Alarm Complacency (10-134/circa 1992)



Posted: Thursday, August 24, 2006

by Chris Cole
George Cole



"Drop it! Drop the weapon,!" I screamed. The deserted corridor was filled with alarm bells and the echoes of my ignored commands. Dressed in a dark billowing overcoat, black gloves, and a tight fitting ski mask; I could not tell the sex of the perpetrator.

Alarm calls (10-134, or police ten code) were purely routine during in climate weather, and unfortunately police officers become complacent during bad weather. I do not know why it did not "click". During a cold, rainy November night, I received a call of a 134 at A-1 Computer College shortly after beginning my tour of duty.

Upon my arrival, I did not find any broken windows or any pry marks on the doors...just an unlocked East side backdoor. I figured that some negligent maintenance person was inside racking his brain trying to remember his alarm reset code. Being complacent in my duties, I entered the building in an effort to assist the janitor's lapse of memory. As I progressed deeper into the school of technological wizardry, looking for this fumbling maintenance person, I came to realize something was not right. My stomach performed a series of unchoreographed cartwheels. I suddenly observed several computers scattered about the floor in the darkened classroom. "That's odd," I said to myself in a soft voice. I noticed that the computers were not in harmony with their counterparts, placed in symmetrical rows. In fact, it appeared that a struggle had taken place in this very room.

All of a sudden, something did "click, not just in my mind, but an audible click behind me. The sound was distinct. The butt puckering sound of a shotgun being chambered. I did what I was trained to do after almost a year of vigorous, marriage-destroying, police academy survival training. I turned, dropped to my knee, and unholstered my sidearm, and aimed at the sexless figure brandishing the ominous weapon.

As a child, I idolized the men in blue. I, too, would wear a shiny golden badge, carry a gun, and catch bank robbers. Repeatedly my parents would present reasonable arguments of why I should not tread the thin blue line. To me, their arguments were futile. My mind was set at the age of twelve to don the responsibility and uniform of a police officer. In fact, when I became fourteen, I knew how to thoroughly investigate a homicide, thanks going to the local explorer's program.

At the ripe age of twenty-one, I entered the local police academy. After over four-hundred hours of stressful training and grueling exams, (not to mention the arguments my parent's presented about why I should pursue a safer career), I graduated with honors. I will never forget the feeling of standing on the freshly cut green lawn of The West Texas Regional Academy during graduation. I was glad the training was over, now I could really be 'trained' on the street.

Flap! Flap! Flap! The Texas flag was blowing rigid in the wind during that humid July afternoon. "Officer Cole," my name was called by lead Sergeant Jacobson. I thought to myself, "This is it! This is what I always dreamed of." Click, my badge was pinned on. Little did I realize this was just the beginning of my training, for I had another year of actual street training and evaluations to complete.

I left the academy with a feeling of remorse fullness. I would miss the consistent yelling of Sergeant Jacobson. "You idiot! Why didn't you look behind the door when you entered the building?" Or better yet, when I was becoming use to a new police security holster (one that required the officer to unsnap two buttons and rock backwards with the sidearm), Jacobson would relate, "Let's order pizza, Cole is about to unholster." Of course this was all said in fun during the course of training. He would relate, "Your dead! You have been shot! Try it again!" He stated with a lasting tone that reverberated inside my skull.

My last glance at the gray stone wall inscribed with the names of officers killed in the line of duty, gave me an ironic chill, on that hot July day. I remember thinking to myself, "that will never be me...I am way too cautious."

As I dropped to my knee, I heard the cartilage come out of it's cozy little bungalows located deep within my swelling knee joint. God, I have got to exercise more, I thought. CRACK! SNAP! POP! I felt like my knee was auditioning for a breakfast commercial during my armed encounter. I bathed the figure with the beam of my flashlight, exposing the horror that I overheard. I pointed my blue-steel Beretta 9mm handgun at the shape. (At this point in time, I still was not comprehending why just why had I dropped over seven-hundred dollars on an Italian handgun. I still possessed a perfectly good Smith and Wesson revolver. The argument sided with the Beretta because of the firepower; the Beretta carries sixteen bullets to the six in the revolver. And let's not forget the real reason, Mel Gibson carried a Beretta in all of the Lethal Weapon movies...I just hope that I can shoot as good as old Mel! )

I cocked the hammer back on my sixteen round arsenal. CLICK-CLICK! The hammer echoed a split-second after I heard the chambering of the shotgun. After having my commands ignored, I expected to hear a deafening explosion from the figure's instrument of destruction, but I did not. CLICK! The hammer from the perpetrator's shotgun fell, but the shell did not discharge. "A misfire?!?!," I yelled nervously with a triumphant tone of bluff. "I am pretty sure my gun will work! I think you had better drop your weapon before you see how well it does function!," I stated. KLANG! KLANG! To my surprise the shotgun was thrown to the ground, and the subject was taken into custody without incident.

Later, I found out that the strange figure was a fourteen year old Hispanic male who had a shotgun with the firing pin missing. (Thank You Jesus!) Also, I was correct in my assumption about the maintenance person, or I should say lady. She was overtaken in the parking lot by the perpetrator while she was opening the side door. What the unlucky burglar did not count on, was an alarm being set off after a key was used on the door. The "kid" will now be spending roughly two years in the youth center, thanks primarily to a missing firing pin.

2310 hrs. (11:10 p.m. for all not familiar with military time), dimming my headlamps not to wake my sleeping wife and child, I pull into the driveway after work, I unlock the myriad of locks on my front door after disarming my alarm. I shed my suit of armor and the personality that accompanies it. CLICK! I take off my badge off my sweat soaked uniform shirt, and place it in my desk drawer. The day is complete.

George "Chris" Cole experienced life as a law enforcement officer with a tour of duty lasting over ten years in law enforcement. He is the survivor of two marriages, and continues to meet new people that provide inspiration for many of his articles and short stories. Many of his articles have appeared in national and local publications.

In 2008, Chris abandoned West Texas and its' "Wal-Mart Trees" (Mesquite bushes that grow plastic bags) to move to the green pastures and real trees of Fredericksburg, Texas. Chris continues to work and hone his writing skills while breathing the fresh air of the hill country.

Mr. Cole can be contacted at kriskohl333@gmail.com.

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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)
» left by J. STORCH
from Atlanta, Ga. 5 years 262 days ago.
WONDERFUL!!! I am in law enforcement. It would be a page turner!
» left by Joshua
from Lancaster 5 years 256 days ago.
It held my attention to the very end! Nice writing.
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