Chronicles of a County Deputy

“Alright, Mom, sounds good. Talk to you later.” I hung up just as she squeezed in a last-minute “I love y— “so I sent her a quick text as I shut the door to my patrol truck: “Love you too.”

She would often call just as I was heading into work. Sometimes I swore she set an alarm for 5:55, exactly five minutes before I checked on duty. They were never long conversations, mostly short exchanges about the weather or checking that the car she helped me pay for was running okay. The two-minute connections were brief, but meaningful to us both. Morbid as it was, I think she just wanted to hear my voice before I went out to confront the evils of our society. I often wondered if she did the same with my dad, years ago. Regardless, I appreciated the reminder of why I needed to come home in one piece.

I turned the ignition of my F-150 and listened as my police equipment beeped to live and came online as I began my pre-shift ritual. A year into my police career at this point, I had been taught that routines got you killed, but that certain routines were essential to keeping your sanity. So with that in mind, I said a quick prayer, adjusted my mirrors and tugged on the metal clamp that held my AR-15 in place, all while the song “Indestructible” by Disturbed pulsed through my speakers. Cliché, I know, but hey I’m alive writing this today, aren’t I? Once the guitar faded out, I checked on duty, donned my bullet proof Oakley’s and put the truck in drive.

A second absolutely essential routine to police work was the pre-patrol coffee stop. Thankfully there was a place just a few blocks from my apartment. I usually avoided drive-throughs in case a hot call came out while I was sixth in a line full of soccer moms, but it was empty this particular evening, and I hadn’t had time to log into my laptop before hitting the streets. I pulled up to the window, smiled at Courtney, the attractive former classmate of mine who knew my order by heart, and flipped open my Toughbook Pro. She gave me a smile back, and closed the window before I could say anything further. I found it ironic, I could square off with drug addicts, thiefs, rapists and murderers on a regular basis, but I still wasn’t quite brave enough to ask the coffee girl I’d admired since junior year out. I was curious what she thought of my career choice.

As the computer program that displayed the County’s calls was updating, the window slid open. Courtney sheepishly hung her head out the window and smiled. “Kyle, I forgot to ask you something…” My heart rate elevated. “What kind of milk did you want in the latte?” Oh. “2% please.” The window closed, along with another opportunity. Suddenly, the long steady beep went over all radio channels as a priority call was dispatched. “Attention all city units…” the dispatcher prefaced, “Any available unit copy a family fight in progress. 1248 Burberry Street. Husband chasing wife and daughter through house with shotgun. Shots have been fired. 1-2-4-8 Burberry Street.”

My initial thought was that this was a bad call. The type future academy training videos will reference. The type that someone doesn’t live to see the end of, most likely the suspect. Deadly force is justified any time the suspect’s actions could result in serious bodily injury or death. This fit the bill. Immediately city units began coordinating, and it was clear no one was close, the frustration in their voices heard through their transmissions. Something about that announcement rang familiar. My computer program finished updating and as I opened my map my memory was jogged. Burberry Street was within a mile of my location. It was the first cross street in the neighborhood adjacent to my apartment complex.

Adrenaline and training taking over, I was a quarter mile from the coffee shop before I realized what I was doing. I let dispatch know I was the closest unit and was en route, code three. For a split second I wasn’t sure what was more disappointing, missing out on the chance to say bye to Courtney, or taking that first sip of ice cold mocha. I quickly shook the thought, no time for that. Every second mattered now.

As the roar of my engine rivaled the decibel level of my sirens, I tugged on the metal clamp of my AR-15 again, this time to yank it open. I reached down to the passenger-side floorboard and swung my ballistic helmet on, fastening the chinstrap with one hand. While passing a mini-van who was oblivious to my lights and sirens, I patted the space behind my seat, ensuring my steel body armor was there. It was. As I double checked the house number on my screen dispatch advised the wife and child were now safe at a neighbor’s house, but the suspect was last seen on top of an RV in the driveway, shooting his .270 hunting rifle into the sky. The wife was also able to tell dispatch the male had been drinking since 2 pm and was heavily intoxicated.

I rounded the corner of the back entrance to the neighborhood and killed my lights and sirens. I didn’t want him to know where I was coming from. At this time, another Deputy on his way home heard the chaos on the radio and checked en route. He was only a minute behind me. I couldn’t see the house yet, but I checked the map a final time. 1248 Burberry had a cross-street in front and behind it, which was great news. The not-so-great news was that it appeared to be on a hill, which meant the suspect would have an elevated position.

I slammed the truck in park less than a second after blurting the words “Whiskey 30 arrived,” flipped on my body-cam, hopped out and threw the body armor over my neck. While fastening the buckles, I slung my Bushmaster AR-15 Patrol Rifle over my shoulder and disengaged the safety. Go time. I quickly scanned the area. I had two options: take the safer approach with more cover behind the neighbor’s house, or take the more direct path in front of the neighbor’s house, the only concealment being a small shed in the front yard, half the distance to the RV. I heard a deafening snap, followed by a woman screaming obscenities. My decision was made. Why the suspect’s wife decided to step outside and yell at the drunken marksman that was normally her loving husband is beyond me, but that didn’t matter. I was here to protect her, and time was running out.

Rifle in the low ready position, I bounded for the shed. I needed to acquire my target before he did. Not more than three leaps into my sprint, I heard the wail of police sirens rush in behind me. I stopped for what felt like an eternity but was like no more than 10 seconds to turn and see my back-up, jumping out of his truck screaming “Where’s the house!” I waved my arms in a manner that must’ve communicated “turn those off you idiot!” because he quickly lunged into his seat and shut them off. He grabbed his rifle, loudly racked the charging handle and fell in behind me. “Approaching house” I whispered into my lapel mic, and the dispatcher gave the announcement that caused everyone listening to hold their breath and say a silent prayer: “Attention all units this channel is cleared for emergency traffic only. Channel cleared for emergency traffic only.”

I continued my path towards the shed, still covered by the neighbor’s house, the woman across the street now visible. She offered one last expletive before I saw her walk back into the safety of a neighbor’s house. Thank God. My back-up and I moved in swift silence, the only noises heard were the periodic beeps in our earpieces that occurred when a channel was cleared, and our adrenaline-fueled, controlled breaths.

A deafening snap. The slap of splintering wood. A muffled “shit!” The gentle patting of hands over fabric-covered steel. Those are the sounds I recalled following the first shot. I quickly retreated back to cover behind the neighbor’s house. “So much for shooting at the sky” my back-up whispered. About ten seconds later, I brought the Aimpoint holographic sight to my eye, slowly leaned around the corner and brought the RV into view. I couldn’t tell where the round landed, but I heard it strike a tree close by. I also couldn’t see the suspect due to the high angle and large appendage on the roof of the RV, likely an air conditioning unit I thought.

My back-up took my position at the corner of the house, while I sprinted to the shed. I swept the roof again with my sights, seeing nothing. I waited another moment and in the stillness heard a man slurring obscenities and rustling in the bushes. My back up and I quickly moved towards the sound, and when we passed the RV, we heard a sober man’s voice. “At any point you can stop questioning and request an attorney. Do you understand these rights as I’ve read them to you?” declared one city officer, his knee pressed into the man’s kidney, hands pinning the man’s shoulder to the soil while the other secured the second handcuff.

I lowered my rifle and put the safety back on. “Control, suspect detained. I have two city units here.” I announced, causing the dispatcher to play the long beep and end the emergency status of the channel. “Where’d you guys come from?” the other deputy asked. “We came in the front of the neighborhood. Pulled up right as this one fell off the RV. Must be pretty lit” the one holding the suspect said. “Hey kid, climb up and grab the rifle. We need it for evidence” the much older, rounder and balder city officer barked at me. He bore two small silver stars on each sleeve, and I wasn’t sure if they marked his years of service or the number of divorces he’d been through. Nonetheless, I avoided the bureaucratic hell storm that awaited if I refused, so I slung my rifle behind my back and started my climb.

Once at the top of the RV, I was able to survey the scene from the suspect’s vantage point. Resting behind the box, which was indeed an air conditioning unit, was the .270 rifle. The air conditioning unit acted as a bipod stabilizing the weapon, its steel barrel extending beyond the unit. What gave me pause was the direction the barrel was pointing. I knelt down, slid the bolt back, ejecting the round that was in the chamber, and looked into the optics mounted on the rifle. The crosshairs sat perfectly balanced over the exact spot at the corner of the house I had leaned out from.

Evidence technicians later discovered that the round I heard slap into a tree had actually slapped into the wooden shed near us. The man was taken to jail, and more likely than not, bailed out to return to his wife and child, violating the no contact order that conditioned his release. It wasn’t until I was back on the freeway after clearing that call that it all sank in. I was acting on my best training and instincts, doing everything I could to keep myself safe, and if it wasn’t for my back up arriving like a bat out of hell, causing me to stop for no less than 10 seconds, I would’ve slowly leaned out from that corner directly into the sights of my would-be killer. All he would’ve had to do was squeeze the trigger. It would’ve been that easy.

Later that night, my shift had lunch in the park as we always did on warm nights. As the deputy who backed me on that call arrived, sans lights and sirens this time, I went and greeted him with a hearty pat on the back. He was confused by it, but how was he supposed to know? His mistake on that call had probably saved my life. Because of him, I had been in the wrong place at exactly the right time.