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FEATURES
For the evening of Fri. May 25, Fountain Police Department officers were given lists of names, and were assigned to pursue warrants when not on regular calls for service. The lists were long, dating back decades. Warrants are kept on the books for years, in the event of a later, unrelated arrest. The old warrants will come in handy eventually. “This is the first warrant sweep like this we’ve ever done,” Officer Scott Gilbertson said.
Gilbertson, a tall, dark-haired, 41 year-old officer behind the steering wheel, explained that this is his second career. “I used to manage motels, and I was terrible at it,” he explained. “It just wasn’t a good fit.” He entered law enforcement in 2001, with the Fountain Police Department. The warrants were mostly for traffic tickets and “failure to appear” or “FTA’s.” We rode in an old, unmarked patrol car, without emergency lights or sirens. The vinyl in the doors and on the seats had some wear and tear from angry detainees.
“This doesn’t look promising,” Officer Mark Knowlmayer remarked as they pulled up to an apparently abandoned building. Knowlmayer was a lanky, smooth-scalped officer, riding shotgun for the evening. He used to work in the automotive industry as a manager. He entered law enforcement in 2002. The porch was being re-built, and most of the wood was gone. A rough-shod bridge of boards spanned the distance to the front door. The officers’ radios rang with identical chatter, creating an eerie echo effect. Each time Knowlmayer got out of the car, he grimaced. As it turned out, he’d just completed a five-mile run for the Special Olympics torch run. His legs were killing him.
Gilbertson knocked, while Knowlmayer watched the window, in case anyone could be seen making a run out the back door. Surprisingly, someone answered, an elderly Latino man who only knew a few English words. The suspect was his brother. The elderly man seemed concerned, but couldn’t help. “He went to Mexico.” Upon return to the car, Gilberson muttered calmly to dispatch, “Negative contact. We’re clear. Suspect has fled the country.” It isn’t obvious at first, but some comments to dispatch are an aridly dry kind of cop humor. “There’s one up on Cedar Chase that looks pretty good,” Knowmeyer remarked. But it was on the other side of town. They decided to wait until they’d covered closer addresses. Every time they got out of the car, Knowmayer winced, taking a moment to get his legs going. It didn’t take long to get used to having a reporter in the back seat. The officers usually have an audience of some kind in back. “Ride-alongs” are an all-too frequent occurrence. The stiff formality of the first few minutes quickly faded as their attention turned to the task of exercising warrants.
As each house was visited, and another strike-out recorded, the intensity began to rise. There was a feeling with each negative contact, that ripples were spreading, as each door was knocked on, people were staring, cell phones were being snatched up, blinds being drawn. As the unheard alarm went out, the element of surprise was lost. The radio kept a tally. Another officer reported the first arrest of the night. Gilbertson and Knowlmayer had not yet had a positive contact. Some of the warrants were fairly fresh, dating from earlier in the year. Others went back to the 1980’s. They scanned for more recent dates.
Officer Gilbertson read the warrant list, checking names and addresses. “Shoot me dates, Gilbie,” Knowlmayer chided. “Shoot me dates.” Why did they choose a career in law enforcement? “I wanted to serve my community, so I became a cop,” Gilbertson explained. Not the most eloquent of speeches, but straightforward. But why not become a fireman?
Both agencies, fire and police, support the same essential goal, public safety, but for some, the task of catching bad guys is compelling. The experience is different. Firemen are usually welcomed as saviors. Police are there to stop someone from doing something they shouldn’t, and the welcome isn’t as warm. Knowmayer explained, “You don’t do it to be liked. You do it to make a difference. Every small step helps.” So, by increments, individual by individual, they hope to make the world a better place. The next stop took them to a run down little apartment complex across the bridge, near a low income area of Fountain. A layer of dust and grime covered old patio furniture, barbeque equipment, junk and trash. There was a semblance of what once was, a forgotten hope to make a nice sitting area, now worn and neglected. A cold breeze rushed along the dirt alley, stirring muddy puddles. An old woman in a white bathrobe and slippers inside saw them through the window, which was open, except for a screen, but she refused to answer the door. She muttered something and walked away. Officer Gilbertson knocked again, and called though the window. He told her they were looking for someone. She came a little closer, still nervous, but she listened. “Oh, he died,” she answered with a definite nod. They returned to the car. Gilbertson called dispatch. “Negative contact. Party is dead.” Knowlmayer suppressed a grin, looking out the window. “Go. Next,” Gilbertson prompted, referring to the warrant list. Knowlmayer checked the list, read names and addresses rapid-fire. A name. “March of ‘07.” “Next.” A name. “April ‘07.” They accelerated. The goal was to sweep warrants, but results would be nice. After awhile, the radio announced another arrest by the same other officer. “That’s two,” Gilbertson remarked to no one in particular. The sunset cast the sky in brilliant auburn, pink and yellow as the air turned blue. The car pulled up to the curb of the next possible address. It was a Mediterranean style complex, two story. Droves of children played in the enclosed courtyard, laughing and scampering. The officers knocked on a shabby, faux dark-wood door. A huge Latino man with cornrow braids lining his head, late twenties, answered, glaring down at the officers with supreme boredom. They asked about a woman’s name. The man’s brow furrowed pensively. In a remarkably high voice he answered, “Well, yeah, I know her; skinny little crack-head. But she don’t live here no more.” The officers ask a few questions. How did he know her? He said she was a girlfriend of someone in the neighborhood. He hasn’t seen her in some time. Back to the car. Knowlmayer walked stiffly. “Where too, Magellan?” Gilbertson prompted. The next stop took them near the railroad tracks in old Fountain. Night deepened, and the stars were out. Headlights illuminated a cluster of low-income homes, each isolated squat efficiency apartments. They knocked on a door. When it opened, a powerful odor, like a neglected pet store assaulted the nose. A little old man, obese, scruffy gray hair, unkempt beard, dressed in disheveled sweats gazed at the officers with a confused expression. The officers asked him his name. He confirmed he was the one on the warrant. He was wanted for failure to pay a fine. He was a diagnosed schizophrenic. It was obvious he didn’t understand what they were trying to tell him. He had to be arrested, due to dispatch’s news the warrant did not allow for personal recognizance, or “NP.” That meant they had to put cuffs on the man, per standard procedure, and they’d have to find his shoes. Unfortunately, the man was soaked in urine, for what must have been days. It was not to be a pleasant procedure. Neither would the ride to the Criminal Justice Center (CJC). But no one complained openly. The old man was confused, but in a good mood, seeming glad to have visitors. The officers located the man’s white sneakers and helped him put them on. The odor was overpowering. Later, they would explain that dealing with people is what being a cop is all about, hour by hour, person by person. The goal is to keep things as calm as possible. “There’s a time and a place,” Gilbertson explained. “There’s no need to get confrontational if you don’t have to. We read people all the time, every day, and that determines how we interact with them. They’re reading us too, sizing us up, just like we are them.” In the case of the old man, it was an unfortunate situation of a lost soul. He’d be taken into CJC where he’d get cleaned up. He’d be fed decent food, and hopefully he’d be treated for what appeared to be some form of trench foot on the blackened flesh of his feet, brought on by days of walking on urine-soaked carpets. They chatted about idle things, asking him how his health was, wondering if he had kidney disease due his complaint of constant thirst, and his inability to control his bladder. They asked if he’d eaten. They walked him to the patrol car and sat him in back. Officer Knowlmayer surrendered the front seat for the reporter, taking a seat beside the old man in back. The cruiser rushed down Hwy. 85/ 87, windows down, AC cranked to full blast, but it did little good. The air was ripe. The officers leaned their noses to the windows, gasping in small breaths. But were discrete, so as not to hurt the old man’s feelings. “Mother of Pete,” Gilbertson muttered, pressing the accelerator a little more. The ride seemed to take forever. The old man chatted amiably, enjoying the ride. They took him into CJC and checked him in. He cooperated cheerfully, and eventually was escorted away through a steel door, turning briefly to look at the officers with that odd, confused expression. He waved, saying good-bye. The officers wished him a good night and left. Despite the situation being an arrest, they’d done the man a kindness. At no time did they say or do anything but treat the man with consideration. The nature of police work does not mean that every contact with citizens can be pleasant. Sometimes things can be violent, dangerous, even deadly. Nevertheless, when possible, as they had on that night, a police officer’s interaction with individuals is merely that, interaction. The odds in a world so prone to crime and self-destruction seems overwhelming, and yet a few men and women have dedicated themselves to trying to make a difference, often in the smallest ways. There are times when the price can be high, as officers risk their lives in the line of duty, but they remain, steadfast. While the job is often thankless, they don’t give up on their community. They don’t turn their backs on the people they’ve committed their lives to serve. Gilbertson had explained in frank and simple words, “I wanted to serve my community, so I became a cop.” Knowmayer’s sentiment had been direct, yet powerful, “You do it to make a difference. Every small step helps.” So, by increments, despite seemingly overwhelming odds, there are those people who have stepped up to make a difference, individual by individual, they do what they can to make the world a better place.
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