Old-School Cops

By Brian Thiem: I recently participated in a discussion with a group of active and retired Oakland PD officers where a few officers referred to themselves as “old guys.” They reminisced about the “poor youngsters” never knowing the fun their job once was.

Since the cops who considered themselves “old guys” were hired when I was a lieutenant, I wonder what that makes me. I still think of them as youngsters—the twenty-something rookies I knew them as. It got me thinking about how policing changes from one generation of cops to the next, and how our perspectives change as we transition in our careers.

In society at large, a generation is considered to last about thirty years. We think of our parents as the older generation and our children as the younger generation. But police generations are much shorter, maybe half that length.

When I came on in 1980, the old-timers were rookies in the tumultuous 60’s, the days of Vietnam War protests, the SLA, and the Black Panthers (Oakland was their birthplace). Law enforcement changed radically in the late 60s and 70s, as did the rest of American. When I was a rookie, the old-timers reminisced about those good old days.

I remember the ten and twenty-year veteran police officers chastising me for choosing policing as a career when I came on because politicians and courts were tying our hands so we could no longer do our job. They were sure criminals would soon rule the streets because bad guys would get away since police could no longer shoot fleeing felons. When they became cops, it was legal and acceptable to yell, “Police—Stop” to a burglar that was running down the street with a stolen TV and shoot him in the back when he didn’t. Police and citizens alike are horrified at that today.

These old timers also ridiculed court decisions that required them to advise suspects of the right to remain silent before interrogating them, and were incensed that the Supreme Court demanded officers have an articulable reasonable suspicion a person was involved in criminal activity before they could stop and detain them.

It seemed I was still a youngster to many in my department when I transferred to Homicide as a sergeant with eight years on. But when I came out six years later and became a patrol sergeant, there was no doubt I was now an old-timer in my new job. I was assigned to the rookie squad, full of officers in their early twenties, who saw me as closer to their parents’ age (I was 39), than their own. As any police sergeant knows, supervising a squad full of rookies is similar to parenting a bunch of kids. I constantly worried about them getting hurt or caught up in serious misconduct, and wondered if they would ever grow up and mature. They did…and now consider themselves old-timers.

By the time I made lieutenant in my early 40s, I really was the parents’ age of many of the rookies on my watch, and even some of my younger sergeants viewed me as belonging to an earlier generation of policing.

These young sergeants came on when the department was evolving into Community Policing, which we old timers silently believed to be just a fad that would soon die. We saw it as little more than a formalized “beat health,” philosophy, which we had embraced as beat cops, taking responsibility for the citizens and everything else on our beats.

Then came OPD’s version of CompStat—computers spitting out crime data, which directed where and how we policed the city. It transformed policing into a top-to-bottom-driven organization. When I came on, beat cops knew where the crime was occurring and who was doing it on their beats and handled it. Now, captains and deputy chiefs directed beat officers’ priorities based on crime statistics. Once again, many of us old-timers figured it was a fad that would soon disappear. It didn’t.

In the discussion I referred to at the beginning of this piece, a few of these officers who were considering themselves old-timers defined old-school cops as those who had never made an arrest without a BWC (body-worn camera). I retired long before body cams became part of OPD’s uniform.

However, I have trouble seeing pre-body cams as the dividing line for “old-school.” I think of old-school cops as those officers who carried six-shot revolvers, wrote reports on paper, and drove marked police cars with a rotating “cherry” on the roof.

Law enforcement is a reflection of society. It changes and evolves with it. The new officers today cannot imagine policing without the scrutiny of body cams, computer generated report writing, and restrictive rules on use of force. These young officers don’t see me as merely an old-school cop. They see me my generation as dinosaurs.

As new generations of police officers take over the profession, some things will remain the same. Cops will remember their early days on the street as the good old days, they’ll be certain new laws and rules will destroy the profession, and they will be unable to fathom why a young man or woman would want to pin on a badge today.

I’ve Seen The Elephant

By Brian Thiem: In my current WIP (that’s Work in Progress for my non-writer friends—the book I’m currently working on), one of my main characters had looked forward to “seeing the elephant,” but once she does, the experience profoundly changes her.elephants

The phrase “seen the elephant” has been around for centuries. It originally meant to experience the world at a significant personal cost. Years ago, people had to travel to Africa to see an elephant, an experience filled with excitement and danger.

More recently, the military coined the phrase to describe the experience of combat, and some police departments use the phrase to define an officer’s experience in a life and death battle.

There are various degrees of seeing the elephant. Some soldiers, especially those who served in Vietnam, only consider soldiers who really saw the elephant as those engaged in close-range firefights, where they could see the faces of the enemy as they traded volleys of bullets. Others qualify anyone who has faced death at the hands of an enemy and prevailed as having seen the elephant.

When I deployed for the Iraq War, I saw how my fellow soldiers experienced their first sighting of the elephant when we were still in Kuwait and the sirens sounded as Scud missiles headed our way. I saw the faces of soldiers preparing to face the elephant when riding in a C-130 amid anti-aircraft fire on a night landing in Baghdad, and when leaving the wire in a HUMVEE to travel along the road to the Green Zone, where roadside bombs, snipers, and suicide bombers killed or wounded soldiers daily.

Some young soldiers and police officers secretly desire to see the elephant. They want to test their courage and skill by facing an opponent determined to kill them. They want to know if they’ll freeze or if they have what it takes to fight and win. However, few cops or soldiers who have faced the elephant in that manner ever want to again. They often end up with more regrets than triumphs.

In my WIP, Simone had spent years in the Army and law enforcement yet had never elephant chargingtruly faced the elephant. When she does, she is like an African hunter who had tracked a rogue bull elephant that rampaged villages and killed dozens of people. When the elephant charges her, she has a split second to summon every bit of courage and skill she possesses. Or die.

Those soldiers and police officers who have never seen the elephant might think that once they face the elephant and prevail, it will be easier the next time. But that is far from reality. Seeing the elephant changes you. Some are hardened by the experience, others suffer enormous regret at having taken a human life, some numb their emotions with alcohol or drugs, and others experience various degrees of PTSD or debilitating anxiety. And some take their own lives, as demonstrated by the higher rates of suicide among police and combat veterans.

Although my WIP is about a murder investigation and stopping bad guys from killing again, it also explores the lives of several characters, one of whom had looked forward to seeing the elephant, and how after she sees and conquers it, her life and the lives of those around her are forever changed.   

Militarization of Police

By Brian Thiem
About two months ago, Sacramento Police Officer Tara O’Sullivan was shot during a domestic dispute call by a man with a high-powered rifle. Other officers immediately took cover as the gunman continued shooting, preventing them from rescuing Tara as she lay dying in the back yard of a North Sacramento house.Tara-OSullivan-Life-Mattered[1]

Within minutes, numerous officers responded, but they were unable to get to Tara without subjecting themselves to gunfire.

I can only imagine the sense of utter helplessness felt by Tara and her fellow officers as she lay dying in that backyard while rifle rounds pinged around them, her brother officers wanting to rush to her aid, but knowing that doing so meant certain death.

Those officers were armed with handguns, firearms that are effective out to about 20 yards. They wore concealable Kevlar vests that covered a fraction of their bodies and were only capable of stopping the most common handgun rounds. The rifle bullets the gunman was firing would punch right through them.

It was nearly an hour before the department was able to enter the kill zone with an armored vehicle called a Bearcat and evacuate Tara. Whether Tara was already dead at that time or died en route to the hospital hasn’t been determined or hasn’t been publicly released.Bearcat

I’ve heard and read too many politicians, activists, and media outlets decrying the so-called militarization of law enforcement—the acquisition of armored vehicles and other tools and weapons beyond what a uniformed police officer uses, and related training for major tactical situations.

Earlier this year, the Alameda County (in which Oakland, the city where I worked for 25 years, is located) voted to eliminate SWAT-type scenarios from a regional law enforcement training exercise that is attended by law enforcement agencies from around the state because it “promotes the militarization of police.”

As a tactical commander and the commander of the special operations section for several years toward the end of my police career, I oversaw hundreds of SWAT operations, and through formal Risk Analysis processes, I determined the circumstances under which specialized tactical teams and equipment was appropriate. Those decisions required balancing resources (personnel, overtime) with officer and community safety, while weighing community expectations and concerns.

Therefore, I cringe when I see news reports of heavily armed FBI SWAT teams serving a search warrant at the house of a white-collar crime suspect, or SWAT teams using armored vehicles with a battering ram for routine search warrants.

The debate over police acquiring and deploying heavy tactical equipment and weapons and engaging in training exercises focusing on terrorist attacks and active shooters should continue in our communities. However, I know some Sacramento police officers who wished they had an armored vehicle closer and more specially trained tactical officers with rifles as they were pinned down by a crazed gunman and their sister lay dying nearby.

Still Adapting

Hello all you loyal followers of Murder Books. Bruce Robert Coffin here wishing you a joyous summer.

This month I thought I’d discuss the struggle of moving from one career to a completely different endeavor. In my case that is the ongoing transition from police work to novel writing. I used the word ongoing because it has finally occurred to me that this is a slow process.

As anyone who has ever worn the badge can attest, those old routines and mindsets die hard, if ever. So deeply engrained into my psyche was the necessity of keeping a charged cellphone on the nightstand each night as I crawled into bed, ringer on of course, that shutting it off now seems verboten. Like I’m committing a mortal sin by killing the ringtone. I think “Thou shall not kill the ringtone” was actually contained within the pages of my department’s SOP. This was one of the realities of my job, the twenty-four seven nature of detective work. It was never a question of whether or not the phone ring after I’d called it a night, it usually did. The only question was what time the call would come and would said call necessitate me driving into work.

As a novel writer, I don’t receive many urgent late night communications. Most everything these days can wait until morning, or at least until my 3A.M. muse slaps me upside the head and orders me to get back to the work in progress.

But authoring full time doesn’t let me off the hook from all of my programming. Nope, I still back the vehicle into wherever I’m parking, in case there’s need to respond quickly. I still pick the table or booth that affords me a view of the room with my back to the wall. I still carry things in my left hand, keeping my gun hand free. Still unfasten the seatbelt as I turn into the driveway, allowing for quick exit. Whenever I’m in public I still watch for furtive actions on the part of everyone around me. Hell, I still write about police work. The cop’s sense never goes away, and for safety’s sake I guess I wouldn’t want it to.

I still remember sitting on the beach in Saint Martin, with some fellow law dawgs, watching as three wolves descended on an unsuspecting couple. The middle-aged man and woman were seated on lawn chairs and mesmerized by the brilliant turquoise-colored Caribbean. The woman had stowed her pocketbook and shopping bags behind her chair, in full view to all who passed by, including the three wolves. By now you’re probably wondering how we knew they were wolves. For one they had nothing with them. No towels. No suits. No chairs. No Jimmy Buffet tee-shirts. No adult beverages, although they hardly looked old enough to legally consume anyway. What they did possess were running sneakers on their feet, bodies that looked extremely fleet of foot, and clothes that identify them as locals, not tourists. As we watched they surrounded their mark, moving ever closer to the couple, while trying unsuccessfully to look disinterested. It was obvious to us that they had done this many times before. Finally, before the curtain fell on this little drama, we walked over and let the couple know what was about to go down. Turns out they were on the same cruise ship. They thanked us and the woman moved her valuables around to the front where they could both keep and eye on them. Eventually, the three wolves moved on. One at a time, still trying to look as if they belonged, they rose and wandered away, each one fixing us with a look of contempt. I tell you this story because it’s what every cop does. None of us, regardless of our “after cop life” career, can ever completely shut off that part of us.

So while I may spend my days writing, or traveling to libraries, bookstores, conferences, and colleges to talk about writing, my inner cop still lives. And he still struggles with shutting off the ringtone.

Write on!

Getting the Cop Stuff Right

by Brian Thiem

In the past few weeks, I’ve had the opportunity to help four writer friends get the cop stuff right in their novels. My cop friends know this stuff, but unless a crime fiction writer has carried a badge and gun for a living, they can make procedural errors that will make more knowledgeable readers cringe. Glock-23-40S-W_main-1

Most fiction writers these days (although a few are still clueless) know Glocks don’t have manual safeties and police officers carry their pistols with a round in the chamber, so there’s no dramatic racking of the slide before they go into a dangerous situation, as we often see on TV. Therefore, the questions I normally get are more nuanced and complex.

I helped two writers understand crime scene security. On major cases, such as homicides, the mayor, the victim’s mother, and reporters cannot enter the scene. In Oakland, our rule was that as soon as the life threating activities (medical care to the injured, arresting suspects, and searching and securing the scene) were complete, the only people allowed into the scene were the field supervisor (normally a patrol sergeant), homicide investigators, coroner’s deputies, and crime scene technicians.

Since every officer on the scene had to write a report, if some captain tried to pull rank to come in and “take a look,” I would just tell him that per the Report Writing Manual, he must complete a supplemental report detailing everything he did and saw while on the scene and his reasons for entering. I’d remind him he might have to testify in court because defense lawyers love to question everyone present looking for inconsistencies. In my time in Homicide, I never had any brass insist on entering a major crime scene.crime-scene-tape

I helped another writer create a realistic police detective character. Most major police departments require that all new hires start as a uniformed police officer and work their way through the ranks, except for possibly police chiefs, who are sometimes hired from outside the department. After a number of years in uniform, an officer may be promoted to detective. In some departments, detective is a duty position within the same ranks as those in uniform, such as officer or sergeant. In others, such as LAPD and NYPD, officers test for a separate detective rank. And if the detectives (or investigators, as many departments actually call them), work in crime-based units (homicide, robbery, burglary, etc.), they normally have to work their way up to Homicide.

I helped another writer understand the boundaries of an investigator’s legal jurisdiction. Investigators often have to cross jurisdictional lines to do their job. Crooks don’t stay within a particular city’s boundaries, so investigators can’t either. However, states have different laws governing the extent of a police officer’s authority. In California, for instance, a peace officer has police powers anywhere in the state. Even though I worked for Oakland PD, I could legally make an arrest in Los Angeles, although I’d be a fool to do so without the help of LAPD unless I accidentally stumbled on something and was forced to take action. Even if I was going a few blocks outside Oakland to make an arrest, I’d always notify the neighboring city first, and they’d often send their officers to assist.

Even though I had no peace officer authority outside California, I traveled to other states a number of times when investigating homicides. We’d always make contact with the jurisdiction we were visiting, either a city police department, sheriff’s office, or state police, as a matter of courtesy, but also because they knew the locale, the bad guys, and had direct access to a cavalry of blue suits if the feces hit the fan.

One investigation took me to Washington D.C., where the city’s homicide unit assigned two detectives to me and my partner to assist us as we interviewed an Oakland murder suspect they had arrested for us and helped us locate several witnesses in the seedier parts of our nation’s capital. I recall their assistance even included taking us to dinner and drinking with us at the local cop bar. Cop Bar

I worked with another writer whose police detective was getting into a romantic relationship with a crime victim. I won’t say it never happened in real life, but police officers know that’s an ethical no-no. Firstly, the investigator is in a disparate power position with a citizen victim or witness, somewhat like a teacher and a student or a therapist and a patient. Secondly, a personal relationship could taint the investigator’s objectivity and therefore, the investigation. And lastly, if the case goes to trial, the defense attorney will have a field day with the investigator in court, challenging his professionalism, objectivity, and honesty (he probably lied about the affair or at least kept it secret), which will likely damage the case beyond repair.

I’m not telling my author pals not to do it, because it makes for such great drama—the dedicated detective willing to destroy his career for the beautiful heroine or the flawed detective who breaks the rules in the name of justice and love—but understand the consequences in the real world.

I’m impressed with authors who try to get the cop stuff right in their novels, so don’t be afraid to ask if I can assist. And if you’re a writer and going to the Mystery in the Midlands conference next month, I’ll be teaching a masters class on Police Tactics for Writers.

The Worst Day

Brian Thiem 3-21-19: I sat at my computer this morning to draft my blog post for this Sunday. I first went through my normal routine of checking the world news to make sure a huge meteor was not on its way to wipe out the planet or WWIII hadn’t broken out, then scrolled through my emails and deleted 90% of them and briefly visited Facebook OPD Memorial Walland Twitter. My friends and colleagues were sharing their feelings of painful memory.

Today is the 10-year anniversary of the worst day in the history of the Oakland Police Department, the day when four officers were killed in the line of duty. That day, motorcycle Officer John Hege and Sergeant Mark Dunakin stopped a motorist for a traffic violation. Unbeknownst to them at the time, the motorist (I’m intentionally not using his name because he is not deserving of notoriety) was responsible for a recent string of rapes and was wanted on a parole violation warrant. The suspect shot both officers and then stood over them and fired additional bullets into them as they lay on the ground.

Several hours later, the suspect was located in a nearby apartment. An entry team of the department’s Tactical Operations Team (SWAT) entered the residence. The suspect opened fire with a semi-automatic SKS rifle, killing Sergeants Erv Romans and Dan Sakai, before other officers killed the shooter.

Although I had been retired for four years and living in Connecticut, the murders of these four officers hit me as hard as the ten OPD officers previously killed during my 25-year service. Times Four!

I knew these four officers well. I still picture John’s smile as he strolled by the watch commander’s office on his way to the locker room every evening during my final year as a watch commander. I can see Mark’s boyish grin as he sat at his desk in homicide when I commanded the unit. And I visualize both Erv and Dan with their game faces on, dressed in their black BDUs on countless SWAT callouts when I was the tactical commander and commander of Special Operations. OPD Memorial Wall 2

When the news hit ten years ago, I poured over the news reports of the incident from 3000 miles away and spoke to countless OPD brothers and sisters by phone over the next few days. Finally, my wife said, “You need to go back.”

I made my arrangements, retrieved my gold badge from my gun safe, stretched a black band across it, and flew cross-country. I attended two of the wakes on my day of arrival and then spent the evening at the local cop bar, where I got to share my grief with hundreds of brothers and sisters who understood what I was feeling.

The next day, I sat in a special area reserved for retired officers in the Oracle Arena along with 21,000 other people and heard countless speakers talk about the four men who gave their lives protecting and serving citizens and a community that seldom expressed gratitude. I fought back feelings of anger, trying my best to replace those feelings with pride for the way those officers lived their lives and their willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice.

Today, ten years after that tragedy, I’m reading a newspaper article of a church service remembering and honoring these officers, another story about one of their wives who remarried and found happiness, and updates about their children, now young adults, doing okay. But the pain of the officers’ senseless deaths still lingers among my brothersOPD Memorial Wall #2 and sisters in blue, the officers’ families, and parts of the community they served and gave their lives to protect.

Writing this today, I accept the pain I feel from losing a fellow officer to a line-of-duty death will never go away. And I’m convinced it never should.

Christmas on the Streets

By Brian Thiem

Christmas Day 35 years ago, I was working the 3-11 shift in Oakland. I had been recently reassigned back to patrol from the elite special operations section and was anxiously awaiting my transfer to Vice Narcotics. I knew when I signed on as a cop, I’d often work weekends and holidays during my career, but as hard as I tried to capture the holiday spirit, it wasn’t working.Christmas 1

Day Shift had been swamped, and calls were stacked, so right out of the chute, the dispatcher sent me to take a report on a cold home burglary. I interrupted the family’s Christmas Dinner and they were irritated with me arriving four hours after they had called. But I put on a smile (which, with the mood I was in, may have looked like a smirk) and tried to empathize with the couple whose day was ruined by a burglar who smashed a window and stole nearly every gift under their tree when they were at church.

On my way to take another report, this one on a car break-in, I stopped a motorist for driving 50 in a 30. After I checked to ensure he had a valid license, I wished him a Merry Christmas (we were allowed to say that back then), told him I’d let him off with a warning, and then bit my tongue as he muttered something about “f—king cops” as he rolled up his window and drove away.

Before I could finish the auto burglary report, I heard the broadcast of a hit and run accident. On the way to the scene, I spotted the responsible car (with a crumpled front quarter panel) and pulled him over. The driver was so drunk he fell down when I had him exit the vehicle. I called for the prisoner wagon, and after enduring his tirade of obscenities for ruining his Christmas, sent him off to jail.

I ran from call to call for the next several hours: family fights, drug dealing on the corners, and an accident with five injuries. Finally, more than halfway through my shift, the radio quieted, and the dispatcher released the first two units in my district for their meal break.

Although volunteers at the police officers association had cooked a beautiful dinner for officers, with only two units per district permitted to be out at a time, I resigned myself to the reality that my turn would not come up before the end of my shift.

As I drove across the district in search of joy and peace, I couldn’t help but dwell on my night’s activity. Every citizen I encountered blamed me for the crime, and the ones I arrested blamed me (big surprise) for ruining their Christmas.Christmas 2

I turned on Picardy Drive and crept down the street famous for its Christmas decorations. Although only a few blocks from Foothill Blvd., where open-air drug markets and shootings were common, Picardy was a sort of oasis. The Tudor-style houses were built in the 1920s. With their steeply peaked roofs and mini-turrets, they looked like tiny castles, and the entire street was lit up with Christmas lights.

I pulled to the curb, pulled a granola bar and bag of nuts from my pack, and tried to chase away the feeling of despair and hopelessness that had enveloped me. As I munched on my makeshift dinner, I spotted movement in my rearview mirror. A man was approaching my car with something in his hand. Since cops never know the intent of someone they encounter, we avoid allowing anyone to come up on us and trap us in our cars, where we’re unable to access our weapons and defend ourselves should it be an attack.

I opened the door and stepped out. The older gentleman continued toward me. “Is there something wrong in the neighborhood, officer?” he asked.

Since most citizens in major cities only see cops when something is wrong, I couldn’t fault the man for his question. “The radio was quiet for a moment, so I thought I’d take a break.” I immediately regretted my confession and braced myself for a comment about lazy cops or a question about why I wasn’t out fighting crime.

“This is a peaceful street to do so.”

I nodded.

“You like hot chocolate?”

He handed me a Styrofoam cup. I popped the lid and saw steam rise through a layer of tiny marshmallows. I took a sip. “Thanks.”

“How’s your night going?”

I shrugged. “We tend to only see people at their worst. Tonight’s no different.”

“My first Christmas away from home, I was in the South Pacific,” he said. “Feeling sorry for myself. Scared of dying and having to kill Japanese soldiers I had no ill will against.”

The man appeared to be about the age of my father, who was also a WWII vet. “Thank you for your service,” I said. “I’m glad you made it back home.”

“My unit commander told us a million times why we were fighting, but not until I truly embraced who we were fighting for, did the war get easier. When people call the police, we’re too focused on our problem to thank you. But we’re grateful.”

I smiled. A real smile for the first time that night.

“I’m visiting my son down the street and we were just getting ready to sit down for some pie if you’d like to join us.”

Before I could come up with an excuse to decline, the radio crackled with a report of multiple shots fired about a mile away. I keyed the mic and acknowledged with my call sign.

I thanked the man for the hot chocolate, and as I climbed back into my car, he said. “Don’t forget that even when they don’t tell you or don’t even fully realize it themselves, thousands of people are grateful for what you and your fellow officers are doing tonight.”

I wish I could say the people I encountered the rest of that shift were more appreciative, Christmas 3but that would be a lie. However, I was different. I knew what I was doing was important to a lot of people. It didn’t bother me when the next bad guy I sent to jail cussed me out, because I knew there were other good citizens who would not be victimized by him that night, and maybe—just maybe—that arrest was the necessary kick in the ass that guy needed to turn his life around (although the cynical cop I was doubted it).

This holiday season, as in every one past, my thoughts are with the thousands of law enforcement officers who are working. May they know that what they’re doing is valuable, and even if no one says it, there are many citizens who are immensely grateful for their service and sacrifice.

It’s Done–Almost

by Brian Thiem

A few days ago I sent the completed manuscript for the first book of a new series to my agent. Now I wait.

People often ask what it takes to publish a book. Writers have different processes, and mine has changed since I began writing. And the first book of Spartina Island Manuscripta new series is different than a second or third book or a stand-alone novel.

Spartina Island (the working title, which may—probably will—change when a publisher gets involved) began as an idea about two years ago, shortly after I finished the third book in the Matt Sinclair series. I brainstormed a premise, main characters, and a unique setting with friends, fellow writers, and my agent. I jotted down pages of ideas.

Once my agent gave me the thumbs up, I began creating my story, writing out plot points and other details on a hundred index cards. I shuffled them, resorted them, and continued to rearrange them until the story seemed coherent.

I then wrote a detailed synopsis. The synopsis consisted of the step-by-step plot, subplots, character conflict, and bits of backstory weaved into the story. Writing a synopsis (sort of a readable plot outline) is tough. It requires a lot more thinking than typing, but it makes the subsequent writing so much easier.

My agent read it and sent me some suggested changes. I redid it, and she reviewed it and gave the go-ahead.

I then went into writing mode, where I sat my butt in my desk chair and IMG_0639wrote a minimum of 1000 words a day—well, almost every day—for the next four months.

When the first draft (just shy of 90,000 words) was finished, I took a break to distance myself from it for a week. I then read it and took notes of what I needed to change, delete, and add.

With my notes beside me, I dove into a rewrite. I added scenes, deleted scenes, added descriptions, improved dialogue, made characters more sympathetic, and upped the action.

After a break of a few days, I printed it out—all 320 pages—and read it with a pencil in hand. Four days later, I propped up the binder beside my computer and went to work making the changes from my edited copy. After two long days, I had spellcheck go through it again, and sent it to my agent.

I know it’s far from done. My agent will undoubtable suggest changes—maybe minor or maybe major. She’ll then send it off to publishers who’ve expressed interest, and if we land a contract, their editors will read it and request other changes—maybe minor, but probably major. I know from experience that every change these experts suggest make it a better book.

With luck, Spartina Island could be available in bookstores a year from now. Fingers crossed.

Giving Up the Badge by Bruce Robert Coffin

Retiring from police work was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. Quite a statement, right? But it’s true. Ask any cop who has left the job after twenty or thirty years in search of a “normal” life and they will likely tell you that it was much harder than they ever imagined.

Most departments try to prepare officers for the financial realities of retirement by conducting briefings with retired cops who have moved into non-law enforcement careers, and holding training sessions put on by state retirement employees. And the financial reality is this, unless you worked a ridiculous amount of overtime – i.e., spent the last several decades away from your family – you’re going to need a job, most likely one that includes benefits like health care coverage. But financial realities aside, the real challenge in retiring from law enforcement is psychological, and on that point, in my opinion, we do a pretty poor job preparing officers.

I have discussed this very issue with enough retired cops to know that it is a real problem. They all wish they had been better prepared for the mental adjustment. I had never experienced any issues with depression, suddenly I found myself floundering, on the outside looking in. Retirement wasn’t what I had envisioned. Oh, I had plenty of free time. That wasn’t a problem. The problem was I felt obsolete, unneeded. No longer was my phone ringing twenty-four hours a day with calls from someone who needed me to supervise a case, put out a fire, give advice or guidance. No longer did have to crawl out of bed each night and drive to Portland half-awake to start a new investigation. No one was calling. Those things I retired to get away from were the very things I missed. I began to wonder if maybe I’d made a grave mistake.

My life became a roller coaster of emotion. The good days were full of all the things I enjoyed, spending time with my wife and family, working out, golfing, hiking, fishing, writing. The bad days, usually accompanied by foul weather, I often found it hard to even get out of bed. At first I told myself that I was just catching up on lost sleep. It was okay to sleep-in, I’d earned it. But the reality was I felt like I no longer mattered. My police family had moved on without me. I had hopped off the big blue bus and was no longer sure who I was. My purpose in life, once so clear, had become a mystery. And to think that I retired of my own volition. What about those who don’t? Imagine being forced out of your police family, as many cops are, due to a mental or physical impediment.

I am lucky that I had the support of friends and family to get me through the most difficult period, which in my case was the first twelve to eighteen months. I try and reach out to fellow officers as they enter into their own retirement, giving them a heads-up about the feelings they may experience as they transition from their former life to the new. My purpose in reaching out is to lend an ear, and to validate what they may end up feeling. I tell them that there is life after police work, they just have to keep busy until the transition occurs.

Like most first responders, cops tend to be their own worst enemies. We are so used to assisting those in need that we are often the last to seek help from others. Most departments have employee assistance programs, critical incident debriefings, and peer support groups for active members. Perhaps the time has come for police departments to focus on those preparing to retire too.

I am one of the fortunate ones who found something I love to do after I left law enforcement. Unfortunately, there are too many still looking.

Have you experienced something similar? Do you know others who have?

Police Response to School Shootings

 

Brian Thiem: Within hours of the school shooting in Parkland, Florida last month, I heard the cries of countless people telling how the police should respond to school shootings and how they could’ve done better. The voices came from the media, politicians (this includes those wearing police uniforms (usually with stars on the collars), academics, and half the population with social media accounts. Stoneman Douglas School-Parkland, FL

 

People asked me to condemn the deputies who staged outside because we all know (we’re all experts about how police should do policing), cops should immediately rush inside. Right?

 

Well, it’s not that simple.   

 

I was a lieutenant with the Oakland Police Department and the commander of Special Operations (SWAT) in April 1999 when the shooting at Columbine High School occurred. The next day, I talked to an old Army buddy who worked for a suburban Denver police department and was one of the responding SWAT officers. I visited him shortly thereafter and recall his frustration over having to wait outside the school while the carnage continued inside. But that was the standard operating procedure for SWAT teams at that time.

 

Police tactics, equipment, procedures, and training normally evolve in response to past failures. Back in the 1960’s, SWAT teams were being formed in cities such as Philadelphia and Los Angeles in response to criminal incidents that were beyond the ability of the average patrol officer armed with revolvers and occasional shotguns—incidents which too often left officers, and sometimes innocent citizens, dead. Rushing into bank robberies in progress sometimes resulted in forced hostage situations and unnecessary gunfights. But brave officers are supposed to rush in, right?  

 

In the 1970s, departments began training officers at critical incidents to surround the area, contain it, and wait for SWAT, with their trained and properly equipped operators, snipers, and negotiators. When SWAT arrived, they would set up a command post, collected intelligence, and try to negotiate with the bad guys before using force. Shootings of cops, bad guys, and innocent bystanders dropped dramatically with these new tactics and training.

 

Those basic principles of contain, isolate, and negotiate proved successful for many years, but those tactics failed miserably at Columbine. When I returned from Colorado, I brainstormed the Columbine scenario with my fellow tactical commanders and SWAT sergeants and made a presentation at the next Bay Area Tactical Commanders meeting. I advocated sending SWAT officers into the scene immediately upon their arrival without establishing a perimeter, setting up a command post, gathering intel, or developing detailed plans. This was a radical concept in 1999, and the opposition was strong, especially from the San Francisco Field Office’s SWAT Team tactical commanders.

 

Nevertheless, we pushed forward. That summer, the OPD Tactical Operations Team hosted the Grass Valley SWAT competition and training, and we included a school shooting scenario for the 20-some SWAT teams from around the Western US. In the school shooting exercise, teams were required to move toward the gunfire as rapidly as possible, bypassing wounded civilians and those still in danger, rushing through danger areas without clearing them, and taking enormous personal risks to get to the shooters and stop the bloodshed. This was totally contrary to the way we’d been trained as police officers and SWAT cops: treat and evacuate wounded citizens, protect civilians still in danger, methodically search and secure rooms before moving past them, and contain suspects and offer them a chance to surrender before assaulting. However, by the end of that day, we saw what worked and what didn’t, and learned that our new tactical procedures succeeded, despite the enormous risk to the responders.

 

Although we’d like to think we were the first SWAT team to develop these new tactics, we later discovered similar movements were occurring around the nation, and soon, this was the standard operating procedure for what would be called Active Shooter Situations. But SWAT teams weren’t necessarily the solution to these situations.

 

Knowing that it would take too long for our part-time SWAT team to arrive and assemble, Oakland PD soon took this a step further and began training all officers in the department to respond to active shooter School Shooting Trainingsituations. The policy called for officers to enter in 3-officer teams, move toward the gunfire, and contain or neutralize the suspect or suspects the best they could with the weapons and tools they had. We established training for the entire department using paintball guns and Simunitions for realism, allowing officers to experience what it was like to shoot and be shot as they move rapidly toward armed adversaries.

 

As a former Army officer and police supervisor and commander, I know that merely establishing policy, especially when it deals with how to operate in tactical situations, without the resultant training and continuous refresher training, is a recipe for failure. When bullets start flying in combat, most soldiers (and police officers) will react the way they were trained. As a leader, I also know that if they fail, it is normally the fault of bad policy and poor training, not the individual soldier or police officer.

 

Maybe I was blessed to have worked with the finest men and women in the world at Oakland PD, but I rarely encountered an officer acting cowardly. To the contrary, in my role as a sergeant and lieutenant, I often had to hold them back to prevent them from rushing into danger unnecessarily or too quickly.

 

I have no doubt that if a school shooting had occurred on my watch, the first officer on the scene would wait for the next two to arrive, and the team would head toward the gunfire. They’d know there could be multiple shooters who might have superior weapons. They’d know there could be explosive booby traps that they’d never see in time as they rushed through the buildings to save lives. They’d know a shooter could ambush and gun them down as they pass and that their Kevlar vests wouldn’t stop a rifle bullet. Active shooter situations are dangerous—damn dangerous.

 

As I write this, it’s still unclear exactly why officers and deputies staged outside the school, but I suspect the fault lies more with failures in leadership, policy, and training than cowardice on the part of the officers. It’s easy for those who never faced a life-threatening situation to label others as cowards for not handling it the way Hollywood heroes do in the movies. It’s quite another to face a situation where gunshots are sounding, but you don’t know where they’re coming from and whether there’s one ill-trained teenage shooter or multiple skilled gunmen.  

 

I hope that once all the facts come out, the blaming and political posturing will stop, and law enforcement agencies can learn from this, as we did with Columbine, and do whatever is necessary to respond better when (I’d like to say “if” but I’ve been a cop too long to be that optimistic) it happens the next time.