Movies and television never get it right. In TV land, when a cop is killed in the line of duty, their partner-since-the-academy singlehandedly takes the reigns of the investigation. He works endless hours, pulls countless favors, and finally finds the bad guy. All of this after being pulled off duty, of course. And in the final confrontation, the bad guy pulls out a gun and gives a speech about how terrible he is. The audience cheers as the vengeful officer ethically and legally disposes of the bad guy in a dazzling display of lethal force. There’s a funeral, the cop gets a promotion, and a new recruit shows up to take the other partner’s place. And on top of that, the cop gets a sequel or two.
In reality, steady partners aren’t exactly common. Beat cops in our precinct of Chicago always rode with a partner, but scheduling, a stretched police force, and the management style of our chief meant we rotated out partners on a regular basis. That’s not to say we don’t have a connection to the folks we work with – we’re all still brothers and sisters. We’re family, through and through. And when we lose one of our own, the anger, sympathy, adrenaline, and a million other feelings kick in. But unlike the countless police dramas, an officer must practice restraint. Any mistakes make or shortcuts you take can and will work against you in court. It’s a long, tedious, exhausting process. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. But in the end, we always find our guy. Hell, I just read about a cop killer somewhere in Oregon who finally got caught after twenty some odd years.
We don’t give up on the people we protect, and we certainly don’t give up on our brothers and sisters in uniform. We carry on, doing our best to honor their sacrifice. Each fallen officer lives on in our hearts, in our memories – and in the sleepless nights we stay up wondering what would have happened if we had done something – anything – differently.
Robert’s funeral was held three days after our first run in with the perp. Robert’s and Greg’s and Mary-Beth’s and David’s, that is. The procession alone took three hours. To be honest, I don’t remember the service well. I spent the time trying to convince myself that if I had done something – anything – differently, then there’d be five coffins on the stage instead of four. See what I mean?
Anyways, I do remember one thing like it happened yesterday. Like it happened five minutes ago, in fact. I remember the chilling call over the radio, a woman’s strained voice reverberating through the sanctuary of the cathedral.
“Patrol to ID eleven fifty-two.”
“Patrol to ID eleven fifty-two.”
“Patrol to ID eleven fifty-two.”
“Negative response, sergeant Robert Ignacio, ID eleven fifty-two.”
“This is the final call for ID eleven fifty-two, sergeant Robert Ignacio. End of watch July eleventh, twenty thirty-two. Sergeant Ignacio is out of service after twenty-four years of dedicated police service.”
…
“Sergeant Robert Ignacio, Officer Gregory Landon, Officer Mary-Beth Addison, and Officer David Nguyen are ten seven on this date, July fourteenth, twenty thirty-two. Rest easy, gentlemen. We have the watch from here.”
These brave officers gave their lives to protect this city while in the pursuit of our perpetrator, a kid named Richard Ballast. He was nineteen years old.
***
When you see an accident, the first thing you’ve got to do is call the professionals. Even if you are one. By the time I reached the two cars, I had already radioed dispatch to inform them of the wreck and the escaped perp. Inside the Interceptor, Robert hung upside down, struggling with his seatbelt. Smoke rose from under the hood of the sedan the Interceptor’s hood lay on top of. Instinctively, I ran to check for civilians in the sedan. As police officers, our first and foremost duty is to protect the citizens we serve. Robert would have done the same thing.
In the driver’s seat, I found a middle aged woman, struggling with the door latch. I pounded on the door, and she looked up at me with panicked, blue eyes. “Oh, God, help me!” she screamed from inside, banging on the glass.
“You’re going to be fine,” I assured her. I wasn’t entirely sure she would be. Cars don’t explode like they do in the movies, but a fire can spread fast. And it’s not just the fire and heat that can kill you. A lethal dose of carbon monoxide can find its way into the car’s interior far before the flames ever do. I looked the woman in the eyes and decided to try out my stern but caring voice. I’m not sure it came out all that well.
“Ma’am, I need you to close the vents, I’m going to get my tools,” I said before running around the backside of the sedan towards the Interceptor. I heard her slamming on the window and screaming as I left. Can’t say that I blame her.
Police keep a lot of tools in the trunk of our vehicles. One being a fabric case of basic car escape tools velcroed to the side of the interior. When I got to the back of the upside-down interceptor, I grabbed the latch and pulled down hard. And pulled again. And a third time. The trunk was jammed. Trembling, I tried the side doors. No luck. And Robert was still struggling with his seatbelt. I ran back to the sedan driver side window, my mind racing. I didn’t have any options. I’d have to break the window myself.
I shouted at the woman to stand back. She fumbled her way over the arm rests between the two front seats, and looked back at me, eyes filled with fear. I took in a deep breath to calm my nerves. They didn’t calm down. I kicked the window as hard as I could anyways. It cracked a bit. I was about to give the window another kick when I thought of what my leg might look like after breaking through a window. I tore off my vest, and shoved it on top of the car, a Kevlar plate hanging over the window. I kicked two more times, right in the center of the plate. The window broke. Smoke billowed up around me and I began to cough as I cleared glass out of the window frame with my vest.
“Come here, come here!” I yelled into the car, extending my hand. By now, the smoke was filling the interior of the car. I felt her hand grab mine. I used my free hand to take hold of her arm and pulled as hard as I could. The woman came through the broken window faster than I thought, and we both fell to the asphalt as her body crashed into my chest. Something bony struck my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I stood up as quickly as I could manage and got her to her feet. “Go, now!” I gasped as I stumbled with her to the other side of the street. Like I said, cars don’t blow up in real life, but after being inside of a burning car, breathing God knows what, you had to get out and breathing clean air as quickly as possible. But we were in Chicago, so moderately polluted air would have to do.
By the time I turned around to help Robert, the sedan’s interior burst into flames, along with my Kevlar vest resting on the hood. I raced back to the suburban in time to see Robert crawling on the interior roof of the suburban towards the trunk where the escape tools were. I ran towards the trunk, and started kicking the window, legs be damned. After a few kicks, I heard a banging on the other side of the glass. Robert signaled for me to step away. He forced the sharp end of a small screw-driver like tool into the window, and cracks spread through the glass like cobwebs. Next, a blanketed foot thrust through the window. He cleared the glass quickly, and I reached in to pull him out. It didn’t go as quickly as it did with the woman, but we managed. Neither of us were exactly in the best of shape.
After Robert was clear from the vehicle, I fell to the ground. A few moments later, we got up and made our way to the sidewalk and sat down, catching our breath. I thought we had made it. I thought we were safe. I was wrong.
Photo Credit:
Cullan Smith