Guest posts from Keith Bettinger and other street veterans. Also, miscellaneous but important things in the cop world–training, forensics, stress management, etc.
My Motorola radio crackled loudly, only just audible over the siren and engine noise, “Tom-36, be advised, I have no units 10-8 (in service) to assist and no one in the area of the north end of town. We’ll notify CHP and SCSO. Also, we’ve had reports of patches of heavy fog in that area.”
Swell, Murphy – of “Murphy’s Law” infamy – was now definitely riding shotgun with me. Moreover, Petaluma Boulevard North, as it led out of town, was a divided roadway, with two lanes in each direction. It was not especially well lit and was lined with large oak trees that regularly claimed errant drunk drivers. I let dispatch know that the tan Toyota’s speed reached about seventy-five miles per hour and was weaving from one lane to the other. That was until we came upon the first patch of what is fondly known as “Tule Fog” – or by its more proper nomenclature, “Radiation Fog”. This bundle of condensation was about a hundred feet or so across and my lead-footed prey braked hard once more, quickly dumping off his speed like a fighter jet from Top Gun pulling up in a dog fight, only to increase velocity once out of the fog. Continuing on towards the north end of town, we encountered at least two more of the fog banks and each time, my fleeing driver would dutifully reduce his speed, albeit locking his brakes again on several occasions.
Petaluma Blvd. North at Old Redwood Highway
For those unfamiliar with Petaluma, at the far north end of town, Petaluma Boulevard turns to the east where it crosses over US Highway 101 and eventually becomes Old Redwood Highway. Just before the Boulevard crosses Hwy 101, it is intersected by another northbound street, Stony Point Road. In this area, Stony Point was an even more poorly lit, as well as a poorly paved, “country” road surrounded by large fields and very few residences. Why this is important, is that upon reaching this intersection, the suspect ran the red light and turned left onto Stony Point Road to continue heading north. We encountered several more patches of thick dense fog spilling out of the fields, crossing the roadway before closing on a long driveway that led up to an old farmhouse on the west side of the road. As we approached, the suspect turned on his left signal and began slowing as if they were going to turn into the driveway.
Still without any backup, I’ll admit to imagining all sorts of nightmare scenarios, each of which had me being lured into some type of ambush but almost the same time, I began formulating response strategies just in case. Reflecting back on my training, I knew about the best thing I could do was to gain more distance from them. Tactically, more distance means more time to react to any danger. Fortunately, all my threat assessments were for naught because they passed by that driveway and several others, continuing to signal for a left turn. Then, perhaps a mile or two ahead, I saw a set of flashing red and blue emergency lights speeding towards us. The suspect apparently saw the same thing and abruptly stopped his car right in the middle of the single northbound lane. About a half mile from us, the oncoming police unit stopped and proceeded to close off the southbound lane to any traffic. It was with palpable sense of relief that I finally heard, still off in the distance but converging on my position, the welcome sounds of multiple sirens meaning the cavalry was nearly there.
Unlike what is frequently depicted on the news, officers in my department did not rush up to the driver at the conclusion of a pursuit, screw a gun in his ear and/or yank him through a window. If doing so didn’t get you killed, it would probably get you fired and rightly so. Consequently, I had positioned my car a good five to seven car lengths from the tan Toyota, angled in such a way so that the engine would act as cover should they open fire on me. I got down low, behind the driver’s side front window frame, with my pistol pointed at the driver.
A felony car stop looks like this during the daytime.
Using my patrol car’s public address system, I ordered the suspect driver to first turn off his car, then both occupants to put their hands on top of their heads and finally not to move. Naturally, neither of them complied and both made what is not so fondly referred to as “furtive movements”. Even after I repeated the commands two more times, they acted as if having a police officer point a loaded gun at them was all a perfectly natural happenstance.
As the sounds of the responding backup units grew closer, I tried repeating the commands in Spanish but to no avail. So, I turned my attention to directing the arriving units into what I felt were the best tactical positions. When at last I was joined by Sgt. Dave, down behind the door of my car, he patted me on the shoulder and said, “Nice job.”
I shook my head, looked at him and replied, “Go get him, Ger? Seriously? Go get him?”
Read the final installment of Gerry’s pursuit tomorrow, May 9th, 2013
To coin the venerable Sergeant Joe Friday, “It was Saturday night. I was working the Swing Swift out of Traffic Division. My boss was Sgt. Dave. It was approximately 0145 hours, near the end of watch. It had been a quiet night.” Okay, enough of the homage but that’s what happens when it’s been an unusually boring watch and you can see the finish line; you get a little loopy. Sgt. Dave had just gone out with a possibly intoxicated male subject in the parking lot of a business on the fringe of the main downtown area. I was nearby and responded for backup, knowing the unpredictable nature of drunks, especially at that hour. As it turned out, he was an amicable inebriant who had a much soberer friend willing to take him home. Standing there talking, we all suddenly heard the sound of tires squealing and unmistakable roar of an engine under heavy acceleration. We no sooner turned in the direction of where the sound was coming when a tan car went flying by us, doing 45-50 miles per hour – in a 25 mile per hour zone. Sgt. Dave gave me a wry grin and simply said, “Go get him, Ger!”
I climbed into my patrol car, rather unenthused about the prospects of ever being able to catch the tan car, never mind the fact my brain had so recently shifted into the “I want to go home on time” mode. I pulled out onto Petaluma Boulevard North and traffic was very light which made it easy to spot the ne’er-do-well. My doubts were confirmed; they had well over a half mile lead on me which was increasing by the second. My foot pushed the accelerator to the floor and the sound of the big Ford V-8 police package engine roaring to life got my predatory juices flowing. Just as the rational part of my brain was starting to tell me that I was embarking on a futile quest, I looked on in astonishment up ahead as the tan car suddenly braked hard for a red light.
Burning rubber
Now, by “braking hard”, I mean his brakes locked the wheels up so that his vehicle, with its back end shimmying side to side, was quickly shrouded in churning blue clouds of burnt rubber. My internal “DWI” detector immediately went off; from my training and experience, I knew that anyone operating a car in the reckless manner that this yutz had, was more than likely under the influence of some intoxicant. No longer was this just about a speeding ticket. Stopping this person from driving as soon as I could, before they crashed and possibly caused injury to themselves or others, was now a priority. Fortune favored the bold that night for the traffic light stayed red long enough for me to catch up to and pull in right behind my target vehicle.
I notified dispatch that I was going to be making a traffic stop on a tan Toyota Whatyacallit. I hadn’t yet turned on my emergency lights when the driver finally noticed me in his rear view mirror. I watched as he shifted position, sitting straighter in his seat; all his attention was now intently focused on my reflected visage. At the same time, his passenger turned in his seat to look intently at me. The driver apparently said something to his rider, who violently shook his head. Then the signal turned green but the tan car didn’t move an inch. As Princess Leia said to Han Solo, I had a bad feeling about this. I didn’t need to be a Jedi Knight to know what was going to happen next. I snugged up my seatbelt, closed my windows and turned up the radio, mentally cursing Sgt. Dave’s “Go get him, Ger”.
A second later, I shook my head in resignation as the car ahead abruptly took off, its back tires squealing as they sought the proper coefficient of friction against the asphalt roadway throwing up a blue haze of burnt rubber while the back end fish-tailed crazily. The driver rapidly accelerated through the intersection. A surge of adrenaline shot through me and I flipped on all the emergency lights along with the siren; we were off and running. As we sped past the police station, I notified dispatch that I was northbound, now in pursuit of a possible DWI.
After nine years as a dispatcher, this is still my most memorable call.
It was a Tuesday evening in April, 2007. I had been a dispatcher for three years, and that night I was working as a call-taker.*
One of the things I love about my job is that I never know what is on the other end of the phone (or radio). I can be contentedly reading (“training”) or writing (more “training”), enjoying a cup of joe (or more recently a gallon of diet soda)… and then out of the blue, the phone will ring. Most of the time, even if it’s the 9-1-1 line, it’s pretty routine: a medical aid, a missing vehicle (more often towed than stolen), a missing child or elder. Once in a while though… you get one of these.
My first clue that this was a “real” emergency was the voice of the woman screaming “help me” from some distance away from the phone, accompanied by the noise of scuffling and a male’s voice screaming something unintelligible.
I immediately accepted a call for service at the address that had appeared on my CAD screen and called it a “415FAM” — the code for a disturbance between family members. To this day, I have no idea how I knew instantly it was a mother versus son. It certainly wasn’t clear from the first few seconds of the call. Even my notes in the call only say
FEMALE SCREAMING FOR HELP JUST CALLING FOR HELP CAN’T TELL IF 415 OR JUST HER
At that moment of making a decision to get a call in as quickly as I possibly could at the highest priority possible, on instinct alone I chose that call type. (Perhaps subconsciously I had mentally processed both the male and female voice, and the possible ages of those voices.)
Initially neither of them answered my questions. Both of them continued screaming, huffing and puffing with the background scuffling noise, and occasionally the woman would be able to get out the word “help.”
Listening to a recording of the call now (to refresh my memory for this post), I can hear the woman say, “I’ve been stabbed.” I did not hear that when I initially was taking the call. (That actually happens quite frequently, where we can only hear part of what is being said until we play it back for training or to make a copy for the district attorney.) I heard her say something, and I responded with “I’m sorry, you’ve fallen?” (Because that would explain the scuffling and screaming, right? Good grief!)
She just kept saying “help” from time to time, while the male continued speaking unintelligibly. After about a minute there was some silence, and then what I finally heard at the time of the call was the male saying, after calmly confirming the address, “I’ve killed my mother.”
Honestly, I said “You did what to your mother?” (Yes, I’m a little slow sometimes. Don’t tell my kids.) He repeated, “I killed her.” I then calmly asked him his name, to which he only repeated the address.
I told him I had officers on the way, and asked, “How did you kill her?” He responded, “I stabbed her with my (unintelligible to me at the time), now, she’s dying, please send (what sounded like suicide pills).” So naturally, I asked “She took suicide pills?” (Let me be clear, this is not me at my call-taking best.)
After a bit more back and forth in which I’m trying to make sense of what he’s saying to me, he says slowly and carefully, “Shit, I killed her with my rapier.” Since I’m still not catching that word rapier, I ask him again, “Okay, how did you kill her; what happened exactly?” He answered with, “I don’t want to talk about it. Bring some pain medication for her so she dies more peacefully.”
There is yet more back and forth (where did you hurt her, what did you do, what are her injuries, etc.) as I try to get out of him what he did to her, because I just wasn’t understanding what he was saying. (So much for my instincts!) He finally gives up on me, and says, “Listen lady, good-bye. I’m done.” However, he leaves me with an open line instead of hanging up.
At this point, I have typed into the call
MALE SAYING HE KILLED HIS MOTHER MALE HAS DISCONNECTED NO, JUST AN OPEN LINE MALE REFUSING FURTHER FEMALE STILL MOANING AND CAN HEAR MALE TALKING
Throughout the rest of the call on the open line I can hear him speaking to his mother, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. I can still hear her faintly moaning. I listen in as the officers arrive and get him detained. When they are “code 4″ (the scene is secure), I release the line.
As I replayed the call in my mind over and over that evening, I was sure I must have asked him the same question in the same way about five times. It’s called “stuck in a loop.” Listening to the call again for this post, I didn’t really ever repeat the same question exactly; I did rephrase it, he just kept saying the same thing. Unfortunately, I just wasn’t hearing that word “rapier.” Perhaps, if I had heard her when she said, “I’ve been stabbed,” I would have put two and two together and been able to type into the call the weapon that had been used so officers would be prepared when they got on scene. As it was, they went into the house “cold” — without any clue what they would find.
I still didn’t know what had happened until a couple of hours later when one of the detectives came upstairs to tell us that the male subject had stabbed his mother 17 times with a rapier (a long sword) in a schizophrenic frenzy. When he was done, he felt no remorse, but wanted her to die peacefully, hence his request for “suicide pills.”
Collection of early modern swords (17th to 18th centuries) at the George F. Harding Collection of Arms and Armor, the Art Institute of Chicago. Photo credit Wikipedia.
Collection of early modern swords (17th to 18th centuries) at the George F. Harding Collection of Arms and Armor, the Art Institute of Chicago. Photo credit Wikipedia.
Although it wasn’t my best interrogation, I had managed to keep him on the line and inside the house until officers arrived. For that, I am grateful.
The mother died shortly after she was transported to the hospital. I heard her last words on that call. I wish I had been able to comfort her more than I was able. I am more conscious now of using a more sympathetic voice with victims, and a more forceful voice when necessary with suspects.
The male was committed to a local mental institution. As far as I know, he’s still there. For that, I am also grateful.
********
*Allow me a moment to share some general background information: In our agency, we rotate through three positions: radio {dispatcher}, phones {taking calls} and CLETS {records checks and overflow phones}. CLETS stands for California Law Enforcement Telecommunications System. It is the electronic system through which we can check every available database managed by the California Department of Justice. We also access “NCIC” through this system which is a term heard on many television shows. It is the nationwide equivalent of CLETS. Through these systems we can tell if a person is wanted (has a warrant for their arrest), if a car has been stolen, etc. None of this CLETS info has anything to do with this story, but one thing led to another so there you are. At least you got it as a footnote, and not in the body of the story. :>
As a Baby Boomer, I came of age in the late nineteen-sixties and early seventies, fully cognizant of the upheaval in traditional roles, as women fought anew for equal rights. All too often, I found myself disgusted at the misogynistic response by members of my gender. Though in full agreement with feminist ideals and equality for women, my thinking was none-the-less colored by a touch of traditional male chivalry. By that I mean, I stood when a woman entered a room, I held the car door open for my dates and above all, I firmly abided by the coda that a man never physically assaults or harms a woman. However, I was rather quickly and quite pointedly disabused of that last notion during my first month of field training as a Deputy with the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office that.
My FTO (Field Training Officer) and I were working Swing Shift and assigned to the Roseland beat area. Roseland is an unincorporated part of Sonoma County, southwest of the City of Santa Rosa. It is considered an “active” beat, just the sort of locale for a rookie to gain a wealth of experience. On a lovely spring night, while driving by a school, we spotted a disheveled woman, staggering haphazardly along on the sidewalk. She was clearly under the influence of some type of intoxicating substance. As I was in the very early part of the Field Training program, my FTO was handling most of the tasks and my job was to learn from his example. By the time we notified dispatch that we were going to contact this person and stopped our patrol car, the fair maiden had fallen upon her fundament, spilling the contents of her threadbare purse in the process. There, amongst her wallet, empty pill bottles, used Kleenex, miscellaneous feminine hygiene products and keys were several hypodermic syringes, a dirty blackened spoon and a wad of cotton. That partially explained the reason for her inebriated condition. Above the mix of “quaint” odors emanating from her person, I could easily smell the odor of many consumed alcoholic beverages. Drugs AND alcohol; swell. Then, much to my surprise, my FTO gestured to her and told me, “Go hook her up.”
Drunk woman
This would be my first arrest as a Deputy. I dutifully explained to her that she was under arrest for public intoxication and illegal possession of hypodermic syringes. I told her to put her hands behind her, moved in smartly and took one of her arms to place her in a control hold. Though quite pickled, she quickly made it obvious that she had other ideas; none of them included complying with a rookie sheriff’s deputy and going to jail. Responding to me with a hail and hearty, “Fuck you, asshole!” she swung her free arm in a wide arc, just missing my head. From that point, as they say, the fight was on. So, with my FTO looking on rather bemusedly, I went through a repertoire of control holds, none of which worked as they did in the academy – big surprise there, right? Then I tried bringing her down to the ground. Considering her indelicate state of balance, that shouldn’t have been a problem, except when she realized what I was trying to do, she became possessed of stability rivaling that of the Flying Wallendas. After about five of these fun filled minutes had passed, I grew weary of this dance; after dodging loads of wildly swung haymakers, well aimed furious kicks towards my groin and the occasional attempt at a bite, I looked at my FTO, expecting some type of help or suggestions.
He merely cocked an eyebrow and said, “You know, we do have other things to do tonight. Stop playing around and arrest her.”
I can’t imagine why that response would tend piss me off but anger led to one of those defining moments of clarity; I suddenly focused in on the knot of her pony-tail. With little tactical forethought, I quickly grabbed it and holding it tightly, I pulled her down to the ground. Once there, I immediately put a knee in her back to hold her still and quickly completed handcuffing her. Well before Kevin Costner said it to Al Pacino in the “Untouchables”, my FTO reacted to my triumph by slowly clapping his hands and saying, “Here endeth the lesson.” Now deigning to help me, my FTO and I “delicately” placed her squirming, struggling form into the backseat of our car; as we headed to the jail, I considered what I had learned.
Rather stupidly, on some now unfathomable level, I had expected this drug-addled, intoxicated flower of feminity to behave in a genteel, lady-like manner when faced with the prospect of going to jail rather than reacting like one of the mythical Furies. The most extreme hazardous point of any police-suspect encounter are those very first few seconds when an officer is effecting an arrest and moving in to handcuff a suspect. No one wants to be denied their freedom. Fear brings out adrenaline which brings about unpredictable responses. The meek can explode like hellions possessed while brawny behemoths fold like a house of cards. In not taking decisive, forthright action the moment I went to handcuff this woman, I placed myself into serious jeopardy.
While there may still be a time and place for chivalry, arresting a drunk drug addled woman is inarguably not one of them. Had she been an obnoxious, slovenly drunken man, I would not have hesitated in applying escalating force, resorting to perhaps CS spray (a tearing agent) or if necessary, my baton the second I met physical resistance and other less “forceful” tactics were not working. Equal opportunity applies to arrest situations. Over the ensuing years, I have been kicked, slapped and spat upon during the course of arresting combative members of the so-called “fairer sex”. One demure, 54 year old grandmother, drunk and resisting arrest while squabbling with another patron on the floor of a local tavern, grabbed one of my legs and sank her teeth into my calf. It took three other officers assisting me to pry her loose.
From Charlie Metcalf, retired San Rafael Police Department:
Here’s a vehicle pursuit story.
I was driving in a residential area in the hills at night. Suddenly a motorcycle pulled in front of me with no lights on. It accelerated rapidly to a speed that was clearly unsafe. Normally I would figure 20-25 was about it on that narrow and winding road. It’s been about 15 years so I don’t recall just how fast it was going. I hit the red lights and called in the stop. The rider had other ideas and increased speed.
How it might have looked behind the handlebars
Knowing that I had little chance of catching the rider in the Ford Crown Victoria patrol car I called in a full description of the bike and rider. I had my hands full negotiating the curves while working the radio. Part of the description was that the rider was not wearing a helmet. Once that was done it was both hands back on the wheel, keep the guy in sight, and try not to lose him. I knew other units were coming into the area.
Going faster and faster it was time to update my location for the incoming units. During that transmission I gave the new speed (faster still), and mentioned that the rider was having trouble controlling the motorcycle and I thought he was likely to crash. Based on all of the circumstances I thought the bike had just been stolen. As soon as dispatch answered the Sergeant got on the air. He told me to terminate. I was pissed. I wanted to catch the guy. I had been running on adrenaline.
In the old days we would have chased and chased and chased, until we either lost him or caught him. Not any more. The Sergeant was weighing the risk to the public and the potential downside against the potential upside. He had heard, 1) no lights; 2) no helmet; 3) no skill as a rider. He and I met later in the night. He explained what his thinking was. I had to agree, he was right. Even if it was vehicle theft, which is a felony on paper, it’s a low grade misdemeanor at sentencing time.
Thanks to Joe Leonard, retired from San Rafael PD (Ca) for the following stories:
Thonie, this was my favorite pursuit. The pursuit after this one involved Phil Green, in 1964, before I joined the [San Rafael] police dept. The last one involved Hank Ingwersen and me.
Sometime around September or October of 1980, I was working day shift. I had just made a traffic stop on Third St., between Irwin and Grand. This was around 10:30-11:00 AM. I was just getting ready to call it in on the radio, when I got a call of a 10-33 (Alarm) at Crocker Bank in the Montecito shopping center, which was a block away from my location.
I broke off from the traffic stop and proceeded over to the shopping center. I stopped my unit by the N.E. corner of the Thrifty Drug Store, exited my vehicle, and looked towards the bank. I saw a lady in front of the bank, pointing to a black man walking by the entrance of Thrifty Drug. When I looked at him, I saw that he had a large amount of bills (Money) in each hand. I yelled at him to stop, but instead, he took off running towards Grand Ave. I started running after him.
As he ran past the used car lot, an employee at the lot saw me chasing the black man and yelled at me “What’s going on”. I yelled back “He just robbed the bank”. I continued chasing the robber, with the used car lot employee joining in. When we got to Grand Ave. and East Francisco Blvd.(a distance of about a block), the car lot employee broke off from the chase and went back to the car lot to get a car.
I continued chasing the robber on foot for about another block, block and a half. At the Toyota dealership, there was a person exiting from their parking lot in a Ford P/U. The robber, simulating a gun in his jacket pocket, ordered the driver of the P/U out of the vehicle. He then got in and took off down East Francisco Blvd. The car lot employee had gotten a car from his lot and picked me up at the Toyota Lot, so we began giving chase. From the time that I first saw the robber, I had been talking on my portable radio, keeping the dispatcher and other officers advised. After I had got in the car with the car lot employee, I continued to do so.
We traveled down Francisco Blvd., then went beneath the underpass and got on Highway 17, headed towards the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. At this time, there were a couple of San Rafael Police cars and one Mill Valley police car, plus myself, involved in the chase. The chase continued onto and across the bridge. The San Rafael Police Dispatcher had called Richmond Police Dept and advised them of the chase and why, etc. Richmond PD had their airplane in the air, so as soon as the robber came off the bridge, they had him in their sight.
After about another five minutes of pursuit, we were able to get the robber stopped. A Richmond Police Officer was the first one to the driver’s side of the pickup. He reached in through the open driver’s door window, grabbed the robber’s shirt, and pulled him through the window. The robber landed on the ground about three feet past the pickup. The robber was arrested on the spot, handcuffed, and then placed in the backseat of one of the San Rafael Police cars that was there. (As a side story to this incident, when the robber was placed in the police car, we didn’t know that he had gone to the bathroom in his pants. He sat in the car for about an hour, with the windows up. The smell permeated that car for six months)
After collecting evidence and getting the pickup towed back to San Rafael, I caught a ride with one of our officers at the scene back to the police department. I had contacted my Sgt. by radio, asking him to take control of my car, which I had left at the bank.
I don’t know the date of this pursuit, other than it was in 1964. I also don’t know the details or the reason for the pursuit.
Phil Green, who was a patrolman at the time, initiated a pursuit that ended up on Highway 101 Northbound. Phil is rolling code three, in the fast lane of the highway. At the time of the pursuit, the speed limit on the highway was 65 MPH. Phil had a slight problem. The patrol unit (I believe it was a Ford) would only do 55 MPH. Here’s Phil, driving code three, in the fast lane, and he’s being passed by cars in the middle and slow lane. This pursuit lasted until Rohnert Park (Other patrol units were also involved) About 5-10 minutes after the stop, Phil finally rolled onto the scene. Phil said it was a little embarrassing, but he also thoought it was funny.
Another pursuit story. The arrest of this person resulted in clearing about 300 burglaries
We got into Hank’s patrol unit, called in that we were back in service and started to leave the Mental Health Center. As we were approaching Sir Francis Brake Blvd, the dispatcher put out a broadcast. A residential burglary had just occurred in the South End of San Rafael on “C” St. The Suspect was seen leaving the scene in a vehicle (I don’t remember now what the car description was, but I do remember that a brand, model and color, plus the license plate number, were given at the time)
The vehicle was last seen going S/B on “D” St, and then up and over Wolfe Grade, headed towards Sir Francis Drake Blvd.
Hank, who was driving, looked over at me and said “Let’s Go.” We turned W/B onto Sir Francis Drake Blvd, then N/B onto Wolfe Grade. We were about a third of the way up Wolfe Grade, when we spotted the vehicle in question. Hank turned the car around, turned on the red lights and siren and the chase was on. The suspect vehicle got down to the intersection, and then turned W/B on Sir Francis Drake Blvd. Sir Francis Drake Blvd, at this point, is a four lane, divided roadway, with two lanes going East and two lanes going west. The road continues this way until the main intersection at College of Marin, where it narrows down to one lane in each direction and no center divider, until it goes into San Anselmo, where it once again goes into a four lane divided roadway.
During the chase, we reached speeds of 90 MPH. The suspect vehicle was involved in four hit and run accident. He slid sideways into a M/C that was stopped for a red light in Ross, knocking it down and dumping the passengers onto the ground. I thought that they had been injured, but they hadn’t.
We arrived in San Anselmo, where the suspect vehicle was involved in a third accident, sideswiping a parked pickup as it was turning from Drake Blvd. onto a side street. The suspect vehicle went another 50-60 feet and then rear ended a parked car and stopped moving.
The driver of the car then jumped out of his vehicle and started running. He ran back towards Drake Blvd. then crossed it. From the time he jumped out of his vehicle and ran, the distance that he ran was only three of four blocks. When he exited his vehicle, I got out of the patrol unit and started chasing him on foot.
After he crossed Drake Blvd. He went behind a corner gas station, then down into a dry creek. At that point, he hollered out “I give up”. I went down into the creek, handcuffed him, and then placed him in our patrol unit. Chief Brusatori, who had ridden to the scene of the stop with Art Myers, rode back with Hank and the prisoner to the police station while Art gave me a ride out to Terra Linda to pickup my M/C. I then returned to the police station.
Be On the Look-Out:
I’m looking for comments, stories, observations, or recollections about pursuits–mainly vehicle pursuit as foot pursuits will be addressed at another time by law enforcement officers and dispatchers…from both sides of the radio. Just add a comment (paragraph, several paragraphs–no limit to word count) at the end of this blog.
I rode along once with a young officer who had a growing reputation for getting into lots of pursuits. I found out why when I sat in the passenger seat. He observed a violation from some distance, several blocks at least. He flipped on his emergency lights to initiate a stop but he was at a great enough distance that the driver didn’t see them. The driver continued on. The officer jumped on the gas, grabbed the mike and called in a pursuit. Sheesh. The poor driver stopped eventually when he realized the cop car was coming after him. He got a ticket, if he was lucky. Jail if he wasn’t. It didn’t take too long for his shift partners to figure this out. Fortunately, he worked for a savvy enough sergeant who corrected this burgeoning bad behavior. “A training issue”, he said.
A pursuit is one of the most galvanizing events in the life of a cop. When a voice over the radio says, “I’m in pursuit,” virtually everything and everyone (cop-wise) rally around the incident. Dispatch readies jurisdiction notifications, maps, traffic hazards, and the cops (whether under the radar or not) flock to the area with spike strips, scenarios of Pit maneuver and whatever tricks they can come up with to thwart the bad guy.
So tell me your story, with or without names. Funny, tragic, imaginative–whatever. Tell me about your favorite pursuit. In the meantime, check out this video. It may jumpstart your imagination!
Next week — April 14-20 2013 — is Dispatcher Appreciation Week. Okay, I know it’s actually called National Public Safety Telecommunications Week. Sue me. Here’s some background on “our” week.
Today I attended Sonoma County’s Dispatcher Appreciation Luncheon in beautiful Healdsburg at the Healdsburg Golf Course. Every year this luncheon is put together by a small group of dispatchers representing every agency in Sonoma County. They find a venue, plan a menu, and arrange for door prizes for all attendees. In years past, they’ve had various speakers on the program; this year we played two rousing games of Family Feud with dispatch specific questions — that’s right, they sent out a questionnaire ahead of time to build the “top x” answers. As a special treat this year, they also had raffle prizes. Bonus: I won a 2010 World Series baseball, which I gave to Prince Charming. THANK YOU SONOMA COUNTY DISPATCHERS!
So, in honor of my fellow dispatcher cohorts, whom I deeply appreciate, all links this week will be dispatch related.
First up, there’s a fabulously funny gal running around facebook who goes by the name of “Diary of a Mad Dispatcher.” Her real name is Kristin Kitchen and she is a dispatcher in southeast North Carolina. She and her team of trusted friends/co-workers post a lot of cartoons like this one:
… but she also posts give-aways, discussions and Q&A. She also has a blog. I find her to be articulate and passionate about our profession. She’s a great ambassador.
In honor of Dispatcher Appreciation Week, she was interviewed by The Badge Guys. You can find the interview here and here – yes, it’s two parts! Part 2 includes a video about Roseville PD dispatch (in Northern California), and in it Kristin discusses the stress and uncertainty associated with being a dispatcher. It’s a great read.
As a bonus link, The Badge Guys also recently posted a column about dispatcher stress. Go take a look at that, too; it has really good information about “the silent killer.”
In 9-1-1 Magazine there is a page of NPSTW resources, and Barry Furey talks about how, “… we’re saving the world, one caller at a time.” 9-1-1 Magazine is one of my go-to resources for all things dispatch-related.
Finally, we’re gonna wrap it up with a video about the Newtown dispatchers winning an award for their work during the Sandy Hook incident.
So, yes, although I don’t talk about it too much, I’m very proud of my job. Hopefully, I’ll be writing more about it soon.
Have a great weekend… and take some time next week to thank your local dispatcher, eh?
As I settle back into my recliner after a superlative Easter Brunch at my sister’s sister-in-law’s (talk about extended family!), I reflect on the holidays that I’ve missed. Technically, you couldn’t really say I missed them as I was present but often not at the place of the celebration. In the years I spent on the job, missing a holiday celebration was part of the deal. I signed up knowing that I’d miss Christmas morning with the kids opening their gifts, Thanksgiving afternoon with Mom and Dad, birthdays and anniversaries. Those days were often spent driving around alone trying to keep busy but not get into trouble or sitting in a dimly lit room staring at flickering monitors.
Santa surprises a patrolman
It’s kind of funny, going to work on Christmas morning when everyone you know is still in sugar-plum fairy land isn’t as doleful as it sounds. I always (even in the depths of my comatose commute) felt a little special to be awake when everyone else was asleep. I knew that when I got to work, that I would be there. I might really be able to help someone, maybe even save a life. But, I knew I would miss holidays with family and friends when I hired on so I didn’t spend time feeling sorry for myself. I adjusted my thinking to alternatives and never looked back. Sure, I had to explain my goofy shifts to my mother and non-law enforcement friends. But over the years, they all grew accustomed to my absence or shortened visits (“Sorry Mom, gotta go to work.”).
When I got married, it was to a man who had children. Holidays and birthdays were sometimes celebrated a day before the actual event, or maybe a day after—it depended on my husband’s schedule. Because he was a fire fighter, he worked 24 hour shifts, sometimes 72 hour shifts. One day, I consoled my son who was upset that we wouldn’t be together for Easter: I reminded him that he’d be at his mother’s house and get goodies then come home later that night and have goodies at our house. Twice as many goodies! This was a lesson that the kids learned well. Our time together became more special because we had to schedule it—with others in the family (brother-in-law and sister) who also worked in emergency services, it was usually a challenge.
Christmas Eve swing shift and grave yard were always kind of “special”. In years past, someone from county dispatch sent out periodic “Santa sightings” over the police telecommunications system. These days, this is strictly prohibited but for those of us on duty then, it provided entertainment between family fights and drunks. In dispatch and on the street, it was normal to be sorry to miss your family but few if any officers or dispatchers allowed themselves to give in to melancholy. I’ve been ordered in on Christmas. I wasn’t happy but I worked. Crime, fires and medical emergencies don’t wait for 9 to 5 hours, so neither can the job. One Christmas, I worked my scheduled day shift-7am to 5pm. The second dispatch position was off on vacation and as no one had signed up to work the overtime, five dispatchers were ordered in to each work a 2 hour shift. That is an extreme, to be sure. Usually, a generous soul—one with grown or no kids—would take the time. But not always. Sometimes I had to dump the kids at a sitter and work. It’s just the way it is. But don’t feel sorry for me. I am a professional and get paid accordingly. If I worked a holiday, I was compensated with varying degrees of salary or commensurate time off.
911 Call Center
After all, all your co-workers were in the same situation. The bottom line was that everyone, no matter what their situation, was prepared to get the job done—paycheck aside, even then it was sometimes a sacrifice. But we do it every day—nights, weekends, holidays and birthdays.
Sometimes in law enforcement work, inspiration and diligence play hand and hand with a little helping of good fortune and luck for a recipe of a job well done. So it was for me one afternoon.
There was a bank 211 (hold-up) two blocks from the San Rafael Police Department across from the old Marin Independent Journal (IJ) Building (at Fifth and B Streets). Fellow Investigator Tony (Hoke) and myself responded. We canvassed the area and eventually made contact with a workman at the rear loading dock of the IJ. He said he saw a male run down the alley behind the IJ, jump into a brown colored conversion van with an oval window on the side and drive away.
Hmmm, does this look familiar?
I walked down the alley in the direction the witness said he saw the van parked. There were no other vehicles parked here and the street wasn’t covered with a lot of debris. As I walked, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary until I neared the approximate location stated by the witness. My attention was drawn to a piece of paper on the sidewalk and for some unknown reason I picked it up. I recognized it as a parking lot stub with a license plate number written on it.
Here is where the good fortune and luck come into play. It looked like all alley fodder but something told me to keep it, hold on to it as one never knows–does one?
After clearing the area of any further clues, I returned to the office and told Tony what I had found and how I kept it for no evidentiary reasons. I ran a 10-28 and 10-29 on the license I found on the parking stub and it came back clear for stolen or warrants. It was the usual license found on a passenger vehicle, not like those commercial ones issued to vans or trucks. The vehicle was registered to a male in the East Bay having just a make but no model, color or type.
I had the dispatcher attempt to get an address and or phone number for the registered owner. Some time later, dispatch informed me that the registered owner had been contacted and stated he used it as a trade-in for another car at a dealership. Dispatch also told me the owner described the vehicle as an older brown conversion van with an oval window on the side that had a license plate number the same as the one I located on the parking stub.
Dispatch obtained the name of the dealership and made contact with the sales person who stated he loaned the vehicle to an acquaintance and it was not on the lot. We obtained the name and address of the person in possession of the truck at this time.
In those days, all bank robberies were investigated by the FBI. Today, they are investigated by the jurisdiction in which the robbery occurred. The FBI in this case came to our office after taking the initial report and we shared all the information that we had accumulated regarding a possible vehicle involved. They ran a check on the name given as the last person to possess the vehicle and they responded with information that this person had a prior record of bank robberies and lived in the East Bay.
The FBI advised they were now enroute to the East Bay to look for this person of interest and wanted to know if we were interested in going along. Now what red-blooded law enforcement officer would turn down an offer like this to ride with the FBI to capture a bank robber?
We drove to the East Bay and as we approached the house, a broad smile crossed my face; for sitting in front of the house was an older brown conversion van, with an oval window on the side and the same license number I found on the parking stub.
Divine inspiration??? Divine luck??? Due diligence??? A little of everything???
California Highway Patrol officer Sam Courtney attached a video camera to the front of his patrol motorcycle to tape the procession for Sgt. Loran “Butch” Baker and Detective Elizabeth Butler.
HERKIMER, New York — A tactical K-9 dog named Ape, who started his career with the FBI just a few weeks ago, was killed in the line of duty during a standoff in Herkimer on Thursday.
Ape was on duty accompanying FBI agents who were attempting to arrest 64-year-old Kurt R. Myers,
APE
of Mohawk, who had been holed up in an abandoned building on North Main Street in Herkimer after a rampage that left four dead and two injured.
Special Agent Ann Todd, with the FBI Office of Public Affairs, says Ape will be returned home to Quantico, Virginia.
Ape was a 2-year-old Czech German Shepherd. He was born on November 17, 2010.
Ape had just started working with the FBI on February 25 after completing training in October.
A memorial will be held for Ape at Quantico, says Todd, and his name will be added to a memorial wall.
“Ape was doing what he was trained to do and made the ultimate sacrifice for his team. His actions were heroic and prevented his teammates from being seriously wounded or killed,” says Todd.
Officials speaking at a news conference on Thursday say police entered the building around 8:00 a.m. They say Myers immediately opened fire on the officers from the doorway of a small room, killing an FBI K-9 search dog. Police returned fire, fatally shooting Myers.
State Police Superintendent Joseph D’Amico said during a press conference on Thursday morning that K-9s are “much more acute than people in locating suspects, especially in certain types of premises. I think that’s what happened here, and as unfortunate as it is that the K-9 lost his life, it could have easily been an officer.”
