The Loss of Two Friends

January has been a difficult month, and not because of the weather.

We've lost two local patriot heroes, members of America's Greatest Generation.

On January 3rd, Crestline's Stan Schneider, a Marine during the Second World War, passed away at the age of 96. This morning I awakened to news that Roy Walter, who served proudly in the United States Navy during the same war, had died.

The significance of the passing of these two patriot heroes is that I'd had the privilege of writing Stan and Roy's stories of military service for the Mansfield News Journal this past year; during these veteran interviews, developing a friendly relationship with the veterans I talk to is unavoidable, especially with the men who served in WW II. They're from a different time in this nation's history, a generation that was shocked into war by the despicable attack on Hawaii's Pearl Harbor naval base on December 7th, 1941. Though militarily sound from a Japanese perspective, the sneak attack and resultant wreckage of America's Pacific fleet enraged the nation; men young and old reported to military induction centers across the country in droves, eager to exact revenge on the Empire of Japan and her heinous ally in Europe, Nazi Germany. In many cases nationwide, men who were found physically unfit for military service committed suicide, unable to bear what they must have perceived as shame at being rejected by the Army, Navy and Marine Corps.

That was the mindset of their generation, because they all wanted to do their part in protecting America. They didn't seek out 'safe spaces' or run off to Canada to avoid serving. Even Charles Lindbergh, the hero of flight in America and an ardent anti-war isolationist prior to the Pearl Harbor attack, flew combat missions as a fighter pilot in the Pacific theater.

That makes a pretty good case for theirs being America's Greatest Generation, doesn't it?

By no means am I casting  negative aspersions on later successors in America's military. I have an ardent, very high level of respect for anyone who saw combat or served our country in uniform; we ALL owe each and every one of them a debt of gratitude, one we can never repay, for their service, commitment and sacrifice.

I consider each of the men I've written about this past year as friends.

This month, I've lost two of them.

May God bless the souls of Roy Walter and Stan Schneider.

'Administrative Leave' Is No Vacation

Recently, four officers from the Mansfield Police Department were placed on administrative leave following a Christmas Eve officer-involved shooting, pending an internal investigation of the incident.

Administrative leave is a common practice at police agencies after officers are involved in a serious incident; after all, you wouldn't want officers on the street after they'd been involved in an event in which they may be culpable in a crime or serious violation of departmental policy and procedure. When placed on this leave, the coppers are paid their regular wages but they don't work the streets. Occasionally, men and women on AL will be assigned in-house duties, working within the department in positions that generally won't involve contact with the public, but in most cases they are paid to stay home.

Nonetheless, administrative leave is no vacation; I speak from experience.

Back in 1992 I was placed on AL after being compelled to use deadly force on an armed subject, a man who was drunk and had already fired a shot into the air amidst a large crowd in the parking lot of a bowling alley, just as responding officers had pulled into that lot after a fight complaint. After the man fled into a wooded area, he emerged in the rear yard of an apartment complex, fired a shot into the ground and then started to raise his weapon towards other officers. I fired one shot, hitting the man and putting him down. He survived and eventually spent eleven years in prison for his actions.

I am not proud of having been forced to fire on another human being.

The man was transported to a local hospital; my watch commander, Lt. Steve Sheldon (who is now Richland County's sheriff) relieved me of my weapon (per departmental guidelines) and a shift sergeant took me to the hospital for blood and urine samples. Again, common practice to ensure an officer involved in a use of deadly force isn't under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

Once back at the station, notifications were made to the Chief of Police, the Prosecutor's Office and the president of our local Fraternal Order of Police. Detectives from the Major Crimes Bureau were called in also and, as expected, wanted a statement. After conferring with union-provided counsel and telling him what had occurred, I'll never forget the man's words: "You tell them whatever they want to know. You did everything by the book." That attorney was Don Teffner; his words reinforced my conviction of having been justified in my actions, that I had fired to protect the lives of the five other officers on scene when the suspect had raised his handgun in their direction.

I gave my statement and was then sent home on administrative leave, after having been set up with an appointment to see a local psychologist the next morning. Regardless of what you see on TV cop shows, shooting someone is a traumatic psychological event; the session with the psychologist was to ensure I wasn't suffering 'problems', known today as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Sleep evaded me for the next three nights.

The entire chain of events kept running through my mind like a bad movie. It churned over and over, sometimes in slow motion; though I knew I was justified, I'd been raised to respect the sanctity of life and being compelled to shoot someone didn't sit well with my religious beliefs. As a policeman, you know there's always a possibility you'll have to use deadly force in the line of duty, but when it actually happens your psyche may not be prepared for it. The event being in the news for days on end didn't help, so I stopped reading the paper and listening to local radio stations.

The departmental Shooting Review Board, as it was called back then, cleared me within the week after having reviewed the statements of the five other officers in addition to my own, as well as the physical and medical evidence. The only thing that awaited was the decision of a specially-convened Grand Jury after they, too, heard all the testimony and evidence.

Let me tell you now, there is no worse feeling for a police officer than sitting on a witness stand and being read your Constitutional rights by a prosecutor. I was the last to testify that day and, afterwards as I sat in a hallway outside the courtroom and awaited the Grand Jury's decision on a possible indictment, I was nervous. Even though I knew I had been right, even though the department had cleared me of any violations of policy and procedure, I was still nervous. As the old law enforcement saying goes, you never know what a jury will do.

The jury shortly returned a 'no bill', meaning there had been no grounds to indict me for a criminal offense. I had been cleared.

The day I went back to work was a huge relief, giving the feeling of being a part of the team again. During that week off, though I received many phone calls and a few visits from my brothers in blue,  I still felt 'outside the circle'. 

The four Mansfield PD officers went back to work a couple of days ago, so I can only assume they, too, have been cleared of any wrongdoing. They're back on the team, doing what they were meant to do.

And I am happy for them, knowing exactly how they felt during their stint on administrative leave.

Happy New Year

Happy 2018.

A lot of folks are glad to be putting 2017 behind them, including myself; it seems as if  many of our family members spent most of the year in hospitals or the doctor's office. It could be worse, though, considering the alternative.

Then there are those that make resolutions: common among them are to lose weight, stop smoking, work out on a regular basis....all good ideas but none of them are mine.

I don't believe in resolutions or the theory that a new year marks another 'new' beginning. You still have the same issues you had yesterday; the same bills, the same bank account, the same aches and pains. Nothing has changed overnight other than the date.

But I'm not complaining. There's millions out in the world who would happily trade places with me.

There's things I'm going to try to change, however. I'm going to try to write in this space a little more. I want to spend more time with my metal detector...and keep count of exactly how many aluminum pull tabs I dig up in 2018 (us detectorists hate those things because they sound just like silver in the ground).  I want to stop using smokeless tobacco, once and for all, which will be difficult.

And, as always, I'll strive every day to be the husband my redheaded angel deserves.

Christmas Eve in a Cruiser

This evening and tomorrow morning over 330 million Americans will be gathered with family and friends, celebrating the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Lights will be blazing from inside family homes, Christmas music softly playing in the background as families gather around dinner tables for a grand meal. Excited children, faces beaming with the innocent anticipation of what Santa may bring  them, will have trouble falling asleep, listening intently for the sound of reindeer hooves on rooftops. Laughter and joy, two of the most precious gifts to be given and received, warm hearts and lighten spirits.

Except for a few hundred thousand folks, clad in blue, brown or gray, who chose to serve and protect.

From personal experience, many times over, I can unequivocally say that there can be no more lonely place other than inside a police cruiser on Christmas Eve...short of being in a foreign land serving our country in the military.

Our men and women behind the badge, dedicated to a life of upholding the law and maintaining order, will pilot those cruisers this evening and throughout the night, answering calls for service. Big city coppers might not have time to reflect on being absent from those family gatherings, running call-to-call, but their wives, husbands, parents and children will, missing their public servants who, more likely than not, will be absent once again from their homes on a major holiday.

We'll sit in our darkened cruisers, interiors lit only by the glow of  dashboard lights and mobile data terminals, as we cruise neighborhoods whose houses are adorned with festive Christmas lights and displays, wishing we, too, could be with our families.

We accept it, though; it goes with the job and we knew that going in. Its one of the many sacrifices we make without complaint, though inside we anguish over missing these precious moments, undoubtedly not for the first time.

Its not just us, though; its the emergency dispatchers behind microphones sending us on those calls for service. Its the nurses in hospitals, the firefighters, the over-the-road commercial truck drivers trying to make a living, all giving up an important day in their lives that cannot be recovered.

Tonight I pray for the safety of all our police officers, our fire fighters and nurses, those working this Christmas to provide for their families, remembering what it was like to be working during Christmas for my thirty-plus years on the job.

I ask you to pray also, and to think about those dedicated to protecting and serving our great United States.

To my brothers and sisters of the badge I say Merry Christmas! I am one old, retired cop who has not forgotten you.

Remembering A 'First'

Anyone who has ever served the public behind a badge can tell you about their ‘firsts’… first homicide scene, first bar fight, first fatal accident… and remember it with clarity. One of my ‘firsts’ is The Hanging Man.

It was turning into a beautiful spring Sunday morning in 1982; I’d worked the overnight shift at OPD and the eastern sky was turning that deep purplish-blue that precedes the rising of the sun. It was always about that time of the morning when I’d take my meal break at Denny’s, because they were the only all-night joint open in the village back then.

I’d been inside for a bit, long enough to have my scrambled-eggs-and-hashed-brown-potatoes set in front of me by the waitress when I got the call.

“112, we have a suspicious circumstances complaint…” and the dispatcher went on to give me the location. Then, at the end, she added “…possible suicide.”

Possible suicide.

I threw a couple of bucks on the table, having had one bite of my meal before jumping up and heading out the door. As I recall, the other guy I was working with on that night had arrested a driver for DWI earlier in the shift and was at the station working on his report. We’d usually wait till the latter part of our shift to start working on paperwork, as the hours between 0500 and the end of the shift at 0800 were the slowest.

The place I was sent to was in a semi-rural area; it was a farm with acreage, but the area had been somewhat built up around it. Access to the farm was back a long, dusty lane which ran between a construction company and radio station.

I approached the house, which sat to the left of the drive with a barn further down on the right, and pulled into the gravel drive leading to the home’s garage. The overhead door was up and I was met by a woman who was probably 70 years old or better, wearing a house coat over her night clothes. The look on her face was one of concern…and pain.

After getting pertinent information from her, she explained that her husband had gotten up sometime around 0430 that morning and had gone to the barn to feed their livestock, which was his usual routine. Then he would come back to the house, where she would have his breakfast waiting for him.

On this morning, however, he hadn’t come back. The woman feared something had happened to him but she was too afraid to go look. “He’s always back around five-thirty to eat his breakfast”, she’d said, “and I’m afraid he’s done something terrible.”

It seemed the woman’s husband, who’d always been a fit and healthy man, had recently developed some problems; problems deep enough that he’d made an appointment to see a doctor which, she’d said, he would never have done unless it was something serious. He was due to see his physician the next day.

Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. “He’s afraid he has cancer.”

The woman pointed out the barn, which sat probably seventy-five yards from the house, indicating that was where he’d gone. I backed my cruiser into the gravel lane, traveled the short distance and then parked in the grass in front of the two-story red barn, entering through the open man-door on the lower level. I called out a few times, not wanting to startle the man, and was met with only the sounds of chickens and cattle.

I made my way to the back of the barn where two large doors stood open, facing the east…and the rising of the sun, which was just peeking over the horizon.

I found the man in that place. He had hung himself, his lifeless form hanging by a rope from a cross-beam, facing that rising, burning orb, a step-ladder laying on its side beneath him.

It is one of the indelibly-etched scenes in my mind, one which would be joined by countless others in the coming decades.

This man, who had worked hard all his life to provide for his family, had chosen to end his life because he thought he had cancer.

Blast From the Past: A Rookie Learns A Valuable Lesson

I was a training officer at Mansfield PD for five years, training 19 officers during that time, two of which would go on to become Chief of Police. Another officer and I had been sent to Northwestern University’s Traffic School to attend a Field Training Program Development course, a week-long class that would enable us to set up a certified Field Training Program for new officers. When we got back, John and I set up the course outlines, developed the Daily Evaluation Report forms and the program was adopted by the department.

Out of the nineteen rookies that were assigned to me over that 5-year span, three didn’t make it through their training. I’d told each of them that not making it didn’t mean they weren’t good people, but sometimes candidates just weren’t cut out to be cops, and that was nothing to be ashamed of

.

‘Jack’ was one of those people.

This young man had some personal issues that worked against him: he didn’t deal well with stress or irate people, he’d get ‘tunnel vision’, not being aware of what was happening around him other than what was straight ahead and he had a more than a slight issue with verbal correction after making glaring mistakes, mistakes that could get him or another person hurt or killed.

Case in point: one night during his training we’d reached the point where I was letting him drive while I handled the cruiser radio traffic. Jack has the steering wheel in a white-knuckle death-grip, nervous as hell, staring intently at the road ahead.

We’re westbound on East Third Street, approaching the intersection of North Foster; we have a stop sign, cross traffic on North Foster doesn’t. It’s a residential area which has nearby factories and businesses. As we get closer, I see an older Chevy Camaro approaching from our right, on my side of the cruiser, and Jack isn’t braking at all. He blows right through the stop sign to the sound of screeching tires and a blaring horn, the Camaro stopping two feet from my door. The driver of the Chevy throws up his hands in a ‘what gives?’ gesture. Jack just sat there in the middle of the intersection, my blood pressure going through the roof. I got out, walked to the other car and apologized, explaining that I had a rookie driving.

Finally, I got back in the car and told Jack to pull over and stop. I got out and took a little stroll on the sidewalk to calm myself; the guy had been staring so intently, had been so nervous, that he hadn’t even seen the stop sign and almost caused an accident.

Reentering the cruiser, I told Jack to take us to the station, instructing him to wait in the Hutchison classroom. I pulled out the Ohio Revised Code, our Standard Operating Procedures and Rules and Regulations books and made him read aloud each section pertaining to operation of a patrol vehicle. After he finished each section I asked him if he understood it, which pissed him off

.

Too bad. Some things you have to learn the hard way.

I drove the rest of the shift.

We had a call one night from Little Jean’s Place, a bar on North Main Street; Jack was driving and I told him he was going to handle the call start to finish, without any help from me. He said he was ready.

The bar owner, Jean, had called because a man was passed out drunk in the small, narrow vestibule entering the bar, an area between the door from the street leading to the door into the bar proper. No one could get past him unless they stepped over the man.

Jean met us on the sidewalk. “He came in off the street, laid down and just passed out. I tried to get him to leave but he won’t budge.”

Jack didn’t say a word.

I looked at him. “Well, what are you gonna do?”

“Uhh, wake him up?”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’ll be a good start.”

Jack pulled the door open; I stood in the doorway watching, my foot keeping the door propped open; maybe the cold outside air would help rouse the guy. I recognized him as one of our frequent-flier winos, a nasty, stinking drunk who could get surly.

Jack bent down, gently prodding the man with his bare hand. “Sir…sir, you need to wake up…”

From my vantage point I saw what could be a potential issue for Jack. The man was wearing a ratty jacket that covered…barely…his butt. I could also see that his beltless pants were already halfway down his backside, meaning that, when he stood up, his pants could drop to the floor. The wino wasn’t wearing underwear and Jack wasn’t wearing gloves.

Jack continued. “Sir, you have to get up and move, please.”

No response.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I intervened, kicking his feet. “HEY, BUDDY! YOU GOTTA GET UP AND MOVE OR YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL.”

The word ‘jail’ brought him around, grunts and profanity spewing forth as he unsteadily got to his feet. The man stank of cheap wine.

“What do you do now, Jack?”

Uncertainty in his voice, Jack replied “Arrest him?”

“Good choice. The man’s impeding this woman’s business.”

Jack suddenly gained his authoritative voice. “Alright, buddy, outside and put your hands on the wall”, he said as he tried to guide the drunk outside.

The man didn’t budge, leaning against one of the narrow walls. I grabbed him by the collar and helped him get outside, where I had the man put his hands against the brickwork. I stepped back and told Jack, “Go to it.”

I watched as Jack started patting the man down after telling him he was under arrest for public intoxication; I also watched as the guy’s pants slid a little further down his butt cheeks. It was like watching a train wreck…you know what’s going to happen but you can’t look away.

Jack finished frisking the man’s upper torso. His hands went to where the arrestee’s rear pants pockets should have been, without looking….

…and put his ungloved hands directly on the nasty drunk’s bare backside.

“AAARRRGGGHHHHH!!” Jack yanked his hands back as if he’d just grabbed a hot pot off the stove. I busted out laughing, Jack’s face bearing a look of horror.

“YOU KNEW THAT WAS GONNA HAPPEN! YOU KNEW!! WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY ANYTHING??!!”

After collecting myself, I said, “Jack, you just learned a very valuable lesson: ALWAYS look before you put your hands anywhere on someone’s person. What if he’d had an uncapped syringe in that pocket?”

Hurt, he replied “That’s not funny, man. You knew I was gonna put my hands on his bare ass, and you let me do it!”

Like I said earlier, sometimes a man has to learn a lesson the hard way.

What's The Difference?

Charles Manson, perhaps America's most notorious criminal, was convicted of ordering seven murders in California in 1969 as the head of quasi-cult Manson Family. Originally sentenced to death, his conviction was commuted to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole after California ruled the death sentence unconstitutional.

Yesterday it was announced that Ahmed Abu Khatallah, the terrorist who orchestrated the attack on the United States diplomatic outpost in Benghazi, Libya in 2011, was convicted of three counts of terrorism but not the murders of four Americans there, including Ambassador Chris Stevens.

So tell me....what's the difference in these two cases? Neither of these monsters actually committed the killings but both were culpable. The 'not guilty' verdict on murder charges against Khatallah is nothing short of an outrage.

Manson

Khatallah