Tragic events in my adopted hometown of Indianapolis, in Chicago and Minneapolis have made me think a lot about those stories these past few days. I've decided to the stories on my blog, for whatever worth they may have..
So here's the 3,000 word story, Be Wrong. I'll post the second story in a few days.
Be Wrong By Stephen Terrell
Hear anything
yet?”
Dave Miley looked up from where he sat behind a battered desk, shook his head, and went back to the mindless work of completing monthly reports on an aging desktop computer.
"The hearing was what? Two weeks ago?"
Miley looked up
again. Joe Curry stood over him, arms propped onto Miley’s temporary assignment
desk. He wasn’t going away. “Almost three.”
“It’s all bullshit.
They should have cleared you the same night as the shooting. It was a righteous kill. They’re just making
you go through all this because of all those people screaming on TV.”
“It’s a process,
Joe. Every cop involved in a shooting has to go through it.”
“We shouldn’t have
to.”
Miley fought back
the instinctive smirk. We. What fucking
we? Joe wasn’t going through it. Never had. Never would. He was a
paper-pusher cop twenty-five years in and counting the months until retirement.
“They tell you
when you can expect a decision?”
“Union lawyer says
it could be any day. Or not. No one knows.”
Miley turned back
to the computer and furrowed his brow in feigned concentration. In his
peripheral vision, he saw Joe shrug and move away.
* *
* *
“Officer Miley, concerning
the day of the incident, what time did you go on duty?”
“I was working 4
p.m. to midnight. I normally work days, but the department moved some of us to
a later shift. It was part of the Mayor’s plan to increase police presence
during higher crime hours.”
“How did you feel
about that?”
“To be honest, I
thought it was a publicity stunt. Wasn’t going to help anything. But I’m a
patrol officer. I do what I’m told.”
“With the shift
change, did you get a good night’s sleep the night before the incident?”
“As far as I know.
I don’t remember anything specific about how long I slept.”
“Did you consume
any alcohol the previous 24 hours?”
“No. They took a
blood draw after the shooting and it was zero percent. I thought you knew that
already.”
“Describe your
shift to the point where you received the call?”
“Pretty ordinary
day. It was a Friday night, so there was a little more buzz coming across the
radio. I was assigned to the Northwood area, which is usually pretty quiet. I
made a couple of traffic stops, helped with traffic control at a serious car
crash. But like I said, it was quiet.”
“What do you
remember about getting the call to 5738 Waldemere?”
“There was nothing
unusual about it. The call came in about a suspected prowler. Dispatch said
that the call came in on 911 from a Ronald Wilson.”
“What details were
you provided about the situation?”
“None. I was just
told the address, that the homeowner – or at least the person making the call –
was Mr. Wilson, and there was a suspected prowler.”
“Was anything said
about an urgency in responding to the call?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you run
lights and siren when you responded?”
“No, sir. There
was nothing that indicated an emergency. Besides, I was only five or six minutes
away.”
“If you had been
further away, would you have used lights and siren?”
“No sir. There
just wasn’t any reason to.”
* * * *
“How are you doing
today, Dave?”
Margaret Halsey’s voice was soothing, devoid of any judgment or emotion. Miley wondered if it came naturally or if it was something learned at whatever school turned out the corps of counselors who served police departments after officer-involved shootings.
“I’m fine. That’s
what I’m supposed to say, isn’t it?”
Halsey let the
hand holding her notebook fall into her lap. She leaned forward. “Dave, I
really am here to help. Taking a human life, even when justified, is a traumatic
event. It is for anyone. Every cop I’ve had in that chair who has killed
someone in the line of duty has faced issues. Every single one. No matter how justified the shooting, every
officer has to find a way to come to grips with shooting another person.”
“Look, Margaret,
we’ve been having these sessions for what?
Four weeks? I’m doing fine. I’m sleeping at night. I’m not getting
sloshed or popping pills. I don’t sit around pondering my navel. I’m not going
to swallow my gun. I wish it didn’t happen, but it did. It’s part of the job. Now
I just want to move on. I want get back on the street doing my job.”
They sat looking
at each other, the room silent except for the muffled sound of traffic on a
nearby street. After several minutes, Halsey picked up her notebook. “Tell me
about what you’ve done since we last met.”
* * * *
Miley sat in the old
barber chair, unsure if Brody was a first name or a last name. The business was
Brody’s Tattoos, and that was the only name the guy standing over him, tattoo
gun in hand, ever used.
“This isn’t a very
big tattoo,” Brody said. “But there’s not much meat on the bone in your hand. There
are a lot of nerves. That means this is going
to hurt like hell.”
“Just do it.”
“Okay, but I want
you to know what you’re in for.”
The needle bit
like a hornet’s sting as the black ink drove into the dermis.
* *
* *
“What happened when you arrived at 5738
Waldemere?”
“I parked on the
street and turned on the flashing lights. That was mostly so my car would be
visible to traffic. I exited the vehicle and walked up to the house.”
“What type of
neighborhood is this?”
“Older established
middle class neighborhood. I’m not an expert on houses, but I’d say it was one
of those 1970s neighborhoods. A lot of ranch and bi-level houses. Seemed like
the neighborhood was neat and pretty well kept.”
"How about the house itself."
“Brick ranch, from
what I could see. It was dark, so I didn’t see many details at the time. Of
course, I went back later to look.”
“You did your own
investigation?”
“No, sir. I was
instructed not to do that, and I follow orders. I just drove by in the daytime
a few days after the incident. I stopped for a few minutes on the street, but I
never got out of the car. Never talked to anyone.”
“Back to the night
of the incident, what did you do when you arrived?”
“I went to the
door. There was a doorbell. I pushed it and heard the bell inside the
house. No one came to the door, so I
rang it again. Then I knocked. Again, there was no answer.”
“Did you report
that back to the dispatcher?”
“No, sir. There
wasn’t anything to report. This was a suspected prowler, not a break in. I
decided to take a look around.”
“What did you do?”
“The backyard was
fenced. One of those wooden privacy fences. About six feet high, I guess. It
had a gate.”
“No lock on the
gate?”
“No, sir. It was just one of those latches. I pulled out my flashlight, opened the gate and stepped in to the back yard.”
* *
* *
The electronic
ring of the desk phone startled Miley from his monotony. Miley had never heard
phones ring as loud as they did in a police station. He didn’t know if the
ringers were a special kind to be heard above the din and hubbub of the squad
room, but they were certainly set at maximum volume.
He answered on the
third ring.
“Dave, it’s
Vince.”
Police union
lawyer Vince Thornton’s voice long ago had become familiar. Miley recognized it
at the first syllable.
“What’s up,
Vince?”
“Just got word
through the Chief’s office. The review board decision on the shooting will be
released this afternoon at four o’clock.”
“Any word on how
it will go?”
“Nothing definite.
But like I told you after the hearing, I feel good about this.”
I feel good. Jesus. Vince wasn’t going to
face any consequences. None except collecting his fee, win or lose.
“So, what am I
supposed to do?”
“Just sit tight.
Usually the department’s lawyer will give me a head’s up on the decision about ten
minutes before the decision is announced. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”
“What if it’s bad
news?”
“We’ll worry about
that if it happens. You just keep positive and stay squirreled away in that
back office until we talk. I don’t want you anyplace where the press can get
ahold of you until we have a chance to digest the decision. If somehow a
reporter finds a way to get to you, your
answer to anything is ‘no comment.’ I don’t care if he asks you if the pope is
Catholic, you just say no comment and hang up or walk away. And for God’s sake,
don’t go celebrating with any of the other officers if the decision goes your
way. The last thing you need is some TV station doing a live shot from outside
a bar, reporting that you’re partying with other officers.”
* *
* *
“Hey, Dave. Heard
that the review board is going to announce the decision at four. Anyone let you
know if you’ve been cleared yet?”
Before Miley
looked up, he knew Joe Curry was standing in front of his desk. It was less than half an hour since Miley
received the call from the lawyer. There were no secrets in the police station.
None except the final decision in Miley’s case.
“I know they’re
announcing the decision, Joe. I don’t know what it is.”
“That’s strange. When
Bill Lewandowski shot that guy a couple of years back, they let him know he was
cleared before they announced it. Maybe they don’t tell you in advance if it’s
bad news.”
Miley looked up
toward the ceiling trying to control the anger that flashed inside. After a
long moment, Miley lowered his eyes, hoping that Curry had disappeared. He had
not.
“The way things
work around here, you’ll hear about the decision through the office grapevine before
I know. Until then, why don’t you go back to your desk and leave me the fuck
alone.”
*
* * *
“What did you see
when you entered the backyard?”
“Nothing much.
There was a patio with some furniture, a grill, a few flowers. There were
several trees and bushes scattered around the backyard.”
“Did you see signs
of anyone in the yard?”
“Not at first.”
“Tell us what
happened once you got into the yard.”
"I swung the light around, but didn't see anything. Then as I swung it back, I saw some movement behind this big bush. I focused on my beam on the bush and saw a crouched figure moving, headed away from me. I shouted ‘Police. Halt. Put your hands up.’”
“You sure about
those words?”
“Absolutely. I’ve
done it a hundred times before. Did it the same way this time.”
“How far away was
this person?”
“Forty feet. Maybe
a little further.”
“Did you keep the
light on him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then what
happened?”
“This guy turned real
quick. My light flashed off what looked to be the barrel of a shotgun. It swung
up and pointed in my direction.”
“What did you do?”
“I grabbed for my
weapon and yelled ‘Drop it.’”
“Your weapon was
holstered?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then what
happened?”
“He pointed the
barrel at me. Right at me. He didn’t respond to my demand to drop the weapon,
and I fired my gun. I remember firing
twice, but I know that ballistics found that I fired three times.”
“How much time
elapsed between the time you shouted the command and the time you fired?”
“It all pretty
much happened immediately. The entire incident took only a couple of seconds.”
“And you are
certain that you shouted before you fired?”
“Yes, sir.
Absolutely.”
“Did the man have
time to respond to your shout before you fired?”
“Yes, sir. At
least I think so. Yes, I’m sure he could have. But he didn’t.”
“When did you
become aware that the person was the homeowner Mr. Wilson?”
“When I went over
to him. He identified himself.”
“Was that the
first thing you did after firing the shots, go over to him?”
“No, sir. After
firing the shots, I immediately called for backup on the radio that’s on my
shoulder. I also asked for a bus, that is, an ambulance.”
“Did you wait for
backup to arrive before you approached Mr. Wilson?”
“No, sir. As soon
as I made the radio call, I walked over to where Mr. Wilson was on the ground.
As soon as I knelt down next to him, he just started asking ‘Why?’ over and
over.”
“Did he say
anything else before assistance arrived?”
“It was hard to
understand him. He was hurt pretty bad. I knew I hit him at least once in the
chest. He was able to identify himself as the homeowner, but that was about all.”
“When did you
become aware he was carrying a metal baseball bat and not a shotgun?”
“I saw the bat on the ground next to him. It
was black.”
“Did he say
anything else to you?”
“I asked him why
he didn’t drop the bat when I yelled at him. He just said ‘I don’t know.’ He
repeated it twice. That was the last thing he said to me.”
“Officer Miley,
did you fear for your own safety at the time you fired your weapon?”
“When my light hit
that bat and he pointed it toward me, I thought it was a shotgun. I’ve replayed
it in my mind a hundred times. Every time, I still see that glint off the
barrel and I see it as a shotgun. I
thought I was going to die.”
* *
* *
Brody stepped back
and looked at the freshly inked tattoo.
“That what you wanted?”
Miley held up his
right hand and examined it. “Yeah,” he
said. “Exactly. Now do the left.”
* *
* *
Miley jumped when
the phone rang. Before he picked it up, he knew it was the lawyer.
“You’re cleared,”
Thornton said, without any greeting. “Review Board findings are unanimous. They
found that under the circumstances, you acted reasonably in the face of a perceived
danger. I’ve prepared a statement on your behalf. It thanks the Board, confirms
that they made the correct decision and expresses your condolences to the
Wilson family. You want to see it before I release it.”
“I trust you. Go
ahead.”
“Keep a low profile
for the next few days. Leave the station by a back exit. Eat at home. Don’t
answer your phone or your door unless you know it’s me. And don’t talk to the
press or TV people under any circumstances, not even to give them the time of
day. Got it?”
“Is this really
necessary?
“Yes. Don’t
forget, the family will probably still file a civil suit. You don’t need to be
talking to anyone. That includes your fellow cops. Especially your fellow cops.”
“When do I go back
on patrol?”
“That’s up to your
commanders. Give it a couple of weeks before you start raising the issue.”
* *
* *
“I’m not sure
you’re being candid with me,” Margaret Halsey said in her practiced calm tone.
“I don’t mean that you’re lying to me. I just don’t think you’re being
completely honest with yourself about your feelings.”
“I’m not really a feelings type of guy.”
“We’re all
feelings type of guys,” Halsey said. “But cops are like soldiers. You mask
those feelings to do your job.”
Miley sat without
responding.
Halsey spent
several minutes in the silence, checking boxes on a form she was holding.
“This is the
fitness report to the department,” she said as she made one last check. “I’m
clearing you to return to street duty.”
Miley tried to
hide his smile, but couldn’t. “Thank
you,” he said.
With a flourish, Halsey signed the report.
“I’m always here
for you, Dave. If you start having issues, if you can’t sleep, anything, call
me. Sometimes issues pop up months, even years after an event.”
“I’ll be fine. I
just want to get back and do my job.”
“I’ll walk the
form over to the Deputy Chief myself as soon as we’re done here. But I have one
last question. I don’t expect you to
answer, but I want you to think about it.
The next time you’re sent on a call.
The next time you or another officer is in a situation like you faced.
The next time a suspect makes a move for what appears to be a weapon, can you
still pull the trigger?”
* *
* *
“Here to qualify?”
It was the way the sergeant at the police shooting range greeted Miley.
Miley nodded. “I’m
back on patrol next week, but I have to requalify on the range.”
“Let me see your
badge.”
Miley pulled out
his badge folder and slid it across the counter.
The sergeant wrote
down Miley’s badge number in a log sheet, then handed it back. “Be Wrong,” the sergeant said, looking at the
block-letter tattoo across the back of Miley’s left thumb. “Not seen that
before. What’s it mean?”
Without responding, Miley grabbed a box of 9 mm ammunition from the counter. The sergeant shrugged and set up the human figure targets for the qualifying test.
“Anytime you’re
ready,” he said.
Miley checked the
clip in his new 9 mm Sig Sauer, then slapped it into place. The one he used to
shoot Ronald Wilson remained in the police evidence room, probably forever.
Miley stepped to
the firing line. He meticulously grasped his weapon and took aim. His right thumb lay on top of his left thumb,
both alongside the grip. The two-word tattoo on his right thumb stacked on top
of two words tattooed on his left. As he fired, the words stared back at him.
I MIGHT
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