Raindogblue

Foot Pursuit

 

I chased down a gangster

with a want last week.

I am not proud of it.

 

He's thirteen.

He spat, cried, and raged

all the way to juvie.

 

 

Facts: Pursuits

For the department, for 2010:

61% of all pursuits are in East Precinct.

Half of all pursuits occur between 10 PM and 3 AM. 

42% of all pursuits start as attempted traffic stops. 

21% of all pursuits involve a stolen car. 

The average length of a pursuit is 1 minute,  40 seconds. 

The average length of a pursuit nationwide is 5.5 minutes. 

 

In Slow Pursuit

On 14th, in the West Village, two blocks from the school, I pass a driver, red faced and flushed, drinking from a can of Coors.

He’s drunk.

I flipped a U-ball  and accelerated, catching up to car in a couple of blocks. Behind the car, I hit the lights, the red and blue LEDs, and then the siren from Wail to Yelp and back again.

The drunk didn’t stop. The drunk didn’t slow.

I grab the mike.

7David4. I’ve got one not stopping. 13th and King.

The car continues six block south, past the empty parking spots and empty parking lots. It signals, turning left into the side streets.

7David4. Pursuit.

A slow pursuit with speeds never breaking twenty.

7David4. Permission to P.I.T.

At 15th, the drunk ignored the stop sign and drove through the intersection.

The sergeant chimed in, “P.I.T. authorized.”But there’s no room. 

Cars lines the narrow street on either side leaving twelve feet in between.

He signals, turns south, and slows.

7David4. Conditions dry. No traffic. He’s signaling. Speeds: Five miles per hour.

The drunk passes the next intersection and pulls into a driveway.

7David4. He’s stopping. York and 16th.

I box him in, toss the prowler in park, and boil out of the car.

Put your hands up. Put your hands your hands where I can see them.

My gun’s in my hand, finger out of the trigger guard, aimed at his center mass. 

His head swivels back. His hands are out of sight.

Do it. Put your hand up. Now! Where I can see them.

The third time I shout the command, he complies, placing his hands out the open window. Grabbing his left wrist with my left hand, I  reverse it into an arm bar levered against the doorjamb as his little, black dog barks in the backseat. I open the door and pull him out.

As I cuff and stuff him, the man says, “Sorry for eluding you, but I wanted to take my dog home before I went to jail.”

Darkness Deepened

The day diminished.

Dusk dwelled.

The darkness deepened.

It was a good night,
a quiet night.
I had two blue sheets 
in the sergeant's in-box.

I blacked out and sat
at an empty intersection
when a car blew through the stop.

I hit the overheads,
threw the prowler in gear.

The car did not stop.
It went faster.

I hit the sirens:
stepped on the gas.

It blew through the next stop, 
turned right and right again.

The radio was busy.
I was in pursuit. 

The car anchored it.
Driver's door opened.

I blocked in the car, 
PIT bumper to driver's side
passenger door 
as the bad guy bailed out.
I scrambled out to intercept him.

Pants pissed, shorts soiled, 
he decided he wanted to talk.
I let him
after he was cuffed and stuffed.

  

The Screams

He tried to run again.

Same Bat time. 

Same Bat channel.

He bailed into the blocks

after trying to beat his ex.

The sergeant spotted him

trying to break the boundary.

so he popped back into the perimeter.

He lead us on a looping,

ten minute track.

When we closed,

he tried to run again

with four of us

and the dog

in hot pursuit.

He made it seventy yards.

He rounded a dumpster

and ducked in a doorway.

As he looked back,

the dog dragged him down.

I grabbed his arm.

The dog kept his calf.

On the radio,

all that could be heard

was the screams.

Aftermath

My neighbor, drove by the stop, 
saw me take the guy to the ground, 
a two on one, double arm bar,
me on the left, Paize on the right.
She reversed his wrist,
ready for cuffing.
I kept his arm straight,
inverting his wrist,
and drove my knee into back,
pinning him down.

It's all rote and muscle memory:

Don't think, do.

He's searched and in my car

before the adrenaline rush hits me.

My neighbor said,
"I don't know what that guy did,
but you're a nice guy,
so it had to be bad."

Did I look mad?

"Nope, professional, very professional, and to the point.
The female cop; however,  looked pissed."

Paize's philosophy:

"If you run from the police,
you're going to the ground."

It's very old school.

Boxed In

I won a pursuit tonight.
It wasn't hard.
He was driving 
on three tires 
and a rim.
Between the smoke and sparks
the stress and instability,
the car slowed
until it could be stopped
with the side of my car.

Buzzed and Bed

It's the magic hour.

My paper is proofread 

and sitting in the sergeants' box.

I'm about to put the car to bed,

cleaning out the cab, 

replacing gear in my raid bag,

dreaming of sleep,

when Weaz takes the air.

"One David Three, Traffic."

And then, the cracks.

There are no sentences,

no words, only struggle.

This no bump, no stuck pack.

It's a fight or a foot pursuit.

I launch the prowler. 

"... Get the...."

The precinct empties.

Everyone heading in to the barn

breaks away from their routines,

ignoring the call of home

and an on-time night.

We head to a voice:

No location,

only the knowledge

of where his distinct lies.

I'm half-way over the hill,

and old extinct volcano

in the middle of the city

before he announces 

his stop and circumstances:

One in custody in the car,

one jumping fences to the west.

We all fall in,

form a tight perimeter.

Despite our speed and thick response,

the mope's not found

after a forty minute track.

A line of cars returns

back to the barn:

All late. 

All too buzzed to sleep.

Foot Pursuit

I lost a foot chase today.

While waiting for cover 
at a domestic beef,
Bobo bounced out the back door.
He ran along the back
of the apartment building.
I ran along the front. 

He had thirty feet on me 
when we hit the breezeway between buildings.
He jumped down a retaining wall.

I followed. 

When I landed, I lost sight of him.
I heard no beating feet,
so I popped out on the street:
set a perimeter,
called for K-9.

No luck.

Bobo's UTL,
and out in the night.

 

Thwarted

The night had come to a close. I wandered slowly back to the barn,
weaving in and out of the side streets to the main and back again
from the Villages to the City looking for something, anything.
I turned in my paper, restocked my trunk, and went to put my car away
when the K9 Sergeant took the air.

"Turned on one. Before I could light him up, he wrecked and bailed."

The dead night wailed, the silence broken in the keening of sirens.
The barn emptied. Cars heading in u-balled back south.
Lines of sight were drawn by the illumination of red and blue lights.

The perimeter was set. We waited for the track.
Ten minutes into the block search, dispatch relayed a call.
A man claimed he was car jacked nearby.
He walked to the edge of the search and waved down an officer.
His description matched the fleeing man.

The K-9 Sergeant came by and ID'd the man.
The perimeter was cut loose.
The man was taken into custody.

And we all went home, our quiet night thwarted with adrenaline and speed.