I Always Wanted to Be a Cop

This is not an autobiography. The names and events are a product of my imagination although I am certain that things such as I have described happen everyday somewhere. Many thanks to the men and women who form the thin blue line between us and anarchy.

Ever since I was a little boy I always wanted to be a policeman. It started when I saw an old black and white photo of my dad and grandfather standing together when dad joined the police force. My name is Eric Geiger but everyone calls me Rick. When I was born my older sister Beth, who was two at the time, had trouble with the long e sound so she just called me Rick and it stuck.

In the fourth grade we had an assignment to write about what we wanted to be when we grew up and then had to read it to the rest of the class. A lot of the guys wrote that they wanted to be cowboys or astronauts. Of course, I said I wanted to be a policeman.

On the playground, at recess that, day Stanley McCormick started teasing me about being a policeman. He called my daddy a pig and I was a piglet. "Oink, oink. Here piggy, piggy," he kept yelling.

I told him to stop but he kept it up yelling louder and louder. When he shoved me down I got up and punched him in the face. He grabbed his bleeding nose and ran to the teachers crying. I got to sit in the principal's office until mom came to school and picked me up.

Once we were in the car I told her what had happened and all she said was that dad would talk to me the next morning. Pop was working the three to eleven shift and had left before we got home. I didn't sleep well that night. The next morning, after breakfast, dad asked me what had happened at school and I told him everything.

"Rick, I appreciate you sticking up for me but I've been called a lot worse. I'm a big boy and I can take care of myself. You shouldn't have hit Stanley for calling me names. But sometimes you have to defend yourself against bullies who hit you first. I'm going to take you to school this morning so get ready to go now."

Just before I walked into my classroom, Stanley came up to me and said he was sorry for calling me names and shoving me. "My sister saw everything that happened and told my mom and dad. They were not too happy with me," he said. "My dad told me I had to come to school today and apologize to you."

Extending his hand he asked, "Can we be friends?"

"Yes," I replied. We have been best friends ever since that day.

Now fast forward eight years to a couple of days after graduation from high school. Stan was over at my house and we were trying to figure out what we would do for the rest of the summer.

Dad came home from work and had something for me.

"Rick," he said. "The city is starting a Police Cadet program. I have an application in my briefcase if you're interested. You'll get paid and be given cadet uniforms if you are selected. If you do well when you are twenty-one years old you can go to the Police Academy. Graduate from there and you will be hired by the Police Department."

"Boy that sounds like a good deal Dad," I said.

"It sure does", echoed Stan. Yep. Stan had come around to my way of thinking about a future career. "Can I get an application, too?" He asked my father.

"You sure can," Dad replied taking another application from his briefcase.

To make a long story short we both filled out the application and gave them back to my dad. Ten days later we found ourselves being tested both physically as well as psychologically and then had a final interview by some senior officers of the police department. Two days after all that happened dad came home with good news for both of us. We had made the cut and now were officially Fort Lauderdale Police Cadets.

For the next few years Stan and I learned a lot working as Police Cadets. When Stan and I reached our twenty-first birthdays we were enrolled in the Police Academy. The training was intensive. In addition to the classroom, we received physical and more psychological training. We spent a lot time on the pistol range becoming, more than just, proficient with our weapons.

Finally after sixteen weeks in the academy, graduation day came. I now have a photograph of my dad pinning my badge on me just like grandpa did with him so many years ago.

Six months after that photo was taken dad retired from the force. He and mom moved to Pensacola, Florida, to be closer to my sister and her two little girls. Beth's husband, Pete, had been a pilot in the Navy and now was a civilian contractor working at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola.

My probationary period was for six months. I was paired up with an experienced officer to reinforce what I had been taught at the academy. Stan received the same treatment.

Ten weeks before my twenty-second birthday I was on my own, with my own call sign 'Bravo 6' and assigned to patrol the north end of the beach. The North Beach Zone stretched from Sunrise Boulevard, on the south, north to the city limits of Lauderdale-By-The-Sea and from the Atlantic Ocean on the east to the Inter-coastal Waterway on the west. It was a mix of residential neighborhoods, motels, hotels and businesses.

Chapter Two

Six Months Later

'Bravo 6'. 10-94 (back up unit) 'Bravo 8'. Signal 38 (domestic disturbance) 5555 North East 33rd Avenue. Bravo 8 on scene. Dispatch radioed me.

"10-4, dispatch. 'Bravo 6', 10-51 (en-route). 10-52 (ETA) 90 seconds." I answered.

Domestic disturbances are tricky. You never know what you are going to walk into so it's just good practice to call for back up before confronting the situation.

"Dispatch. 'Bravo 6', 10-97 (on scene)." I radioed as I pulled up behind 'Bravo 8's squad car.

"What do you have?" I asked Stan McCormick, my long time friend, who's call sign was 'Bravo 8'.

"This is Margret Dickerson," Stan answered, nodding toward a obviously distressed woman standing beside him.

"She told me that a former acquaintance of hers showed up about 20 minutes ago. He was drunk or strung out on drugs so she didn't want to let him in the house. He pushed past her and produced a gun. When her daughter came into the room he grabbed her and threw Mrs. Dickerson out. She ran to her neighbor and called us. That's all I know right now," he finished.

"Before he pushed me out he said he was going to make my daughter a woman. You've have to stop him, she's only fifteen years old," Mrs. Dickerson cried to us.

"Ok, calm down and wait here." I told her just as we heard a young girl screaming from inside the house.

"There's no time to get a hostage negotiator here, Stan. You take the front and I'll go around back. Give me a minute before you go inside. Try and use that silver tongue of yours and see if you can diffuse this," I told him.

Going to the rear of the house I found the screen door to the pool area unlocked and a sliding glass door to the kitchen open. Withdrawing my weapon and holding it down by the side of my leg I entered the home. Moving toward the sound of voices I slowly made my way to the front of the house.

As I heard Stan starting to talk to the suspect, I entered the the living room behind the suspect. I'm no expert, but this guy was strung out big time. I didn't believe any amount of smooth talking by Stan was going to end this situation peacefully.

The guy had torn the young girl's T-shirt and bra off and had her jeans half way down to her knees when Stan started telling him to back off and put his gun down. All he did was grab the girl tighter in front of him and point his gun at Stan.

He yelled for Stan to get the hell out. He was going to make this girl a woman and there was nothing Stan could do to stop him. Once more Stan told him to put the gun down. He fired and hit Stan in his upper right leg.

I yelled at him and, as he turned to face me, the girl managed to break away. He fired and hit me. The Kevlar vest did its job. I fired twice hitting him in his chest just left of dead center. He fell and I ,stepped over to him and kicked his gun away.

Keying my radio I yelled. "Dispatch. 'Bravo 6'. Shots fired, shots fired! Officer down, officer down! Emergency medical required immediately this location!"

"10-4, 'Bravo 6'. EMTs on the way." Dispatch replied.

I dropped to my knees along side Stan and looked for something to use as a compress to stop the bleeding from his leg. The young girl came over to me and handed me her torn T-shirt saying, "use this." Then, pulling up her jeans and taking her bra from the floor, she left the room.

In what seemed like hours, but was only a matter of minutes, the EMTs arrived and took over from me. I slumped back against the wall and watched as they administered to Stan. After stabilizing him, they placed him on a gurney and transported him to the hospital emergency room.

Another EMT unit arrived and one of them went over to the guy I shot. He felt for a pulse and then just looked up at me and shook his head.

By now the whole place was flooded with cops, including 'Delta 5', my supervising sergeant.

Before 'sarge' could ask me anything, the girl reappeared with a new T-shirt on and dropped to sit beside me. I put my arm around her and said, "You'll be ok. It's over now. He can't hurt you anymore."

She looked up and said to my sergeant. "He saved me. After that guy shot the other policeman this officer shot him. If he hadn't done so I truly believe that bastard would have raped and then killed me."

Putting both of her arms around my neck she pulled me close and kissing me on my cheek she whispered in my ear. "I'll never forget what you did for me, never. I promise I'll never forget you."

Then she got up and left to go outside to her mother.

"All right, Rick, what happened?" Sergeant Johnson asked me.

I filled him on everything from the time I got on the scene to when he arrived.

"How about you? Are you hurt?" He asked me.

"Yeah. My chest hurts like Hell." I replied.

Calling for one of the EMTs still in the room he told them to get me over to the emergency room.

In the emergency room the doctor removed my Kevlar vest and uniform shirt to examine my chest.

"The ass hole was using hollow points. The bullet mushroomed when it struck you. Thank God you were wearing your vest. You'll going to have one hell of a bruise. We are going to x-ray your chest just to be sure you don't have any broken ribs. Other than that, ice it. I'll give you something for the pain before you leave. You should be fine in a few days," he said patting me on the back as he left the examination room.

As I was putting my shirt back on Captain Wilson, the shift supervisor, entered the room.

"How are you?" The captain asked me.

"I'm ok, I guess. What about Stan, ahh, Officer McCormick?" I asked him.

"He's still in surgery. But I have been told he'll be all right. Tell me what went down."

After filling him in on what transpired he told me I would be placed on paid administrative leave while Internal Affairs (IA) investigated the incident.

It's policy. There's no getting around it. Then he told me that I had to see the department's psychologist to be sure I had no lingering effects from having killed a man.

"You have nothing to worry about as far as IA is concerned. Every thing points to a justifiable shooting. That's one nasty bruise you have got there use the ten days leave to rest up. You did real good son, real good."

After checking with the doctor once more I left the emergency room and went to the floor where Stan's surgery was being conducted. I saw his wife Cathy (yeah Stan got married just after finishing at the academy) in the waiting room surrounded by her family and numerous other police officers.

When she saw me she got up and rushed over. "Oh Rick," she said, "they told me that if you hadn't slowed the bleeding before the EMTs got there he wouldn't have made it. Thank you, thank you. Are you hurt badly?"

"No. It's just a bad bruise. I'm fine." I responded. "Any more news about Stan?"

"One of the nurses came out and told me that the doctors were just finishing up with him and would be out to speak with me in a few more minutes." She replied.

Just as she finished telling me that a surgeon came over to her with a big smile on his face. "He's going to be fine, Mrs. McCormick. We're moving him to a recovery room and you'll be able to see him shortly."

With that good news one of my fellow officers, Charlie Reynolds, came over and asked if I needed a ride home. I told him I would be ready to go in a few minutes. I wanted to say good-bye to Stan's wife before leaving.

After Charlie dropped me at my apartment I decided to call my father and tell him what happened. The phone rang and was picked up by dad.

"Hi Pop. It's me, Rick. I've have to tell you what happened today. I killed a man this afternoon. . . ."

Chapter Three

The Next Morning

There was no point in staying in bed any longer. Sleep just wouldn't happen. After talking to dad for the better part of two hours last night I just laid in bed reliving every moment of what had happened the previous afternoon.

Did I make the right decision? Was there any other way I could have handled the situation? Did he have to die by my hand? Anybody who tells you they wouldn't have lost a minute's sleep over what I had done is either a liar or a psychopath.

After taking a shower and shaving I dressed and walked to the corner store for a cup of coffee and a newspaper. The Sun Sentinel newspaper had an in-depth article of yesterday's events. The story had the facts pretty much correct. It did question whether the shooting was justifiable. However, that was answered after the reporter interviewed the mother and the daughter as to what had happened. The remainder of the article focused on Stan's injury.

When I returned home there was a message on my home phone to call Captain Wilson at headquarters right away. Picking up my cell phone from the counter, where I had left it the night before, I read an identical text message from the captain. Returning the call he directed me to come and see him immediately.

When I arrived at headquarters on West Broward Boulevard I was met by a few of my fellow officers as I walked down the hallway to Captain Wilson's office. Many of them simply shook my hand and patted me on my shoulder. They didn't say anything to me but their gestures spoke volumes of support.

Arriving at the captain's office I saw him look up from his desk and waved for me to come into the room. There was another man sitting with him in his office.

"Officer Geiger, let me introduce you to Dr. Edwin Michaels. He is the psychologist the department uses in these situations. He wants to talk with you for awhile today."

So for the better part of the morning the doctor and I sat and talked. Rather, I talked and he listened.

When I had finished speaking, he looked up at me and said, "Officer Geiger I heard nothing this morning that would indicate anything other than the normal, mentally healthy, response to what occurred. I'm clearing you to return to duty as soon as the Internal Affairs investigation is concluded. After shaking hands with Doctor Michaels I left and drove to the hospital to see how Stan was doing.

Walking into his room I found Cathy sitting beside his bed talking with him. He was doing so well that he expected to be released from the hospital the next day. We visited for about an hour before I left.

Ten days later the Internal Affairs investigation was finished and, as Captain Wilson had predicted, the shooting was ruled justifiable. I was cleared to return to work.

Six Months Later

I had just transitioned from midnights to the day shift and my body was still adjusting to the new hours. My shift today was quiet, too quiet. One traffic stop and a back-up to another unit on a D.U.I. arrest. I was looking forward to some down time at my apartment as I drove home.

As I got out of my car in the parking lot I heard screaming coming from the pool deck. Racing around to the pool area I saw a woman holding a small puppy and frantically waving her free arm pointing to the bottom of the pool.

"She can't swim! She can't swim!" She screamed at me.

I unfastened my gun belt, dropping it on the deck, and I dove into the pool. I retrieved a little girl from the water and brought her up to the side of pool. Checking for a pulse I found one. But she wasn't breathing. Checking her airway, to be sure she hadn't swallowed her tongue, I began resuscitation being careful not to over inflate her tiny lungs.

After three or four breaths a wonderful thing happened. She vomited into my mouth. I got the remains of her lunch along with a large amount of water from the pool that she had swallowed. Then she began breathing on her own and as I was placing her in the recovery position the EMTs arrived. Relinquishing my responsibility for her I moved away to let them work.

Placing her on a gurney, with an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, they left. The older woman thrust the puppy into my arms and left with them.

Great. Here I am, soaking wet, holding a small mini dachshund puppy with no idea as to the identity of the woman. When Sam, one of the other residents, handed me my gun belt I asked if him if he had any idea who the child and woman were.

"I think the kid is Darlene Sullivan's daughter and the woman is her grandmother. Darlene and the little girl live in apartment 212," he told me.

When I entered my apartment I looked at the little dog and said. "Well, it looks like it's just you and me for a while little fellow." I was rewarded with a big lick on my face.

The first order was to get out of my wet uniform and into dry clothes. As I dried the puppy and removed his leash I noticed a tag on his collar that identified him as 'Hans'.

"Ok Hans. Let's round up some dinner for both of us." After throwing a potato into the microwave I retrieved a strip steak from the fridge and put it onto a grill pan on the gas range. All the while I was preparing dinner Hans sat and looked at me, with his tail wagging, in anticipation.

Taking two plastic cereal bowls from the cupboard I filled one with water and placed it on the floor. Then cutting up a raw carrot I put it into the bowl along with some pieces of my steak. When I sat down to my meal I put the bowl on the floor next to the water dish. Hans was finished eating before I could manage to even start with mine.

After eating I cleaned up the kitchen and, reattaching his leash, Hans and I went for a walk. Half an hour later, after visiting every tree and sign post in the neighborhood, we returned. Sitting in my recliner in front of the TV I began flipping through the cable channels to find something to watch. Funny even with 200 or so channels there was nothing that caught my interest. Then I remembered I had recorded Monday night's football game on my DVR.

As I settled back to watch Hans jumped up into my lap and promptly fell asleep. Halfway through the second quarter I dozed off. Then the door bell to my apartment rang. Hans raised his head, barked once, and settled back down asleep. Getting up and carrying the sleeping puppy I went to see who was there. Outside was an older man and the woman I recognized from this afternoon.

After inviting them inside he said to me. "Hello. My name is John Sullivan and this is my wife Mary. We owe you very deep debt of gratitude and a great deal of thanks for saving our granddaughter, Suzy, this afternoon."

"How is she?" I responded.

Mrs. Sullivan answered me. "She's fine. The doctor wants to keep her overnight though for observation just to be sure. Her mother, Darlene, is spending the night with her."

"We stopped by to thank you and to pick Hans up for her," she continued. "He was the first thing Suzy asked about when we got to the hospital."