Posted on January 30, 2010 by Sandra in Uncategorized
I am about ready to scream.
If anything can drive me over the edge it is when my computer system fails to work. The actual computer is fine – it’s the Internet service provider I’m using that is driving me squirrelly. One day it works, but then the following three days it works only if the moon and stars are aligned, which in turn causes me a great deal of stress because not only do I rely on the computer for blogging, I rely on it for everything else as well – kids sports schedules, banking, trip updates and printing out our e-tickets.
E-tickets, you say?
Oh yes. We are going away for a couple of days - I’ll tell you about when we get back, but it should be people-watching at its finest.
Also, an update on the recent post “So Many Directions“. You have made it clear that I should keep doing what I’m doing, with only maybe a bit more emphasis on what people interested in a career in law enforcement can expect and what they can do in preparation. I’ve struggled with what to put in the proposed poll as many of you have already voiced what you would like to see more of, so the poll might end up being for fun.
Here’s one bit of advice before I leave – if you have not watched the mini-series Band of Brothers, then do so. Not only is it amazing tribute to the soldiers of Easy Company, US Military Army Airbourne, and their mission in WWll, it’s an excellent example of the bond between warriors.
There are quite a few parallels between the military and law enforcement, and several of the scenes in Band of Brothers made me sit up and think to myself, “Hey, we have an NCO just like that (both good and bad), we have a guy with that same sense of humour, I have a similar bond with a couple of my comrades” etc etc.
What our men and women serving overseas have to endure, what they train for, and their commitment to our country is very humbling. My hat goes off to all of them. I guess what I’m trying to say is I don’t think law enforcement even holds a candle to the military in the level of sacrifice, but there is something to learn by watching this film.
That’s it for now everyone, have a great weekend and stay safe.
My first few months as a new police officer were spent being partnered with a senior officer and assigned to an area in the Downtown Eastside. At the time, police were always dispatched to drug overdoses and many of my early calls for service were spent standing by and watching as paramedics and the Fire Department tried to bring the person back.
One such call found my partner and I dispatched to a hotel known for its violence and drug trade. When we finally made it up the multiple flights of stairs we found one paramedic and two firemen working on a man laying on his back in the middle of room. Another man was being tended to in the corner by the second paramedic while the fire captain stood by holding the IV bag up above his head to allow the saline to drip into the recipients arm.
My partner wiggled himself into the back of the room to start collecting identification for the two men while I stood by the door to keep the few lookie-loos from creeping into the room.
A short time later there was a commotion in the hallway and all of us looked to the doorway in unison as a man staggered into view. He was hunched over, his hands grasping his spouting thigh as more blood dripped to the plank floor from multiple stab wounds. The man looked to the nearest paramedic and was able to croak out a plea for help.
Gun in hand I moved to where the man stood, bleeding all over the floor. I gave him a quick pat down and finding no weapon told him to get his butt in the room, all the while keeping an eye and a gun pointed down the hall.
He was able to tell me the guy who stabbed him had just fled upstairs, and the commotion we heard was their argument over a drug debt.
I radioed in the stabbing and requested additional units as I made a move towards the stairs. My partner was busy trying to help the now swamped paramedics and firemen with their additional victim so I was on my own for the time being. Knowing the suspect would be getting away but unsure as to how to proceed (remember, I had about two seconds on the job at the time), I inched into the hallway while I struggled with the decision of what to do. I could hold where I was (which was completely useless) or I could move to secure the stairwell and take up a position of containment and cover. The second option seemed like the better one, but even as I inched into the hallway I was still uneasy about going it alone.
That’s when there was a tap at my elbow and I turned to see the fire captain standing behind me. Let me interject here – the fire captain was a very large, very strong, very imposing man. He had been on the job since, oh, the 1960’s, and had obviously seen a thing or two. He made my 5′10″ frame appear petite by comparison, and there was the fire of the Vikings shining in his eyes that day. If you have read any of the Harry Potter books or have seen any of the movies, then you will understand when I say I might as well have had Hagrid there with me. Anyways, on with the story…
It only took a moment for me to realize the fire captain was holding a very large axe in one hand before he tipped his chin at me.
“Go on, blondie, I’ve got your back.”
With that, and with a healthy dose of confidence, I proceeded down the hallway to secure the floor where the suspect was. The only conversation the fire captain and I had in those tense few minutes was when I told him to warn me if he decided to start swinging the axe so I could get out of the way. He just smiled and told me to keep going.
“You’ve got the gun, don’t you?”
By the end of the shift the suspect hadn’t been found, having disappeared into the labyrinth of an old rooming house hotel. The victim later refused to say who had stabbed him out of fear of retribution.
But the call wasn’t an entire loss as I learned that help can be counted on from the most unexpected of places. The fire captain, seeing my uneasiness, decided to do what he could and was instrumental in us being able to quickly secure the scene. He placed his faith in my ability as a marksman to keep him safe while at the same time wielding considerable force as my ‘back up’.
Mind you, I suspect the fire captain would have made one hell of a police officer – it’s just that he chose a pillow and a blankie instead of a gun and a badge.
Salty – thanks for covering me on more than one occasion. You were a force to be reconed with, regardless of the fact you wore a different uniform. You provided real life experience proving that protectors come in many forms.
You were my fellow warrior that day, ready to do battle with only an axe, and my gratitude for your support and faith resonates to this day.
I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to figure out in which direction to take this blog.
As readership has grown I’ve felt the need to ensure I’m giving you your times worth when it comes to you popping by for a read. If you are anything like me then your time is a valuable commodity and you are careful in your selection of what to read, what to comment on, what to push to the forefront of importance and what to put on your no-read list.
I, for one, demand great writing when I’m reading someone else’s work, be that work a novel, a magazine article, a newspaper column, a short story or a business proposal. For all the drivel out there, I am humbled when I take in the magic a few select writers have laid down on the page. Everyone has a story to share, but when you get right down to it, some people are simply better storytellers. When touched by such writing I am inspired to try and create my own style, one that educates, motivates, and changes the way people think about law enforcement.
So when I look back at my fifteen years of policing I can not help but realize I am a very different person from the young woman sworn in by Chief Constable Ray Canuel in 1995. Then I was hopeful, my dreams just coming to fruition, my future ahead of me.
Now, even though still hopeful, I have seen humanity at its worst and at its best. I have witnessed greatness and witnessed death. Delirious joy and devastating grief are the extremes, but given the nature of policing the latter is more common than the former. My comrades are the brothers and sisters I never had and I hold them all dear, even the ones I have never met. To be a police officer is to be bonded by the uniform; a uniform that crosses gender, race and religion.
The lessons learned have been hard, sometimes impossibly so, but in the end I am a better person and a better officer because of them. In the end I have succeeded. I am ‘living my dream’.
And those points bring me to this point and the question of where this blog is headed.
Police officers and those who support them make up a large percentage of this blog’s daily readers. I know because of two reasons – the number of comments left on this blog do not directly reflect the number of readers. Why? Because police officers and those who support them are typically the ’silent majority’, the ones who have very strong beliefs but are comfortable enough with themselves and their beliefs to simply process information without having to voice their own opinion on the topic.
I used to be that way as well, if you can believe it, but I finally realized it was okay to have my say and be true to myself. Much the same can be said of fellow police bloggers (see the blog roll to the right of this column) as they are on a similar journey of telling what has so long been secreted behind blue lines. Not everyone agrees with what we say, or even the fact that we say it, and that’s okay too. Differences in opinion are what make this world so spicy and full of life.
So, in trying to find my way, I am asking for some guidance from you, the reader.
Later in the week I will put up a poll (if I can figure out how to do so), where I will ask you what you would like to see more of and less of. This blog is for you and I’d like to know what it is you really want to know.
Keep in mind that even though this blog is my opinion and not that of my department or police board, I will not talk about such things as surveillance, current projects, or cases currently before the courts. To do so would put other officers in harms way, would jeopardize cases and trials, and would, in essence, be career suicide.
Do you want more anecdotes? More facts? More stats?
Or less of these things?
Is there any topic you would like to see addressed? If so, let me know via comment or email and I will add it to the poll for the end of the week.
And remember – comments can be left anonymously – even I won’t know who you are, only that you are FINALLY leaving the rank of blog-lurker. If need be, sign up for a gmail (Google) email account with some crazy/fake username to hide your real identity.
In the days before the transit system had their own police force our squad was assigned to a detail on part of the Skytrain route. We rode the train, checked trouble makers and provided a physical presence at the stations where there had been recent problems.
At one station we struck up conversation with a young man. He asked us if we recognized him, and even though he looked vaguely familiar none of us could place him. That’s when he reached up, placed the tip of his index finger squarely on his left eyeball and jiggled the white orb around in his head.
“I’m the guy who was shot in the head last year and made it. Like it?” he asked, removing his finger from his glass eye and pointing to the faint scar running back into his hairline along his left temple.
We all stared with some amazement at the walking, talking human in front of us who had suffered what should have been a fatal injury.
————
Shots fired.
We get several calls a week from people reporting gun fire. When there are multiple 911 call the incident is usually legitimate. When there is only one caller reporting ’shots fired’, the culprit is often a group of kids with fire crackers or an ill-kept car letting loose with a cannon-volley of back fires and not in fact a running gun battle.
Then there are the times when all this rationalization flies right out the window, and a single call in to 911 turns the night on its head.
————
“CD to all units. There is a report of shots fired in the area of XXX Street and XXXX Avenue. There is one caller who says the shots were fired from the south lane. The caller is not familiar with gunfire.”
Multiple police responded to the area and the dark night time streets around the caller’s house were searched for victims and for clues. Nothing was found. No victims, no bullet casings, no blood, nothing.
Then, a short time later, another call.
“A woman is calling from XXXX Avenue. There is a man on her front lawn asking for help. He is covered in blood and appears to be injured. The caller is afraid to go outside.”
With that information we turned our attention to the address only two blocks from where we had been searching.
The man was walking down the sidewalk with stilted legs, his arms held stiff out to his sides. One eye peered out from the ruined mess of his face and his entire body was drenched in blood as if a bucket of pigs blood had been dumped on his head Carrie-style. When we got to him the man plunked onto his bum on the sidewalk, clearly relieved some form of help had arrived.
There was a swollen, bleeding, pulsing mess where his left half of his face should have been, and a deep trench dug its way back through his temple and out of the side of his head. I had never seen anything quite like it on a person who was still alive.
In typical cop style, the officer standing behind the man snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
“Now THAT’s going to need a little pressure,” this officer said and gently placed his hands on either side of the mans head, trying to contain the flow of blood and hopefully keep the mans brain matter from spilling out onto the street.
————
I accompanied the man in the ambulance when paramedics whisked him away, and I managed to stay out of the way of medical staff when we finally reached the hospital. The Trauma room was filled with doctors and I tagged along everywhere the injured man went. When he was taken to the MRI/Scan room (I’m not sure of the exact procedure he underwent), the doctor called me over to take a look at the computer screen.
There, in black and white, was an image of the inside of the man’s head. There was a blow-out of white bone fragments where his left orbital socket should have been and what so surprised medical staff was the lack of intrusion into the man’s skull cavity. It appeared the bullet had only taken the man’s left eye when it tore a path through his head.
The resiliency of the human body is something that never ceases to amaze and impress me, as was reinforced a year later when we saw this man on the skytrain platform. Unless you were looking for it, you would not realise the man had a glass eye and metal plates holding half of his face together.
Many officers I know have had the following experience when attending a function where the officer does not know many of the attendees. After introductions are made and talk turns to what everyone does for a living, conversations go something like this:
Stranger: “So, what is it that you do for work?”
Officer: “I work for the City of Vancouver.”
Stranger: “Oh really? In which department?”
Officer: “The police department.”
Stranger: “Where in the department do you work?”
Officer: “I work in patrol/homicide/robbery/dog squad/emergency response team.”
Here is where the conversation can take a turn. The person asking the questions either beats feet in the other direction (which is usually a clue they have something to hide) or they empty a deluge of policing questions to the exclusion of all other topics.
Stranger: “Oh, that’s so fascinating! So tell me, do you know so-and-so? What’s it like to investigate a murder? Do bank robbers really wear masks? Do the police dogs come home with you? Have you ever had to shoot anyone?”
Like most officers, I really do not mind answering these questions (thus, the blog). But when all the person wants to do is find out what it’s like to stake out a house, or if the CSI-Hollywood theory on salient fingerprints is really accurate, or how heavy the tactical vests are, it can become a bit overwhelming. Officers are adept at changing the topic so when the talk becomes too heavily focused on police work, officers usually get the other person talking about fishing/hockey/football/shopping etc.
I’ve often been tempted to tell people that I do something completely different for a living, if only to see if their reaction to my ‘profession’ is as noticable as it is when I say I’m a police officer.
I recently bumped into a colleague I hadn’t seen in a while and the first thing I noticed was the sprinkling of grey through the hair at his temples. At least with men a little snow adds a touch of sophistication. Most women I know freak out when the first grey hairs appear, myself included.
It got me to thinking about our police dogs and how one of our years equals seven of theirs. By using human-to-dog-age-calculations PD Hondo and I are the same age, at least until March when my four legged partner jumps cleanly into the middle-age category.
If you call lifting Hondo out of the back of my pick up truck and placing him gently on the ground ‘babying’, then my husband notices that I baby the 80+ lb German Shepherd to no end. I’ve stopped running with Hondo, instead opting for sessions of speed walking (which look ridiculous – I can tell by the lay of Hondo’s ears he doesn’t want to be seen with me as I sashay my way down the street) or fetching his toy from the water at a nearby beach to ease the stress on his joints while maintaining his cardio. His diet includes supplements to keep him fit and limber, and I would forgo any anti-aging regime for myself if I could find a fountain of youth for my dog.
When taking his photo I try to ensure Hondo’s tongue is hanging out in a doggy smile because then you don’t notice the grey in his once jet-black muzzle. His clear brown eyes and youthful exhuberance are a reassurance, but I know the day is quick approaching when he will stall, just a tiny bit, when trying to stand up from his bed in front of the fireplace. My eyes watch for this, even as I chide myself for being a pessimistic realist.
Some of you have asked how Hondo is doing, and I’m here to tell you he is doing very well. He is still young(ish), his drive for work is ever increasing and our bond is one that simply terrifies me. How is that such creatures, who give willingly of themselves even when it means giving their lives for ours if the call of duty requires it, are only with us for such a short time?
My father always said I was forever in a rush to get to my ‘destination’. He constantly reminded me to slow down and enjoy the journey for fear I would one day look back and realize I had missed it all.
Well dad, I’m enjoying the journey. To slow the speed of my time with Hondo is an impossible feat. Instead, I try to imprint every nuance of it so the memories may carry me through when this journey is done.
“CD to all units. We’ve got a call of a stabbing at 1234 Somewhere St. Neighbors have found a man stabbed inside the house. A suspect is in the front yard still armed with a knife.”
My partner hit the lights and rocketed our police car towards the call, as did units from all over the district. I didn’t bother telling dispatch to put us on the call as her updates were rapid machine-gun fire. She would know we were going.
We were still a few blocks away when other units arrived at the scene and gave chase on foot after the running suspect. I braced one foot against the sidewall and the other against the door as my partner tried to beat the devil by slaloming through stopped traffic. In a series of quick broadcasts, officers had the suspect at gunpoint and were yelling for the suspect to drop the knife.
The following few silent moments were an eternity. The kind of silent moments were everything hangs in a balance, waiting to be tipped either way. The kind of silent moments where, as a responding officer or a dispatcher not able to see what’s happening, your mind turns to the worst possible scenario. Was the suspect going to charge the officers and force them to shoot? Or would the suspect drop the knife and surrender? As we pulled into the block the next broadcast let us know the scale had tipped in favour of the suspect’s life.
“One in custody,” an officer’s voice came over the air.
My partner didn’t miss a beat. He cranked the steering wheel, sending our car into a tight, tire-squealing turn towards the house where the call had originated from.
When we pulled up we saw a neighbor standing on the grass between two homes. His face was ashen and he looked to be in shock when he raised his arm and pointed at the house closest to us. It’s the little things you notice at times like these and the man’s half un-tucked shirt and disheveled hair were a clear indication that all was not right. He was a man I took to always be presentable and in control, and for him to have run his hands through his hair forcing it into little spikes that stuck up all over his head was a bad sign.
My partner ran to contain the front door as I ran to the man and peppered him with questions. How many suspects? He didn’t know. How many victims? Just one. Where? Inside, the bedroom. Is he alive? I don’t know, he said, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes. I touched his arm, told him we would do everything to help his friend, and left him standing there, alone.
I came up behind my partner and placed my hand on his shoulder. His body was tense, as tight as a spring and when he glanced at me I knew he saw the same readiness. We were joined by a third officer; my partner and I nodded at the new comer, a Sergeant, and he nodded back. A moment later our plan was set and the three of us made entry into the home.
The only sounds were a soft squeak from my shoe on the linoleum and the slow inhale/exhale as we three became one, moving together through the eerily silent house. Pointing directions, not a word uttered, we crossed the floor in a line, then button-hooked through a doorway and crept down a hallway. Each room was quiet. Too quiet. Only a few scattered papers in the immaculate home gave a hint to what had happened.
Then, in a glimpse, we found him.
He wasn’t gone, not yet. His neck was warm when I pressed my fingers up under the angle of his jaw, the faint gurgling from his blood-filled mouth as his body went through the motions of trying to gasp for just one more breath.
He was dying. A person doesn’t turn that particular shade of gray unless their soul is in the process of going on to some other place. But in those final moments, as I rolled him onto his side and cleared his airway, I took his hand and talked fiercely into his ear, hoping beyond hope that a part of him could hear me and know he wasn’t alone as he made the journey.
“It’s the police. We’re here. You’re safe now, I’m not going to leave you.”
The Sergeant motioned for me to stay with him and I nodded, training my gun on the now empty doorway as he and my partner continued to clear the house.
I let go of the man’s hand and felt my way back up to his neck. This time, only silence. My chest hitched, I swallowed, took a deep breath. Taking his hand again in mine, I straightened my back and leaned further over his inert form to keep watch.
Minutes went by. From below, the sounds of breaking wood as my partner and the Sergeant kicked in a locked door. Then quiet. Nothing, until a thumbs-up hand appeared in the doorway. My partner, letting me know the house was clear and that he was back. I must have looked a bit like a wild thing, because his look of concern was palatable.
“He’s gone,” I said, patting the man’s chest.
“It’s okay, we did everything we could. Let the the paramedics and Fire do their thing,” he said, coming to my side and ushering me out of the room.
We stepped out of the way as medical personnel filled the tiny room. I had to turn away, unable to watch as the man’s limp form was slung onto the floor, as tubes and needles were inserted, as machines were hooked up.
That’s when I turned off the emotions. I still had a job to do. Needed to make a crime scene sketch, seal off the house, write my evidence. It wasn’t until later, back at the station, that I noticed a small smear of blood on my sleeve. My partner saw me sitting there, staring at it.
“It sucks, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Yeah, it does.”
“He was going to die. There wasn’t anything we could have done. You know that, don’t you?” he asked.
I nodded.
“We did okay, Sandra,” he said, “Sometimes that has to be enough.”
I’m astounded at the number of people talking on their cell phones and driving at the same time since the new law came into effect on January 1, 2010. So, in case you missed it, here it is – it’s a bit boring so skim if you must, but please, at least read my last two sentences:
Prohibition against use of electronic device while driving
214.2 (1) A person must not use an electronic device while driving or operating a motor vehicle on a highway.
(2) Without limiting subsection (1), a person must not communicate by means of an electronic device with another person or another device by electronic mail or other text-based message.
Use of Electronic Devices while Driving
“electronic device” means
(a) a hand-held cellular telephone or another hand-held electronic device that includes a telephone function,
(b) a hand-held electronic device that is capable of transmitting or receiving electronic mail or other text-based messages, or
(c) a prescribed class or type of electronic device;
“use”, in relation to an electronic device, means one or more of the following actions:
(a) holding the device in a position in which it may be used;
(b) operating one or more of the device’s functions;
(c) communicating orally by means of the device with another person or another device;
(d) taking another action that is set out in the regulations by means of, with or in relation to an electronic device.
$167.00 and three points on your drivers licence, or $20-$100 for a hands free device to use with your phone.
Yesterday, another police unit and I were waiting to attend a call and were parked in a city block where opposite ends of the street are firmly rooted in areas that are light-years apart.
At one end there is a very nice Irish pub, a fancy restaurant, a coffee shop, and a tourist shop. Mid-block are a number of doorways, several of which lead to residential apartments located above the shops. Apartments funded by Social Assistance are directly across the street from newer, high end apartments, with both sides of the street sharing the same ecclectic view. The apartments are followed by a bar/nightclub, a clothing boutique, then a pharmacy, another coffee shop and a methadone clinic.
The variety meant people-watching was at its prime.
A benefit of my unmarked police vehicle was most of the attention was drawn to the marked Crown Victoria parked behind me, allowing me the luxury of sitting back to observe. The two officers in the Crown Vic had a steady stream of people stopping to say hello, to ask for directions, or to try and report a crime. Agent Condor swooped in on them for a few minutes and I watched with some amusement in my side view mirror as he flapped his arms and talked at them about his stint with the FBI and the CIA (thus the name). The officers were very good with him, humoring him enough so he was satisfied the espionage plot against the masses had been averted for another hour. I’m not kidding. Agent Condor has been around for longer than I’ve been on the job. He’s a gem.
Dog walkers, families, babys in strollers and hand-holding couples mingled with the homeless, a man fighting his addiction and a handful of known drug dealers. No one person stayed in the same spot for more than a minute or two, turning the hustle and bustle into an almost living, breathing entity.
The stand-out part was everyone seemed to be quite happy existing in the same space as everyone else. No one shied away from the toothless and bedraggled woman shuffling her way down the sidewalk in yellow work boots several sizes too big for her feet. People just took her in stride, a couple even stopping and making way for her so the woman could enter the methadone clinic.
Then there was my friend, Jack, a freelance photographer. He stopped by with two photographer friends on their way to the coffee shop. We bantered back and forth, with Jack’s friend asking where the action was going to take place and with me replying that if the ‘action’ happened he wouldn’t be able to keep up for the Kodak moment. To that, Jack joked he would jump onto my truck’s running board and cling to the roof, leaving his friends in the dust, all in the pursuit of getting the best photo. We had a laugh and then they carried on their way, knowing I wasn’t going to share the goods on why we were there in first place.
By the end of it, the ‘action’ never took place and the people watching came to a close. I’ve found that you can learn a lot about an area and it’s people just by taking the time to watch how they interact with one another.
When I first started on the job this block was violent and dirty, offering nothing but despair, hurt and loss. Now, fifteen years later, I marvel at the change. The block can still show its violent side, as can just about any street in any major urban center, but the biggest difference is that now people care. Staff at the methadone clinic and adjoining coffee shop take pride in their business, and they offer a safe place for those in need or struggling to overcome addiction a safe place to go. The woman in the boutique across the street smiles and waves at a clinic regular, and the patrons of the bar regularly dole out spare change or an extra cigarette to someone having a bad day.
For not seeing any ‘action’ at my call, I saw plenty else yesterday to make up for it.
If you own a bright orange AMC Pacer do not use it as a get-away car.
If you are 300 pounds, overweight and have bad ankles, ensure your get-away car is in good working order.
If you discover after the fact that your bright orange get-away car should really be yellow because it has turned into a lemon during your flight from police, just do the right thing and surrender.
If you don’t, we will find you. Probably within the block, gasping for air and nursing a sprained foot (see point 2).
