My muse has never been one to flee in times of conflict, adversity or uncertaintainty so it’s obvious the stress of the last couple of weeks has been a bit much. Today I decided ‘no more’ and demanded my muse make a reappearance. Thankfully she obliged and we were able to settle on a story that registers high in entertainment value and even higher when it comes to showing what mind set is all about.
In the months leading up to my assignment to the K9 section I worked in patrol. My regular partner was street smart, intelligent, tactical and funny. Looking back, we learned a lot from one another and I’m of the firm belief all good partnerships should be based on a solid friendship.
This particular partner and I had a fairly set routine. Go to the squad briefing, get our car and radios, organize our gear, head out on the road, grab a coffee and hopefully grab a good call. If the radio was hopping it boded well for a busy night, and sometimes the java-to-go was the only reprieve we would see all shift.
One night we headed to our regular coffee shop and were walking back to the car with steaming cups in hand when the call came in. A man with a gun, in a gravel lot near a busy intersection, shooting at something just out of the witness’s view. The call taker could hear the shots over the phone, so we knew the gun was real as bbguns typically don’t make much racket.
We got to our car in a flat out sprint and I dropped my coffee into the single cup holder. My partner dumped his coffee on the sidewalk and barely had time to get his door closed before I put the car in gear and sped off. As we raced to the scene a single officer broadcast that he was challenging the suspect at gunpoint. The shooting had stopped, for the moment, but tension was high as the suspect refused to drop his weapon.
We were the next to arrive and I carved the squad car into a tight circle to better afford us and the single officer a position of cover. At this point, my partner let out a yell. He had done this before, given a ‘war cry’, but his timing in this case was brutal and the attached high note resulted in me filing the incident away for later discussion.
A short time later the suspect was lying on the gravel, his hands cuffed behind his back, his .9mm handgun unloaded and on the hood of our car. The gun was real, the single magazine partially empty. There was a home made target on the far cinder block wall. Half a dozen holes had ripped through the paper and an equal number of bullet casings were scattered on the ground near the now prone suspect.
The suspect, who was not the most intelligent person I have ever had the opportunity to speak with, purchased the gun on the black market and wanted to see how his marksmanship skills were. Instead of going to a remote location as would be expected if in possession of an illegally acquired hand gun, this twit decided an empty lot near the epicenter of Vancouver would suffice just fine. Does this qualify him for a nomination into the Darwin Awards? I think it might.
The suspect was carted off to jail. His gun was bagged and tagged. The scene was secure, no one was hurt.
Actually, let me clarify that. My partner suffered a minor injury on the way to the call. It seems my coffee cup tipped when I pulled the car into that tight little circle and spilled its excruciatingly hot liquid down the side of my partners leg and across his groin. Thus, the high pitched yell. He showed me the side of his leg where the skin had turned a bright pink. Ouch.
He gingerly sat back in our car, complaining that his ‘boys’ had been parboiled. Judging by the burn mark on his leg I suspected his twins were in some amount of pain. I drove him back to the station so he could take inventory as to his future ability to father children, and I’m proud to say I held off with any laughter until he limped off to the locker room.
So even though this story has a bit of humour it illustrates the mind set of a person intent on surviving a call. Even though subjected to a sudden and very nasty jolt to his nether regions, my partner was able to stay on task, deal with a potentially deadly encounter, and see the incident through to a successful conclusion.
Now THAT, my friends, is what I call warrior mind set.
Police dogs are motivated, driven and very intense. They love to work, to do as their handlers bid them, and in the case of my dog, to chase small furry creatures when mom isn’t looking.
Squirrels, cats, rodents – you name it. If it’s small and furry, my dog is interested. Unless, of course, I see the little critter first. Then it’s “Yes mom, okay mom, whatever you say mom. Me? Noooo, I didn’t even notice the squirrel/cat/rodent!”
We also have a cat at home. Hondo has learned the old black tom-cat is off limits, but it’s still a balancing act. We have to ‘clear the house’ when one or the other is coming inside to ensure the two do not meet, as I’ve seen the way my dog looks at the cat when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
————
Two summers ago, PD Hondo and I responded to a break and enter. As we approached the victim residence I noticed two tabby cats sitting on a short cement wall adjacent to the path we were on. Knowing the cats might be a temporary distraction for my dog, I placed PD Hondo in a ‘down’ and went to shoo the cats away.
But the cats would have none of it. Instead, they wanted to play.
First, I tossed a small rock at them thinking the incoming missile would cause them to scatter. But no. The two cats batted the rock between them as if they had just been given a new present.
The next rock wasn’t hurled with such a gentle touch, but the end result was the same. Two cats playing ping-pong. I didn’t have the heart the really chuck one at them, so instead I advanced, withdrew my ASP baton and flicked it open, thinking the loud ratcheting noise would make them run off.
But again, no. The two felines sat up and took notice, and when I prodded them with my now extended baton they simply sat back on their haunches and pawed the end of the metal rod.
Great.
So I found a way around them, and soon PD Hondo and I were off on a track.
What I didn’t realise was that Feline #1 and his buddy, Feline #2, obviously thought we were their new playmates. As we tracked down one side of a thick hedge the cats, unbeknownst to me, kept pace with us on the other side. When we got to the end, Feline #1 jumped out in “Ta Dah!!” fashion, mere inches from the end of Hondo’s snout.
Hondo went for it. I yelled and pulled back on his leash, dragging my dog away from the friendly feline while at the same time admonishing my dog for being so foolish. I thought all was going to be okay as Feline #1 ran away, it’s tail straight upright in indignation. We were resuming with our track when Feline #2 intervened.
Have you seen the movie Shrek? You remember the character Puss-in-Boots? Then you know what we faced.
With an ear splitting yeowl, Feline #2 launched and firmly attached itself to Hondo’s head. All twenty claws grabbed purchase in my dog’s thick coat and the damn kitty hung on for what equated to an eight second ride.
Hondo went completely crazy, thrashing his head around, snapping his jaws, spit flying everywhere as he tried to get the demon off of his head. I worked my way up the line, grabbed Hondo’s collar to control his head, and used my boot to pry the cat off. The cat jumped in the way only cats can, and landed a few feet off to the side.
Instantly, the little bugger puffed itself up, turned sideways, arched its back, and advanced on us in short, stiff-legged bursts of speed. I retreated backwards down the sidewalk, yanking Hondo with me, knowing that if he got a hold of the cat all nine of its lives with be used up in one fell swoop. If anything, the cat was a good example of how to use cover, as it darted from the tree on one side of the walkway to the mail box on the other side, while springing forward every few seconds on it’s hind legs to swish it’s front paws around in Kung-Fu Kitty fashion. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or pepper spray the little guy – I was a bit worried it was going to bite me on one of its runs at my legs.
I ended up laughing, admiring the cats fearless protection of its partner. With some degree of respect, I waited for the feline to walk away, which it did quite suddenly as if it had decided we were no longer worth the effort.
As the cat disappeared into the dark with a flick of it’s tail, Hondo and gathered ourselves together. I took a look around to make sure no one had caught the entire episode on film and was relieved to see the caterwauling and dog growls had not awoken anyone.
It’s one thing for me to tell the story but to have actual footage? How embarrassing!
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.
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.
“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 nodded again, knowing he was right.
- 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).
Now that it’s Christmas Eve I thought I’d share a few heartwarming stories from Christmas’s past:
- One year while working in the Downtown Eastside on Christmas Day, my partner and I wore Santa hats for the duration of our shift. Approved head wear? Not in the least, but the hats scored us some big points with the area residents.
- Another year my squad mates and I helped deliver food hampers to families in need. It was a pretty cool day. All of the families were amazing, and one little old couple had set up an entire miniature Christmas town in their apartment in the Skeena Terrace area. We were invited back for a cup of tea on the condition we extended the invitation to all the other officers working that night. Over the course of the next few days at least thirty officers filed through their apartment to admire their handiwork. The couple were over the moon.
- The amount of volunteers who come out to serve up dinner to hundreds in the less affluent areas of town is simply amazing. If we were all so giving this world would be a different place.
- Early on one snowy Christmas morning, I swear I heard the jingle of sleigh bells above our house. The heavy snow must have attributed to the acoustics because I think the bells were tinkling from far up in the sky.
- Have you ever seen a dog play in the snow? Well, you should have seen my dog the first time he saw it. He went from police-dog-in-training to a complete goof ball in about three seconds flat.
- And of course, the best thing about Christmas is watching the kid’s eyes when they get up in the morning and see their stockings.
Do you have a good story from Christmas? If you do, please feel free to share! Your story/memory doesn’t have to be related to police work (as you can see from above a few of mine have nothing to do with my job), Just something that gives you a warm feeling inside your chest.
To everyone, have a very Merry Christmas!
My first eight years as a police officer were spent working in the Downtown Eastside. Besides being a community with a diverse population it is one that deals with drug use, criminal activity and prostitution. But even in amongst all of this there are good people, great people, who call this area home. By happenstance or by choice, some of them simply do not have a roof over their heads.
One of the first lessons I learned as a new officer was to treat everyone with dignity and respect, regardless of the area you were assigned to. When I look back on the lessons learned from my more senior and experienced squad mates an excellent example comes to mind.
One winter night my trainer and I stepped out of the Vancouver jail, which exited into the t-lane directly behind the police station on Main Street. Up at the far end of the lane I could just make out the silhouette of an officer pushing a man in a wheelchair and asked my trainer what the officer was doing.
My trainer explained the man in the wheelchair, John (not his real name), was well known in the Downtown Eastside as being an easygoing, affable man, and one who chose to live on the street. When the cold proved to be too much for his aging body, John would wheel himself into the lane behind the station and, lacking the strength to wheel himself up the steep incline, would wait near a ramp.
Before long, an officer coming out of the jail would see him and would help by pushing John up the incline so he could position his wheelchair under a vent at the top. Warm air blowing from the vent would envelope John, allowing him to ride out the night chill.
He had been doing this for a long time, my trainer said, and if the officer ahead of us hadn’t been there it would have us pushing John to the top. When asked, my trainer did not know why John didn’t go to a shelter, saying, “Maybe he doesn’t want to.”
A few hours later we stopped in to check on him only to find other officers had just come and gone, proof of which was the steaming styrofoam cup clasped between John’s hands. He gave us a toothy grin when we walked by, and we raised a hand in return.
By morning, John was gone from the ramp and on to whatever he did during the day, taking with him the dignity of his own choices.
Christmas is a season filled with a sense of purpose for gift-giving. Citizens donate food and clothing, corporations give money to charities and those with little financial backing give of their time to ensure the less fortunate have a hot turkey dinner on the 25th of December.
Of all this, I’ve been there to witness the act of giving, and not just during the holiday season.
When I was first on the job my partner and I responded to a call of a domestic disturbance. Neighbors called in to report the husband and wife in the next apartment were having a heck of a row with much throwing of dishes and audible crying. The ruckus had calmed down by the time we got there and we found a man and woman sitting on the couch in deep conversation. Only the dried tears on both their faces and the pots and pans littering the kitchen floor gave a hint at the tension only then dissipating.
The couple were clearly upset about something and as we started to talk to them, two small children crept out of a near by bedroom and crawled into their parent’s laps. Their big eyes and thumbs tucked firmly into mouths made my heart break a little, and it quickly became apparent that even though this family had very little, what they did have was looked after with love. The children were well fed and clean in their hand-me-down clothes. The apartment was neat and tidy, the floors were swept and the few pictures on the walls were of their family.
It wasn’t until the father, while clasping his wife’s hand and kissing the top of the head of the child in his lap, broke down in sobs that we knew this wasn’t a regular call. His wife was able to tell us her husband had been laid off work, he had an injury preventing him from seeking different employment, and money for necessities had run out. She held her husband’s hand tight in hers and pointed to a box on the table, telling us to look inside.
What we saw were five diapers. When we looked back at her, the mother told us those were all the diapers they had left. There was no more baby food, groceries, or change left to wash the few cloth diapers they had, and they still had to get though another seven days before they could apply for emergency funds through the Ministry.
My partner spent the next half and hour talking to the father, man to man, while the mother gave me a tour of their small apartment. Indeed, it was obvious this couple lived for their children and made no excuses for their predicament. The mother said her husband would have to stay home with the kids while she looked for work and this arrangement was what had led to their loud and vocal disagreement. He did not think it right that he could not provide for his family. She said they had no choice. She either went to work or they would end up homeless.
By the time we left the small apartment a sense of calm had returned. The father put his arm around his wife and kissed her cheek, saying he was okay with being Mr. Mom for a while.
Back in the patrol car my partner and I were silent. Here was a family trying to make it, to provide for their children, to make an honest living against some pretty steep odds, and we were essentially helpless to do anything other than give them our temporary emotional support. So when my partner pulled the car to a stop in front of a store and got out, I thought it was to take a minute so we could grab a coffee and debrief the call.
Without a word, my partner entered the store but instead of heading to the coffee bar he went into the aisles. For the next few minutes I followed him around as he filled his shopping basket with baby food, diapers, wipes, coffee, and canned food. My repeated questions as to what he was doing went unanswered, so I simply held out my arms to take the second box of diapers he pulled down off the shelf. A lump formed in my throat because I knew exactly what he was up to.
Half an hour later, weighed down by boxes and bags of supplies, we were back at the family’s apartment. The couple was shocked to see us and tried to refuse the items my partner placed on their table, but a shake of my partner’s head told them he was leaving everything for them.
“This is not an act of charity,” my partner told them, “but an opportunity for you to make it through the next seven days.”
My partner expected them to find work, whatever type of job they could handle, and to continue to be the loving parents they so obviously were.
The father, his eyes now dry, took my partner’s hand in both of his and issued a silent a thank you. There was a subtle tilt to the man’s chin, one that read of confidence renewed.
For me? My confidence was renewed as well, not because of what my fellow officers have to do, but for what they don’t have to and yet still do.
“Chief Dispatcher to all units, we have a report of a robbery in progress at the Post Office located in XXX Mall. Reports are there is a male suspect inside the premise with a gun.”
Multiple units responded as dispatch kept us updated with what was happening. Several people were inside the Post Office when a man walked in, pulled out a gun and started to scream at the cashier to hand over the money. The customers could not get out as the gunman had them all under his control, but thankfully, the gunman wasn’t looking to take hostages and he had not chosen that particular day to make his stand against the world.
Once the cashier filled his bag with all the money available from the safe, the gunman burst out through the door and ran away, quickly disappearing around the side of the building.
A short time later my cell phone shrilled from my duty bag sitting on the passenger seat. Almost without exception I ignore my phone when on the way to a call, but this time, for some reason, I groped around on the seat, located my phone and flipped it open.
“Hello?”
“It’s mom! A man had a gun! At the Post Office!”
My breath wooshed out as if I’d been punched in the gut and I peppered mom with questions.
“Where are you? Are you safe? Did you call 911?”
Mom was able to answer affirmative to all of the above. Thank God for small miracles.
————
My mother had gone to the Post Office and was waiting in line when a young man came through the door. Mom said she thought the young man worked there as he walked in like he owned the place. Mom even moved out of the way to allow him access the counter.
Then, to my mother’s horror, the young man lifted up his shirt, removed a silver handgun from his waistband and pointed it at the head of the woman behind the counter.
Knowing her day had gone from routine to very, very bad, mom turned on her heel, took two quick steps and pushed out through the door. She was the only to make it out of the Post Office and she said she likely got away with it because the man’s attention was on the cashier. When outside she realized her cell phone was still in her car so mom hurried to the parking lot while warning others to stay away from the Post Office as there was a man inside with a gun.
A minute later the 911 call taker asked her if the suspect was still there, but from where mom was seated in her car she could not see into the Post Office. So mom started up her car and changed her location in the lot to get a better view.
“No, he’s gone. He’s not inside the Post Office anymore. I don’t know where he is or where he went.”
And with that, my mom told the call taker she was leaving the parking lot as there was a mad gunman running around somewhere and she didn’t feel like being carjacked.
————
Knowing my mom had been one of the up close witnesses to the robbery was very unsettling.
According to statistics, I am the person in my family most at risk for not coming home at the end of my shift. Well, truthfully, my husband is at a high risk as well, but his adversaries are heat, fire, and collapsing buildings, not armed suspect intent on doing him harm.
Even though officers respond to similar calls as this one on a weekly basis, knowing a family member is involved always changes the dynamics of how we treat these calls. Our family members are not suppose to be witnesses to armed robberies. Our loved ones are not supposed to be victimized – it just goes against everything we as officers train for and upsets the balance many of us feel we have gained by offering our services in exchange for the safety of our families. Rational thought? Not really, but it’s the way many of us feel.
In this case, no one was physically injured and my mom now has an exciting story to tell. But it still socks it home that life is so incredibly fragile and unpredictable.
