The Training Officer/Rookie Relationship

For a police officer, few things measure up to the time he or she spent as a rookie. Nor is such a time more memorable. We all went through it—taking all the calls that result in paperwork, the calls that no one else wanted or that Dispatch was holding just for you. The accident on the highway with fifteen minutes left in the shift always had the rook’s name on it. Let’s not forget, also, a time shortly before this, when the rookie police officer didn’t even count as a body on a shift, besides the fact that he took up space in a seat, sitting sheepishly at the back of the roll call room. I’m talking about Probation. That time in a young police officer’s life when, for three to nine months (depending on when you came on and what the city determined at that time was an acceptable time frame for you to learn all there was to know about being a police officer) your butt belonged to your FTO— the Field Training Officer. Each police officer has had a unique experience with his or her FTO, as all people are different. But one commonality remained. You had to do what the FTO told you—no matter how nervous, frustrated, clueless or scared to death you were. From contacting victims and taking reports while the FTO caught a few Z’s back in the cruiser, to being the contact person on those first couple of traffic stops as the FTO stood back and watched your ‘six’ from the front of the cruiser.

Having an FTO is a necessary evil and a great experience and introduction into Law Enforcement if you get the right one. Being an FTO can be just as rewarding—if you get the right rookie. I became an FTO after about five years on the department. I had been interested for a year or two earlier in sharing my knowledge and easing the new rooks into this profession, but I felt that I needed more experience and time out on the street to be taken seriously. I felt five years gave me enough time. In our department at that particular time in the mid 90’s, once you were certified as an FTO, rest assured, they would be utilizing you each time a new class came out—seemingly every six to nine months for a while. It was good to be in that mode, practicing being an effective FTO as each new class graduated. But, the department had to keep an eye on burn-out. Sometimes, they had no choice. Certain officers in certain districts, because of manpower issues, had to become FTO’s whether they liked it or not-- the fifteen year veteran set in his ways who felt he didn’t have time to look after the “little lost puppy” assigned to him, and also the guy who had only been out for two years himself and had yet to see all the crazy, unique, and frightening situations of the job.

When our department revamped our Training Program, I was one of the officers to attend a weeklong training course that would prepare us to become effective leaders and training officers. It was one of the best courses I had taken. We, as a department, would be on par with some of the major metropolitan agencies, following their FTO program models. The instructor had said that an officer with five to seven years experience was the ideal candidate to be an FTO. And, I was ready.

Lately, as the new recruits coming in have tapered off, I haven’t been an FTO for a few years, allowing other officers on my shift to take the reins. As a senior officer, I’m still approached with questions on certain things, and I am fine with that. When I did wear the FTO pin, I was luckily assigned some great officers over the years. I can only imagine what my FTO’s thought about me (my graduating class had more than one FTO over the course of our probation). I was fairly green, having grown up in the country. The only time I saw the dilapidated side of our city was when I would take the wrong way off the highway exit ramp trying to get somewhere new downtown. This “green-ness” makes for some interesting situations that FTO’s live for.
One incident comes to mind particularly for me when I was riding shotgun with my FTO one quiet night, and he observed a vehicle commit a traffic violation (which I, of course, missed). He pulled it over after advising me that we needed to stop this particular car as it was always prowling around this area night after night. He instructed me to approach the driver and confirm the identity by being sure to get the driver’s license. I observed a plain looking middle aged woman seated prim and proper behind the wheel, dressed in a lime green knee-length skirt, brown hose, tan nurses shoes, a white button up sweater and lavender opera gloves. A caricature of Vicky Lawrence in the old TV show “Mama’s Family” instantly came to mind. I asked for her driver’s license and recited the reason I was told for which she had been pulled over. The full name on the license escapes me all these many years later, but I clearly remember the first name—GREG.

I looked at the picture on the license then back at the silver-haired lady with the thick bright red lipstick and asked, “Are you Greg?”

“Yes,” came the quiet, deep reply, its owner’s eyes still looking straight ahead.

I could just imagine my FTO cracking up back inside the cruiser, even more so, as the situation went from slightly awkward to unbearably uncomfortable as I could detect from this “man’s” tone that he did not believe me when I told him he did not signal his intent to turn at the last intersection. He seemed to speak from the experience of having been pulled over many times, probably believing that the police were harassing him for his poor choice of dress as opposed his poor driving habits. Greg insisted on exiting the vehicle to check the status of rear left taillight. Assessing no danger at the moment, I allowed him to accompany me to the rear of his vehicle. To this day, I have an image in my head of him waddling back to the back bumper, saggy pantyhose wrinkling at the ankles of his support shoes and boxed handbag over his forearm as he bent unceremoniously over to tap the red shielding of his taillight, tilting his horn-rimmed glasses to the tip of his nose. This is the image permanently associated with my memory as my body flushed and I flustered, not knowing quite what to do or say at that point—even though, I learn that the whole traffic stop was captured on one of the departments first cruiser video cameras that was installed in our cruiser, and the cross dresser’s true representation was available for viewing anytime I wanted. No thanks!

I’m also not above having a laugh at my trainee’s expense. A quick example before I move into the main crux of my entry involves a hot summer night and my rook at the time, Officer Clint. As I mentioned before, rookies don’t even count as a body when they first come out. They are just empty space, like a second shadow, but one that can do the FTO’s busywork. For this reason, we were sent to a local outdoor swimming center with additional crews on report of after-hours swimming. A group of juveniles had climbed the fence and were cooling off in the dark waters of the closed pool.

Upon our arrival, all the kids scattered, leaving wet footprints into the field and out into the neighborhood’s darkness. Needing to check for stragglers and possible damage to the facility, we squeezed our way in through a metal full-length turnstile and out to the main area of the pool. After securing the area, we stood under one of the lights by the slowly quieting water. Someone raised the question how training was going. Officer Clint didn’t and couldn’t say anything bad about his FTO. We then shifted the conversation toward other past rookies and their indoctrination and “baptism” into police work and The Fifth District. The word “baptism” brought a particular image to my mind as well as to the other senior officer on scene. We shifted our positions in relation to Officer Clint as we alluded to the fact it was not unheard of or even frowned upon that a rook might find himself locked in a closet, tossed in some bushes or even flung into a swimming pool as part of his welcome into the brotherhood. This, coupled with our ever closing steps forcing him nearer to the edge of the pool, gave Officer Clint serious pause. Were these two officers capable of tossing him in the drink? Would they dare? The look on his face told us he believed we might. And, if there had been a quick and painless way to remove the $600 radio attached to his gun belt, we quite possibly might have done it. However, the look on Officer Clint’s face and the subtle move of his gun hand toward his holster were priceless. Gotta keep them on their toes!

My favorite recollection of FTO/Rookie relations, and main purpose for this entry involves myself as the FTO and Officer Dan as a rookie a month or so out of the Academy. This is not the same Officer Dan of whom I wrote about previously, the one with the difficulty in keeping upright during any foot pursuit (although, I did train him as well). And, even though the Officer Dan of this story did fall to the ground and injure himself on the first night he rode with me, I assure you we are dealing with two different officers.

Our night begins benignly enough with a Found Property call. We travel to a quiet part of the district in a relatively decent neighborhood. A resident reported a group of juveniles had been interrupted carting a portable basketball pole and backboard through yards and down the street. They left it lying halfway in the road. On any other night, I would probably slide the heavy, awkward pole to the side of the road to get it out of the way of traffic, in hopes that the rightful owner, who, more than likely only lived a few houses away, would find it in the morning. But on this night, I have a named caller who witnessed a possible theft in progress, and I have an impressionable rook riding with me. So, everything this time has to be done by the book.

We arrive on scene and discover the basketball pole. The first order of business is to collect the recovered property. It’s not going to fit in the trunk. This is where having a rookie comes in handy. I make the command decision to leave him standing guard over the pole, as I leave in the cruiser. I’m headed back to the police station to switch into the pick-up truck we have on standby for just such uses. I can’t help imagining what’s going on inside the new guy’s mind as he’s left alone in that dark, unfamiliar neighborhood, wondering when, or if, his partner is coming back.

The pick-up truck sits up high on all weather tires and has a large flip-up lighting system with large yellow bulbs, arranged in arrow formations and beset in a black backboard. Many times the truck is used in traffic situations to direct drivers into other lanes for one purpose or another. The device, mounted at the front of the truck bed is bulky and is fully extended, peering over the roof of the cab a good three feet. We’ll still have plenty of room in the back to transport the pole where it needs to go.

I make arrangements with the dispatcher on my return route. It’s after hours, so a supervisor must be called in to meet us at “The Warehouse.” Our department’s Property Room downtown is relatively small and unmanned on the midnight shift. Officers can check in their own evidence and recovered property relatively easily. However a fifteen-foot tall basketball pole is not going to fit in any of the footlockers we have available. Hence, “The Warehouse.” A large building among many off the highway our department has contracted out to store many large and long-term items in potential criminal cases. We have shot up cruisers, slot machines galore, and tons and tons of confiscated beer and liquor just sitting there waiting for their day in court.

As I pull back into the neighborhood with the truck, the dispatcher advises me that the Property Room Supervisor will meet us there, grateful for the call-out overtime pay along with the fact that it’s not too late into the wee hours. I see the rook, ever vigilant, his right hand ready to draw his gun at a moment’s notice.

It’s a comedy of errors as we attempt to lift the pole into the back of the truck. The base feels like it’s been filled with poured concrete, and the backboard creates a leverage that makes it nearly impossible to maneuver. We finally arrive at a solution. The tailgate is quickly shut against the bottom of the base as the pole rests at an angle toward the front of the truck, the backboard jutting forward over the roof, resting atop the light system.

It’s a bumpy ride as we navigate toward the highway, but the pole is wedged in the bed pretty well. It’s not going anywhere. We check on how it has fared so far as we near HQ along the way. The pole has apparently worn a slight groove in the roof of the truck, chipping the paint away at every bump. Oops. The truck is not pristine by any means, and is not as closely monitored for new damage as the cruisers are, but we feel an obligation to prevent any further harm to the vehicle-- and our disciplinary records.

Officer Dan runs into the locker room after I pull into the lot. He returns with a towel to wrap around the pole and use as a buffer between it and the roof. It’s a towel from some Country Club or other that’s been hanging on the rack next to the shower for as long as I can remember. I don’t know who it belongs to, but we’ll return it as soon as it’s served its purpose. What harm could possibly come to it?

As we travel the interstate en route to the storage facility on the outskirts of the city, the bumpiness gets worse. The backboard is catching the wind and banging back down on the roof, making for a very noisy ride. We take glances out the rear sliding window, and it’s kind of a joke between us to see how much “air” the backboard is catching as the principals of physics and lift are demonstrated so aptly for us.

We drive along for a while. I periodically check behind me in the rearview mirror, as is expected of any good driver. The pole’s base rests against the tail gate rising a foot or two above it. Looking overtop the base, I can see the strings of white headlights in the lanes behind us. A few minutes pass. That’s funny. It’s kind of quiet—and not just because Officer Dan and I have nothing to say to each other. I look behind us. The altered silhouette of the top edge of the tailgate I’ve grown used to seeing has changed. The basketball pole has disappeared!

When did that happen? I quickly pull to the shoulder to assess our situation. We exit the vehicle on the side of the busy highway but can see no sign of our cargo. Nervously, I back the truck up in the narrow lane as Officer Dan keeps a look out. I can’t show fear to the new guy, but traveling in reverse at no more than ten miles per hour right next to speeding blurs of metal scares the heck out of me. A quarter mile south of our “moment of enlightenment,” Officer Dan spots the pole, none the worse for wear, along the retaining wall in the emergency lane. And look! The towel is still wrapped around it!

Any time you spend a moment doing anything on the highway other than keeping with the flow of traffic, relatively safely wrapped in your motoring metal cocoon, is a scary time. And officers have their share of moments in unorthodox situations on the interstates. Maybe not as unorthodox as the situation Officer Dan and I found ourselves in, but still enough to keep them on edge. And now, here we were, after just traveling against the flow of traffic, outside our “safety zone” and trying to load back up the renegade pole. Under considerably more pressure than back among the quiet houses and deserted roads, we figured it out quickly this time—dirty uniforms be damned.

Loaded up and ready to go, it was mentioned that maybe we should try driving slower this time. Well, what’s slower than 65 mph? 55 mph? 45 mph? I decide to try the latter speed for a while, still wishing to get off the highway quickly and blend in as much as possible while doing so.
What had we really done differently our second time heading out? Nothing much really, and my brain catches up with that fact probably a little slower than anyone who may be reading about this escapade at this very moment.

Just as I’m thinking, “What’s going to stop this streamlined ‘Wright Flyer’ from taking flight again?” I look in the rear view mirror. Had the invention of flight been my objective, I might feel a small sense of pride at this moment. I just happen to catch the sight of the basketball pole lifting off and traveling backwards at tremendous speed, as if whipped off the rear of the truck by some invisible bungee cord attached to some imaginary point a few miles back.

One second, the pole is in my mirror, the next it’s gone, swallowed up in the darkness. Knowing the exact moment in time when our recovered property decided to jump ship is going to help us locate it a little easier this time around. But the tell-tale sign, which I can see in the rearview mirror, is the numerous pairs of headlights suddenly veering left or right. On the plus side, there is no traffic whipping by to contend with as I slam on the brakes and instantly put it into reverse. I always wondered when the “High Speed Backing” I was taught way back in the Academy during “Pursuit Driving” was going to come in handy.

Finding another positive in this deteriorating situation is the large semi truck acting as a roadblock for us as it has stopped a mere twenty feet from the basketball pole in the middle lane of the northbound interstate. Man, this pole is indestructible!

Officer Dan and I get pretty good at loading the pole back on board and are on the road in record time. The only casualty—the bath towel. It is nowhere to be found. I think now is the time that we learn something and apply it to our situation here. I pull over and make another command decision. Officer Dan will ride in the back, holding down the pole, as we cover the remaining distance—at a much more reduced speed of course!

I know what Officer Dan is thinking. How much time will pass before my Training Officer notices I have taken flight as well and sailed off into parts unknown? Officer Dan realizes that there is no other solution, and that I sure as heck am not going to be the one riding in the back. He takes his position, and we attempt this delivery fiasco one more time.

So, what’s a good speed to try this? We know have extra weight and our cargo is now somewhat secured. I start out at 40 mph. BAM! BAM! BAM! Officer Dan’s slams the fist of his free hand on the roof. OK, thirty it is. BAM! BAM! BAM! This time I glance out the back window. Officer Dan really shouldn’t have used that hand to bang on the roof. That pole is really moving around. He realizes this as well and hangs on with both arms. I slow to a crawl, wondering how the pole survived in the back as long as it did the previous times. Ten minutes later we cover the remaining two miles to our destination and pull up to the sliding doors of “The Warehouse,” where the sergeant waits with dangling keys in one hand, scowling at his watch.

As our adventure in property transport has shown us, rookies do serve a valuable purpose-- whether it’s as the contact officer for the fifth assault report of the shift (remember the FTO’s need their beauty sleep), or as the first officer through the open window in an otherwise secure structure on a burglary in progress (new guys are typically thinner and weigh less than their more experienced counterparts, hence being able to be thrust up and tossed through the window with a minimum of protest). Surviving your rookie years (it doesn’t just end as soon as the three, six or nine month probationary period is over) is a rite of passage for every officer, and the experiences the officers, rookie and veteran, take with them through their careers. Besides making for great stories of embarrassment at roll calls and off duty get-togethers, the Rookie/Training Officer relationship experiences help to shape them both into the police officers they will ultimately become.