"I Got One Running!"

The challenge of the pursuit. It’s what police work is all about. The pursuit of justice, the pursuit of evidence and leads, and most importantly—the pursuit of the bad guy. This last point is the most exhilarating and potentially dangerous for a police officer. Vehicle pursuits present a unique perspective on the flight or flight phenomenon, but the elemental basis of the pursuit is the good old-fashioned foot chase. Many variables come in to play for us when the bad guy decides to run. First, and foremost, is what condition we’re in. We can’t predict when a chase will happen, so when the stolen car just happens to cross your path and crash right in front of you on your way back from a hefty meal break and three juvenile delinquent track stars bail out, will you have what it takes to keep up? Let’s talk about the extra twenty pounds on your body. Not necessarily the “spare tire” you picked up about your third year into the job, but the equipment you’re required to carry— from the vest to the radio, gun and all the other equipment strapped on your leather Sam Brown Duty Belt. In addition to adjusting your body’s center of gravity, the extra weight can make hopping fences after that two-legged gazelle a lot more difficult. That brings us to the next two points. The first of these is the condition and mindset of the criminals out there. Most of the suspects are of average fitness, but they have nothing to lose by running away. They know the old adage that if you run from the police and they have to chase you, they’re bringing an ass whipping with them. It’s just the way it works and its an accepted risk and trade-off from both sides. How bad do you want to catch this guy? After I blew out each knee twice throughout my career, unless the person I’m chasing just hurt my partner, I can tell you, “Not badly enough.” That isn’t to say I won’t try my best, but I’ve developed a refined system of risk assessment when I put myself in a position to chase. The avoidance of pain is what drives the fleeing felon and the pursuing officer and ultimately can dictate the end result of the foot chase. The final point affecting the pursuit dynamic is the environment. Where are you when the suspect decides it’s now or never and surprises you, even though you should be expecting it, breaking free and running for it? The majority of foot chases happen off side streets in dilapidated neighborhoods—lopsided chain link fences, unsecured pit bulls in backyards, unseen clotheslines, and unexposed large divots covered by grass that hasn’t been mowed in two months. And, of course, there’s never a working street lamp anywhere near you. Every once in a while we get lucky with circumstances falling into place for us, allowing us to recover from the fact that we entered a situation where the suspect ran from us in the first place, preventable or not.

Our department has an overtime opportunity downtown in the form of a contract to provide security for the public transportation system. There is a hub in the center of town that has blighted our fair city for some time. The police department has already stretched the street officers as thin as they could, so we can’t be everywhere. Unfortunately anarchy ensued, and people were afraid to catch the buses downtown thanks to some groups of lawless punks. The solution— put extra officers on walking patrol right at the hub to do strict enforcement on any and all violations. So far it’s working. There are a few disorderly people, and we’re still battling the ever-adapting drug traffickers that are still prevalent at various bus stops within a block radius of the hub. I’ve enjoyed working this detail—fresh air, clean surroundings, and decent people (all relatively speaking, of course). There’s a particular bus stop that is just outside of the mainstream hub activity that a few unsavory characters use as a base to sell their crack cocaine. Being on foot and mobile gives us better approachability and versatility, but it’s still hard to sneak up on the dopers, who are almost more suspicious and paranoid than cops. Whether by accident, or trial and error, an officer working this detail found an ideal way to spy on these individuals in the hopes of catching them in the middle of wrongdoing. There is a parking garage on the first few floors of a high-rise office complex on the corner. It is very art deco and discreet. The normal streetwalker wouldn’t even know it was there as it is so much a part of the skyscraper’s architecture. My partner that afternoon in late summer, Officer Jack, and I walk into the main lobby of the complex, greeted by a water fountain and fancy artwork, as we mingle with corporate America. We feel out of place within these pristine conditions, with the sharp dressed men and attractive office assistants, knowing that about fifty yards away the dredge of society are peddling their wares. We must walk through the Main Street side and follow a path that takes us ninety degrees to the right to come out onto Level One of the parking garage on the Third Street side. There is an area by the elevators where office workers take smoke breaks, leaning against the chest high wall to stare at the open air beyond and out toward the busy street. Directly below is the canopied bus stop. They see us approach and give polite nods. They know what’s in the mix. We’ve been up here before. Sometimes we strike out, and sometimes we strike gold. Leaning forward over the wall, I can see twenty feet below me. The bus stop is about ten feet out from us and just a little bit down the street. This positioning allows me to see any individual who’s back is turned to the main activity toward the hub location, in order to hide his own doings, as he sits on the edge of the bench. The only drawback I explain to Officer Jack, as it’s his first time working this unique surveillance opportunity, is that if someone wanted to, all he had to do was look up and see us— uniform, patches, badge and all. There’s a way to deal with this as well. Farther down the wall, large tinted glass panes working their way up the side of the building replace the open air. We can still see the bus stop from here, but during daylight hours, no one on the outside can see in through the glass. We give up distance and the ability to possibly hear any conversation, but gain in stealth. On this particular afternoon, hanging beside the bus stop, there are two males who don’t look too interested in when the next bus will be coming. It’s like fishing. Get everything set up then wait. Officer Jack takes this opportunity to catch up with someone on his cell phone as I watch the two subjects for a while. Without being able to hear them, I try to interpret their quick hand gestures and movements. If I can articulate that I believe I just saw a drug deal go down, we can grab hold of them. A few more of Officer Jack’s free anytime minutes of waiting and we’re about to get lucky. A man of short stature, a “little person” if you will, approaches the man sitting on the edge of the bus stop bench. The other man originally with him has walked out of view, perhaps functioning as a look out. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? The little person takes out several dollar bills from his pocket and hands them to the drug dealer, who then pockets them in one of his pants pockets. Out of the other pocket, he pulls a knotted plastic baggie. Even from my distance, I can see the chalky white substance through the clear plastic, indicative of crack. The dealer hunches over and begins manipulating the pieces. I turn to my partner and tell him “I think we got something." He tells the person on the other end of the phone, “I think we got something.” A piece is handed over into the palm of the little person, and the deal is complete. I look back at Officer Jack still on the phone and tell him we’re going. I’m vaguely aware of the play by play he’s giving to the cell phone as I run to the stairwell. The stairs will lead us out to the sidewalk directly in front of the bus stop we’ve been watching. Exiting to street level quickly but not too threateningly, I see that the doper has gotten up from the bench and is near the curb in front of me and to the right. The little person is walking away to the left. I tell the dealer, “Hey! Come here!” Simultaneously, I pull out my Taser as he darts from the curb into the street. I realize my error subconsciously as I prepare to take off after him. The tiny wire leads that attach the Taser gun to the barbed probes are only 21 feet in length. It’s a little secret we don’t like to tell the bad guys if we can help it. At the place where I come out of the parking garage and the point where the suspect starts to run, it’s a little more than 21 feet. If I were to fire now, like I really wished that I could have in order to end this incident here and now, the probes would just flail around sparking, possibly entangling me. Not an option now. What is an option— the only option— is the foot chase. Compared to past pursuits, I finally have the earlier mentioned variables of the pursuit dynamic in my favor. It’s daylight in downtown, and I’m ready to run. The drug dealer is jaywalking across the street, darting through four lanes of screeching traffic. I lose some ground to him as I assess the stopping vehicles before crossing the street after him. Keying my shoulder mounted radio mike, I announce the familiar staple quote: “I got one running!” This attention-getter is followed by a brief description and direction of flight. Unknown to me at the time, Officer Jack is radioing the description at the same time, and neither of us know if any potential responding crews could hear us or not. The suspect makes it across the street and into an open plaza area near the old courthouse where “9-to-5’ers” walk amongst the office buildings or sit near the fountain “wi-fi’ing.” They stare in disbelief as a real life crime drama unfolds before their eyes. It’s great for me as I can see the suspect for an extended length of time, as there is no dark alley or broken street lamp in the middle of the night to conceal his path. My only concern is that I am continuing to lose ground. The extra equipment I carry has a lot to do with that, plus the fact that it’s really difficult to take off full bore and keep up that burst of speed for long. Plus, I continually weigh my own safety amidst my surroundings. This guy is not worth another blown knee or getting hit by a car. Then, the guy does something else that slows me down— but only briefly. And, in this case, I don’t mind. I can’t believe his stupidity and my good fortune as he cuts diagonally through the open square, down some steps and throws down his baggie of crack. He’s only fifty feet or so in front of me. Does he think I don’t see that? I definitely have a Possession charge on him now. Maybe if he waited until he rounded a corner, temporarily out of my sight, before he ditched his stash, he might have more to bargain with in getting out of this. Of course, no one ever said these guys were smart. In a move that surprises even myself, I shuffle down the steps and scoop up the baggie. It has about five rocks in it, each the size of a pencil tip eraser— a decent amount. If I lose this guy, my decision to slow down to pick up the drugs was still the right one. I’m not sure where my back up is, and I don’t want anyone finding these drugs that has no business with them. I stuff the baggie in my rear pocket and scan for the runner. The dealer is now running diagonally across Main Street. When is his luck going to run out? Where’s the passing car to “take him out” that would surely strike me if I were to run across the street as haphazardly as he did? Well, there is a car I see now that can help me in this endeavor. As we run northbound down the middle of Main Street, a Park Ranger’s cruiser is traveling southbound. Is he aware of the pursuit? Had he been nearby, monitoring our channel, and arriving to help? Or is he just coming into town for a lunch break? I shout and wave my arm toward the fleeing suspect, shouting, “There he is!” The Ranger turns on his overhead emergency lights and does a U-turn in the middle of traffic. Good! Let’s see this idiot outrun a police car. I’m starting to run out of steam and am relieved to see some help. The suspect is now headed east down Second Street as the cruiser closes in fast. He then starts walking, raising his hands in the air as he continues down the street. The Ranger comes to a stop in the middle of traffic, blading his cruiser at an angle away from the suspect. He pulls out his firearm and orders him to the ground from behind his open car door. The guy is slow to react. The Ranger, a six foot-three, 250-pound former linebacker, tells him again as I approach. Weighing his options, the guy wisely decides to give up. I assist him in that decision, taking him to the ground in the oh-so-gentle manner in which we’ve been trained. Now is not the time for kid gloves. The Ranger holsters his weapon and comes up to assist as we get the cuffs on. “Man! I don’t got nothin’! Y’ain’t got nothin’ on me!” the dealer shouts. “That’s right!” I tell him. "You dropped it back there, but don’t worry, I picked it up for you.” It is at this time that I realize Officer Jack is nowhere to be seen. Hoping for a “two-fer,” in which we nab buyer and seller, I figure he may be going after the other one. But, since he had been on the phone during the surveillance, and I made the decision to go quickly, was he aware of the buyer’s description? These thoughts go through my mind in a millisecond as I’m still on the ground cuffing up the first suspect. The adrenaline is still coursing through me. I radio out to Officer Jack and any responding crews that could be assisting him, because I sure didn’t see anyone coming to help me. The Ranger was just a happy coincidence. Come to think about it, I didn’t hear the dispatcher at all. Usually they repeat the pursuing officer’s comments for clarity’s sake. Talk about being alone in the middle of hundreds of people. Anyway, I figure I probably am shouting into the mike, “There’s a little person still out! The little person is the buyer!” It’s pointless to give anymore of a description than that. I mean, come on, he’s a little person. How many are walking downtown at any given time for an officer to need to identify. But then, I realize how awkward it sounds and how long it takes in my effort to sound politically correct in saying “little person,” especially when I don’t hear any responses on the radio. “The midget!” I shout. “Jack, did you get the midget?” That woke them up. “I’m looking for him off of Third Street” is the response. “822M, did you lose a midget?” a crew responds behind a snicker, referring to my partner’s crew number. Officer Jack soon finds him hiding in an alley in a doorway, his purchased baggie of crack conveniently placed atop a bumper railing running the length of the alley, just above his head. I learn later that Officer Jack had been a good witness to my pursuit, however, was unable to keep up with me in his Motorcycle Patrol uniform. “These boots aren’t made for walking,” one would say. He realized the futility of trying to keep up with us so he had went to his motorcycle nearby and canvassed the area for the little person who had blended into the meld of people going about their business. Meanwhile, another local unit comes to my location, finally, and relieves the Ranger. He inadvertently leads a media crew right to me (Must have sounded pretty newsworthy over the radio). My suspect continues to try to convince himself that we don’t have anything to charge him with. “Say it three more times, and it might come true, “ I tell him as the officer tries to fathom how we let a midget outrun us. I don’t have time to explain the miscommunication and misunderstanding as an Emergency tone emanates over our radios. Officer-involved shooting. All available crews are to respond. Not me, unfortunately. I have my own mess. The officer takes off, leaving me and Officer Jack to sift through the many silent messages sent from other crews on our cruiser computers about the little one that “got away.”