Highs and Lows

By Detective (Retired) Martin Swirko

Manchester, New Hampshire Police Dept.

I certainly don’t have to tell anyone that’s spent anytime on the job that the job itself is full of both hight points and low points during your career. Looking back, I’d venture to guess that, depending on a cop’s assignments during his or her career, the lows probably outnumber the highs. At least that’s how I feel when I look back and take stock on my own 28 year career. 

Don’t get me wrong, I do look back at my career very fondly, and I’d certainly do it all over again if I was transported back in time and got the chance to repeat my decision. I don’t think I’d do that job today, but that another discussion for another time. 

As my career progressed, I came to a few conclusions about police work, generally speaking. As far as working in Uniform Patrol on the street I found that I spent much of my time being a street historian (if I can borrow that term from one of my former partners) writing police reports that ranged from people shoveling snow into their neighbors back yard, local disputes all the way up to homicides and everything you could imagine in between. You get to see and report on incidents that are monotonous, repetitive ho-hum events, then suddenly, and often without warning you find yourself in a ghastly harrowing situation. Many of the reports I had been required to write didn’t even involve criminal acts. Spending my career in Manchester NH, being as busy as it was, afforded me the opportunity to make multiple arrests during any given shift. Despite this, over the years, like all Manchester cops, I made many meaningful arrests while working in patrol.

However, as time went on, I came to the conclusion that as far as really doing meaningful police work, that is, being able to really help a member of the public in a significant way, well, I was lucky if I got the opportunity do something I felt was consequential happened only once in a while. Furthermore, I came to the conclusion that a significant percentage of what we did on a daily basis amounted to pure bullshit. I guess we can argue what that percentage was. Naturally, being visible out in the community had a value. And we tried our best to keep the local criminal population from killing each other, as well as robbing, stealing from or assaulting innocent persons and taxpayers as well. I felt early on that I was acting more like a circus lion tamer on the street keeping the animals at bay than a peace keeper. Now I know that sounds very cynical, and maybe it is to a point, but it’s how I began to feel after a few years on the job. That was especially true as I spent so much of both my work days and days off in the courts, often leaving court shaking my head.  

I don’t think there was ever a cop who did the job for any period of time that didn’t, at least at some point, question the value of what he or she did day in and day out. Despite this, I don’t think there is a cop, boss or citizen out there who knew me that can claim I ever developed a bad attitude on the job. At times, It was hard to keep from becoming hardened to the things I saw on a regular basis, but I always had and still do possess the attitude that no matter how I felt personally, I would never, ever tarnish the badge I wore or profession I still loved and respected. I always tried my best to appear approachable and professional to the citizens I had sworn to protect.

Getting back to the highs and lows, I am reminded of a day early in my career that serves as a perfect example as to how things can go on any given day on this job. 

One Saturday Day shift, I was assigned to a walking route which at that time was called Route 9. For anyone who is familiar with Manchester, Route 9 back then ran roughly form Bridge St to Hanover St, and Beech St to probably Lincoln St. Central High School was located approximately in the center of the route, but that’s not why the route existed. Route 9 was never listed in our two-volume SOP for MPD. Rather, it was created, informally, to offset the spread of drugs, prostitution and other accompanying street crimes as the drug problem started to spread outward from what was then called the Center City or the “Zone”. 

Specifically, in the early 90s the drug trade and active drug houses started to pop up around the intersection of Lowell and Maple Streets and the immediate area. After the five biggest banks in New Hampshire collapsed, there were many, many tenements that had been repossessed by those banks, become abandoned, and suddenly no one owned them anymore. Those building were becoming “Shooting Galleries” and places where vagrants moved into. Plumbing and anything of value had been stripped from them, and addicts went to “use” and prostitutes sometimes turned their tricks inside of them. Since there was no plumbing in these places, the occupants urinated and defecated on the floors, left rotting food around and occasionally died in them. For all these reasons, what was called Route 9 during that time was created to try to combat these issues whenever there was an extra body on any given shift. 

That morning, after Roll Call, I gathered my equipment, including the bank bag I was issued that I was able to carry all my paperwork and slid nicely into my back uniform pants pocket. In it I carried Field Cards, a book of parking tickets, several motor vehicle summonses and anything else I might need while I was on my own roaming my beat.

The weather was pleasant, warm enough so that I could wear short sleeves without a jacket. Saturday mornings were usually quiet. I always liked that on Saturday and especially Sunday mornings everyone was either hung over, in jail or in the hospital from the night before. This Saturday was no different as I had my cup of coffee at the local Cumberland Farms on the way to my assignment. I strolled through the neighborhood, spinning my nightstick (PR-24 that certain LAPD Officers made famous with Rodney King) short handle in my hand, trying to imitate old time cops walking the beat I saw when I was a kid in Dorchester. I meandered about, sometimes keeping time by striking a stone wall or fence with my baton, listening to the radio while hoping that maybe there would be a call nearby that would give me something to do. Needless to say, except for perhaps writing a parking ticket or two, and stopping to chat for a few minutes with whomever, my morning passed serenely. 

Around noon time I stopped into a local pizza place, just to show my face, and I found there was birthday party going with a bunch of kids and some adults. I’m guessing the kids and the birthday boy were probably around 7 or 8 years old. Immediately. I was surrounded and serenaded with the cry I heard from kids regularly while patrolling the alleys and streets of the inner city-“Hey Cop- Have any Stickers?” It was more of a defiant demand than a question.  Well, I did carry a supply of MPD police stickers in that bank bag, so I gave them out to all the kids. Suffice it to say, the kids, most of them were delighted. So were some of the parents, some of the others, not so much.  

Back then, we had kind of a weird relationship with the kids who lived in poor and high crime neighborhoods. We had Officer Friendly assigned to the various elementary schools throughout Manchester, but for some kids it was a hard sell when Officer Friendly reached out and tried to convince the kids that the police were their friend when the night before Dad beat up Mom, Mom called the police, police showed up, Dad fought with the police, Dad got the worst of it and after a violent fight with several cops got dragged away in handcuffs, not to be seen for several days. For many inner city kids that was a reality that happened all too often. I’ve responded to calls where I found young kids hiding under the bed or in a closet, not because they were afraid of whatever brought the police to their house to begin with, but they were hiding from the police because thy were afraid of the police! I never got used to that dynamic, but I did come to accept it as reality.

On this Saturday afternoon, after dispersing my supply of stickers, joking and playing around with the kids they all seemed to warm up to me. That was nice. Eventually I managed to break the ice with the parents as well, chatted and joked with them about whatever, and I was invited to join them for lunch, have a cold drink and share in a piece of cake. I took a small piece of cake as the parents insisted, and when I left a short time later, everyone thanked me and shook my hand. I walked down Maple St. feeling pretty good about myself and truth was, I enjoyed being a part of the kid’s party. It was a beautiful day, and I was in a good mood. It wasn’t to last. 

Another cop was assigned to the Route Car which included Route 9 that day, good guy who eventually left MPD and went on to a career with the New Hampshire State Police. I got along good with John B or Jonny B as I called him, and he stopped to ask if I needed anything, or just wanted to sit for a few minutes. I just stood outside his cruiser leaning on the door and we talked a bit about whatever. After a few minutes John got a call for a stabbing or possibly an attempted suicide on the 1st Floor of a large apartment / tenement building on the corner of Amherst and Maple St. We were a couple of blocks away, and we were told that both EMS and the Fire Department were en-route. Back in the Police Academy, when we were learning First Responder medical skills, the police instructors would talk about the ABCs of first aid, and often joked that the ABCs of First Aid stood for Ambulance Before Cruiser. And in Manchester during my career that was usually true. With the various fire houses located throughout the city, by the time we got to a medical call, the paramedics and firefighters were usually there first. Benefit of working in a city, I guess. Besides, if someone was near death and they had to depend on me to save their life, they were in a bad way, or so I always thought. 

It didn’t work out like that on this day. John took the call and also informed dispatch that he was taking Route 9 (me) with him. For that reason, a back up officer wasn’t assigned to the call. John hit the blue lights and siren and away we went. John slowly picked his way up the wrong direction of a narrow one way-side street while the siren wailed. As we did this, we saw an ambulance, also with lights and siren going in the opposite, incorrect direction. John slowed and let the ambulance fly by us. I don’t know if the ambulance crew wondered where we were headed, but the ambulance was headed away from the house! I’d been around long enough to know that was a bad omen. And it turned out to be just that. 

We pulled up, and sure enough we were the only responders there. No ambulance, no fire department and no other cops. On top of that we were greeted with one of the most bizarre scenes I’d ever come across, at least up to that point in my young career. The front porch, and the street in front of the house had all kinds of silverware strewn about. Knives, forks, spoons, can openers you name it. They were all over the place! But we didn’t have time to try to figure out what was happening.

As soon as we got out of the cruiser, a hysterical woman screaming at the top of her lungs ran towards us. She was covered with blood, so much so that I first thought she was the victim. As she lunged at me, arms wide open, I deftly side stepped her and she grabbed on to John. I looked briefly at John and saw that he and his uniform were now covered with blood. We tried to make sense of her delirious ravings, and what I was able to figure out was that her husband was inside the apartment and was stabbed and needed help. I asked the woman what her husband’s name was, I think it may of been Bill, but I don’t remember. I told John to call for back up and ask for a Code 7, which closed that radio channel to all traffic and communication except for the units at this call, which at that time was just John and I.

I drew my pistol because I really didn’t know what was going on, and cautiously headed inside. There was no time to wait for back up. I did know someone was hurt badly, but beyond that, who knew? I entered the dark hallway leaving the bright sunshine outside. John was outside behind me trying to free himself from the unhinged woman who was completely out of control. What I saw once my eyes adjusted to the darkend shadows resembled a bad horror movie. There seemed to be blood spattered and spread everywhere, on the wall, and the floor. I also saw a bloody steak or kitchen knife or two on the floor. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a man appeared. He was more like an apparition, covered from head to toe with blood, and his appearance only added to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie vibe. I pointed my pistol at him, and ordered him to show me his hands. I still didn’t know who or what I was dealing with. He sort of complied, but not really. He just stood and stared at me. Seeing that he didn’t appear to be armed I lowered my pistol and asked him several times who stabbed him. I asked him his name, and I repeated more than once “Who did this to you? Who stabbed you? Is he still inside?” 

The guy just looked at me with a queer and unsettling expression on his face. He never did respond to my queries then suddenly flashed me one of the strangest grins I had ever seen, blood encrusted teeth and all. He then turned and stumbled back into the apartment. I holstered my pistol (looking back on it, as I write, that may have not been the smartest thing to do at the time) and followed him inside. I followed him through the apartment, trying to talk to him as I did. I believe he was actually trying to flee out the back door. He made it to the kitchen then collapsed on the floor right at the rear door which was now stuck in the open position.

I rolled him onto his back and looked at him and knew right off he was dead. I’d seen enough recently deceased people by then to recognized lifeless eyes that are left behind after both the last breath and soul leave the body. As real as some movies try to get, they can never really create or mimic actual appearance of those eyes in a lifeless person. Suddenly, I realized that John was standing behind me. Also, we were surrounded with several members of the decedent’s family as well as neighbors who had gathered to see the spectacle that was unfolding. I noted then that the newly deceased also had a couple of stab wounds to his throat and neck, and in addition to that, his throat was cut, almost completely from side to side. 

As I said, I knew he was dead. There was no need for me to look for a pulse. I also had no intention of handling this guy any more than need be as he was covered with blood, if I could help it. But, his family was there and they were begging, pleading, demanding that I do something. I knew any attempt on my part to revive this poor guy would be futile. Another concern I had was contracting AIDs from all the blood and other body fluids (remember this was the early 90s when AIDs was still a death sentence and cops always worried about this possibility) however I couldn’t just kneel there and do nothing.  For the families sake, and maybe my own, I had to appear to try to do something. I always remembered that from my days at the police academy. Let the family see you trying to help. I silently cursed EMS and the Fire Department for still not having arrived, and I went to work. 

“John” I said in the most authoritative, loud and measured voice that I could muster, “go…out…to…the…cruiser…and…get…the…first…aid…kit!”, placing emphasis on each word as I said them. I looked down at the victim who was wearing what appeared to be a white T-shirt that was now soaked red with blood. As I looked at the several crescent and oval shaped stab marks on his chest (yup, just like all the photos of various stab wounds I had been shown at the police academy and all that I’d seen since) I immediately thought his chest looked like red whiffle ball, the kind we played with when we are younger. The oval holes through the shirt and into his chest actually reminded me of that! I certainly didn’t share that thought with anyone at the time. My plan was to put pressure bandages on the wounds once John arrived with the first aid kit, although the spurting and streams of blood coming from the various wounds had already stopped. 

I asked a guy standing next to me who he was. The guy answered he was Bill’s brother. “Good” I said. “You can help”. I had him get a pair of scissors, that were miraculously still in the kitchen. We cut the Tee Shirt off and I examined the multiple knife wounds in his chest. Like I said, he was no longer bleeding, but I figured the civilians and family members didn’t know that. By that time, John had returned with the First Aid kit John helped me while I applied  several bandages, covering the many wounds and placing direct pressure on each. The brother helped me since there were more wounds than I had hands. Thankfully, the Firefighters and Paramedics finally swarmed into the apartment. I don’t know where they’d been, but I was relieved as hell that they had arrived. I backed away as they took over. I didn’t say anything to them, keeping my non-scientific but utterly reliable determination that our victim was DOA to myself. 

Meanwhile, the Firefighters and paramedics went to work. They immediately started breathing for him by inserting an airway, placing a mask and oxygen ball over his face and manually squeezing the ball in a regular, timed cadence to get air into his lungs. Another bad sign I thought to myself. Up until that point, I had never gone to a scene or medical call where once the FD started that rescue breathing, that person would survive. Meanwhile, the poor wife, brother and other family members and neighbors were all very upset at the scene that was playing out in front of them. The victim showed no signs of regaining consciousness or even breathing on his own. Once he was “stabilized” by the Paramedics, he was taken out to the ambulance and taken to the hospital. Now I was pretty sure the victim had died in my presence, but I hadn’t got the official word on that, so I continued on as thought he was still alive. As the firefighters wheeled the victim past me, one of them looked at me rather severely and shook his head just a bit subtly letting me know there was probably no hope. Despite that, they all continued to try to provide life saving treatment. Now it was time to conduct my on scene investigation. We had to calm everyone, interview each person and protect what may have been a crime scene. No easy task that day. 

Normally, at a scene like this detectives would have arrived to review the scene and decide whether or not they should take over the investigation, just in case a serious crime had occurred. We only get one shot at a crime scene, and once you make the decision to release it, that shot is gone forever.  For some reason that I don’t recall, that did not happen on this afternoon. I don’t know whether that was due to being shorthanded on that afternoon or if those detectives on duty were involved in other stuff. But a Patrol Supervisor eventually arrived to oversee what was happening. The occupants were removed form the immediate area and a crime scene was taped off. I, along with John and a few other officers that came to the scene learned the following information from various family members and friends: 

The victim had gone to the local mental health center the previous day to try to get help because he was feeling suicidal. At some point that was confirmed. After an out-patient evaluation, the people at the health center deemed his suicidal threats to be not genuine, then sent him home with a recommendation that he seek help from a local counselor or therapist. That was pretty common during my police career. The victim, after returning home however, still talked about killing himself, so the next day, meaning that Saturday morning, his wife brother and other relatives came over to try to talk him into going to the emergency room to seek help. They took his threats seriously, and were none too happy that he had not been given the help they thought he should have received. At some point, during this family “intervention’ the victim grabbed a knife out of the silverware drawer in the kitchen, announced his intention to kill himself then started to plunge the knife into his chest repeatedly.  His brother and family members jumped on him and wrestled the knife away from him. Unfortunately, the victim seemed pretty intent on completing the job on himself right there in front of everyone.

After getting the knife away from the victim, the victim got a second knife, continued to poke holes in himself. The wrestling match continued and after a third time someone got smart and pulled the entire silverware drawer out of the cabinet and flung it and it’s entire contents out the front door onto the street. This explained the silverware we first saw when we arrived all over the ground. 

During the struggle that continued, as the wife and brother tried to disarm him, that also explained the fact they, especially the wife were seemingly covered with blood. We were pretty much able to determine all the blood we saw came form the victim during his various suicide attempts. No one else was injured or bleeding. Each time the victim got his hands on another knife he would continue to thrust it into his own chest, and at one point, apparently not satisfied with the damage he was doing to himself, started stabbing himself in the throat and at one point he sliced his own throat horizontally, causing a wide gaping wound on his throat. Needless to say, these injuries caused a massive amount of bleeding and loss of blood until he finally collapsed to the floor in front of me. To this day, I still figure he was dead by the time he hit the floor. 

At one point, I was called on the radio and instructed to talk to a detective on a different channel. The detective asked for a quick briefing on the incident, and basically, I told him that based on my interview, I believed the victim had committed suicide and there had been no crime. The detective who was kind of incredulous at my explanation got a little sarcastic with me, and said something to the effect of “So your trying to tell me this guy stabbed himself in his chest a dozen times, and slit his own throat and he did it to himself?” Oh great I thought, now I got these guys are busting my balls over the air. 

I responded in the affirmative and his response to that was “yeah. Sure. Ok.” Their response were just dripping with sarcasm. The sergeant at the scene was a bit more circumspect. In the end, I believe a team of detectives did respond and took over. Later I learned that the victim was dead on arrival (DOA) at the hospital. None of the efforts we made helped. I also learned that all of the self inflicted woulds were superficial, with the exception of when he cut his throat, that knife slash severed his jugular and that sealed his fate. Eventually, the medical examiner ruled the case a suicide and I felt somewhat vindicated that the conclusion I had come to was confirmed. Nevertheless, I was amazed at what this guy had done to himself, all in front of those who were closest to him. 

Eventually, thankfully, I cleared the scene, got a ride back to the station where I began to write the initial police report and complete the mountain of paperwork that came along with it. I didn’t complete my reports for the day until well after my shift ended, but, even going overtime, my day wasn’t yet done. 

You see, I had previously picked up and extra detail, overtime for a show that evening. Like it or not, I was committed to pulling the shift. The artist appearing in Manchester that night was the comedian then known as Gallagher. If any of you remember Gallagher, his act usually included a bit about different words and meanings in the English language, followed by a finale which consisted of slamming various fruits and vegetables on stage with a sledge hammer he called the Sledge OMatic. The people in the front rows wore rain gear and were provided with plastic and other coverings to shelter themselves from the deluge of fruit and vegetables that would pelt them from the stage.

I’d seen Gallagher and his act on TV several times. In fact he was one of my wife’s favorite comedians, and because of that I caught his show whenever he was on TV, watching with my wife. Aside of that, I always kelp a clean uniform in my locker for just such days, and after I finished my reports it was almost time to report for my Job at the show. I didn’t have time for a shower or dinner (not that I had much of an appetite anyway) but I did scrub my hands, arms and face thoroughly as I could, and then rushed over to the Center of NH where the show was held. 

The audience was very well behaved and I had no problems that night. I stood a distance away from the sledge hammer part of the show, and in between walking around and stopping to watch, for the most part I enjoyed the show and the assignment. I even laughed a few times. It turned out to be a good way to wind down form the earlier part of the day.

After the show, I got to meet Gallagher and chat with him for a few minutes. He was very pleasant, thanked me for working the show and told me he appreciated all that we (Cops) do on a daily basis. I told him he was my wife’s favorite and joked that because of that, it meant that I watched him regularly with my wife. Basically, I said that because my wife was a big Gallagher fan, that pretty much made me a Gallagher fan. He was gracious chuckled, and he gave me a Gallagher tee-shirt which he autographed personally for my wife. After that, I left and headed home. It was probably sometime between 10 and 11 PM at this point. It had been a long hard day that started at 6AM when I got up for work that morning. My wife was very happy that I got her the autographed shirt. As for me, I was pretty exhausted ,both mentally and physically. To add to that, I had to be up a 6 the next morning for day shift again. 

Before I hit the sack for some badly needed rack time, I took off all my gear and stripped down and took a shower. After the hot water started hitting my head and face, I just stood there for a bit and let it wash all over me. While I stood there enjoying the cleansing, I thought about the remarkable day I just had. It started at roll call, from there to a children’s birthday party with smiles, presents and games. Almost directly from that party I found myself in one of the bloodiest, chaotic situations that I’d experienced up until that point in my short career. I hoped I had done everything right. Especially for the family. 

As I thought about it, I knew that there was nothing I could have done to save that man’s life or even extend it for a few seconds. I had already accepted that conclusion and I was ok with it. The scene itself, I never forgot. Finally, I contemplated on my meeting Gallagher and the show which had put a well needed smile on my face. And to boot, I was paid OT to work the show!

I thought about what an amazing day it had been. I’d experienced or observed most every human emotion there was that day. I leaned forward and as the shower continued to rain down upon me, I could see and feel it wash all the sweat, grime, dirt and blood (both real and imagined) off of me and watched transfixed as it all swirled around and oozed down the drain. Watching the water disappear made me finally start to feel somewhat cleansed and even a bit respectable. It felt good, really good. That serine feeling soon dissipated as I dried myself off and literally fall into my bed. Tomorrow would be another day.