Last night, the shift was given
green doored taser cartridges.
They have greater range
and longer probes.
Last night, the shift was given
green doored taser cartridges.
They have greater range
and longer probes.
Posted at 11:58 AM in Gear, Tasers | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)
Despite the chill, despite the rain, it’s June. The calls come quick and hot.
Tonight, the shift’s short, so the rush is all the more - lights and sirens,
accelerate and go, and pray that cover’s close.
The night is a blur. You don’t break. You don’t eat. You earn your pay.
A priority three, domestic beef is holding. A drunk brother has locked his
sister out of the house they share.
I self dispatch to it on the box.
Radio had other ideas.
There’s a fight in an apartment off the Breakers. I’m sent.
Grumpy’s is my cover.
It’s bogus. There’s no fight. It’s a party. An annoyed neighbor
exaggerated the call to ensure swift police arrival.
As I code out the call, Grumpy takes the priority three.
When I clear, I head to cover.
Grumpy has two minutes on me. The call close: two minutes away.
I send a message.
NRT
As I arrive, across the street, Grumpy and the sister are running, down the
stairs and away from the house. The woman’s in the the lead. Grumpy has the
rear.
His eyes on the house, Grumpy is screaming,
“RD! RD! He pointed, he
pointed a gun at me!”
I run to the house, to trouble, to the woman and Grumpy. I bark at the
woman, order her down the street and away, out of sight, and behind cover.
As Grumpy hits the street, he’s hollering,
“That mother-fucker just pointed a gun at me!”
He’s pissed. He’s not thinking.
I grab him by the vest and put him behind the engine block of a pickup
on the street, and key my mike.
Grumpy just had a guy point a gun at him.
There’s no cover. The east-side cars are on their own hot calls. The few
available west-side cars are blocked by bridge openings over the river.
It’s all ours.
G. What does he have?
“ A Berretta, a 9mm... I asked if he would let his sister in and he locked
the door, ran into the house and returned, rattled the window,
pointing the gun at me! I got the gal to safety, but I shoulda
smoked that mother-fucker!”
I’m watching the "1" side, the front side and windows as Grumpy speaks.
I see the brother approach the picture window. He’s scanning
the sidewalk for a shot. He can’t see us, so he opens the door,
and walks outside, gun in hand.
My gun’s in my hand, pointed at his head. I’ve unholstered
and aimed without a thought.
I shout.
You drop that gun or you’re fuckin’ dead!
His hands go up. He’s still holding the gun.
Drop that gun or I will .. fucking.. kill you!
My finger is in the trigger guard. I’m ready to shoot.
This is it. I’m going to have to kill a man.
Then, the man lowers the gun, and puts it on the brick
half-wall in front of him.
His hands go up. His hand go down. It’s an absurd hokey-pokey.
Get your hands up, and keep your hands up or I will shoot!
His hands waver. He wants to put them down. He wants the gun.
He wants to see if we’ll shoot.
My mind’s made. He moves for it, he dies.
I have to remove him from the temptation.
Keep those hands up. Walk down those stairs and leave that gun behind.
He thinks about it. He looks at the gun. He looks at me,
and walks down the stairs.
Grumpy moves to flank him, from my left to my right. He closes
and shouts out commands.
When the the man’s shoes touch the sidewalk, Grumpy orders,
“Get on your knees!”
The man complies.
I can smell the drunk on him as Grumpy yells, “Now, lay on your belly.”
It’s all by the numbers, all by training, a high risk technique.
The man starts, stalls, and pops back up.
I’ve had enough. I won’t let him go back to his gun.
I holster, draw my taser, and fire. The first probe hits him
in the right pect. The second strikes him under the jaw
by his left ear.
In the dark, you can see the lightning, the electricity arcing.
He starts to fall, then flail, yanking out the probe from under his ear.
The circuit is broken.
He starts to rise.
I’m not letting him up. I rush forward and drive the taser into his chest.
The man falls back. I end up with my knee in his belly and the taser
at his throat.
“Okay. Okay.”
He’s done.
I cuff and stuff him before the world can come.
When I return to Grumpy, he’s holding the gun.
“That mother-fucker was threatening me with a fucking blank gun!”
It's a theatrical prop.
It fires, it sounds, but no bullets come out.
Posted at 07:14 PM in Calls, Tasers | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBack (0)
Posted at 03:06 AM in Gear, Sound Bite, Tasers | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)
As of January 1st, in this state, convicted felons may no longer possess tasers.
Posted at 10:40 AM in Facts, Tasers | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)
Today, at West, the Armoury
received thirty-six additional tazers.
For the first time since the merger,
officers don't have to hunt
to find a working, charged weapon.
Posted at 02:33 AM in Gear, Tasers | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)
Posted at 12:14 AM in Mug Shots, Tasers | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Posted at 01:14 AM in Mug Shots, Tasers | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Posted at 02:18 AM in Calls, Fights, Tasers | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)
It could be snowing. It could be 90 degrees. Despite the conditions, any day at the range is a good day.
Shooting is fun. It beats shaggin' calls.It's physically, mentally, demanding. Each scenario is a challenge to adapt to and overcome.
This year, we started with a cold qual on the new state standard. No one in my group had shot the course before. There's no grade. You pass or you fail. There's two parts: Long and short. I was the only one who passed both.
Tommy T's gun wouldn't fire. The magazine wouldn't feed. The armorer who assembled his Glock after his last range improperly installed the magazine springs. For months, he's had a brick in holster and didn't know it.
Big Island's new gun had been sights. You can't hit what your sights don't see.
Then, shot through fail to fires: empty reloads, jams, stove pipes, and double feeds. It's all the same. Fix the problem. Get back in the fight. Tap, rack, and go.
We fire through boxes of ammunition, fifty rounds at a time, aiming at a paper target's head or the state seal in the belly.
Next, we broke out the helmets. I've never fired with one on before, never had to acquire a sight picture through the scratches in the riot visor: moving and firing, advancing and retreating in teams, shooting numbers and colors on the instructor's command.
Finally, we shot from a felony stop, sitting in stationary cars at shifting, swiveling targets, firing in two rounds bursts, ejected casings bouncing about the interior of the squad car. Don't hit the hood. Don't hit the spotlight. Fire 'til you're dry. Cover and covering. Reload and fire. Fire from all four positions. Fire 'til the barrel's hot. Fire 'til the range is cold, 'til we break down our guns, police the brass, clean up, and go home.
Range is always a fast day. Range is always fun.
Posted at 03:04 AM in Rules, Tasers | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)