Trooper Down! (10 page)

*

One of the most dangerous drunks I ever had was a big rascal who wanted to fight all the way to jail. I wrestled with him, struggled with him, and finally had to pull my blackjack out and beat him down. Every time I'd hit him, he'd shake his head and say, “I'm gonna kill you, you son of a bitch!”

I hit him so hard the blackjack fell apart in my hand, but he was still shaking his head and coming after me. So I'm wondering, “What have I got here?” Finally, I got him down enough to put the handcuffs on him.

About that time, I spotted what he was after. He had a sawed-off shotgun laying in the seat and he was trying to get to it.

I guess I would have been within my rights if I'd shot him. But I just couldn't do it.

*

I ran a man into his driveway one time and he got out and pulled a gun on me. I talked him out of it. The judge gave me the shotgun and gave the guy six months in jail.

*

In Thomasville, a man had robbed an oil company just as I was driving by. I saw a city policeman and a State Bureau of Investigation [SBI] agent standing out front with guns drawn. They motioned me to pull over and bring my shotgun. When I got there I said, “What's going on?”

“This place is being hit and we're gonna be ready for them when they come out,” said one of the officers. Just then, a man comes out the door with one hand down and one hand holding a bag. I was standing on the far left, the SBI agent and the city cop beside me.

Without saying a word, the man's hand came up with a gun and he shot at us. The city cop was hit in the foot. I took aim and was ready to fire when this same police officer dived forward, knocking me off balance and nearly causing me to accidentally shoot him in the head.

The robber took off running. Other officers had arrived by then and were shooting at him. Three .45 slugs struck him in the shoulder but he kept going, still firing at us. I saw which way he went and ran around the other side of the building.

I was getting ready to blow him away when he saw me and threw down his gun. Another officer yelled at him to put his hands up.

“I can't, I can't,” he said, “I've been shot!”

“Well, you better
can,” 
said the officer. And he did—put his arms in the air with three bullets in his shoulder.

While this thing was going on, it didn't seem so bad. But later, as we began talking about it, every one of us got shaky.

*

Most people sense if you have the right presence about you. Your voice will be authoritative, you'll have a certain look in your eyes, and the way you stand will denote authority.

But let's face it. Troopers are human beings too. None of us want to get our ass beat.

The bottom line is whether you, the violator, think you can “take” me and get away with it. If you see an authority presence in an officer, you know he's not a good “take.”

That's why we've been taught to appear professional, serious, and like we can handle ourselves at all times. It's a way to avoid a lot of confrontations.

*

That night, it was quiet in the communications center. I was working as a telecommunicator and Pete Peterson was on duty at the McDowell County line on Highway 221, talking to another trooper. Pete was known as a “Super Trooper,” the kind of officer who went strictly by the book. No one thought anything bad could happen to him because he always knew exactly what to do.

At 6:08
P.M.
he called me.

“Cecil,” he said, “have you heard any radio traffic from Rutherford County?”

I told him I hadn't heard a thing.

“Have you heard anything about anyone getting shot down there? We keep picking things up on our scanners but we can't figure out what it is.”

“Nope,” I said. “Don't have anything on it. But I'll check it out with the Rutherford County sheriff's department.”

A few minutes later, Peterson called back.

“Cece,” he said, “something is going on down there. I think I'll ease on down 221 South and see what's happening.”

I sent a total of five messages on the computer to the sheriff's department. But I never got an answer. Now the other troopers were starting to hear things on their radios about a white '68 Ford.

I told the other telecommunicator, “There's definitely something going on because now I'm hearing things about two officers getting killed. And here we sit knowing nothing. To hell with this!”

I contacted the Rutherford County sheriff's department again and got a deputy on the line. “This is the highway patrol in Asheville,” I said. “I've sent you five computer messages. Can you tell me what's going on?”

“We've had two deputies shot and killed.”

He then described a white '68 Ford and said it was last seen on Highway 221 heading north. The driver was wanted in connection with the shootings.

Later, I learned they had a dispatcher on the radio when the killings took place, but she had fainted. The deputy found her passed out on the floor and had to take over the radio without knowing how to work it. That's why he hadn't answered my messages.

I radioed all the troopers in the area and said, “Look, they're after a 1968 white Ford. Hutchins is the guy's name. He shot and killed two deputies tonight after they were called to his house over a domestic squabble.”

About three minutes later, Peterson, who was traveling south on Highway 221, came back on the radio.

“Cecil,” he said, “I've spotted him, I'm going after him.”

I turned to the telecommunicator beside me.

“Now it's on,” I said.

There were all kinds of dirt roads and turnoffs in the area so the chase continued for quite a while. In the meantime, other patrol cars were listening to the radio transmissions. Even the troopers on the South Carolina line were heading up this way to see if they could help.

Peterson came on the radio again.

“Cece! I've got him!”

Those were his last words. He had spun around a curve and stopped in the road. Hutchins was standing there with a shotgun, and fired. Peterson never had a chance.

I didn't realize then what had happened so I radioed the other troopers.

“G-239 just told me he got Hutchins, but I can't get him back on the radio.”

Trooper Spears arrived on the scene first. Hutchins was gone, but he found Peterson slumped over in the patrol car.

Spears came on the radio and said, “Cece, I think he's dea . . .”

He was trying to say “dead,” but his voice kept breaking.

I knew then we had a serious problem.

We began to mobilize. It was suppertime and lots of off-duty troopers had their scanners going. They had heard the transmission and were already checking on.

Meanwhile, Hutchins had gone down the road after shooting Peterson, parked his car, and run into the woods, where he stayed all night.

Troopers from everywhere were calling in, asking, “Do you need some help? Can we come?”

The officers surrounded Hutchins, but for hours it was a standoff. Even the radios were quiet. About 5:00
A.M.
, two shots rang out.

The troopers returned Hutchins's fire but missed him.

At nine-thirty that morning he gave himself up. It was just as well. He had more than 400 law enforcement officers around him—and a lot of them were Peterson's friends.

[James W. Hutchins was executed on March 14, 1984, for the 1979 slaying of two deputies and highway patrolman R. L. (“Pete”) Peterson in Rutherford County, North Carolina. Hutchins was the first person to die by lethal injection in North Carolina after the state's death penalty was reinstated in 1977.]

*

I don't like fights. I've been in law enforcement eight years and have been in only three or four physical skirmishes. I don't hit a man unless it's a last resort.

But—and here's what they don't teach you in school—you stop a car and a man
this 
wide in the shoulders says he's not gonna be arrested.

Do you take him right then or let him make the first move? When do you react? When do you take control of the situation?

It's something you've got to learn on the job. And if you don't act quickly enough, you stand a chance of getting hurt.

The court wants you to wait until he resists. But if you do, especially with someone that size, how do you regain control? You can't shoot him. So you've got to physically grab him and tell him he's under arrest. By that time, it's too late to go back to your radio for help.

That's why I try to talk people into coming with me peacefully. I also try to stay in shape—lift weights, run regularly—for the confrontations that may not end well.

*

I was stationed in Lincoln County, had been on rny own about two or three months, and was still green as I could be. There was a place I often patrolled called “Hog Hill,” all dirt roads, miles from nowhere, one of the roughest sections I've ever been in.

We'd go up there, two or three troopers together, and arrest drunk drivers by the carload. One Saturday night I was working
by myself and had just gotten to Hog Hill when I hit a bump in the road. I looked down and realized the lights were off on my radio. It was no longer working.

I thought, “Damn. I just got up here and I hate to leave. But a man's a fool to be in Hog Hill without a radio.”

I was debating whether to stay or go when I came around a curve and got behind this old beat-up car.

“There's a drunk for sure,” I thought. “I'll arrest him and get the hell out of here.”

I turned on the blue light, pulled the guy over, and asked him to step out of the car. He was the biggest man I'd ever seen. I'm a big fella myself—six feet four, 225 pounds—but this guy was at least six feet eight and must have weighed more than 300. He was
huge.

When I saw him, I said to myself, “Mac, if he wants to fight you, he's gonna kill you, there's no doubt about it. And you don't even have a radio to call for help.”

“Let me see your driver's license,” I said. He showed it to me and I noted his name.

“Mr. Smith, you've been drinking some, haven't you?”

“I've had right at a fifth of liquor,” he replied. “But I'm a big man and it takes a lot to get me drunk.”

Then he asked me who I was. I told him. I also told him he was under arrest.

“Trooper,” he said, “I don't want to go to jail.”

My heart rate suddenly doubled. And there's no telling where my blood pressure went. I knew if I backed down I might as well hunt a new career because technically, I had already arrested him. On the other hand, I thought what a dumb attitude that was—because this man was gonna beat me to death.

“Well, Mr. Smith,” I said, “it's like this. I'm sure you don't want to go to jail. But I have arrested you and I'm gonna try to take you. If you manage to get away from me, you'll have to hurt me to do it. And if that happens, there'll be about ten of my buddies who will come and get you. So why don't you come along peacefully?”

He hung his head and shuffled those two big feet.

“Officer, you misunderstood me. I wouldn't give you no trouble at all. I was just asking you not to take me.”

As he got in the patrol car, he was as meek and mild as he could be.

That's the most terrified I've ever been and I was in absolutely no jeopardy at all.

*

I've been so scared that I couldn't write a ticket because my hands were shaking so bad. Or I couldn't remember my call number.

But after a while, you learn to accept the fear and the possibility that you might get hurt or killed while doing your job. It's just something a trooper learns to live with. Otherwise, you lose your nerve and can't go on with everything else you have to do.

“Mister, would you get this bus off of me?” —
A young boy's plea to a trooper after a bus crushed the car his mother was driving

Among the most heart-rending duties a trooper must contend with on duty is investigating wrecks.

Nationwide, it's been estimated that every twenty-three minutes, someone loses his life on a U.S. highway. In fact, motor vehicle accidents are the single greatest cause of death among Americans aged five through thirty-four. About 150,000 automobile accidents are reported in North Carolina each year. Most are minor in nature, but sooner or later, every trooper investigates his share of serious wrecks.

Major car crashes bring with them traumatic scenes—bodies broken, dismembered, or crushed. A relative, spouse, or friend gone forever. Lives permanently changed in a single, sudden moment. Auto accidents involving children are the worst, touching even the most hardened troopers. Some officers—recalling wrecks they investigated years ago—still cannot recount the details without displaying emotion. Others refuse to discuss those accidents that affected them most deeply.

“I remember every single fatality just as though it happened yesterday,” said one patrolman. “It's the kind of thing that stays with you.”

Yet when a trooper arrives at the scene of an accident, he must put aside his feelings and assume the role of authority figure.

“You have to be the one to take charge, the one who knows what to do,” explained a training officer. “I tell my cadets, if you don't
know what you're doing,
act 
like you do. Take an authoritative stance and look serious. People will think you're sizing up the situation, even if on the inside, you're saying, ‘Oh shit, look at this mess. Where do I start? What do I do?'”

Another trooper, with eight years' experience on the patrol, says he's worked out a system to convince a watchful public he has control of the situation at hand.

“There may he dead bodies all over the place, but I'll get out my notebook and start scribbling,” he said, “or I'll pull out the tape I use to measure skid marks—anything to stall for time until I figure out exactly what to do.”