The Pursuit

Summer. Friday Night. Hot. The call comes out over the radio to see the complainant for a second time tonight regarding her boyfriend back at her residence creating a disturbance. A typical call we've been on many times before. I also had the pleasure of being out there earlier tonight to take a report for him stealing her car. But, you know how that goes. There's more to it than we ever get told. However, any excuse we get to chase a car, then who are we to argue? Although few officers will risk their safety or other motorists pursuing a vehicle for a bogus robbery complaint, most likely involving a woman scorned or a car traded for drugs. As I pull down the street, Officer Dennis is not far behind as my back-up, and we see the woman amidst the rows of run-down four-unit apartment buildings, standing on the landing and waving animatedly. I see a man in a dark t-shirt standing in the open passenger door of a blue Camaro in front of the woman's unit. He gestures hurriedly to a man on the sidewalk. The man, wearing a white t-shirt ( our suspect!), runs to the driver's side and hops into the driver's seat of the Camaro (our stolen car!). The car takes off in a hurry. The woman screams, "That's him! That's him!" as her pointed index finger follows him down the block. I radio dispatch that we have our fresh stolen car (fresh being only a few hours ago) traveling westbound down Cleary Avenue. This is going to be fun. I only wish I wasn't driving one of the oldest Ford Crown Vics in the fleet. Or, after this whole thing shakes out, maybe I'll be appreciative of that fact. 94,000 miles and probably missing a cylinder, I valiantly try to catch up to the performance vehicle. Here's where my first break comes in. The car I'm following does not actually live up to its namesake and is dogging out, just like my cruiser, allowing me to close the distance. We blow every stop sign as we make our way out of the neighborhood and eastbound down the aptly named Hill Ave. Topping the crest of this street, I am able to see the entire east side of the city beyond and below, the lights from the various porches, lampposts and traveling vehicles twinkle in the distance, oblivious to the felony occurring outside their realm of responsibility or care. We race down the hill at about 80 miles per hour, not a NASCAR qualifying speed by any means, but fast enough when you realize your reflexes could be tested at any moment from some abrupt move of the suspect or an unaware motorist suddenly appearing from one of the many sidestreets along this man's escape route. I am awarded a chuckle amidst my effort of concentrating on my task at hand as the fleeing driver puts his turn signal on several times as we continue down the first hill of a major theme park roller coaster. As he signals left and then right, I'm not buying into it since his feet never touch the brakes. In the back of my mind, I'm aware that Dennis is still behind me somewhere, although I don't physically register his presence at the time. He could be several blocks behind me if his cruiser is anything like mine. And, due to the fact he is a newer officer, tradition dictates he be assigned an older patrol car for his shift. I hope I see him at the end of this. The intensity picks up two-fold for me in this pursuit. While I have a rough familiarity with the rest of the city, there is nothing like a home field advantage from patrolling and enforcing in your own district. The suspect decides we are now playing an away game as he crosses the river into First District. And, while I try to find fault for the mindless wanderer, who, in the middle of the night, found himself walking across the street in the middle of our loudly advertised pursuit, the driver of this stolen vehicle is the one who bumps the stakes up a notch as he roars through the intersection, giving the hairs of this man's backside a close shave. I radio what I just witnessed to the dispatcher as I've been keeping him and other responding crews aware of my location since the beginning. We are very close to the highway now and also to one of the largest public housing projects in our city. If it goes on the highway, this pursuit could last forever-- at least until the State Patrol boys get ahead of it and force it off the road. Or, it could go into the projects-- a labyrinth of alleys, oddly named platts, and home to a number of individuals who would gladly open their doors to a fleeing felon. Whenever a chase leads into the projects, the end is near and the pursuing officer faces a moment of truth. Well, I will be denied my moment of truth for now. No, he does not choose the highway. Instead he circles the blocks surrounding the large complex, as if to exploit the fact that I really don't know where I'm going at this point and he knows it. But, how could he? Sure, I can see street signs and have enough experience with orientation to know whether we're turning north or east. If I can hold out long enough with this training, I know that other officers, other First District officers will soon be right behind me, ready to take over calling out the pursuit. They will not take away my position as lead car. No way. But, it takes some of the responsibility away when a back-up crew calls out the pursuit to leave your mind to deal with watching the bad guys. Eventually we turn into the main entrance of the projects, and I'm now aware of Officer Dennis behind me. That makes facing the moment of truth a little easier to deal with. We can't expect to run around in cars the entire night. Eventually the pursuit must come to an end. If it ends in a crash, we can only hope we're not involved as well, and even though we may have to deal with traumatic images and circumstances, at least we'll have our man and the risk to other persons or property will end. If the pursuit ends in a bail-out, we have to assess the situation as to what led to the pursuit in the first place. Is this person armed, ready to shoot it out? What did he do and how badly does he not want to be caught? "Fight or flight" is what experts call it. I'm no expert but I see it every time, and I try to anticipate it. Even if it's "flight," we have to think ahead to what may occur when we eventually capture him-- in mid-stride, or hiding under a porch, like a scared rodent on a foxhunt. It can be the suspect's most desperate hour. This suspect is sure getting desperate, I observe, as he leaves the road and travels through the beaten, dusty grass in the courtyard between the large row houses of apartments in the complex. I have no choice but to follow as my cruiser fishtails around buildings and under clotheslines. Suddenly, I'm presented with it-- the apex of this ordeal. The suspect can go no further as he reaches a narrow passage with large parking blocks and poles mounted in the ground. They are designed to prevent just this sort of thing, the wild chaos of cars flying around amidst the residents' backyards, however the engineers didn't figure that a vehicle would be approaching the semi-functional, semi-decorative barricade from the other direction. Remarkably, the vehicle comes to a stop before both passengers jump out and run in opposite directions. Still in the grass, I push the brakes hard, sliding forward, while at the same time ramming the shift lever on my steering wheel up into 'Park.' The transmission makes the most god-awful noise. 'Click-click-click-click-click-click.' I don't have time to think about it as my brain is working two steps ahead and has processed the fact that I've done everything I needed to do in order to engage the driver in foot pursuit at this point. I open the door and exit in a single leaping motion. Something doesn't look quite right about the ground, but again, I'm trusting my brain as it put me on auto-pilot so I can concentrate on keeping eyesight of the escaping suspect. As I literally hit the ground running, I realize the discrepancy between what my vision had told me and what my brain assured me prior to leaving the cruiser. The vehicle is still in motion! I tumble forward as my feet fly up above my head and behind me. During my less-than-graceful somersault, I'm aware of my cruiser passing me, the driver's side door swinging casually back and forth as the cruiser bounces onward toward its own destination. It doesn't really register with me that this could be happening as I'm so focused on the bad guy and see him turning a corner ahead of me. Amazingly, I'm able to catch an address and street sign affixed to the corner of the building we run around and continue to keep responding crews up to date with where we are. I don't know if I twisted or broke anything during my tumble, but I'm losing steam as the distance between me and my suspect starts to increase and the foot chase winds its way throughout the complex. It's difficult to keep the same speed over any length of time with the extra 30 pounds we carry around with our bullet-proof vest and all the gear on the belt. These suspects, with their Air Jordans and loose fitting shorts-- its sometimes a wonder we catch them at all. I'll blame the fact that my adrenaline dump was fairly quick due to my unorthodox tumble out the side of my patrol car and I was unable to capitalize on it. Then, I see the calvary arrive in the form of a D1 cruiser I fleetingly take for an instant as my own as it zips past me on the lawn. Officer John, fresh and ready to join in the fight, exits his stopped cruiser like a gazelle. I feel like huffing and puffing, hunched over with my hands on my knees, saying, "Go on without me. I'll catch up." But, I save face and trudge it out as I see the welcomed blue streak zip after our man and tackle him in mid-stride. It was kind of anti-climactic not having an actual hand in his arrest, but at least I was there. Plus, I rationalize, I had the most fun part of the pursuit and can let someone else get down and dirty on the ground wrestling with this guy. He wisely does not put up a fight for John, who later tells me he really enjoyed his bit part in this drama. The bad guy gets put in the back of John's cruiser as I make my way back to the scene of the initial bail-out to regroup in my cruiser. I see the Camaro near the posts but can't find my vehicle where I last remember leaving it. I walk around the corner of one of the buildings and see several other cruisers up in the grass near another one when it finally hits me what happened. My friend and co-worker Officer Ron is there, shaking his head. Dennis joins the scene. Actually, he had been there the whole time and witnessed everything. He starts quietly laughing as we approach Ron among the cluster of cruisers. It's easy to tell which one is mine. It's the one that's crashed into the side of the brick-walled apartment building. I go to the cockpit and look inside. The contents of my briefcase and clipboard are all over the seats and floor, but I confirm what my brain wanted me to believe all along. The car is in 'Park.' I relay briefly to Ron my perception of the recent events. He replies, "All I'm saying is when I got here, the car was in 'Park.'" That's all I can say too, and it's the truth.