We in the police profession are so vulnerable, we can become calloused because of the many terrible things we encounter. Most people would stand in utter disbelief of the horrors and tragedies that we encounter on a daily basis. Unfortunately, this is one of those horrors.
This is not a story of heroism or laughter, but of the day I lost my innocence, the day that is probably one of the most memorable in all of my five short years with my agency.
The first two years I was a police cadet. I was hired right out of high school and went into the police academy when I turned twenty-one. During my time as a cadet, I drove an unmarked Crown Vic, took basic burglary and auto theft reports, and did another one of my favorite things, assisting on car accidents with traffic control.
August 16, 2002, started as any other typical day–at Starbucks with a friend. As a fresh cadet, I was at the halfway mark in my cadet career, about a year away from getting ready for the police academy. I was starting to do the things that would prepare me to become a police officer, like making sure I had coffee and breakfast, the most important meal of the day.
This Thursday was no different from any other. I had the pleasure of being on a day-shift squad, with Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off, in one of the most senior area commands. This was about my third month on this squad; I had come from a squad of newer officers, who all said that I needed to be careful because all of these salty officers would abuse the hell out of me. Boy, were they wrong. I had never been better taken care of in my time in the department. True, I was working with a bunch of senior officers who weren't easy to change, but I learned a lot from them, besides just where to go for coffee.
I was leaving a local high school parking lot, where I was running license plates on my computer, when a message popped up on my screen. It read almost "401b ann/95, possible 419 baby.Nevada Highway Patrol will be handling." The number 401B is our code for accident with injuries, and 419 means dead body. To break it down even more: It was a vehicle accident at Ann and U.S. 95, with injuries and a possible dead baby.
As soon as the message came out, I knew I wasn't far away. Not having any sirens or emergency equipment on my car, I put the pedal to the floor. I heard officers getting on the radio asking if Nevada Highway Patrol needed our assistance. Then these old, seasoned officers did what any of us would do. Just knowing that a baby, an innocent being, could be hurt or killed, they went to assist, jurisdiction or not. I could hear officers getting on the radio now, their sirens in the background. I really couldn't do much when I got there, but I just know I had to get there and help.
As I drove, all I could think of was getting there, not what I might witness. You see, before I was a cadet, I was an Explorer and did many ride-alongs. Before today, I had seen dead bodies, but nothing too earth-shattering, nothing so horrible that I couldn't find the words to describe it–that is, until that morning.
I pulled up as the fire department and ambulance were arriving. As I was getting out of my car, I saw it–the carnage, the wreckage, the shock and disbelief on the faces of the people. I saw paramedics running to an ambulance and leaving just as I was arriving. In the middle of a sea of debris, I saw a baby blanket, lying on top of a pile of metal. I started doing all that I could to try and help clear the scene. I saw the body parts, skull, brain, all over this normally busy freeway. Off about a hundred yards from the accident was a gravel truck, with the trailer's back wheels missing.
As I looked closely at the wreckage, I saw a green minivan. The passenger's side of the vehicle was completely intact, but the driver's side was brutally smashed, the metal twisted and torn and smeared with blood and pieces of human flesh. It was a horrific scene. I had to work hard to keep my composure. I could not allow myself to think too hard about what had been done to fragile human beings in that terrible accident.
Yet every time I looked back at the crash site–and I found it hard not to keep coming back to it–I saw more and more to upset me: a stroller, children's clothes and toys. Talking with a witness, he pointed out brain chunks and other human remains, which I had just recently trampled through, trying to secure the scene. I learned that the ambulance, which left upon my arrival, carried a baby, still in a car seat. We learned later that the baby only had a minor cut. More and more officers from my agency and Nevada Highway Patrol came flying up, all trying to see if there was anything they could do. I sat in disbelief, not understanding how this could happen. As I was just a rookie, there was nothing I could do to help. This was the worst thing I had ever seen. I felt like I needed someone to help me.
Then the bad news came. The driver, a twenty-four-year-old mother, and her four-year-old son, were now an unrecognizable combination of body parts in the backseat area. I'm glad I didn't go with the investigators and lift up the sheet to see the bodies. Everyone who had a family said that they saw their own child in that accident. I didn't have to see it to have it hit home.
I left that accident scene reeling and in disbelief. I had to go handle another call; we can't stop because of a tragedy–we still have others to serve. I got to this call, took the information that we needed, then went back to my car for something. As I sat down I looked at the bottom of my boot and saw a small piece of brain and hair on the bottom of my shoe.
I suddenly felt as if my breath was taken away. It happened so quickly that all I could do was sit back in my seat and try not to break down. Just when I thought that I was over it, boom, there it was. The emotion of seeing the mother and child dead in the car was enough, but now having to live that over again was probably one of the hardest times in my life.
On August 15, I lost my innocence. I saw what no person should ever have to see. Unfortunately for us, in our work, we see it too often. Since that day I've been on many terrible calls, the ones where people are dead or dying, adults, children, even a baby girl who died at her grandparents' house.
I know that in my career I sometimes will see such things, but I also know I have emotional outlets–friends, family, church goers, and coworkers. It may still be hard, but I would rather let myself feel than not. I want to be one of those officers who keep their feelings, not one who gets rid of them. I don't mind if I have to get sick at heart from time to time. I would rather do that than become a hard, emotionless officer. Those old salty officers I was telling you about taught me one thing from that day. They didn't have to say anything, but just being able to see the emotion in their eyes made me realize I don't need to be a hard, calloused person to be a good officer.
I may have lost my innocence by seeing that horrible event that morning, but I try every day to hang on to my compassion.
This was, not the last tragic scene I witnessed. The very next night after I originally wrote this story, I was the first to arrive at another accident in which four children and a mother were killed in a fiery crash. Two children died in the burnt car, with the firefighters and everyone trying desperately to help. It was probably the worst scene I have ever been on–all caused by a nineteen-year-old drunk teenager who ran a stop sign. From the hurting witnesses to the awestruck fire captain to myself and coworkers, once again I was reminded of my duty.
This was not the way I originally planned on ending this, with another story of tragedy, but it served as good, to cause me to remember that there are going to be other horrors I cannot avoid. Through those tragedies, it is my duty to be strong, for my partners, as they were strong for me. Even though this car accident brought back all those painful memories of that initial crash, it made me that much better able to handle the scene in the midst of the horror.
It all boils down to this: We must feel, and we must hurt. We must do everything we can to remain human, vulnerable to our honest feelings. I may have lost my innocence, but I know I must fight to preserve my humanity.