“Well, only another hour and we’re outta here!”

“Who’s coming in to relieve us?”

“I think it’s Sarge.”

“Good. I wanted to talk to him about some pepper spray. I still ain’t been issued none.”
The chatter of police radio traffic gave a muzzy air to the dialogue.

It was my second week on the job. Late September, here in Dixie anyways, was very humid. I was hot, sweaty, tired… I was dust-blasting my face with some tepid AC from the old battle-worn and musty Ford Crown Vic - the patrol vehicle of my Field Training Officer, Mike. I had been up since 0330, and it was now nigh gloaming.

“Well don’t forget to mention it to ‘em,” Mike said, “Chief is going to Lawmans in Raleigh tomorrow... to get stu...“ Mikes speech trailed off.
Among all the radio cackle, a deputy was calling over to dispatch, as his siren and roaring engine could be heard in the background, Central, I’m out the other side of Lillington, about 20 minutes out. Upgrading to [emergency traffic].
10-4, all units responding, Adam20 has an extended ETA, are there any closer units?
One by one the available deputies negated.

"Check CAD and see what they’re headed to,” Mike ordered.
I opened the mounted computer and logged into the Computer Assisted Dispatch system as fast as I could type. “10-39 in progress at Oakdale.”

10-39 – That’s a Domestic Disturbance. A general classification, but typically a noise complaint or something of that nature.

Oakdale was a trailer park about six miles outside our jurisdiction. County line, border town, real “Dodge City”-ish… Most deputies won’t go in alone. Never go to Oakdale unless you roll in two deep, is a common idiom which comes to mind.

Reading the CAD, this 10-39 was a play-by-play, being witnessed and reported by the third-party caller (who turned out to be the suspect’s mother).
The domestic is physical. There are children in the residence... There are firearms in the residence... The suspect has been at Mule Days (a local rodeo, rebel flag, rebel yell, “The South will rise again!” type festival) and has been drinking... The victim is the suspect’s wife... The suspect is hitting the victim... The suspect is choking the victim... The victim is turning blue... The victim is bleeding from the eyes... The suspect has broken the wooden bed post and is beating the victim with it... The suspect is slamming the victim’s head into the wall... Blood is smearing on the wall... The victim’s head has now busted a hole in the wall and knocked off all the pcitures... The caller is attempting to hide the children in the bedroom closet...

“Alright, I’ve heard enough, stop reading that.” Mike said, as he reached for the radio mic. “504 to Central, myself and 506 are available and are aware of the 10-39. Would the county like us to assist?”
Central came over, Standby 504, I’ll ask Ada--
Then the deputy interrupted, siren and engine still cluttering his audio: Adam20 central, send 'em on! I’m still about 15 minutes out.
Before Dispatch could even acknowledge, we were converting tire tread to vapor.

The ol’ Vic was well used, but she was still formidable. Passing traffic, a couple stop signs, and otherwise a straight shot through swampland, we covered six miles in around three and a half minutes – seemed like half an hour at the time. Adrenaline tends to make reality go in slow motion for me. I often tend to perform a task better under pressure than when relaxed, it just seems like it takes longer than it actually does.

We cut the siren off while we were still about a mile out to avoid alarming the suspect and giving him headway for a potential ambush. Drifting onto the dirt road leading into the fine little hamlet, we removed our seatbelts for quick egress.
“What number was it?” Mike half yelled, “I don’t remember.”
We cracked our windows and began to roll furtively down a derelict mud creek known as “1st Street”. Mike reached for the radio to ask for the trailer number as we passed by the trailers when, suddenly, thumping, bumping, screaming, yelling, and more chaotic commotion than two tom cats in a metal trashcan could be heard from within the trailer we had just nearly passed.

I had used a gun under pressure and in self defense before, but I had never drawn down on a man. I had never even been in a situation where I thought I might point a gun at someone, though I had trained for it, spending the past nearly seven years being personally mentored by certified police and NRA firearms instructors. The only blood I had shed to save my own was that of snakes, feral dogs, a rabid coon, and a few angry coyotes. I had no inkling of what would transpire in the next few moments.

Mike and I instantly lurched from the car, as it was still grinding gears to a halt. Mike was on the house side and sprinted to the small porch and up the steps. As quickly as I could I rounded the front end of our patrol car, keeping my gaze upward and alert, and keeping my sweaty palms centered and above my midriff. Children were crying. A female voice was screaming Please Danny, please! As I approached from a starboard position, I witnessed Mike reach for the storm door, which instantly flew in his face, knocking him into a rearward stumble until his oversized rump perched implosively on the handrail. Come to think of it, I’m surprised it didn’t break. Mike was a huge dude.

But even bigger, burlier, and beastlier, our six-foot-six, redneck Bubba of a suspect burst out onto the porch where Mike had just been standing prior to literally being taken aback. Sweaty, bloody hands, a Dixie Traditions shirt with a large pit bulldog situated upon a Rebel Flag background, about a month’s worth of five-o’clock-shadow, what appeared to be size seventeen Rocky wellington boots, and a pervasive gassing of beer breath…
The suspect did a clumsy about face, and thundered out a slurred and enraged, “Who da f*** called da f***ing po-leece?”
I instantly spotted a Dewalt folding razor knife clipped on his right pocket. Upon which item he immediately placed his right fingertips. At which point he began to swivel back around toward Mike. His elbow raised slightly as his individual sinews tensing to formulate a good grip on the weapon before deploying it. I broke the snap-button retention strap on my Blackhawk leather retention holster. My Glock 19 9 millimeter pistol glided up-and-out, in one fluid motion. I gave a loud, clear, echoing, “STOP!”
At this moment the world stopped turning. The suspect had turned his back fully toward me and was still in motion, the knife about half way out of his pocket. I saw a big white dot entering my peripheral vision. In my mind’s eye, I saw the suspect’s beating heart within his own chest. My gaze was focused on an ever-so-minute imaginary dot somewhere near the center of his heart. I co-witnessed the dot and the target. I began to exhale, and stopped somewhere along the way, holding the rest in.

Have you ever heard a huge barn door give that ghoulishly long and deeply disconcerting moan as it slowly ebbs to a halt? That is what my trigger felt like.

The suspect had now turned and was about 45 degrees from facing Officer Mike. I could hear Lt. Shepard, my academy firearms Sensei, screaming in my ear, and I could feel his spittle and hot, humid breath as he said, “Front Sight, Trigger, PRESSS!” Back… Back… Back… and still back… Clack! The knife hit the porch. Somehow, obscured from my view by the muzzle of my pistol, Mike had regained some composure and drawn his TASER. The suspect, staring down at the big red laser dot on his chest, slowly raised his hands and began to rattle off profanities at the top of his lungs. I eased off the trigger, and released the remainder of air in my lungs like a broken dam. I re-holstered my weapon, and the rest is fairly boring and procedural.

I firmly believe I was less than one pound of trigger pressure away from piercing a man’s heart that day. Had I a weapon with a shorter or lighter trigger pull, I would have gotten the shot off. Had I a single-action weapon, I would have gotten the shot off. Had a millisecond more elapsed before I was interrupted by the collision of the knife and the planks, I would have gotten the shot off.
In my mind I killed that man. The decision had already been made. They say that perception is reality, but intervention (be it divine or of the man’s own anemic cognizance) separated perception from reality that day: For I already perceived the man as dead.

I do not aspire to make some arrogant tale of hype. This was merely the first time I ever affirmatively decided to take a human life. In retrospect, everything is clear as crystal. In the tizzy of my mind at the moment of truth, I never even drew my gun.
I simply perceived a threat, and the gun appeared; right where it was supposed to be. That is how training is supposed to work. You should not have to think about it. You should not have to go through instructional steps on the battlefield. You should not have to remind yourself that these tactile movements are supposed to be “muscle memory”. You should not be blindly reacting either. Respond to the situation at hand. Respond, not react. When we tie our shoes, we do not remind ourselves which loop goes where, and make some great contemplation whether ‘tis better to start right over left, or left over right or… No. We tie our shoes. We tie them the way we know to do it. We don’t waste time reasoning whether we should, because we know we should. We don’t frantically try to make a sloppy knot either. The motions are naturally deliberate. So should the application of training be.

Mr. M, LEO
IG: @theblueshepard