AC-082321-STORY-DSCN2968-800
Do The Terms “Guilt-Free” And “Defensive Shooting” Go Together?
You could see it in his eyes; he was definitely one mean old SOB. The business ends of two Beretta 92F’s and one MP-5 were pointed at him from about 10′ away, and yet he seemed contemptuously unconcerned. There he was sitting in his chair, with a relaxed air, smoking a cigarette with one hand, while casually holding a .38 revolver in the other; it was almost surreal. Despite the chemical agent pervading the darkened apartment, despite the flash bang that had just gone off at his feet, despite what must have looked like three Robocop’s in SWAT armor and gas masks who had just broken down his door and were ordering him, in no uncertain terms, to drop the gun, you’d have thought it was just another night at the Jones’ — except for those eyes. Those babies blazed hatred and defiance like nobody’s business.
No doubt about it, he was going to make us kill him.
Textbook Call Out
I should never have been involved in that shooting. It was a combination of circumstances and being at the right place at the right time — or perhaps the wrong time and place, depending on your viewpoint. It was almost a fluke. I’d been on the SWAT team for about 5 years and was on entry, but my position was normally much further back than the number two spot I found myself standing in at that moment. In fact, on this particular night, I was assigned as the ram man, and had been all the way to the rear of the stack when I was called up to breach the door.
The call out had begun some 10 hours earlier, when officers were sent to the small, second story apartment on a “check the welfare” call. A friend of the resident was concerned he might be suicidal. When two officers knocked at the front door, the occupant turned out to be more homicidal than suicidal. He let fly through the door with a .38, narrowly missing the head of one of the officers. Being a typical police department, which frowns upon such anti-social behavior, the SWAT team was called out.
We did all the things a team typically does in these situations. We negotiated, cut water and power, tried distraction devices, filled his place with enough gas to choke an elephant and gave him all the time and opportunity in the world to surrender. When none of that worked, we figured he was bunkered down in a closet somewhere to avoid the gas. In the end, it came down to making entry and rooting out the bad man.
And that’s where circumstances intervened and nudged me into a shooting.
Knock Knock
This particular cantankerous gent lived in an apartment with a very narrow staircase leading to a very small landing, in front of the only entry point to the apartment. There wasn’t a lot of room to operate on the stairs or landing. When I moved up for the breach, I had no choice but to stand directly in front of the door, while the scout stood on the top stair directly adjacent to the door.
As I prepared to ram, the scout realized I wasn’t going to be able to get out of the way after the breach without shoving my way past the remainder of the team stacked on the stairwell. In what was an atypical move for us, he indicated he would toss a bang after the breach, and then make a limited entry to allow team members to get additional guns into the room. Rather than have them push by me, he directed me to fall in behind him as soon as he made entry.
I simply nodded and hit the door. It gave way like cheap balsa wood. I dropped the ram to the side and turned back just in time to see the scout toss the bang inside. As he threw it, I remember looking inside and receiving a mental shock as I saw the suspect sitting in his chair just inside the room. Suddenly more concerned with avoiding incoming lead than losing my night vision, I kept my eyes on Mr. Happy as the bang arced through the air and detonated right at his feet. The scout followed the bang and moved inside, far enough to allow three of us into the living room. And that’s how I came to be staring into the eyes of one very pissed off suspect.
The whole thing seemed almost like a training scenario. As I had done so many times before, I held the suspect at gunpoint while my eyes moved to his hands to check for threats. When I saw the gun, I immediately sounded off I saw a gun in his hand. The scout kept telling the suspect to drop his weapon, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be part of the program. The scout must have realized the same thing, because he quickly drew his TASER with his left hand and launched a bolt of Edison’s medicine straight into the suspect’s chest. For a split second, I thought we had him … except we didn’t.
Just Like Training
I don’t know what demons were driving this guy, but I’ve got to give him credit for determination. I watched, as if in slow motion, while he fought off the effects of the TASER and swung the gun up toward us. It was just like training. As the threat came up, I began pulling the trigger. Dimly, I was aware other SWAT officers next to me were also firing, but all I heard were distant popping noises.
I don’t remember feeling fear or anxiety or much of anything at all. I just kept pulling the trigger. I saw his body rock with the impacts, the cigarette in his hand arc away into the darkness, and finally, the gun fly out of his hand as his body slumped in the chair. Only then did I stop shooting.
Just like training.
These things being what they are, it’s never over till it’s over. As the scout and backup continued to hold on the suspect, the team and I moved on clearing the rest of the apartment. Aside from clearing it, there was the little matter of the fire in the rear bedroom (started by a distraction bang tossed into the apartment during the breach) that had to be put out. Next, we had to get fire/EMT personnel to confirm that the clearly dead suspect was, in fact, actually dead.
Then What?
It was on to dealing with the usual aftermath of an OIS. Three of us had shot; we didn’t ask for lawyers and we all gave voluntary statements. The incident interview was straightforward and within a reasonable amount of time (another 6 hours or so), and then I was released to head home to my wife and kids.
I’ve never really thought much about the shooting since then. I haven’t been conflicted, had bad dreams, doubted I did the right thing or been wracked by remorse. I’m a cop. Back then, I was a SWAT cop. My job was — and still is — to deal with the worst kind of people and situations. I’m also a husband and a father with a family expecting me to come home every night, in the same condition I left in. It’s an expectation I’m firmly committed to keeping.
I didn’t put the gun in the suspect’s hand. I didn’t tell him to shoot at a cop, and I certainly didn’t tell him to try to kill my teammates or me. Those were all poor choices he made. In the end, he chose his own fate. I just did what the job, the law and circumstances required me to do.
The most troublesome part of the whole event was the interview with the department shrink. I did my best to honestly explain while I truly understood the seriousness of taking a life, I felt no overwhelming desire to break down blubbering, scream out in anguish or spiral downward into self-destructive behavior. I think she might have been disappointed. It almost seemed as if she wasn’t going to stop pressing until I admitted I was somehow psychologically disturbed by the whole event.
I grudgingly strung together enough somber sounding sentences, which appeared to mollify her and she let me go, but not before earnestly assuring me I might someday find myself “overwhelmed by emotions.” I appreciated her sentiments, but to be honest, it’s not likely to happen. Whatever soul-searching was needed to “get my mind right” was done long before that critical moment arrived. And because my teammates and I were mentally and physically prepared, we prevailed. And that’s my story.
