The "Other" Good Guy

You hear the wail of sirens. Now and then they are punctuated by the blast of an air horn. People pull to the side (well, sometimes). Then you see it: The big red fire engine. Or in the case of our "Centennial" engine, red, white and blue. Or, in the case of some other strange cities, aqua blue, yellow, or lime green. But either way--it's a fire truck!!!! Children--and grownups--wave. With all five fingers. Or maybe they hold their thumbs up in the air, or do the "okay" sign. The point is, everyone loves a fire truck. And everyone loves a firefighter. Here come the good guys to save the day.

A few days ago I met with Tony, a very dear friend of mine from years ago, for a chat that has been too long put off. Friend to friend, with no one around, no distractions. Tony told me something that didn't surprise me--and hadn't surprised him either. A recent poll showed that the most revered job in our country is that of firefighter. Everyone loves a firefighter.

Who was the friend who passed this on? A cop.

Before I became a fireman, before people started waving at me with all five of their fingers, I too wore the colors of Pocatello PD. I was a patrol officer in this very city for three years. And some very long days. There were a few rewarding moments. Very few. But it is the times when pre-teen children, some as young as six or seven, "saluted" me with their middle finger, or when other young children told me if I touched them they would sue me, those are the times I remember most. Or the time I had to drive myself to the hospital with blood running down my face from an eye I could no longer see out of because the ambulance was treating the man who had done it to me. I was a police officer for one major reason: To help people. What did I get in return? Okay, a perk now and then. Once in a great while a thank you. Mostly, I counted myself lucky to not be sworn at or spit on.

Some people say cops can't complain. They go into that job knowing what it entails. But no one really goes into that job knowing how deep the hatred of many people can go for the police. Or at least the disrespect. It wears you down. Tears you up. You are there to serve, and you become a family of police, because that is the only group of people you often feel understand you or what you are.

So let me talk about my friends--our friends--the police. Did you get harassed when you were driving 39 mph in a school zone, and some jerk wrote you a ticket when all you were doing was trying to get to work on time? Did some jerk in uniform give you a parking ticket only because your car was parked two and a half feet away from the curb and cars were having to drive around you? Did they have the audacity to break up your party because some neighbors were intolerant, and all you were doing was making a little noise--at two in the morning? And worst of all, did they throw you in a drunk tank because they claimed your two beers made you unsafe on the road? Well, be glad you didn't take out some child in that school zone, or some unwary driver didn't smash into your badly parked car and kill himself. Be happy that the same cops who let your neighbors go to sleep that night would be there for you when his party got too loud. And if you went to jail for being drunk and driving, just be thankful and think--it's possible he saved your life. And who knows how many others.

But there is an ultimate sacrifice that police officers are sworn ready to make. That is the giving of their own lives to protect the innocent. Not unlike firefighters. But for the police, there are times that the protecting of the innocent can also call for something else. The unthinkable. The nightmare of taking the life of another human being.

My friend Tony, the very one who told me about that study where firefighters are so revered, was called on, exactly three years and four days ago, to protect five people. To possibly save the lives of all of them. He did that. He did it by putting himself in a position where his own life was in jeopardy. I won't go into the details. If you ever want to know all of them, you'll have to ask in a private note. They are too horrible. Too much for the normal person who doesn't witness frequent death and mayhem to digest. For now, I'll only give a brief account.

Two probation and parole officers in our city went to a house to serve a warrant. A parolee had violated his terms of parole. He was going to go back to prison. It was the last thing he wanted. Because of that, he had a huge hatred inside for one of the parole officers. When they came for him, fortunately with uniformed officers in tow, his girlfriend warned him they were there. He was able to get to a gun. He loaded it, a .357 magnum revolver, and prepared to take two lives. But the first parole officer in his sights was the wrong one, another good friend of mine by the name of Wally. The parolee wanted to kill Wally, and he made his try a few minutes later, but he wanted the other one worse. At gun point, he backed Wally into the main room, where he laid eyes on the officer he wanted to kill. As he turned his gun on this man, Wally grabbed his revolver, and the fight was on. Wally ended up shot in the torso, but his bullet proof vest saved his life. Another officer was shot in the leg. It ended up that Wally, who was positioned behind the now-wounded parolee, had a gun barrel at his throat, and the parolee was clicking the trigger over and over. Because Wally had a death grip on the cylinder it wouldn't turn, and the hammer would not descend. But it was a matter of time. Wally was weakened by the blow of the bullet to his chest, and the parolee was determined.

From the front doorway, Tony heard Wally's call for help. Wally yelled, "Do something." Tony told him to move his head, and he did. Tony fired. I won't tell you the exact details of what followed, but death was instant. The parolee went limp instantly and fell to the floor.

Tony was left in a state that any Christian would be in. At first, he did his job. He did the job he had feared but expected and trained for during many training sessions over many years at that job. He helped his wounded friends. He prayed with the officer who had been shot in the thigh, prayed with him because the officer was screaming that he was going to die. Tony calmed him and promised him he wasn't going to die. He cleared the scene and did what he had to for the investigation, which was done by the Idaho State Police. It wasn't until days went by that he fell apart. He began feeling like he was having heart attacks. He had no idea what was happening.

Tony had PTSD: post traumatic stress disorder. Or did he? After being made to go see a psychiatrist, to the tune of over 2000 dollars from his own pocket, he was told it wasn't really PTSD, for to have this you must be wounded. Since all he did was shoot another human being in the back of the head at close range and take his life, but he wasn't physically hurt himself, they told him he could not possibly have PTSD. Workman's comp wouldn't pay a dime for his treatment. And it gets worse, but I won't go on.

My friend Tony possibly saved the lives of five people--or more, for who knows what might have happened had this parolee escaped and gone on a rampage of destruction? For that, he was punished. He was punished with his own sense of guilt and uncertainty. He was made to feel less than he was, which was a savior to his friends, and to the innocent. My friend Tony is a hero. He deserves our respect. Like any other group of people in any other job, of course there are police officers who don't earn respect. So we respect their badges, if nothing else. But remember, you can never tell what may have made an officer bitter, what may have made him come across as hard and uncaring. There is little thanks in the profession of a police officer, folks. But he is out there to help you. And sometimes he is the only thin shield between the normal people--what might be called the sheep of the world--and the wolves who prey on them.

So next time you see a police officer drive by, I hope you will understand their lives a little better, and maybe, just maybe, you can raise your hand and give him a wave--with all five fingers.

Incidentally, the least revered job in our country is that of accountant. Go figure.