Ex Cop Tales

Warrior Love

I’m single again, for the 21st time, and I think it’s all the fault of what I experienced in my past. Let me speak of why.

We’ve all been told at some point in our lives, “I’ve got your back” by someone who was important to us. I lived a life where this was a very real thing and not just words. I experienced what it meant for someone to “Have my back” more than once and sometimes when lives depended on the outcome.

Eight of us gather in the darkness planning our raid. To bust down another door – to yell out orders and force submission – to serve a Search Warrant and do our job – this is why we get paid the big bucks but to tell the truth I’d have done it for free. Decisions were made about where to take the injured, just in case. A well choreographed dance was about to take place. Surprise and threatened violence waits on both sides of the crack house door.

“A block out” the driver yells out. Time to focus, to see everything, to have the eyes of a hawk. Time to be brave, to lose the sense of self and feel part of the team. Time to think of nothing but what is about to happen. Time to control the chaos that we are about to create.

Someone slides the van door open while we travel down the dark street. A blast of frozen air slaps my face into further awareness. I am alive and ready for what’s to come. Sometimes having PTSD is a good thing and in moments like this I was calm and ready. The Fight or Flight response was built into me and I was ready for this fight. I had been here before, many times. For some reason unknown to me the more dangerous and desperate things became the calmer I was able to be, a reversed response. This served me well throughout my Law Enforcement career.

This was a possible bad one. The informant who set up the deal, by buying cocaine from one of the Perps, knew little other than, “These were some bad motherfuckers outta Detroit and everybody’s gotta gun, maybe a AK-47 too.” The informant didn’t know the layout of the house or where anybody might be when we entered.

“Sheriff’s Department – Search Warrant – Open the Door!”

We fall in line behind the man with the ram who is about to destroy the door, everyone in their assigned place. My hand on the shoulder of my Brother in front of me. I Loved that moment of anticipation, commitment and bonding.

We were about to be forged in the fire once again.

The door and jamb is splintered and we enter with steely determination. I am one of the first through the door and begin my search for the bad guys. I find one and begin to take him to the floor for cuffing when the fight breaks out. I can still remember fighting this thug and looking up to see my Brother covering me, standing over me, gun in hand ordering the other thugs back.

In my life I’ve know what it means when someone has my back in a real way and I haven’t experienced it since I left Police work. I search for a woman that would love me like this and in the same moment know I’ll never find her…

Warrior Love

The woman with a dead dog in her fridge

A New Category – Women

What I’m about to tell you happened many years ago and doesn’t have anything to do with Police work, PTSD or wild places. It’s just one story of many in my relationships with women and the beginning of my dating experience. I found myself divorced in southern Utah and decided to make the most of it.

I love Women.

Allow me to introduce the woman with a dead dog in her Fridge.

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I had finished a motorcycle ride through Zion National park and dropped into the local coffee bar to warm up before heading up the hill and home.

She sat with her back to the door as I entered. I first noticed her mane of thick blond hair and then her face. She was one of those women that would always be outwardly beautiful – a perfect mix of chin, nose and mouth. She was fit and trim and had a beautiful hard body.

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I recognized her as out of my league and walked past with a friendly nod and an “Evening Ma’am” as I paid the Barista for a cup and poured my own coffee. I felt her eyes on me and knew she had been watching me since I entered the joint. Sometimes people stare at me and I’m use to that, I’m 6 foot 2 inches tall and in full motorcycle riding gear I resemble something out of a Mad Max movie. My hair is sometimes crazy and I often don’t give a shit.

From across the room she asked, “Are you an Angel?” She was bold, which attracted me even more. I wouldn’t know until later that she really thought I was an Angel.

I turned and answered, “No, but my name is Michael.” I smiled, she smiled and invited me to her table. I sat with her and stared into the most incredible eyes I had ever seen. Every possible color seemed represented and screaming out for it’s own attention. I don’t remember all that we talked about but I pegged her as what I call a Magic Rock woman. She had unconventional beliefs in past lives and UFO’s.

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After my coffee was gone I scratched out my number on the back of a book of matches and asked her to call me. She kissed me before I left and I thought that was a weird little page in my life book, intensely romantic. The ego boost was an electrical charge all it’s own. I smiled inside my helmet riding the dark road home.

The very next day she called and wanted to meet me at a different coffee shop. I was out riding my motorcycle again and was close to where she was. We met – there was a gravity that pulled us together – we talked – time passed – or did it – I couldn’t tell – I was intoxicated by her – snuggled together under the Utah sun – her hands on me – her laughter filled my ears.

I escorted her to the restroom, off the courtyard.

I have a part of me that is animal, pure absolute animal, without language, chained to the ground.

When she was back I explained it to her this way. “I will never know if we have a possibility unless and until I sniff the nape of your neck.” She turned in that instant and offered me her throat, I felt her tremble. She then said we were past life lovers and was surprised I couldn’t remember all that had happened in our past. Before this coffee date was over she would tell me she already loved me.

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Later we had another date when she met me in the park and brought Pete her dog who looked exactly like Benji (the movie dog). He was cute, energetic and playful and I liked him from the beginning. The woman and I seemed to have a really intense connection but something was wrong. One sunny morning I was to find out what.

She invited me to her condo for breakfast. I arrived exactly on time bearing a gift of fruit preserves and a pocket full of condoms.

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She answered…

Over night she had suffered an emotional break and it was immediately apparent to me. She was naked from the waist down, only wearing a sweat stained T-shirt. Her eyes were smeared into a raccoon comedy of tears and mascara. Behind her in the living room I could see a haystack pile of her belongings, leather coats and pants, shirts and jewelry, wigs and photographs. She collapsed into my chest and sobbed and I held her in the doorway for nearly an hour.

I finally convinced her to come in with me, to just sit on the couch, to rest. She agreed and began to tell me a long and rather sad story of having been a Mormon trophy wife until age and gravity diminished her beauty enough for her husband to kick her to the curb. She showed me her modeling portfolio filled with beautiful nude pictures of her in younger days.

She told me she had been arrested the day before for threatening a hotel clerk.

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Things calmed down and I went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. She called after me and said there was cold water in the fridge.

I opened the refrigerator door and there, on a thanksgiving silver platter, was Pete – dead as a door nail. You probably guessed that ending based on the chapter title. I flashed to a Betty Davis movie and a head tumbling down the stairway. I’ll never look at a silver platter the same, the image game plays in my mind, snapshots taken and memories made. In that very moment I thought, almost out loud, how strange my life continues to be. Intense and different.

“Sweetie, what happened to Pete” I asked from the kitchen.

She told me Pete had been hit by a car and killed the night before and she didn’t know what to do with him. Her best idea was to put him in the fridge. I knew Pete’s death was the straw that broke the camel’s back for this woman, one more thing she didn’t need. Pete meant the world to her and was her only companion.

I went into Ex Cop mode and got her to agree for me to contact the Police for help. They came out and I briefed them with all I knew about her. I didn’t even know her last name or any of her family.

I lost track of her after that. Later she called and I asked where she’d been and she said “locked up.” I asked what for and her response, which still rings in my ears was, “For being crazy silly.”

Weeks later she called to let me know she had memorized my cellular number in case she was ever locked up again.

She was not the woman of my Dream…

PS: Maybe there is one lesson to be learned in this. Some women can smell the Protector in us. I think this woman was teetering on the brink of her psychotic break and searching for an Angel to save her when I happened to walk into her life. She collapsed when she found me and knew she was safe. I was glad to be her Angel when she needed one the most.

The price and reward of being the Protector…

Rookies can be Dangerous – Part I

I was an FTO or Field Training Officer for most of the time I spent in Uniform Patrol. I’m more proud of that than a lot of my later accomplishments. I tried hard to train good Police Officers and to shit-can bad ones. I worked to instill in them Valor and Honor and Truth, to test them. To teach them to survive, to be Brave, and to always Win. I taught them to be Warriors and Keepers of the Peace. I was tough but fair, critical. In the same moment I was their Mentor, Big Brother or Father.

Sometimes I was their Ending…

8:30 a.m.

We’re just out of the Barn and for a change the Midnight shift left us no complaints or radio runs waiting. I grabbed a coffee from the corner Seven Eleven store and jump back into the passenger seat of the cruiser. I tell the rookie to head North.

A heavy drizzle, more like a dense fog, had draped over the neighborhood of tightly packed two story cracker box houses. I peer between the houses, into the backyards on the next block, looking for trouble. Glowing halos surround street lights like silver moons. At the wheel of the black and white Chevrolet Caprice was my newest rookie. I still hadn’t managed to remember his first name. Cub would have to do for now.

I had told the rookie to turn down this side street because of some recent home break-ins. It was early enough that the good citizens had left for work and the bad ones were left behind, with me and the Cub, in the gray haze.

I look down the street and see a car trying to short block (avoid contact with) us. He made the turn suddenly and without signalling. It all seemed spooky and weird for the time and place.

“Cub, catch up to that deuce and a quarter before it gets to Ecorse Road if you don’t mind.”

And he did. I think, I really mean this, that many recruits had never driven a V8 engine in their lives. Squealing tires and screeching brakes lurch us towards the target vehicle. We come up behind it right before Ecorse Road, a perfect place for the traffic stop.

“Light him up Cub but I’m crossing over and making primary contact.”

I made first contact with the driver and smelled his fear and tension downwind, I shit you not. He already had his hands on the wheel, more weirdness.

“Let me see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance.”

“Deputy my license is suspended and I don’t have it on me.” Good enough for me to place him under arrest, for the moment. I could release him later with a misdemeanor citation if I wanted to. I needed time to figure out what’s going on and me and the Cub and the nervous dude will all be safer if nervous dude is cuffed and stuffed in the back of the cruiser, at least for the time being.

I order the driver from the vehicle, patted him down, cuffed him and placed him in the rear of the cruiser. Once that was done I told the Recruit this:

“Cub, something ain’t right here. I want you to search the car. Find me something and find some ID. This might be our break in guy. Get to work.”

I get back in the passenger seat, slide the Plexiglas partition window open, and read the driver his rights. He waives his rights and answers some preliminary questions. He said that he was lost and was trying to find his way home in the fog (buzz). I ask his name “James Smith, no middle name” (buzz). I asked his date of birth, twice about a minute apart. Neither answer was the same (buzz). When I asked how old he was the answer didn’t match either date of birth he had given (buzz).

While I’m having fun being the human polygraph machine and figuring out how many lies one little nervous dude could tell the rookie comes up to the door, twiddling his thumbs. I crack the window and asked him “You didn’t find nothing in the car and no ID?” He answered that he didn’t find “anything of evidentiary value.”

“Search it again.”

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I went back to questioning the driver and he continued to lie. He had finally agreed on what his name and date of birth was but couldn’t remember his home address (buzz). I asked what his Zodiac sign was for the date of birth he finally picked, he guessed wrong (buzz).

The rookie comes back to the window. “Nothing Boss. Couldn’t find nothing.”

“Search it again.”

Because this guy had lied so much and raised so much suspicion within me I made a rare decision. I placed him under arrest for the driving while license suspended (misdemeanor violation) and would take him to the jail just to get a better ID. I’d have to deal with a possibly pissed off Sergeant in the County jail for bringing in a traffic offender but I needed some photos and prints and time to investigate this guy further.

The rookie comes back from his third search of the same vehicle empty handed. I had him fill out the impound sheet and make the wrecker request to tow the car to the impound lot.

The wrecker driver, who I’d known for years makes the scene. “Hey Deputy Mike, How have you been?”

“Just pissing in the wind Tom, just pissing in the wind.” We laugh and he offers up his Beechnut chew pouch. I declined.

The rookie, me and the nervous dude start towards the County Jail, some fifteen minutes drive away from our location. The nervous dude lied all the way.

“Frank 20 copy – J&J’s Towing is requesting that Deputy Fulcher call them Immediately” came over the main police radio.

BUZZZ – More strangeness.

My best informants were Hookers (they see everything – their lives depend on it), Cab Drivers, Wrecker drivers, Trash-Men, Pizza delivery guys (they work the same streets for different reasons but it’s the same streets), and strippers, (well I love strippers – I find them to be strong women – warrior like – and they know lots). A lot of my cases were made with the help of these people. I took real bad people off the streets because of them. Cases wouldn’t have been made without their help.

Tom, the wrecker driver, was one of these people. Maybe contact would be a better description of our relationship. I didn’t pay him anything or get him out of tickets. He just called me when he saw things, he was a good citizen and he trusted me with the information.

I had one of the first flip open Motorola Cellular phones and had J&J’s Towing dialed in already.

“Hey Tom, whats up?”

“Deputy Mike have you made it to the jail yet?”

“Not yet Tom, why?”

“Well you better just turn around and come back to the impound lot, trust me it’s important.” And I did trust Tom, I told the rookie to drive us to the impound lot.

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When we got there the Buick was still hanging from the tow straps of the wrecker. Tom walked up and motioned me towards the rear and pointed behind the driver’s seat, at the foot well. Right there was the biggest and shiniest .44 Magnum six inch barreled handgun I had ever laid eyes on. How could or did the rookie miss this monster? It must have slipped out when the vehicle was towed but shit. My head was spinning – I was a hard task master when it came to Officer Safety. I patrolled the darkest parts of the worst neighborhoods I could find. I looked for trouble, it was my job. Officer Safety skills were a must.

Tom walked away as I whistled up my recruit. “Cub we got problems, real fucking problems.” I motioned him to look behind the driver’s seat. “You’re gonna write the report that explains all of this. Why Tom is now in our chain of evidence. Why you missed this weapon. I almost let this guy go back to his car and that gun.”

“But Cub we got more trouble than that. I want your promise to me right now, right here – your oath – that if any of your dumb ass shit gets me killed…,” – I took the time to poke him in the chest, hard, each time I said YOU – “That YOU tell my kids that it was YOU and not me that fucked up and got me killed. YOU gotta make this promise to me now or I can’t keep training YOU.”

A weak and feeble “I promise” escaped his clenched teeth.

The very next day the Recruit came in and pulled his own pin, he quit.

Wild Places

I am a fortunate man.

For most of my days I had Uncle Frank as a role model. He was one of those rare men that lead by example, not words. Uncle Frank died about a month ago.

Unk, as I called him, was a strong man with thick hairy forearms and a shining face always wearing a real smile. He was a man who cared for many and many cared for him. He touched lives quietly and without ego. I Loved him more than any man I have ever known.

Unk walked the walk. He gave when he had nothing left to give. He taught me how to be strong without raising my fists. He showed me that Words and Actions matter and that we should all try to be better People. He did this without thumping his Bible or preaching, without Hate or Bigotry. He taught me the Art of Kindness and how to be kind to those that cannot return it. I witnessed what he gained in the giving, the gift of the gift.

Unk showed me a Path into the Wild Places where I remain today, healed and better because of my connection to the Earth. Grounded to safe places, my untamed Sanctuaries.

I’ve decided that the second half of this book, or whatever it will become, will be about what I learned in the Wild Places and how I was healed there. I can only hope it helps someone, anyone, to a better Path. I’ll still write the blood and guts Cop shit but my story is more than that. I AM a Better Me because of Unk and Wild Places.

I just returned from a long road trip to visit these camps and dug through the ashes I left there years ago. I wanted to remember how and what changed me.

To Perch:

As the edges of gray find me I roll out of my sleeping bag barefooted on the damp red sand, wiggly toed and alive. I had finished another glorious night sleeping in the open, no roof of tin or tent to block my wide eyed view into the center of the Milky Way. The evening before I had laid out my coffee pot and stove to be next to me and ready to be lit. Within minutes I had my hands wrapped around a warm mug of cowboy coffee, black and strong. I clutch it closer to my chest to draw in all the heat it could give up. The purple light pushed against the absolute blackness as Night begins to give to Day.

In the red rocks above my camp I notice an unkindness of Ravens, maybe a half-dozen in number. They have staked out their perches of high rock. What do they watch for, what do they wait for? I begin to wonder and decide to solve the riddle through experimentation.

I climb atop the nearest big rock wanting to witness what they would witness. A Raven hopped away with a cantankerous caw expressing his displeasure with my trespass.

I Perch, my feet shoulder wide as I squat on my heels. Long shafts of yellow sunlight pushes across the landscape, behind the Joshua tree and into the narrow canyon. My back against the cool red sandstone, my face to the West.

For some dark shadows are reminders of places of ambush, of danger and death, of threat and trouble.

I began to see not the advancing light but instead the vanquished shadows. I watch as they were beaten back and away from me, in retreat they crawled into smaller pools. I celebrate the death of the gloom with a caw into the morning sky and a thump of my chest with a fist.

The Ravens take flight and circle over me.

I watch as the Raven soars with his lifelong mate, locked in their sky dance. Just the two of them, flirtatious and weightless, teasing and tempting while renewing their affection. Inky black against blue sky. A natural commitment grows between them.

I witness Love.

I am thankful for the lessons of Unk and the Raven

Trooper Manuel H. Fields – End of Watch August 27, 1994

Trooper Manuel H. Fields | Michigan State Police, Michigan

I was loaned out to the Michigan State Police to work undercover narcotics for three years. For most of that time Manny worked out of the same office but on a different Team. I was on the Crack Attack Team (CAT) and Manny was part of a team involved in long term investigations. His team went after the big fish and mine snagged the corner dealers.

We often worked together if either team needed surveillance or raid entry help. We had been through many operations together, Manny and I. There was this one time when my team had made a controlled purchase of an ounce of cocaine and needed some help with the Search Warrant raid. The location was a long row of tenement housing on a large root farm. Some Hispanic non-English speaking Perps sold the dope to one of our paid informants.

COP INFO: A Controlled Purchase works like this. You meet with and strip search the Informant. Next you supply the informant with prerecorded cash funds. Then you drive the Informant to the target location and watch as he enters. You have to maintain surveillance continually while the informant is “Up and In” the target location. When the Informant returns he hands you the dope. You then drive the Informant from the area and strip search him again. Through this process you can write an affidavit for a Search Warrant and testify before a Judge that money went in the target location and dope came out. This will get you a Search Warrant to enter the Target location. Glamorous ain’t it. Lesson over, back to the past.

Manny’s self chosen undercover name was CB or Chocolate Bunny. I bump CB on the side channel of the Police radio to see if his team was available to help out on the raid. They were so we schedule a meet up not far from the farm. I do the pre-raid briefing and make the entry assignments and place CB right in line with me. We all loaded up, armed to the teeth, as Manny climbs into the Chevrolet Astro van with me. There are six of us and we all wear black raid entry gear. Shamu has the ram, Pepper is on shotgun and riding shotgun, Flash has the entry shield. We are shoulder to shoulder as the tension settles in and the jokes begin. The driver says, “One mile out.” I suddenly realize that the suspects might not understand our raid entry orders and ask, “Any of you fuckers speak Spanish?” Manny says “I got this.”

I asked him if he was sure because I’d never heard him speak any Spanish in the years I’d known him. Manny nodded his head, “Rat, I got this.” So we roll up and bail out into the darkness. Shamu destroys the door with the ram and steps aside. The team enters and I see about half a dozen subjects in the first room. Manny yells out, “No Fumar Gracias Por Favor Triple Sec La Pinata.”

Well like I said I don’t speak Spanish but I was pretty sure that wasn’t “Get down before we shoot your ass.” I look over at Manny and he is laughing his head off. I look at the Perps and repeat, “No Fumar Gracias Por Favor Triple Sec La Pinata.”

They seem confused.

Skip forward in time to…

The Last Goodbye

Manny was rotating back to road patrol and his years of undercover assignment was coming to an end. He would leave behind the deals and doors and Trojan Horse operations and would return to a life of uniformed patrol, traffic accidents and taking any complaint the radio dished out. He was in the office cleaning out his desk when I last saw him. Lucky for me I took the time to have a long conversation with CB. We laughed and remembered some of the best. There were several Remember when moments between us. We spoke openly and with Truth. Manny told me what it meant to him to be a Michigan State Trooper. I told him I already knew that.

My team was on the way out the door and I had to go. If I would have only known that was the last time I would see Manny. I hugged him goodbye and told him I loved him.

Manny got killed not long after that night. He made a traffic stop on I-94 and was dealing with that when some 70 year old woman crossed the fog line and struck him. He died instantly next to his patrol car and she drove home. She would later claim that she thought she had struck a deer. Bitch shouldn’t have been driving.

The funeral and aftermath

I don’t go to Cop funerals unless I have to. I have been to three, all brothers. Manny’s funeral was an intense journey for me. All of the team members were in attendance at his grave side as the bagpiper played Amazing Grace. Tears streamed down my face as I stood at rigid attention. On a nearby hill a single figure stepped forward and played Taps. I can remember it all. Ancient rituals and the path to Valhalla fill my mind.

On the way home most of my team stopped into a roadside bar and grill which was filled with trucker types. It was one of those worn red paint joints with a huge wooden bar fumed with the aroma of beer. It was a good place for greasy burgers and cold beer.

An ugly darkness had overtaken us. Our emotions were raw and our nerves exposed. As I look back I think it was because we had all been through so much with CB and for him to get killed in such an unfair way, we had nobody to hate, he was only 34 years old for fuck’s sake. We drank too much, we were rude and loud and we spoiled for a fight with anyone. Within hours we were all kicked out of the bar.

Cops can be assholes like that.

Poster Boy

Sometimes I’m asked what I miss about Law Enforcement.

I miss beating the dog shit out of a man that would beat his woman in front of his children. For much of my patrol time I averaged one domestic violence case a shift, most resulting in an arrest. Some involved a side trip to the ER to treat the bloodied, beaten recently arrested fuckwit. I always thought that if you wanted to fight the Police it should sting a little bit.

In the beginning of my career there were no Domestic Violence laws on the books. We could make an arrest only if we witnessed the assault or if the case could be classified as a felony.

I was taught how to provoke the perpetrator into taking a swing at the Police.

Another Christmas story…

Christmas was just around the corner and the streets were heating up. During the holiday more people would be at home getting drunk, depressed and despondent – soaked in cheap whiskey. Living in The land of Shadows.

As we gathered with our friends to watch this sunset I was most thankful to have discovered Carol. Happiness surrounds me.

I was riding solo patrol and was dispatched to a domestic violence call. The location was within a two story apartment complex built on the edge of a real ghetto. I had been to this apartment before on a similar call. This time a neighbor heard fighting inside the apartment and called 911.

When I arrive I could hear loud arguing coming from inside the apartment. I listened at the door for a moment. The Perp was accusing his woman of cheating on him. He was screaming how he was gonna kill somebody. When I’d heard enough I pounded on the door.

He answered all huffy, “What the fuck you want – nobody here called the Police” he said with a deep southern drawl. Before me was this white male, thin but muscled. He was wiry and wired for sound. He was trying to control his temper with little success as veins throbbed on his forehead mixed with beads of sweat.

“It don’t matter who called, I’m here now and I’m going to make sure everybody is all right.”

“The fuck you are, you ain’t coming in my house.”

I pushed him aside with one stiff arm and entered the apartment. That pissed him off more. I saw the woman sitting at the kitchen table with her head down and her hair covering most of her face.

An Update: Carol and I have traveled much together since we met last Spring. We have been to Ouray Colorado and the hot springs there twice, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, Walnut Canyon, Petrified Forest, Zion, Black Canyon of the Gunnison, Canyon de Chelly, Pecos monument, Jemez mountains and many other beautiful places

“You alright Ma’am?”

“I’m fine Deputy – I don’t need any help.”

I questioned her and she denied any assault had taken place and said they were only arguing. The whole time I was trying to talk with her he was yelling, “Don’t say nothing.”

She looked up and her hair fell away from her face. He had hit her so hard the flesh under her eye was split. Tears and blood mixed on a face that was once young and beautiful but now filled with howling pain. I was stung by it, Anger and Rage rose up within me.

I turned on the hillbilly that would hit a woman like this as he was ordering me out of his apartment. I got in his face and leaned in. I poked him in the chest, hard, with my finger. I whispered into his ear, “You are one punk Mother Fucker. If you’re so tough why don’t you leap – Leap little Froggy.”

And he did, he swung on me. This guy was a fighter, a striker.

The night stand when we travel. Carol is good back-up. She protects and defends me . I love her more because of it.

Its always hard to tell who is going to be a good fighter and who would roll up into a ball when punched. This little son of a bitch was a scrapper. I punched him as hard as I could right between the eyes and he just smiled. The fight was on as he punched back, I tasted blood.

First we crashed into and broke the kitchen table. I keyed my prep and called for back-up. Next we spilled into the living room and both of us fell to the floor, taking the coffee table with us. We stood up and went over again this time taking out the Christmas tree as we landed on top of the gift wrapped packages.

I was able to get behind him and apply my best technique, the choke hold.

COP INFO: As a rookie I had been trained by older Deputies how to apply this choke hold. The objective was to pinch down on both Carotid Arteries and deny blood flow to the brain. This choke hold would later be outlawed by policy. I guess too many Perps died in it’s application. It saved my bacon more than once.

My career was over before the days of the Tasers. We were more “Hands On” back then.

Back to this fight…

Well dear Brothers – I’ve got this man by the neck and have clamped down with all my force. He starts bucking like a bronco. My knuckles are bloody, my muscles tense. I ride him like a pony and keep the pressure on his neck. Finally he starts to do the funky chicken, legs flailing and eyes bulging – Brain letting go. This was my favorite part, pushing his face into the stinking carpet as he lapsed into unconsciousness. I hear echoes of my Warrior past – Distant Drums – I smell Smoke and Fire.

I’m having a great time and was just about to release the choke hold when I saw something that I’d remembered for the rest of my life.

There, hunkered up under the last standing table, was a small shaking tearful boy about 6 years old. He resembled a dog shitting peach pits, twisted up into a ball. I held eye contact with him as I choked his father into submission and busted up his Christmas.

I can’t explain it now but I felt bad, like it was somehow my fault.

He became the Poster Boy in my mind for all future Domestic Violence calls. Whenever I’d be pissed off about having to do yet another DV case I would think of him.

The child that lived in violence.

The Italian Tourist

NOTE: I needed to tell the stories of PTSD and Medal of Valor before this one would make sense and you might better understand my actions.

“Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.” Sun Tzu – The Art of War

This happened so long ago that the Statue of Limitations has passed. Now I can tell of crossing paths with the Italian Tourist.

I had been living in Kodachrome State park for a season, the time had come to move on. I was moving to Otter Creek to be closer to the Pretender, the first women I chased and caught after the end of my marriage. Later I may write of her – She was another intense experience and looked just like Lauren Becall.

It was during my time at Kodachrome that I slowly re-entered society, a better Michael. I was finding my happiness. I lived in an ancient motor home with my dogs. By day we built trails with pick and shovel. At night we visited with happy campers, travelers and people of different places. I grew stronger with all the physical work. I wrote in the mornings while drinking black coffee from a hand warming mug. I slept under stars so thick I couldn’t tell them from camp smoke. Red sands became bed – Black sky became covers – Night air became dreams.

Kodachrome is a magical place, a bowl basin awash in glorious desert colors. Shadows and rock are Witness to the passing Ages – I stood humbled by the Place – Grounded to the Earth – Right where I was supposed to be – Surrounded – Safe. Kodachrome and the people I met there were an important part of my Journey.

I loaded everything up, hooked the trailer to the motor home, and whistled up the dogs. The last thing I needed to do was ride into town to say my goodbyes to the locals and pick up a few road snacks. I mount my finely tuned German motorcycle and carved a way into town on a twisted purple road. I stood on my foot pegs and pumped my fist skyward in celebration of my Freedom. I felt unleashed, stronger.

I pulled up to the pumps and filled the tank on my motorcycle and decide to just leave it and run in the store for quick goodbyes and salty snacks. I dangle my helmet over the mirror, threw my jacket over the saddle, and walked into a crowded store.

I took up a position forth in the checkout line and found everything I needed right there. A commotion caught my attention, a ripple in the flow of the herd, something is wrong.

There he stood in all his glory – the Italian Tourist. The hairy legged, yellow plaid short wearing, five foot nothing – fat man that he was. He had hoisted a bag of Kingsford charcoal over his head while screaming, in broken English, at the cashier over the price. He was in a full rage, face red, veins throb, muscles tense, filled with anger – Ripe.

Mary, the sixteen year old cashier and daughter of the owner, cowered and burst out in tears. She leaned as far away from the threat as she could, her back against the calendar filled wall.

Shit was about to happen. Muscle memory and past training took over. Without thinking about it I advanced behind the Italian Tourist and caught his neck in the bend of my left arm. I pulled him off-balance and into my old favorite position. He was on his heels walking backwards more interested in his next breath than anything else. The charcoal drops to the ground. I throttled him more, making sure the fight was out of him, as we spill into the parking lot. His wife ran towards us from their rented motor home. I pushed him and he fell on his fat ass in a dusty pile.

“You better just Get!” I told him. I think he’d had enough of me and scurried away towards the wife and hopefully back to Italy, the land of cheap charcoal.

I really wasn’t too interested in having contact with the Police so I jump on my motorcycle and raced back to camp and was gone within the hour.

I never got to say my goodbyes.

Medal of Valor

October 8th, 1994 – Mayflower Motel – Pittsfield Township – County of Washtenaw

This happened when I was back in uniform and working road patrol on a day shift. I had made my bones and was the Junkyard Dog of the Department. I was difficult to manage, rough looking, not easy to pet but nobody stole your shit while I was on duty. I often led the shift in quality arrests and investigations and trained the best rookies and because of that I got away with more than most. My mustache was always outside of the department guidelines. My boots resembles suede and were beyond needing a coat of Kiwi.

I worked hard. I was at peak performance and running on all cylinders. I knew my place within the department and took full advantage of all the bullshit I could get away with.

I frequently drifted outside the bounds of my designated patrol area to back-up Ypsilanti City PD or Pittsfield Township PD or for any fucking reason I felt like. I got a lot of unfounded citizen complaints and I was the subject of more than one lawsuit against the Department.

Back to this snowy fall day. The Police radio was quiet and I was listening to the Michigan vs Michigan State football game on AM radio. My patrol unit was wired up with my personal Police Scanner, which I used to keep track of anything going on in adjoining jurisdictions.

The Pittsfield PD channel crackled to life “All units prepare to copy. A white male subject just entered the Mayflower Motel and has taken a hostage at knife point. The subject has barricaded himself with the hostage in the kitchen area”.

I think to myself, “Damn that sounds juicy”, and begin to work towards the motel and out of my patrol area. I didn’t advise Dispatch of my intent to assist Pittsfield.

I arrive in the parking lot and see several Pittsfield Township marked units scattered around the buildings.

The Mayflower motel and lounge was a low series of buildings which included a dozen motel rooms densely packed together. In the center of the parking lot was the kitchen, restaurant and lounge parts of the business. The motel was once at a crossroads for many people traveling from Detroit to Chicago but had been bypassed by other roads. Wounded by progress, it had begun it’s death spiral serving the occasional customer as profits diminished and the buildings called out for repair. For years it had been used more by illicit daytime lovers than passing travelers. Red Brick dashed dusty dreams where Love was made and lost.

“Dispatch be advised I’ll be out at the Mayflower assisting Pittsfield Township”.

As soon as I stepped out of the cruiser I was in the middle of an unexpected shit storm. I approached the door that opened to the restaurant. Just outside the door were two uniformed Township Officers with their guns at the low ready.

I called out to the one I knew the best. “Hey Jim, I’m a negotiator want me to take a crack at this guy”? Without hesitation Jim says “Go for it Rat, He’s got her in the kitchen”. I asked what he was armed with and was told a knife.

As Pittsfield Officers were trying to lock down the perimeter I stepped through the door and into another nightmare scene. I could see the Victim, Marylou Marker. She was sitting on the floor with the Perp right behind her, his back against the far wall. She was sprawled out like a rag doll, legs akimbo in front of her. He had a knife pressed to the center of her chest and was telling her if she moved again he’d stab her in the heart. The Perp was using her body as a shield and only exposed a small portion of his head, one eye – one ear, directly behind Marylou’s head.

I was 20 feet away and considered attempting the shot, to hit the Perp in the forehead the next time he stuck his head out. I was one of the better shooters on the Department but thought it way too risky.

The Perp saw me and called out, “I want to talk to you!” He recognized me as a County Sheriff and thought I outranked the others. “Keep your hands where I can see them”, he said. Perfect I thought, this is just what I want. I start to slowly walk towards the Perp’s position with my hands in the air. When I got within 10 feet he began screaming for me to get back. I didn’t back up but I couldn’t close the distance any more. There I stood in the kitchen doorway.

Again I can remember the finest details of what happened next.

Marylou, the hostage, was the mother of the business owner and was well into her 60’s. She had her hands crossed over her heart as the knife pressed against the back of her top hand. Her eyes were filled with fear and terror, all white and red and wide open staring at me. I was sure this was the worst moment of her life. There were injuries to her chest and hands from the constant pressure of the knife tip. The front of her blouse was covered in blood.

The Perp had picked up the knife when he entered the kitchen and took Marylou hostage. It was one of those cheap serrated steak knives, flexible with a black wooden handle. It had been used a thousand times before. It was about to be used for the last time.

“I want a helicopter, the State Police and Channel 7 news here right now.” Perfect, I begin to negotiate. Negotiations are about venting steam and passing time. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a SWAT officer in the kitchen but blocked from view of the Perp or Victim. He was trying to line up a shot. I expect to see the Perp’s head explode any second, Be Cool I think to myself. Pans rattled on the rack, the Perp tensed and began shouting “Get Back – Get Back.” He pressed the knife tip into the back of her crossed hands a little deeper. More blood seeped. More damage done. Closer to the Line.

I stood my ground and asked his name. He lied and said James. I told him I was working with the bosses to get the helicopter and the news crew but it would take a little time. Marylou continued to stare into my eyes. I had to ignore her as even acknowledging her could only increase her perceived value to him.

“James you gotta be careful with the knife” I said. He wasn’t and continued to get more and more agitated with Marylou because she was trying to push the knife tip from the back of her hands. I can see she is getting more small injuries to her hands as he presses the tip deeper and the blade bent.

I knew I wasn’t getting through to this guy. I couldn’t keep him focused. During my approximate (10) minutes of negotiations I offered to exchange myself for the hostage. He considered but refused. He positioned himself to better be shielded by Marylou’s body. She grows more panicked and desperately fearful. I put my hand behind my back and made a gun signal to the perimeter Cops. I was telling them to shoot this guy if they could. I was signalling that I didn’t think I could save Marylou with words. It would take something more.

The Perp screamed at Marylou “If you don’t quit moving I’m gonna stab you right through your fucking heart.”

Everything I’m about to tell you happened in fractions of seconds.

The Perp stabbed Marylou twice through her hands as they were crossed over her heart, he was trying his best to stab her heart. She push the knife away and he sliced her open. Blood spurted.

I draw my service weapon and closed the distance between us. He sees me, gun in hand, and drops completely behind Marylou. I dive on the pile and ended astride the Perp’s legs and Marylou is gone.

He comes up, knife in hand, and stabs at my heart. I raise my left hand partially deflecting the knife thrust and get stabbed in the back of my hand. The knife skims off and contacts my bulletproof vest and bends. If he had picked a better weapon to begin with I might not be here today.

I could have shot him. I should have shot him.

My 9mm Glock was in my right hand. I brought it with full force into his left temple. I felt bone break and he slouched. I gave him another, just like the first, for good measure. He was bloody and unconscious, the threat was over. Mission accomplished.

I was bloody. The room was bloody. Other Cops hog tie and cuff the Perp. The bosses descend. Ambulances are called and Marylou is transported to the hospital with treatable wounds (She would live longer but always filled with fear. She would never be the same).

I grabbed a couple of paper towels and try to stop the bleeding from the back of my hand.

I can remember thinking how surreal everything seemed and that I should savor the moment. Time was frozen as I wandered into the front bar lounge. I walked behind the bar and fixed myself a rum and coke and sat in one of the red swivel chairs. Someone drug the Perp by his ankles into the room with me. He was face down bleeding into the beer stained carpet. I hear his gurgled breathing as he struggled to find new airways through his broken nose and face, the sounds a snoring puppy makes.

“Fuck you” I say in his direction.

My First Lieutenant makes the scene and comes into the lounge area where the Perp is still unconscious and bleeding out on the floor. I have a drink and the Lieutenant examines my wound and starts to order up an ambulance for me.

“Fuck that LT. I haven’t taken an ambulance ride in my whole career and I sure as shit ain’t gonna start over this. If you want to order up an ambulance for somebody dickhead over there could probably use one.” I thumb towards the Perp.

The LT rolls the Perp over, says “OH Shit”, grabs his prep and starts ordering an ambulance for the guy that really needed one.

I laugh and finish my drink. I left a five on the bar.

Good Times.

PTSD

This will be painful for me. I will pick scab, twist bone, open jars. I will allow you to look through my eyes, to feel what it’s like to be me.

I wake in the night eyes wide open. The echoes of a scream bounce around the dark room. The scream fades to nothingness. My heart thumps the inside of my ribcage like a panic crazed rabbit trapped in wire. I gasp in a full breath, which seems like my first. Every muscle has fired. What just happened? I feel beaten, I remember (The Nightmares of Others).

I always sit with my back to the wall, aware, ready. I anticipate the worst and dread it’s arrival. An overwhelming sense of doom begins to build in the center of my chest. Dark shadows hide imagined threats to the farthest edges of my World. Tears press against the backsides of my eyeballs for no apparent reason. Something is about to happen, I can feel it on my skin and in the air I breathe. I hear hoof beats as I walk in the Valley of the Bones.

Some of us are Protectors. We appoint ourselves to watch over the Flock, the Herd, the Pack, the Tribe. We cannot do otherwise. I was raised to be a Protector being the oldest of four and by a father who believed in the old scripture, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” I took beatings early and sometimes for my younger brothers and sister. I became numb to pain.

Later, when the playground bullies would make themselves known, classmates came for me. I was bigger than almost everyone else, I still am. I became numb to the fist.

Today, if I witnessed someone committing violence on a weaker person, I would have to find a way to make it stop. I know this about me and I prepare for my future battles. I still train for the fight.

PART TWO:

Langford Spring

My mind responds to echoes of the Past and dances in that dust of long ago. I am reminded of things at strange times and in strange ways. It happened again just the other day.

I had nothing to do as I sat in the ruined foundation of another man’s dream. Here, on the edge of the frontier, Langford had built an imposing two story structure of boulder and mortar, chinked together to last the ages. He had fought rattlesnakes and Mexican bandits to hold onto this dream. In the end the Restorative Hot Springs Bath could not stand against the ravages of the Rio Grande. Countless floods had their way with the old building leaving only four low stone foundation walls. The hot spring water still follows some old chase and then overflows and spills from the foundation into the river.

The Sky was steel grey and just a breath of wind as I dip myself into the waters up to my neck. This day would not rise above 70 degrees. The Rio Grande was as high as I’ve ever seen it and filled the banks between Texas and Mexico with small white caps. I lazed away a couple of hours soaking in the 104 degree spring and having pathetic conversations with transient tourists. I watched as they came, one after another, down the narrow path between the river and a cliff of stacked rock. They came huffing and puffing and I recognized most by their new hats.

One of the visitors stuck her foot in the pool for less than 3 minutes, withdrew her leather bound travel journal from her new backpack, and wrote of the experience for 6 minutes. Her red faced hubby squatted on a nearby rock, his mind lost in thoughts of work. I was glad not to be them – not to meet them.

I glimpse ancient pictographs painted against the cliff face and was reminded of another time monument which I can measure my Life against. What was important to Mr. Langford and these ancient people has no meaning today. A calm peace settles around me.

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I am having another perfect day when…

A young mother and her son Abe arrive and enter the pool. Abe is a rambunctious 2 ½ year old. He’s a tow head and has a round pot belly of a new born pup. His energy is boundless as he begins to climb on the stone wall that divides the raging Rio Grande from the calmer waters of the hot spring.

It begins…

I can see a possible future where Abe tumbles head first over the stone wall and into the swift water. The Mother is distracted and unaware of the danger. I have lived a life where dead children have been pulled from murky waters, the images are locked in my Mind, I am Witness. The memories begin the Dance, my mind and body react to the past. I am a time traveler but I can only go back into my own past – to live it again. Troubled I get up and leave the pool but I take up a position downstream (just in case). Thankfully a high clump of river reed blocks my vision of Mother and Son and river and rock.

My heart pounds – my mouth is as dry as cotton – my vision narrows – echoes ring in my ears – Adrenaline courses through me – I am entirely aware and on point – I am ready for anything. Its’ the old Fight or Flight reflex and I’m trained to Fight.

Outwardly nothing shows as the storm rages. Inwardly I begin to have the same old conversation with myself. “It’s nothing Rat – relax – be cool.”

When…

I hear the mother call out “ABE – ABE!”

I run to the water’s edge and begin to visualize how I will spot Abe in the river. He will be face down and head first in the current and nearer the Mexican side. I will have to swim hard to reach him. I can see all of this. Every nerve has fired – I know this feeling – Its all up to me.

When…

Abe comes running down the dirt path with his Mother right behind. She coos and chases him in a bent over goose fashion. They both scream with delight as they pass by me, standing and watching for ghosts at the river’s edge.

Fuck PTSD

Another Christmas Party

I had been working undercover for the State Police for over 2 years. By this time I had built a strong reputation within the unit. My team stayed busy and we busted a lot of crack dealers. We conducted our own Search Warrant executions, sometimes breaking down three doors a day. We were making a difference on the streets.We were a rough bunch and got away with shit.

The Michigan State Police Christmas party was just around the corner. The First Lieutenant called me into his office.

“Rat you going to the Christmas party”?

“Hell yea LT- I wouldn’t think of missing it – we get free booze right”?

“Rat do me this one favor. Don’t fuck with the my boss, the Director of the State Police”.

“Lieutenant don’t worry – I’ll be cool”.

The evening finally arrives and most of the team went to the party. We were a strange looking bunch of hair balls all wearing dark suits. Just imagine ZZ Top walking into a Republican convention.

I drank too much but was trying to be on my best behavior. That was about to change.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and the Director of the State Police was right there, offering his hand. He asked if I was Rat and I hesitantly said yes. “I’ve been hearing good things about your team. How is everything going”?

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“Great Boss just great except for this one case. You see I’ve got this Crackhead informant that I have been using for years. Her name is Jenny. Jenny has been a street prostitute for as long as I’ve know her. Well Jenny got pregnant and delivered a crack addicted and deformed baby the other day. The team has been trying to raise some extra cash to help out”.

The Big Boss asks, “What is wrong with the baby”?

“Well you see boss this baby was born without any eyelids”, I said.

“That’s terrible, were they able to do anything to fix it”?

“Actually they were able to do reconstructive surgery on the baby. Luckily it was a boy child and they just used the foreskin from his penis to make two eyelids”.

At this moment two things happened at the same time. The Director of the State Police reached into his wallet and pulled out a crisp one hundred dollar bill and the Lieutenant must have been watching because he walked up to the both of us.

The Big boss asked, “Will the baby be alright”?

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I pause for effect and answer.

“The Doctor thinks he’ll be fine. He may be be a little Cock Eyed”.

The Director of the State Police stood there with his hundred dollar bill extended and finally burst out laughing. He knew he had been had by the Rat.

The Lieutenant just shook his head.

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