The address was well known to every officer that walked a beat in the city. 553 Main Street had become a nightly annoyance. "Shaking the doors” of all the closed businesses in the city square made no sense to me. I was a crime fighter. How, or why, this had become part of police work seemed absurd to me at the time. A nightly ritual of tug of war with darkened businesses began each evening at about nine o’clock. Once the businesses had closed, and its work weary inhabitants had moved on to end their days, our work began. Walk up to the door, pull on the handle, make sure it was locked, and move on. Four years of a college education, with its accompanying debt, to rattle doors in the middle of the night. But mine was not to question, so I bore the task with youthful enthusiasm as though my given task would somehow make a difference.
On this particular night, in late summer of 1992, I proudly walked a beat. The centurion of doorways, the commander of darkened windows and discarded cigarette butts. However, on this night, I won my first battle of tug of war with the handle of 553 Main Street. I pulled on the door of the closed business and sure enough, it opened before my eyes. I had heard from every officer on my shift that the business was left open with regularity and checking it was a waste of time. However, I was too new, too green, too idealistic, to heed the advice of seasoned veterans hardened to the concerns of rookie officers.
I did as my training suggested and called for a backup officer to search the building for signs of a break. I dutifully waited his arrival before entering. 553 Main Street was a four story office building. Built in the late 70’s, it was older and its occupancy levels had dropped dramatically. The building sat parallel to the Main Street and had a carousel of glass staircases on each end of the building that ascended to the fourth floor. The building consisted of four long hallways that spanned the length of the building. The individual office entrances sat in tiny alcoves scattered down the length of the hallways. The lights were never left on in the building. The only source of light was the moonlight that faintly cast its spell in eerie fashion down the long hallways. Once my backup arrived, we began the process of checking the building. We both moved cautiously down the hallways, holding our flashlights out away from our bodies as we were trained in the academy. We had checked the first few floors fairly quickly and made our way up the glass staircase to the third floor. We began to work our way down the hallway when suddenly, out of the darkness, he stepped. My heart leapt as the blood coursed through my body. I immediately drew my firearm, and stepped back in the low gun ready position. I began to immediately scream out, “Step back, step back, step the fuck back”; show me your hands, show me your hands”. He was expressionless, he stood unmoved, staring, and I could only make out his features in the horrible moonlight that shined from the end of the long hallway. I knew in an instant who it was. It was Satan! Put here on this earth, right here in this hallway, to end my pathetic existence.
I shined my flashlight on his body and immediately observed he was adorned in tattered camouflage fatigues from head to toe. I ordered him to back up and he stood motionless. I quickly ordered my partner to move forward while I covered him and it was at that very moment that my brain registered the faint sound of footsteps. They were the footsteps of my partner as he DESCENDED the hallway at the end of the building. He was screaming into his portable calling for backup as he cowardly fled my side. I was alone in the hallway with Satan and surely I wasn’t going to make it.
Within minutes I learned Satan’s true name and real purpose for being the star cast member in my nightmare. His name was Brian and he was a homeless veteran. He was fatigued by life and scarred by his battles with mental illness. His presence in the building was purposeful. He wanted to escape the heat of the outside and had realized, like many of the veteran officers had, that 553 Main Street was always left open and its hallways were cool and comfortable.
When the dust had settled, I made my way to the end of the hallway and started down the escape route utilized by Francesco Schettino, not minutes before. On the second floor staircase, I came across Francesco’s hat, perched neatly on the landing. I picked it up and brought it down to the ground floor where Francesco was hiding amongst the other officers who had arrived on scene. I handed Francesco his hat and looked him deep in the eyes. He offered me his hand as a sop to ease his mind. I didn’t take the offer.
However, Francesco, and those like him don’t tell the full story of what it means to be a police officer.
Fast forward to December 26th, 2010. I stood at the podium conducting roll call at the beginning of the shift. The officers sat attentively as they received their assignments for the evening. I couldn’t have known that Satan was looming in the impending snowstorm that was hitting the region. I also couldn’t have known that I was speaking with an officer who would not be alive at the end of his shift. The night was extremely busy as the officers raced from call to call, managing the flurry of motor vehicle crashes that beseeched the city. Near the end of the shift, the phones in the dispatch center began to ring with a tremendous sense of urgency. Something wasn’t good. “Please, please, there is a man with a gun in the store, come quick”. The robbery of the jewelry store was taking place in the midst of a blinding snowstorm. It was later learned that this was all part of “Satan’s” plan. Within minutes, the 911 calls lit up the phones. People were begging for the police to arrive as the robber was assaulting the store employees in an effort to hasten their efforts at loading up his bag with jewelry. Outside sat the responding officers. Trained not to go inside to avoid a hostage standoff, the officers waited. Within minutes, the robber exited the store and, along with his lookout who had been standing outside on the sidewalk, fled toward their waiting getaway car that had been parked on a nearby street.
Without fear, trepidation, and at the risk to his own life, one of the responding officers drove out in front of the fleeing suspects. He attempted to bring his cruiser to a stop, far out in front of the bandits, so he could exit, and engage the subjects from a position of cover. His cruiser tires slid hopelessly on the virgin snow of the parking lot as he pumped the brakes, trying with all hope to bring his cruiser to a halt. The cruiser was sliding dangerously close to the suspects who were now closing fast on him. Within seconds the two met, right there in the parking lot, on the day after Christmas, in a blinding snowstorm; felon versus father, Satan versus The Sheepdog. They exchanged gunfire with each other at a distance of approximately 30 feet, each inflicting mortal wounds. Within minutes, each would die, both for a different cause…
I had the daunting task of calling the officers wife that night and explaining what she already sensed from the tone in my voice the moment she answered the phone. Within the week, thousands of officers from throughout the country would attend his funeral. As is customary, near the end of the funeral, the officer’s wife was approached by the Chief of our agency. He handed her a folded flag. He then reached down and picked up the officers hat from the casket where it was proudly displayed. He handed the wife the hat and reached out to shake her hand, she accepted it and began to cry. I would have been proud to shake her hand as well. I cried too.
On this particular night, in late summer of 1992, I proudly walked a beat. The centurion of doorways, the commander of darkened windows and discarded cigarette butts. However, on this night, I won my first battle of tug of war with the handle of 553 Main Street. I pulled on the door of the closed business and sure enough, it opened before my eyes. I had heard from every officer on my shift that the business was left open with regularity and checking it was a waste of time. However, I was too new, too green, too idealistic, to heed the advice of seasoned veterans hardened to the concerns of rookie officers.
I did as my training suggested and called for a backup officer to search the building for signs of a break. I dutifully waited his arrival before entering. 553 Main Street was a four story office building. Built in the late 70’s, it was older and its occupancy levels had dropped dramatically. The building sat parallel to the Main Street and had a carousel of glass staircases on each end of the building that ascended to the fourth floor. The building consisted of four long hallways that spanned the length of the building. The individual office entrances sat in tiny alcoves scattered down the length of the hallways. The lights were never left on in the building. The only source of light was the moonlight that faintly cast its spell in eerie fashion down the long hallways. Once my backup arrived, we began the process of checking the building. We both moved cautiously down the hallways, holding our flashlights out away from our bodies as we were trained in the academy. We had checked the first few floors fairly quickly and made our way up the glass staircase to the third floor. We began to work our way down the hallway when suddenly, out of the darkness, he stepped. My heart leapt as the blood coursed through my body. I immediately drew my firearm, and stepped back in the low gun ready position. I began to immediately scream out, “Step back, step back, step the fuck back”; show me your hands, show me your hands”. He was expressionless, he stood unmoved, staring, and I could only make out his features in the horrible moonlight that shined from the end of the long hallway. I knew in an instant who it was. It was Satan! Put here on this earth, right here in this hallway, to end my pathetic existence.
I shined my flashlight on his body and immediately observed he was adorned in tattered camouflage fatigues from head to toe. I ordered him to back up and he stood motionless. I quickly ordered my partner to move forward while I covered him and it was at that very moment that my brain registered the faint sound of footsteps. They were the footsteps of my partner as he DESCENDED the hallway at the end of the building. He was screaming into his portable calling for backup as he cowardly fled my side. I was alone in the hallway with Satan and surely I wasn’t going to make it.
Within minutes I learned Satan’s true name and real purpose for being the star cast member in my nightmare. His name was Brian and he was a homeless veteran. He was fatigued by life and scarred by his battles with mental illness. His presence in the building was purposeful. He wanted to escape the heat of the outside and had realized, like many of the veteran officers had, that 553 Main Street was always left open and its hallways were cool and comfortable.
When the dust had settled, I made my way to the end of the hallway and started down the escape route utilized by Francesco Schettino, not minutes before. On the second floor staircase, I came across Francesco’s hat, perched neatly on the landing. I picked it up and brought it down to the ground floor where Francesco was hiding amongst the other officers who had arrived on scene. I handed Francesco his hat and looked him deep in the eyes. He offered me his hand as a sop to ease his mind. I didn’t take the offer.
However, Francesco, and those like him don’t tell the full story of what it means to be a police officer.
Fast forward to December 26th, 2010. I stood at the podium conducting roll call at the beginning of the shift. The officers sat attentively as they received their assignments for the evening. I couldn’t have known that Satan was looming in the impending snowstorm that was hitting the region. I also couldn’t have known that I was speaking with an officer who would not be alive at the end of his shift. The night was extremely busy as the officers raced from call to call, managing the flurry of motor vehicle crashes that beseeched the city. Near the end of the shift, the phones in the dispatch center began to ring with a tremendous sense of urgency. Something wasn’t good. “Please, please, there is a man with a gun in the store, come quick”. The robbery of the jewelry store was taking place in the midst of a blinding snowstorm. It was later learned that this was all part of “Satan’s” plan. Within minutes, the 911 calls lit up the phones. People were begging for the police to arrive as the robber was assaulting the store employees in an effort to hasten their efforts at loading up his bag with jewelry. Outside sat the responding officers. Trained not to go inside to avoid a hostage standoff, the officers waited. Within minutes, the robber exited the store and, along with his lookout who had been standing outside on the sidewalk, fled toward their waiting getaway car that had been parked on a nearby street.
Without fear, trepidation, and at the risk to his own life, one of the responding officers drove out in front of the fleeing suspects. He attempted to bring his cruiser to a stop, far out in front of the bandits, so he could exit, and engage the subjects from a position of cover. His cruiser tires slid hopelessly on the virgin snow of the parking lot as he pumped the brakes, trying with all hope to bring his cruiser to a halt. The cruiser was sliding dangerously close to the suspects who were now closing fast on him. Within seconds the two met, right there in the parking lot, on the day after Christmas, in a blinding snowstorm; felon versus father, Satan versus The Sheepdog. They exchanged gunfire with each other at a distance of approximately 30 feet, each inflicting mortal wounds. Within minutes, each would die, both for a different cause…
I had the daunting task of calling the officers wife that night and explaining what she already sensed from the tone in my voice the moment she answered the phone. Within the week, thousands of officers from throughout the country would attend his funeral. As is customary, near the end of the funeral, the officer’s wife was approached by the Chief of our agency. He handed her a folded flag. He then reached down and picked up the officers hat from the casket where it was proudly displayed. He handed the wife the hat and reached out to shake her hand, she accepted it and began to cry. I would have been proud to shake her hand as well. I cried too.