Reality was very different. One of the combatants had been so severely beaten (which was painfully obvious at the scene) that he died the next day. He had severe internal injuries, and a bleeding hemorrhage on the brain. The mutual combat call had just become a potential homicide.
Detectives were called out. They investigated and discovered that Prevost had been assigned the call. Homicide detectives contacted Prevost to see if he had his notes from the incident.
It wasn’t unreasonable for them to expect that he would at least get the men’s names, dates of birth, physical descriptions, and addresses. The usual bare minimum a patrolman would obtain at a call requires at least checking for any warrants on the suspects, and that would require obtaining identification and making a positive ID of anyone involved in the call.
However, this was Prevost. That would require more effort than he put into 95 percent of his calls. He hadn’t run the men to see if they were wanted for any previous crimes, and he hadn’t asked for identification. He hadn’t even asked them their names. He had absolutely nothing to show for his contact with the two men. Nothing.
The detectives were not only amazed, they were furious. At the time, Prevost had been a cop for fifteen years or more. He knew better, but just didn’t care.
One of the detectives mentioned the case to me a few days later. He said that they considered charging Prevost for negligence, but that the department administration had squashed the idea. They didn’t want the bad press. He asked me if that was standard for patrolmen now—not to take any information at a call. I laughed. Standard? No, not for most of us. For Prevost, though, it was normal.
The man died, and no charges were ever filed against anyone. About a week later, Prevost told me his version of the event. He was mad that the detectives had second-guessed him and questioned why he hadn’t obtained either of the men’s identification. He said, “Fuck them, they don’t know what we do on the street. It is easy to second guess us when you’re not out here in the battle.”
I smiled. There would be no changing Prevost. He was never wrong, and saw himself as one of the hardest-working and most productive patrolman in the department.
Somehow, Prevost made it through his career and reached retirement. He continued to drain the department of resources and money by working shifts and details that popped up, while actually producing very little. We called it “sucking a check.”
We compared the work ethic of cops like Alan Prevost and Mike Preston to that of prostitutes who would only give blowjobs. All did the bare minimum on the streets, yet they were all thought of as whores to the almighty dollar, willing to do anything for a buck.
Prevost loved to spend the money he made. It was part of his tremendous ego, making money and then spending it on stuff—stuff he would be sure to tell everyone that he’d purchased. Not that he could enjoy any of it; he was never home. But he did have it all, including tanning beds, laser-disc surround-sound theater systems, night-vision goggles, hand guns of every make and model, Caribbean cruises, motor homes, etc. He even had a home custom-built home with indoor and outdoor swimming pools and a hot tub. All of which he was rarely able to use, because he was a slave to the job.
Prevost thought very highly of himself, as you might have guessed. He thought that he deserved to be promoted and could not understand why he was never elevated up the food chain to sergeant or lieutenant. He knew that he belonged there, but in his mind the kiss-asses had banded together. He felt that they didn’t want a cop who worked as hard as he saw himself working in their ranks, making them look bad. It has always amazed me how people rationalize and warp reality.
When the opportunity popped up at a smaller nearby department to apply for a recently-vacated chief’s position, Prevost jumped at it. He had a resume that was impressive on paper. The reality was very different, but city councils have no idea of what makes a good cop, and even less of what makes a good chief. Prevost could schmooze the brass like nobody’s business. He’d made a career out of making a molehill of effort look like a mountain of results. So the city council did what most city councils do, and hired the least-capable man for the job.
Prevost thought that he’d finally received his due as a cop. He’d jumped over sergeant, lieutenant, captain, and even assistant chief. He was now the chief. Finally, he’d been recognized at a level he deserved. He was given the respect he had earned. He was Chief Prevost. His ego was finally satiated. He had an unmarked car and a secretary, and everyone called him “Chief.” Everywhere he went in the small town, he was recognized and catered to. Chief Prevost had arrived in the big leagues and was living large. Well almost.
One day, Chief Prevost was shopping for a few gifts. He just knew that everyone in the store whispered as he walked past, “There goes the Chief of Police.” He smiled to himself as he walked past the people in the store. It was obvious to him that they knew who he was and that he was an important man. He picked out some expensive gifts for family and friends, and filled up the shopping cart while stopping to talk to strangers and introducing himself.
He loved the reaction he received when he mentioned casually in conversation that he was the chief of police, thinking to himself, “That’s right bitch. I’m the man!” He made small talk with the “commoners” in the store, letting them know that at one time, he had been one of them. Well, at least that’s how he saw it.
The truth was that the people he talked to had no idea who he was, nor did they care. I have no idea who the chief is of the city I now live in; I don’t care, and I‘ve been a cop for thirty years. No one cares except the people who work for him.
Chief Prevost strutted around the store with his expensive gifts, and then, when enough people had acknowledged him, he headed to the checkout lines. He swiped his American Express Black card, and smiled at the expression on the clerk’s face at the amount he had spent.
Yep. He was a man of means, a man who had earned and deserved your respect.
Karma was about to give the chief a reality check. He walked out of the large retail chain and was approached by the frail and elderly doorman, and asked for his receipt.
Years earlier, retail stores in the US had done research on where the majority of the thefts occurring in their stores originated. They found out, surprisingly, that most theft was internal, meaning that it was committed by employees. One of the most profitable and low-risk ways for employees to steal is for a checker or cashier to fail to scan an item at checkout. A team of professional thieves gets one person hired as a checker at a store, and then the team hits the store over and over, purchasing some items, but not paying for high-priced ones that their “inside man” only pretends to scan. Millions of dollars in profits are lost this way every year.
Several stores developed the “one final check” practice to deal with the issue. After checkout, there is one final check by a trusted, usually older employee. This person checks each receipt to ensure that all the items in a cart have been paid for. This is not to imply that the store doesn’t trust its customers; in reality, it doesn’t trust its own employees.
On this occasion, the arrogant chief took the request as sign of disrespect. As the chief of police, he should have instantly been recognized. Obviously, he was above the brief inspection. He was not a thief! How could the frail old man not have recognized him immediately?
The fact is that this kind of inspection happens every day at places like Costco, Wal-Mart, and Target stores all over the nation. If the chief had been paying attention during his many part-time jobs instead of sleeping in changing rooms and utility closets, he would’ve known this.
Chief Prevost at first said no to the request for his receipt and pressed on, ignoring the frail old man. The doorman was not intimidated; he was a WWII veteran and was not about to be treated like a doormat. He sounded the alarm.
Within moments, employees and then a manager surrounded the chief. His arrogance had caught up with him, and he exploded in a tirade of “Fuck you!” and then,
“Do you know who the fuck I am?” No—they neither knew nor cared who the fuck he was. It was company policy, and the manager would do whatever it took to keep his job as one of the “common people” the arrogant chief had so recently graced with his presence.
The local police were called when the chief escalated his verbal abuse. Unfortunately for Chief Prevost, he wasn’t in “his” city. He was eventually given a citation in lieu of being arrested, and the incident made national news. The store had video of the entire incident, and no matter how the chief tried to paint it as not being his fault, the video didn’t leave any doubts.
Just ten short days later, Chief Alan Prevost was relieved of his position by the same city council that had hired him. He made sure to leave them with a small taste of the verbal abuse he’d unleashed on the aging WWII veteran, the guy who’d dared ask for his receipt.
The chief went from his self-imposed status as hero straight to zero in the time it took to inspect a receipt at the door of your local retail store.
REGGIE STILLS WAS BORN THE son of a cop, and grew up in the shadow of his father’s police uniform. Everywhere he went as a child, people knew his father. Every store they went into to buy groceries, every restaurant they ate in, every movie theater they went to, there was someone who knew his dad and would make a comment or say a thank-you for something his dad had done for them.
That is the reality for cops’ kids. Your cop parent is known everywhere and by everyone—usually for doing something good, sometimes for not-so-good things. Always, though, people will come up and talk, and then ask, “Is this your son/daughter?”
Reggie knew what it meant to grow up in a fishbowl with everyone watching your every move. It made him a little more rebellious than most kids in his peer group, and he got into a little more trouble than most.
He was lucky, though. Dads who are cops are not always the best parents. Reggie had a dad who was the exception to that rule. His dad would take him camping and fishing, and was involved in coaching his little league teams.
When Reggie grew older and started to sow some wild oats as a high school-aged kid, his dad sponsored parties at his home. He made sure that kids didn’t drive if they were drinking, and when parents asked who would be supervising the party, he would take a day off work and make sure the party was safe for all involved. He was that kind of dad, realistic and grounded. He knew that his son would be drinking and, rather than ignore it and stick his head in the sand and pretend that it wasn’t happening, he stepped up.
When Reggie graduated high school, he decided to go into the Marine Corps. His dad hadn’t been a Marine, and this made Reggie want to make his own mark and prove himself on his own terms. His dad told me one day while we were on a break getting a drink how proud he was when his son told him that he had enlisted in the Marines. He said that he knew it would be difficult, but he also knew from watching his son that he was strong enough to handle the training and he felt that he would excel. He wasn’t disappointed, and when Reggie completed his enlistment and decided to come back home, his father welcomed him.
Reggie returned home with an honorable discharge in hand and a new-found confidence. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about the man that his father was, and when he came home he decided to try his hand at law enforcement as well.
He got a foot in the door by first getting hired by the sheriff’s department. Working in corrections gave him a view of the streets from watching and dealing with captured criminals and learning from them on a day-to-day basis. Most cops will tell you that correctional officers make the best street cops, because they live with the arrested criminals of a city for forty hours or more a week. Making sure they are fed three meals and receive medical treatment, and breaking up the inevitable fights that occur, gives you a life experience that few others will ever have. It makes you seasoned in the streets before you ever set foot in a patrol vehicle and start making your own arrests.
Reggie excelled at the job, and in a couple of years tested for the very few open positions in his father’s department. He was selected on his second attempt at testing, and passed the police academy easily. Compared to the Marine Corps boot camp, the state police academy was a walk in the park. In no time Reggie was on the streets, working next to his father. His dad couldn’t have been more proud.
Father and son were different people. Dad had been married once and stayed married to the same woman for fifty-two years before he died. Reggie was more like me. He couldn’t seem to find a woman who could grow with him and deal with the stresses of being a cop’s wife. He was married and divorced as many times as I was, maybe more. I never asked. We both worked a lot of overtime trying to stay on top of bills.
Reggie was as gifted on the streets as Billy Webster or Ray Fossum, though he was much more subdued and quiet. He didn’t draw a lot of attention to himself or the things that he did.
Reggie applied his marine training to the job and applied for the department’s SWAT team. He was accepted and did well. He excelled at the tactical training, and grasped the concepts better than most of the team leaders. This made him a target, and it wasn’t long before he was asked not so politely to leave the team. The powers that be didn’t like that he was an independent thinker and quite capable of improvising the tactics they thought of as carved in stone. They were black-and-white thinkers, while Reggie saw the world in shades of grey.
Reggie left the team and quietly disappeared onto the midnight shift, where the target that always seemed to be present on the back of his head was less visible to others. Reggie layed low, did his job at night, and like his father, did a great job of taking care of his kids. He coached them at soccer and frequently would come to briefing before shift beaming at how well his little girls had done at their games.
He was seriously much more proud of what his girls did in sports and school than I ever saw him at anything he did at work. He accomplished a lot in the streets, but nothing brought him the joy he experienced coaching and watching his girls. It would be no exaggeration to say there were tears in his eyes more than once while he bragged about them. He was a very proud father. We both were—and like me, he was a horrible husband.
Reggie decided to take a turn in the floundering gang unit and made a huge impact there. He gathered intelligence on the local gangs in a manner that had never been seen or attempted before. To say that he had a gift was an understatement. He could find out what had happened during a particular incident in very short order. Unlike the previous gang detectives, he listened to everyone, gang members and cops alike. He was able to put some amazingly difficult cases together just by doing what he did best: listening and being an exceptional cop.
Reggie and I rolled through divorces, one after another, and would often joke in a painful way about our fucked-up lives. We each would meet our soul mates soon enough, but not yet.
Reggie finally met what he thought was the perfect woman one night in the emergency room. He was bringing in the latest drunk, or perhaps he was called up there on the latest stabbing or shooting victim to have been dumped off at the emergency room doors. I don’t really know, but I do know that is where he met the dark-eyed nurse. She was a beauty, seriously, and I envied him. She was married, and her marriage was going to shit, as was Reggie’s.
Cops and emergency room nurses live life without the rose-colored glasses that most of us take for granted. The rest of us read in the paper about one-tenth of the horrors that really go on in the streets. You might read about one rape that occurred the previous night, or one fatal crash. Cops and emergency room nurses see all of it—not just the single case that gets printed but the dozens that don’t.
They don’t just read about it, they live it. The screams of the helpless and wounded in pain: the smell of blood, brains, and shit of the near-dead and dying. They see and experience it all and come back the next night for the next installment of what the rest of us rarely even realize is going on, every day, all day long.
Reggie was sitti
ng in a waiting room when the nurse came in. Beautiful as ever, she looked at Reggie and smiled. There was something in her eyes that night that made the smile look more like a grimace of pain than a greeting. Reggie noticed it immediately, and started to talk to her. He was genuinely concerned, wondering if she was okay. The two groups, cops and nurses, spar a lot, but also genuinely care about each other. There is no one else in their worlds who understands what they see and the toll it takes.
Reggie talked to her while she did her work of checking blood pressure and assessing a patient’s health. He watched like only a good cop can, noticing little changes in the facial expressions and posture that clue you in that something isn’t right. Later, he made a point out of coming back up when he knew she would be at lunch. He sat down uninvited, again as only a cop will, and began to coax the nurse to talk to him.
In a few minutes, the normally hard-as-stone emergency room nurse was in tears. She told him of her disastrous marriage and her fear that she would be alone. Then she dropped the bomb on him: she was addicted to pain pills and had been stealing them from the emergency room. She admitted that she couldn’t sleep without them. The nightmares of the damaged bodies she saw night in and night out made sleep impossible without the prescription drugs she skimmed from the emergency room pharmacy.
She had worked her way through nursing school with no scholarship and no assistance. It was hard, but it had been her dream to be a nurse and to make a difference. Now she felt like it was all falling apart. Her job as a nurse, her marriage, basically her entire life, it was all going to shit because of the addiction. Reggie listened carefully.
Cops talk to people who are at their wits’ end every day. They spill their guts to cops much like a person might to a priest. It is a cleansing moment, I suppose, to release all of the fears and emotion to someone you feel you can trust. Good cops have an innate knack for knowing when to push, and when to sit in silence and listen, and Reggie was an excellent cop.
Hero To Zero 2nd edition Page 14