been involved in a serious car accident while visiting friends in Auckland. His father and younger sister had been killed outright and his mother and brother were rushed to hospital. Now I was on my way around to his house to inform him they had both died as well. He was in a very bad way when I arrived and was being comforted by relatives. To make things more difficult no-one could speak English very well and it took some time before I could make myself understood. It was terrible. I felt so sorry for him but there wasn’t anything I could do except pass on the bad news and leave.
Things got worse (if that were possible) the very next week, when a small plane crashed in the hills just south of Palmerston North. There were four people in the aircraft including the pilot and all were killed instantly. The bodies were brought to Palmerston North hospital for a procedure known as Disaster Victim Identification (DVI). This entailed trying to match up the various body parts with the corpses found at the scene. Plane crashes are particularly messy and limbs are frequently dismembered. More often than not because the victims are sitting down and the impact severs the legs at the knees. In this particular accident two of the passengers had to be identified from dental records. I wasn’t part of the identification process - only fully trained pathologists could do that - so there wasn’t any reason for me to become involved. This didn’t stop the DS from sending me down for a look, on the pretence of delivering a message to one of the police in attendance. A more likely explanation was they thought it would freak me out. The scene in the mortuary was extremely harrowing and the images are imprinted in my memory so I can see them very clearly, right to this day. It was very clinical with sombre doctors walking around in surprisingly clean white coats. The only thing that differentiated it from any other medical scene was that several of them were carrying severed limbs in their gloved hands. They would walk from one body to the next placing the limb next to an empty socket to see if it matched. It was like watching them trying to piece together a terrible jigsaw puzzle. The thing that struck me most was the lack of blood. The limbs looked like the arms and legs of shop mannequins.
This was definitely not the sort of place I wanted to hang around, so I delivered my message and scurried out of there. Unfortunately, not before catching a glimpse of one of the victims who was receiving identification via what was left of his teeth.
If the DS had planned on my breaking down during my trip to the mortuary he was sorely disappointed. I said nothing on my return and carried on with the shift as if nothing had happened. Perhaps I was being paranoid and the message delivery had been completely innocent but I felt like everything I did was being scrutinised.
For the final two weeks of the DS’s assignment we were really busy. Nothing noteworthy took place but we were attending a larger number of calls than usual. I bumbled my way through, trying hard to do the right thing. As the days ground by and the criticism increased, my stomach ulcer began playing up again, making me feel ill. The stress I was under started to take its toll.
One late shift, just before my sergeant returned, I left work early feeling very ill. I wasn’t well enough to drive but I didn’t want to ask anyone at the station to help me. I decided to walk to Carey’s house and ask Lynette to take me back to my flat. I knew Carey wouldn’t be there as she had gone back to New Plymouth for mid-term break. Lynette had stayed behind to be with Quentin so I hoped she’d be home. By the time I had completed the five minute walk I was really sick. My stomach was cramping and churning. I had a temperature and was very weak. Just walking was an effort and I barely had the energy to bang on the door. There was no answer and no lights were on. I sank to the ground in despair and pain. I began to vomit. Wave after wave of nausea hit me and I curled up into a pathetically heaving ball. I was in agony and the very act of being sick robbed me of my last vestiges of energy. I passed out. I don’t know how long I was unconscious for. All I remember is being shaken awake by a very frightened Lynette and Quentin. When they arrived home I was lying in a large pool of vomit shaking from the cold. They helped me to their car and drove me to the hospital, my second home.
I was placed in the infectious diseases ward. I’m stupidly proud of that. It was proof there was something badly wrong with me. Either that or they didn’t have a blind clue what was going on. It turned out to be the latter. After several days of tests they declared I had gastroenteritis. Impressive. My body was in such a state of decline that I was an easy victim for any bug that fancied a new home.
After a week in the infectious diseases ward, I was no longer contagious and was moved to the main wards. I liked it there. Nurses fussed over me, no-one yelled at me and the hospital food was better than Eula’s cooking, which is more an indictment on my housemate’s culinary skill than praise for the hospital chefs. Two more days went past and I wasn’t showing any sign of moving. I didn’t want to go home. But I had to. The hospital threw me out, albeit very gently. A senior nurse came by and had a chat with me. She said they needed the bed for people who were really sick and we agreed I was well enough to go home.
I went back to work the following week and if I’d expected any sympathy I was to be sadly disappointed. My sergeant was his usual surly self, muttering about how much time I had taken off work. I told him about the gastroenteritis and he replied that it was my own fault for not taking good enough care of myself. Then he sent me off with the hell bitch to attend a violent domestic dispute.
Night shift, mid-August. Palmerston North goes mad.
First up, Rob makes one of the finest blunders of his distinguished career.
Everything starts off okay, with him and his offsider catching two well-known criminals in the process of breaking into a car. Once they’d been apprehended Rob and his mate threw both of them into the back of the police car, then Rob’s partner strolled off to talk to a witness. This was their first mistake. Our instructions were clear as to the correct seating of prisoners in police vehicles. If one officer is in the car with a prisoner the offender should be handcuffed and placed in the front seat. If two officers are present, then one officer drives and the other sits directly behind the driver with the prisoner in the rear passenger side. The scenario for two cops and two prisoners is one driver, then the other cop seated between the two prisoners in the back. Prisoners will be handcuffed if considered dangerous or violent.
The prisoner is never, under any circumstances, allowed to sit unattended behind the driver of the vehicle. This rule has been rigidly enforced ever since an incident in the United States. A cop on his own had arrested a suspect, handcuffed the offender’s hands behind his back and threw him in the rear of the car. The bad guy managed to pass his handcuffed hands under his legs so his shackled arms were to the front of his body. He leant over the driver
and wrapped his arms around the officer’s neck, strangling him. The car crashed and the prisoner escaped. The driver was killed, strangled to death with his own handcuffs.
And yet there was Rob sitting by himself in the front of the police car with two offenders alone in the back. He shouldn’t have been in that situation and most of the blame must go on his partner for leaving him. He was a very senior member of the section.
Neither of the prisoners was violent but equally they weren’t keen on being locked up for the evening. One claimed to be feeling sick and told Rob he was about to throw up. There is nothing worse than driving around in a police car that has been vomited in, so Rob unlocked the doors and told the guy to get out and be sick in the gutter. Rob then got out of the car to keep an eye on the prisoner. The fresh air obviously helped the offender’s nausea because as soon as he got out he ran for it. Acting entirely on instinct Rob gave chase. He caught the guy after about one hundred metres (and a couple of fences) and began hauling him back to the car. Problem. When Rob chased offender number one he left offender number two alone in the car.
He must have thought all his Christmases had come at once. He was alone in the police car and the keys were in the ignition.
The next thing Rob saw was his police car hurtling past him, the driver giving a friendly wave as he went by.
I was at the station when the call came in. The operator informed all units that the I-Car had just been stolen. There was a moment’s silence as we contemplated the large pile of runny pooh the previous occupants of the car would now be standing in. It took all my will power to avoid a fist pump because it wasn’t me.
Sergeant Nelson was furious that a patrol car should be stolen on his shift and was determined to find it before the next shift started. Every available unit was called in and a full scale search swung into action. I was given a plain clothes car and told to patrol the back roads of Bunnythorpe (a small town ten minutes north of Palmerston). The sergeant reasoned the offender would try to get out of town and he wanted all exits blocked. After organizing the operation from the ops room he went out to pick up Rob, his partner and their prisoner, as they had no transport. Judging by the look on his face they were in for an uncomfortable trip.
I spent the rest of the night having a great time roaring around the country roads outside of Palmerston North. I loved driving the Holden and thought this an ideal opportunity to practice my rally driving, again demonstrating no self-preservation instincts. Inevitably I pushed the car too hard while driving on some gravel and it began to fishtail. I hauled the steering wheel against the direction of the slide (completely forgetting everything I’d learnt at Trentham Driving School) and over corrected sending the car sideways into a grass verge. The car came to a shuddering halt and sat half way up a small bank. I pounded the steering wheel with frustration. How could I have been so stupid? I was for it now. The sergeant was already in a foul mood. If I had to tell him I’d pranged the Enquiry Car while doing wheelies he’d kill me.
I climbed nervously out of the car and inspected the damage. There didn’t seem to be much. Several large clumps of grass were wedged between the wheel arch and the mud flap and one of the lower rear panels was dented. I drove the car out of the grass and back onto the road then popped the boot. I took out the wheel brace, went to the dented side and did some amateur panel beating. The dinged panel popped out, leaving only a slight crease in the paint. I was sure no-one would notice, especially once I’d washed the car. I reached underneath and pulled out the clumps of grass then got back in the car confident I could get away with it. I gave my muddy hands a wipe on my uniform trousers then turned the key. The car wouldn’t start. If I couldn’t get it going then I was really dead. The ripped-up grass on the verge made it clear what had happened. I opened the bonnet looked at the engine. Fully exploring the depths of my mechanical knowledge I pulled off the spark plug leads and blew hopefully on the plugs. That should fix it. Incredibly it did and the car started first time. All I had to do now was get to the washing area before anyone saw me. I prayed my arrival would be overlooked in all the activity surrounding the hunt for the stolen police car. It was getting close to five am (shift end) and the vehicle still hadn’t been found.
I reported my arrival to ops and hurried around to the hosing off area. When I was half way through cleaning the car my sergeant came out to see what I was doing. He stood at the top of the yard steps and eyed me suspiciously.
'That’s uncharacteristically diligent of you Constable Wood.’
Actually he didn’t call me Constable Wood he called me Gonzo. He did this occasionally so I never quite knew where I was with him.
'The back roads were really dirty Sarge,' I replied without looking at him. 'And I didn’t want the Enquiry boys moaning about the state we left their car in.'
I waited for him to say something further but he didn’t, he just stood there watching me. After a few awkward minutes he nodded and went back inside. I drew in a long slow breath and gave quiet thanks.
Rob wasn’t so lucky. The car and the offender weren’t found during our shift and Sergeant Nelson had to explain to the incident to morning shift. They laughed. He was furious. But not at me, yahoo. Sorry Rob.
The car was found the next morning parked in the driveway of a suburban home about five miles from where it had been nicked. The offender was arrested by the sergeant the following night. I believe Sergeant Nelson had a chat with him on the way to the station: 'You don’t (Smack) nick (biff) police cars (wallop).'
The next night, one of the dog handlers caught a rapist. It was a fluke. He was in the right place at the right time and probably saved the victim’s life.
The officer in question was patrolling in the early evening when he saw a car parked under trees at the edge of a local park. He thought it looked odd so he jumped out to investigate, taking the dog with him. He intended to give his four legged friend a run in the park after he’d examined the car. As he was walking toward the vehicle he heard a muffled scream from the nearby fields. Peering into the half-light he looked down a small bank and could see a man lying on top of a young woman. The guy had forced her legs apart and had his pants around his ankles. She was struggling but was pinned down with one hand half covering her mouth. It was obvious this was not consensual sex. The dog handler yelled out and released his dog. The offender leapt off the woman and made a run for it with his pants still around his ankles. He didn’t get far before the dog leapt onto him, knocking him to the ground. Once down the dog attacked his legs, snarling and growling and ripping viciously into his flesh. I have been involved in many exercises where the dogs are used and they play for keeps. Once they’ve been commanded to attack, they will not let go until their handler pulls them off.
Seeing that the rapist was being badly mauled the handler walked down the hill and carefully helped the victim to her feet. He assisted her back to the dog van and placed her in the front seat. In the background he could hear the snarls of his dog and the screams of the rapist. He went to the back of his van, took a blanket out and placed it around the victim’s shoulders. She was shaking with fear. After that he sat in the front seat and called ops to report what had happened, the growling and screaming in the background confirmation of his story. Next he walked slowly to the top of the rise, lit up a smoke and ambled down to his dog. The canine was having the time of his life biting and mauling any part of the offender’s anatomy he could find. The offender was curled up in a sobbing ball, his legs bloody from the deep gashes in his calves and thighs. His arms badly cut from defence wounds. Police dogs are extremely well trained and while they can do tremendous damage to your limbs they will not go for the head or throat, so the handler knew his dog would not kill the offender.
The handler stood close to the offender’s prone form. The dog had a fierce grip on the guy’s lower calf and was shaking its head back and forth as if trying to rip the meat from the bone.
'I don’t like rapists.' The dog handler said quietly and f
licked the butt of his cigarette away, the glowing tip tumbling end over end through the darkening sky. Then finally he called the dog off with a single command.
'Leave.'
The dog reluctantly let go and trotted to its master’s side.
This happened as the shifts were changing over and I was arriving for work. The offender was back at the station by then and was in need of medical attention. I was told to take him to Accident and Emergency (since I knew the way there blindfolded) but before I left, the sergeant called me into his office and told me to read the rape victim’s statement. It was a terrifying document. The poor girl was a young varsity student who was on her way home from a friends place when the rapist grabbed her and dragged her into the park. He forced her to perform oral sex on him, his hands grasped tightly around her neck, threatening to strangle her if she didn’t do as he asked. He spent the next ten minutes pinning her to the ground explaining in graphic detail what he was about to do to her. He had just ripped her underwear off and was about to rape her when the dog handler arrived. From the tone of his threats and the violent nature of his actions it was possible he could have killed her. I felt physically ill reading the statement. The sergeant nodded.
'Don’t treat him too gently, eh.'
I agreed and made sure I ‘accidentally’ knocked the rapist’s head on the car roof when bundling him into the rear of the car. One of the senior guys from my section was with me and he made sure the offender’s trip to the hospital wasn’t a pleasant one.
When we arrived at Accident and Emergency we were rushed into a small room and a curtain was pulled around us. An efficient nurse came in, took one look at the offender’s wounds and ran to fetch help. A doctor arrived soon after and made sympathetic comments about the offender’s injuries. I decided to acquaint the doctor with the facts. I took him aside and told him what the guy had done.
