by Glenn Wood
After the hit and run incident Sergeant Nelson made me spend a lot of time behind the front desk. He’d decided it would give me a good insight into how people react when reporting crimes. That was fine by me, I liked the front desk. A lot of cops didn’t because most of the time you were dealing with humdrum incidents such as lost property reports, burglary files, petty thefts and minor assaults but occasionally something came along which made it all worthwhile.
Such an incident occurred early one winter morning when a man came in to report that his car had been stolen. I pulled out the necessary forms and asked him what had happened. He told me that he was half way through burgling a local squash club and had just loaded his station wagon with stolen booze and cigarettes when some bastard nicked his car. He’d loaded the alcohol and then gone back inside the squash club to see if he’d missed anything. When he came out again his car was missing. He was extremely annoyed. I, on the other hand was incredulous. I asked him if he was admitting to the burglary and he said: “Yeah, yeah, just find my bloody car.”
He could have reported the car missing without mentioning the burglary, but it appears he didn’t think of that. This guy made Forrest Gump look like a genius. I asked him to stay where he was and fetched my sergeant. When I told him the story, he fell about laughing. The burglar heatedly pointed out that he wasn’t finding it amusing. He even had the nerve to look shocked when Sergeant Nelson arrested him. I took the details of his stolen car and released a news bulletin to all staff. A quarter of an hour later one of our cars spotted the stolen vehicle being driven near the squash club. They pulled the car over and arrested the driver, who admitted pinching the car on the spur of the moment. He saw it sitting outside the squash club, loaded up with booze with the keys in the ignition and the engine running. The temptation was too great to resist. He made some uncharitable remarks about the intellectual capacity of the car's owner. When he arrived at the station, my sergeant decided to have a bit of fun. He went to the cells and told the burglar he had good news for him. His car had been found undamaged and we’d caught the guy who took it. Next he spoke to the car thief and wondered if he’d like to pass on his comments about the car owner in person. He took the car thief to the burglar’s cell, introduced them and locked them in together. Before he shut the door he couldn’t resist a parting shot: he told them once they’d sorted out their differences perhaps they could get together for a game of squash. He was a cruel man my sergeant, funny, but cruel.
The best thing about the incident was how efficient we looked to the members of the squash club. Before they had even discovered the burglary we had arrested and charged the offender and recovered all the stolen property. Not bad for half an hour’s work.
If only police work was always that simple. Normally, it was much more complex and the outcome considerably sadder. Some of the predicaments I found myself in were full of heartbreak. One of the worst cases I attended was a cot death. These tragedies are hard enough to deal with under normal circumstances but on this particular occasion we were asked to treat the death as suspicious. This meant treating the family as suspects rather than grieving relatives. I was way out of my depth.
I wasn’t privy to the information that led the police to consider foul play and I could find no evidence that anything was amiss. Not that I knew what I was looking for. The family were experiencing extreme trauma due to the death of their three-month-old baby girl. To have the police poking around asking clumsy and distasteful questions was very distressing for them. Interviewing the parents was next to impossible as they were in shock. The other relatives deeply resented our presence and were cold and uncooperative. My youth didn't help. I wasn’t a parent so how could I possibly know what it felt like to lose a child. Looking back I can see I probably seemed unfeeling and brutal in my questioning. This wasn’t the case but I had a job to do and I was doing it the only way I knew how. During training they taught us what to say, but in situations such as this, it wasn’t what you said that counted it was the way that you said it. And I said it wrong.
It was a harrowing day that ended with insufficient evidence to continue the investigation. It was a classic lose/lose situation. If the child had been deliberately killed and we hadn’t investigated we would have failed in our duty. If she had died accidentally and we pursued the parents too hard then we could have been accused of police harassment.
It was at times like this I realised what a double edged sword it was being a cop. When you made the right decision everyone loved you; when you didn’t you not only hurt yourself but also those around you. I think that’s probably why so many police marriages break up. The spouse of a policeman often bears the baggage of the cop but doesn’t have the training to deal with it. Being a police officer isn’t the sort of job you can leave at the door when you get home. Some officers could but I wasn’t one of them. I needed to talk to someone about the traumatic things I’d dealt with during the day. Carey was always attentive and sympathetic but she couldn’t understand the conflicting emotions and pressures I was experiencing. She was too young, as were all my other friends. The only older people were the members of my section and there was an unwritten rule that you would never speak to your police mates about your real feelings. Guys didn’t do that. You handled it or you got out: quite a simple choice really.
Die, Pig, Die.
Only two Cadets from the General Poananga Cadet wing were posted to Palmerston North. Before six months had gone by, one had been thrown unceremoniously out of the police. Astonishingly, it wasn’t me.
The other Cadet’s name was Keith. He was a really nice bloke and a good cop too. Sure, he was a bit green, but what else would you expect from a nineteen year old kid, not long out of training college. He was also considerably better than me at day to day policing. He had a patient sergeant and had made fine friends within his section; in fact he was extremely popular throughout the station. I was envious of how well he was doing. The incident that ended his career was a trifling affair, or so everyone thought.
Late shift, early June. Keith was on duty in the I-car when one of the local bike gang members was seen driving dangerously around town. They quickly located the offender and he took off when he saw the police. Keith was driving and gave chase. A brief pursuit ensued, which ended with Keith accidentally rear ending the bike. The rider suddenly stopped in the middle of the road to give himself up. It was dark and Keith didn’t see him pull up until it was too late to stop. The police car smashed into the rear of the motorcycle sending its rider flying. Not much damage was done and the offender only received minor injuries. The guy was well known to the police. He had a long list of petty convictions and fell into the category of ‘no good, trouble making, scumbag.’ He claimed Keith had run into him on purpose and laid a formal complaint. Keith was duly charged and was handed down a conviction for Careless Use of a Motor Vehicle.
It was a black mark on his record but not enough to have him thrown out. Keith was given a slap on the wrist and a small fine and that should have been the end of the matter. It probably would have been if it hadn’t been for an incident that took place a couple of weeks later.
Keith was having a few quiet drinks in the police bar with some friends when a call for help came from the station. The bar was on the second floor of the same building. My section were on duty and staffing was light (I was off sick, just for a change). Sergeant Nelson had arrested several gang members for a variety of offences and had locked them in the cells. They were starting to get rowdy and a minor riot had begun. The sergeant was alone in the station as the other section members were attending incidents so he had no option but to call the bar for help.
Keith and several off-duty officers ran downstairs and followed Sergeant Nelson to the cells. Guess who the main trouble maker was. The scumbag who had previously laid the complaint against Keith. He and his companions had set fire to some of the mattresses in the cells and were throwing pieces of burning foam around. Keith grabbed a nearby high pressur
e fire hose and turned it on full blast. Once he had put out the fires he turned the hose on the gang member, knocking him to the ground and soaking him. Keith gave the guy a couple of extra squirts for good luck. Things calmed down immediately and Keith went back to the bar to continue drinking. The next morning when the gang member was being bailed he began moaning about the treatment he had received the night before. No-one was taking it very seriously as the guy was clearly asking for trouble and while Keith may have been a little over-zealous with the hose he hadn’t done anything wrong. Unfortunately a senior sergeant (who was an uptight arsehole) was in the watch house at the time and he overheard the gang member’s complaints. When the bail process was completed he took the guy into his office and encouraged him to lay a formal complaint against Keith. Nice work, Senior. A great way to support your staff.
I was back on duty the following evening and the station was abuzz with the news that Keith had been charged with assault. I couldn’t believe it.
Keith hadn’t denied the charge but had pleaded mitigating circumstances and claimed his actions were the only way he could have brought the situation under control. There is no doubt in my mind that the little shit richly deserved the hosing down he got but Keith still shouldn’t have done it. Most cops have dished out a little instant justice in their time and everyone was sure that Keith would be released with a warning. Everybody that was, except the senior sergeant, who wanted Keith crucified. Our good senior sergeant wanted to prove to the Police Commission that he was on top of internal discipline. He recommended that the case be taken to trial with Keith facing a common assault charge. If he were found guilty this would be the end of his career, especially coming so close on the heels of his Careless Use charge.
The irony was that the gang member didn’t want to press charges. He’d calmed down and realised he was making a lot of very powerful enemies. He even asked for the case to be withdrawn. This left the senior sergeant with a dilemma. He couldn’t take the case any further with an unreliable and possibly hostile witness and he couldn’t back down without losing face in front of the Police Commission. He recommended to the District Commander that Keith be 'asked' to resign as an example to the rest of the staff.
The district commander decided to back the senior sergeant, despite the fact that Keith’s sergeant and several other high-ranking staff members came out in his defence. With no other option Keith resigned the following week.
The net result of this stunning display of managerial ineptitude was that the police lost a good cop and everyone in the station hated the senior sergeant. There were dark mutterings around the corridors about appropriate revenge and morale sunk to a new low.
The whole incident made us all extremely nervous for our jobs. Obviously we could expect no support from our superiors in the event of an internal inquiry. This was worrying because the police was not the kind of job where you could follow strict rules. Every situation we attended was different, all were unpredictable and a lot of the time we were travelling in uncharted waters. We were also dealing with people who didn’t play by the rules and sometimes the only language they understood was violence. I’m not suggesting the police be given a free hand to dispense justice as and how they see fit but there does need to be some latitude when choosing the appropriate response to each individual situation. You should also be able to make some mistakes, as Keith did, without falling victim to political power play from your supposed superiors. It saddens me to say it, but from my experience you were more likely to get a knife in the back within the station than you were out on the streets.
Right, got that off my chest. After Keith left, I decided to keep a low profile. It was a bad time to draw attention to the fact that I was far more inept than he would ever have been, although I’m sure this hadn’t escaped the notice of my superiors. Still, nothing was said and I don’t think my sergeant had given up hope of turning me into an adequate officer of the law.
Even though morale was low throughout the station, the individual sections drew closer together. It was a natural reaction to the general atmosphere of distrust. As sections closed ranks it forced you to place a disproportionate trust in those you worked most closely with. The whole point of creating different sections was to foster these very feelings, which was both positive and negative. The negatives were that it removed you from other station members and you were unfamiliar with the workings of other sections. The positives were an unswerving loyalty to your team and a confidence that you had support should anything go wrong. This was in an ideal world and it depended on how you got on with your section members. That said, we were all still cops and I had faith that any member of my section would rush to my aid if I got in a jam. My theory was put to the test one week during night shift a couple of months after Sergeant Nelson started.
It was a dark and stormy night. Actually it was quite light and fine but I need a dramatic opening. Let’s settle for a darkish evening with a nasty breeze expected a bit later on.
I was in the Mobile Beat car with one of my colleagues when we received a call that a suspicious person was lurking around a local sports clubhouse on the east side of town. We were the closest car and were asked to attend. As we approached the clubhouse my partner alerted me to a figure skulking by the front door. A more suspicious person I have never seen. He was dressed entirely in black and was wearing black gloves and a full-face balaclava. The only thing missing was a flashing neon sign above his head with the word 'criminal' written on it.
We pulled to a stop and he glanced my way. I looked back at him and he took off. My partner yelled 'Get him!' in my right ear. I took exception to this as I had been tugging at my door handle long before he said anything. It didn’t appear to be working and the car door remained stubbornly closed. It took me a few seconds to figure out that I’d accidentally pushed the lock shut with my elbow, but when I did, I was out of the car like a whippet after a stuffed rabbit. The bad guy was moving rapidly as well. He ran like buggery across the sports club’s rugby field. He was quick. I was running flat out and wasn’t gaining on him. I cursed the steak pie I’d scoffed for supper and ran harder. He was still pulling away from me. Faced with the very real prospect of being outrun by the felon I had a brainwave. I yelled 'Halt or I open fire!' I didn’t have a gun of course but was hoping he wouldn’t know that. He didn’t stop but he did glance nervously behind him which slowed him down. This gave me the edge I needed and I swiftly closed the gap.
It was at this delicate point in the pursuit that we reached the end of the rugby field. The field was ringed by a steep muddy bank that led directly into a fast moving shallow river. The ground then opened out into fields and bush. I knew if he made it through the river, up the other bank and into the scrubland, he’d be gone. With me hard on his heels, he leapt down the bank and into the river below. I followed, gaining ground as adrenaline kicked in. He was half way through the river and was struggling against the current. I was close now. The thrill of the chase had me so hyped up that I hardly noticed the freezing water tugging at my thighs (I certainly noticed when it got to testicle level though). He made it to the other bank just ahead of me and began slipping in the mud. Got you now, I thought, as I readied myself to grab his leg. At that moment, a shadowy figure appeared at the top of the bank, directly above us. He looked straight at me and snarled 'Fucking pig, I’m going to kill you.'
He pointed a large pistol at my head and fired twice. The gun exploded in his hand with several sharp bangs and a flash. A shot of flame erupted from the barrel, briefly illuminating the shooter against the night sky.
I threw myself into the mud and did my best impersonation of a flounder as the bullets smashed into the bank beside me. Any notion of catching the other villain was forgotten and I watched him join his partner at the top of the river bank. The big guy with the gun reiterated his dislike for the constabulary in general and me in particular.
Blam, 'Die Pig’ Blam, ‘Die.’ Blam blam! 'Die'. Blam, Blam.
He
didn’t have an extensive vocabulary but what he lacked in words he made up for by having a bloody big gun. He emptied the entire chamber in my direction, six shots and with each discharge I lay unmoving in the mud shivering with cold and fear. I expected at any second to feel a bullet tear into my flesh. After the last shot I stayed still, trembling, waiting for him to reload and climb down the bank to finish me off. He moved toward me, paused at the edge of the embankment and peered into the gloom. I hardly dared to breathe. Time ticked by in slow motion. My face was pressed into the mud on a forty five degree angle enabling me to see up the bank and I watched in a detached trance as the mist of his breath seeped through the wool of his balaclava, spiralling slowly into the night. After what seemed like an eternity he turned and trudged off. I suppose he thought no-one could have survived the barrage of shots he unleashed at me at close range. I was inclined to agree and was amazed at how painless being shot turned out to be. It took me a few minutes plus a lot of limb flexing and body patting to realise that I was uninjured. Incredibly, every bullet had missed me. Drawing on every ounce of courage I had left, I pulled myself up the bank and peered cautiously over the top. There was no sign of the bad guys. They had disappeared into the bush. As I lay on top of the embankment, freezing, filthy and freaked out, I wondered what had happened to my supposed partner. As if on cue he arrived on the other side of the river.