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The Rookie
The weather was ideal. The sky was clear and bright. It was a tranquil light blue color. The interior of the car had a fresh smell. I could not describe it as anything else. It was a smell, it was there, but all I could imagine was the word clean or fresh to describe the sensation.
We had parked the cruiser at a turn off at the side of the road, where we would visible to passing traffic. This serves as a deterrent and lets people know we are there. The area had picnic tables and a parking area and is often used by families.
I hoped my eagerness did not show too much. I had waited four long years for this. This was my first week ‘on the road’.
The day, so far, had been quiet, very little typing to do, so I slipped the computer back into the dashboard. We were halfway though the A shift, only three more hours to go. I enjoyed these times, when we had time to talk. After knowing my Training Officer for the week, I had come to both respect and like him.
His name was Dave; he was a large man, bigger than I was. His hands seemed to smother the steering wheel, the biggest hands I had ever seen. His haircut was purely military, a ‘flattop’, with almost no sideburns. His uniform was immaculate, not a wrinkle could be seen, anywhere, his gig line perfectly straight. He always looked like he was about to pose for a picture in a uniform catalogue. I hoped I looked as squared away and proficient.
He was a wealth of information, a genuine information bank on the history of police procedures and practices. His grandfather, a police officer over fifty years ago, was full of stories and shared them with Dave each weekend on their visits. Dave shared some of them with me, during the quieter moments of the past week.
During my four years at the Law Enforcement University, I had studied a lot, but it was not as attention grabbing and enlightening as the real thing, from a real “street cop,” as Dave was to me and as he described his grandfather.
I could see his “Serving Since” pin, centered perfectly in the middle of his right shirt pocket. It had been polished to such a high luster, for so many years, the year 2049 could barely be discerned. My own, in comparison, still had the satin finish from the manufacturer and the dark outline of 2066 could be seen quite without difficulty. I was only nine years old when Dave first pinned his on.
“Headquarters to 618,” the radio interrupted my reflections. Dave thumbed the button on the steering wheel and said “618, go ahead.”
“618, you have one coming at you, about six miles away, northbound on Rt. 13.” I reached over and pushed the button that activated the mapping program in the dashboard. It came to life and the brightness adjusted to the ambient light conditions quickly. The map showed our position and that of the vehicle moving in our direction, several miles away. A red blinking arrow showed the progress of the vehicle. It’s registration, speed and time from our location was updated in a status bar at the bottom of the screen.
I pushed the touch pad button that activated the printer and a traffic summons was quickly printed and slipped from the slim opening beneath the screen. It had the owner’s name and address imprinted on it, as well as the two violations, speeding and operating with out a speed governor in proper working order.
I looked at the map and the vehicle was now very close. He looked at me, smiling, and said, “You might as well start sometime.” This was something I both looked forward to and hoped to avoid. I wondered if it showed.
“What is the bar code on the bottom of the summons?” asked Dave.
“It should match the State Bar Code on the window of the vehicle, when I scan it.”
He smiled, nodded and looked back at the screen.
I opened the door and stepped out into the warm, put my hat on and stood in front of the car. As the vehicle approached, I motioned for the driver to pull over.
The blinker came on; the vehicle slowed and pulled in front of our cruiser. I was sure Dave sat in the car listening, via the microphone on my belt.
The window rolled down and the driver said nothing. He was dressed in a business suit and had an open brief case beside him.
“May I see your driver’s permit sir; the traffic satellite clocked you at 78 about six miles back.” I hoped my voice did not sound as nervous as I felt.
The driver reached into the visor over is head, handed me the permit card and said only one word. “Sorry.”
“Is there any emergency sir?”
“No sir, I’m just late”, not wanting to make eye contact with me.
I took out my scanner, a pen like device and scanned the bar code on the vehicle’s window; it was transmitted back to the cruiser for verification with the bar code on the ticket.
“I’ll be right back, sir,” I said as politely and authoritatively as I could, this being my first time alone.
I walked back to the cruiser and sat down. The computer was ready and waiting as Dave had pulled it from the dashboard. I verified that the bar code from the window was the same as that one which the satellite transmitted to us and printed on the ticket. They were identical.
I walked back to the car and explained to the operator his option to appear in Court or mail the ticket to the Central Court facility and the fine would be deducted from his payroll automatically. This required he sign the authorization on the back of the form.
I returned to the car as he slowly drove away. Dave was standing beside his door, grinning.
He pointed across the road and there on the side of the road was a small white object. I walked over and it was, as I thought, a cigarette butt.
I left it there and returned to the car. Dave just said, “Do you remember what to do?” I looked at him, thought for a moment, and said “yes.” “Ok, then just forget I’m here and as you process it, explain what you are doing and why”.
I walked to the rear of the cruiser and said” Trunk open” and the rear deck opened, slowly and noiselessly. I pulled out the little black unit, opened it, and turned the switch to on. “This has to warm up for at least two minutes,” I told Dave and he nodded.
I took a pair or tweezers and a plastic evidence bag from the compartment on the side of the unit. “I can’t touch it with my hands or it will be contaminated. Only the sterile tweezers can touch it” No response from Dave, as he waited for me to continue.
I crossed the street, picked it up, and put it in the sterile plastic bag. I returned to the cruiser, and took out the small bottle of clear liquid and slipped the partially smoked cigarette into it. I turned to Dave to recite what I had been taught. “If the liquid turns a light blue there is not enough for a good DNA sample. If it turns a dark blue, the same as the cap from the bottle, the sample is adequate, is that right?”
“You are supposed to tell me, not asked me” he said, hands in his pockets, his eyes on the vial. There followed a silence that made me uncomfortable, so I tried to fill it. “If it turns a dark blue, I insert two of the litmus paper test strips, take them out, let them air dry for thirty seconds and seal them in an empty vial and then I record the barcode. Then it goes to the lab who will match the DNA from the DNA database.”
“Very good,” he said smiling, “where does the database information come from?”
“The DNA data is gathered from military records, arrest records, anyone who wants to apply for government benefits or retirement, or when enrolled in a school, must provide a sample, as well as anyone who immigrates to this country, upon arrival.” He nodded, with what I hoped was approval.
“If there is a match, the subject will be notified by mail to appear in court or mail in the fine,” I stated with self-assurance.
“When my grandfather was a cop, these roads were a mess” He said, “Not only cigarette butts, but cans, bottles, bags, just about everything you could imagine. He told me that the highway repair crews were out here several times a year just picking up litter. “
This was something that was hard to picture. I had seen it movies but not in real life.
It was something that really upset him and he took it personally.” Dave went on, “They had to catch someone the act of throwing it out of a car, before they could do anything. Dave must have been envisioning the reaction he had seen, as his hands, in his lap, became fists and then relaxed.
Dave just continued on, as I had hoped he would, “They had to use the old Doppler and Laser radars to clock a speeding vehicle, it had to be close enough for them to see and if traffic was heavy they sometimes could not pick the correct vehicle and did nothing.”
I recalled a slow day at the University when an instructor took two of the units out of the display case and demonstrated how they worked.
“My grandfather used to work 6-7 days in a row, with no time off,” he said “and eight to nine hours each day, but he loved every minute of it” That was hard for me to comprehend. I thought how far we had come from those days to our four-day workweek.
“Did every town and city really have their own Department, when your grandfather was a police officer?” I asked.
“Not only that, but each County had a Sheriff and then statewide there was a State Police Agency, they were called Police Officers, Deputies, Sheriffs, Troopers and Constables.”
I thought about the simplicity of today, how we had moved so far ahead. Simplicity is beautiful, I thought. The State Bureau of Enforcement had changed all that.
Dave smiled at me, took off his hat, and put it between us. I had come to see this as a signal he was going from his police mode to his instructor mode. This was the one place we could he hatless. The rule is: If your feet are on the ground, your hat is on your head. We heard this frequently at the University, the exception being inside a building.
“My grandfather went to school for a total of twelve weeks, then spent two months with a training officer.” I thought of my twelve-week semesters, for four years. It was hard to comprehend the difference.
“He said the system worked, but it allows for juvenile squabbles about who was in charge of what. Today, we just function as one Bureau of Enforcement, for everything. It has been this way for twenty years.” He glanced up and down the road, there were no vehicles in sight and he continued, “He seems to enjoy seeing the changes and my being a part of it, it keeps him young and in touch. I have a much greater appreciation of how we got where we are today. He lived it and that is better than reading a book any day. He still goes into the Academy as a guest lecturer from time to time. The students love him.”
As we drove away from the parking area and headed into the station, I reflected on how lucky I was to be a law enforcement officer at this place in time.
“Headquarters to 618.”
“618 go ahead.”
“618 meet N 38 on Channel 2.”
Dave looked at me and said, “That’s Sgt. Jim Wilson in narcotics”
“N 38, this is 618 on 2”
“Dave, we are about five miles from you on Saltmarsh Road and we are following a green two door with two male occupants, both armed. We had planned a buy-bust but it just didn’t feel right, so we made the buy and let them drive off. We need uniforms to take them down.”
“Ok on that Jim, just tell us where to go and what to do.”
Dave’s voice remained neutral and his tone did not change. My heart rate increased by a factor of three. Why was he so calm?
When they get to the one lane bridge over Saltmarsh creek, it will be blocked by a van with no one around. That should confuse them just long enough for you to take them down. They have seen my car, so I’ll be the last one in, if things go wrong.”
We headed toward the bridge, which was not far away.
“We’ll park well off the road and out of sight until they get to the bridge.”
“What then,” I asked. “What do we do?”
Dave smiled and said, “We arrest them, how we do it depends upon them and how cooperative they are.”
Three minutes later, we were at the bridge. Dave opened the trunk, grabbed something, ran up to the bridge, attached it and ran back to the car. He promptly drove behind a thicket of trees. He turned on knob on the small screen in the center of the dashboard and we could see the empty bridge.
“Wireless camera with a magnetic mount” he said, as he pointed to the screen.
About one minute later, a van arrived and stopped, partially on the bridge. I could not see the occupants. I thought I saw someone move into the rear area.
“N 38 we’re all set and awaiting the arrival of your guests.”
“10-4 Dave, they will be arriving in a very short time”
This was all happening so fast that I was not sure what to do. Dave must have sensed my uncertainty as he said, “Just remember, stay in the car, it is totally bullet proof, only get out when we have them under control and that will not take long.”
Just then, the car arrived and pulled up behind the van, the horn blew several times and we just sat and watched. Dave looked as if he was watching a movie and not making a drug bust. I wanted to speak, but my mouth was a dry as his sense of humor.
The horn blew again, this time longer and more determined.
As the driver’s door of the car opened, Dave shot forward, around the trees and toward the car. The driver froze beside the door, looking at us. As we got about five feet away, Dave hit a small button on the inside of the steering wheel and a thick fog-like vapor appeared from the front grill. Dave stopped and just sat. The driver went down on his knees and doubled over. The passenger appeared to do the same in the car.
He reverted to his teacher mode as he said, “How long do we have to sit here and how long will they be incapacitated?”
Talking though a parched mouth was not easy but I responded as if I was in the classroom.
“The gas incapacitates anyone within a ten to twelve foot distance, they become disoriented and unable to see or stand. The results last for about two minutes. The control area can be safely entered after traces of the fog can not be seen by eye, and that takes about one minute.”
He just sat, quietly, watching both people carefully. When the vapor had dispersed, he said, “You take the driver, I’ll get the passenger.” As we exited the car, a car pulled up behind us and Dave told me that it was Sgt. Wilson.
We handcuffed both men, without problem. Then it happened. I did not see it, but I heard it and felt it. I heard the doors open in Sgt. Wilson’s car and a louder noise, closer. Then I heard the explosions, four of them. I felt them as much as heard them and dropped to the ground. The sounds all blended, and it was deafening.
I came up on one knee, my gun in my hand. I saw a body on the ground, a few feet from me, behind the car, further away, in my field of vision, I saw two men behind the open doors of a car, firearms pointing at the body. I did not recognize them but as they stood up, I recognized the raid jackets worn by the narcotics officers, a light blue windbreaker with POLICE written in white on each sleeve, across the front and across the back.
I looked back at the body on the ground and saw a handgun about three feet away from it. I stepped toward it, kicked it away, and stepped back so as not to be between the body and the other two officers. I returned my concentration, and my aim, to the man I had just handcuffed. He appeared oblivious to his surroundings.
Dave and I searched the men and locked them in the rear of our car, and returned to the body. Dave introduced me to Sgt. Wilson and Det. Bill Styles. Det. Styles told us the subject was dead.
Sgt. Wilson was on his satellite phone. I heard him reporting an “officer involved shooting” and asking for a crime scene team, photographer, and Field Commander.
I just stood, looking around. Everyone was quiet. The open trunk told the whole story. There was a third subject hiding in the trunk. If it was not for the presence and quick thinking of the narcotics officers, I was not sure I would be standing here. My legs felt like Jell-O.
“Go sit in the car and dictate your report while this is still fresh in your mind. Those two in the back won’t be able to hear a thing. Take your time, go step by step, slowly and put in as much detail as you can.” Dave said quietly. I left for the car.
Dave and the other men searched the car while I dictated my report. Dave came over, sat next to me, but said nothing.
“Did my grandfather tell you why he walks with a cane?”
I shook my head indicating no, unsure of this apparent change from business to social conversation.
“He was shot arresting two people who had just robbed a home. It happened right here, at this bridge. His partner was killed. Both of the shooters got away. They were never caught.
He got out of the car, closed the door and walked away.
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