Recently, I had an anniversary of sorts. January 28, 1991, was my first day at the Manchester NH Police Dept. I had been sworn in with 18 others earlier in the month. At the time, at 35 years old, I was the oldest police recruit to have ever been hired in Manchester, at least in modern times. What followed was ten weeks at the Manchester Police Academy, then ten more at the state academy, where we lived Mon-Fri. I wasn’t the oldest guy up there still though I held my own. The cadre knew I had been an Army Drill Sergeant, so they dogged the hell out of me. I took it all good natured, and I know they appreciated that, and they had fun turning the screws on me and I cheerfully (usually) took whatever they handed out. In the end, upon graduation, they gave me the “Class Motivation Award” which still hangs on my wall. In fact, the Manchester guys took many of the class awards.

After graduating, I did a miserable three weeks duty with the Army, then worked the rest of the summer 6PM-230AM. What a wild summer it was! Shootings, a couple of murders, I learned fast. I even took a dying declaration in an ambulance which resulted in the conviction and prison time of two violent thugs.

I commuted from Weymouth (Mass) from January to July, till we finally found a house where I still reside today. My family moved to Manchester, and, unfortunately, my children were taken out of their schools, away from their friends and their childhood home. I still  sometimes feel that was a selfish decision on my part. 

I was shocked at how busy and violent Manchester was that summer, but that suited me just fine. I had a good career. We had our problems up here over the years, but I weathered them. I split my career between street patrol and investigations, loving both, never having an interest in being promoted, deciding instead to work cases and become a dedicated union man. 

I spent Six years in what was then a national model Domestic Violence Unit, specialized In investigating sexual assaults with adult victims for many years. I spent some time investigating financial crimes, and of course, worked several homicides over the years. I also had the good fortune to work with some great partners. 

My friend, Officer Michael Briggs was murdered while responding to a domestic dispute in 2006. Actually, he was trying to apprehend the suspect from that domestic call. I had the proud but heartbreaking privilege to participate in the investigation of his murder. His killer was apprehended and arrested in Boston, and this event forged a strong bond between the Boston and Manchester police departments, that still exists today. Boston PD is in many ways a class organization, and we will always be grateful to them. Perhaps we were able to repay them somewhat, when, in the aftermath of the Boston Marathon bombing, our SWAT team was on the ground, in Watertown, side by side with our brothers and sisters from Massachusetts. We also had a list of MPD officers who volunteered to go down the next day to relive our SWAT team, but in the end, the bomber was apprehended while our SWAT team was searching nearby. 

A few years after Mike was murdered in the line of duty, another friend, (who I didn’t know very well at the time) Officer Dan Dougherty was shot five times while chasing an armed suspect on foot. I participated in that investigation as well. 

It was a miracle that Dan survived, persevered, and came back to the job. It is a testament to who he is as both a cop and a person. Those incidents were both high points and low points of my career simultaneously. There were many others. 

Early in my career, I sat at a crime scene where a five year old boy was murdered by his mother. She impaled him to the kitchen floor with a sword. Believe me, we see the darkest of the dark, but also, at times, the best of humanity. I think though, unfortunately, we see more dark that good. 

I assisted in the delivery of a baby girl, on one of my birthdays, no less. I’ve attended may autopsies, something I believe no one should ever have to see. I’ve notified and assisted people with the sudden deaths of their loved ones. Mostly though, I rode along on the day to day ebb and tide of life and humanity, observing so much of life and death, often a participant  in many, many human dramas. I always tried to help, but too many times I couldn’t. However, despite it all, I still feel it was a privilege to have done so.  

To my family, I thank them for their love and support. I am truly sorry for all I missed, and forcing my wife to bear the burden of raising a family with an often absent husband. I only hope that having been able to help provide a good home for my family and decent retirement helps to make up for all I wasn’t around for, and the pain in the ass I’ve been, especially to my kids.

I also had the good fortune to have served on Manchester PD with my brother, who was a great cop. Unfortunately, our paths did not cross often on the job, but we worked a few cases together, and shared some memorable experiences.

Please don’t misunderstand me. There is nothing special about my own police career. Many cops have experienced much more trauma, and paid dearly for their time wearing the badge. So, when you see a cop, or know a cop, regardless of where they work, know that they are experiencing life changing events on a day do day basis that most people could never imagine, nor should they. One thing that all cops have in common, is that when they see each other, they KNOW. And, they don’t even have to talk to each other. They just know. About life, about the job…

I came out as a wiser man, I think, perhaps very cynical about life, but any cop who says the job hasn’t damaged them or otherwise caused them problems in life, is either in denial, or not being truthful. I never changed the world, I was wise enough not to try. But I truly hope that, occasionally, I was able to do some good for someone in need of help at a low point in their life. 

In the end, I am proud to have had the privilege to have worn the badge all these years. I am proud to have been a member of this profession and serving alongside so many of my brothers and sisters. For those of you who know me, Thanks for listening. I want you to know I never forgot where I came from.

One of the calls that I was sent to when I worked patrol that stands out in my memory was a call for a foul odor. It was a winter dayshift, the week following Thanksgiving. Rob M. was sent to the call with me. 

Rob was a great guy and great cop. He was already on the job when I arrived, and he retired a few years before I did. But, as far as the job went, he was always a complete gentleman in every sense of the word when he dealt with unreasonable people on the job. I never, ever saw him lose his temper any time I worked with him. During my time in patrol, I worked on and off with Rob and later our paths crossed again when we worked in detectives. 

Calls for foul odors or bad smells are not uncommon, but it wasn’t like you got them every week, thankfully. In many cases, once you were sent to one you always had a feeling it was going to have a bad ending and in any case I always headed to those calls with an ominous feeling, and a tin of VicksVapoRub 

On this day, we were sent to a building on the West side of Manchester which was a typical (for Manchester) three story six family tenement. These buildings, once you entered the common area,  often smelled of various types of food cooking from the apartments within. In the bad buildings they often smelled of garbage that may have been strewn around, sometimes worse. 

We got to this building late morning, and the trash cans were lined up neatly in the side alley and when we entered the building it wasn’t too bad. There were two apartments on each side with a main stair case that goes up between them. 

When Rob and I entered the front door, the inside was clean.  We stopped and sniffed the air. Sure enough, there was a faint smell in the air, similar to rotting garbage, and we both gave each other that knowing look as though to confirm what we both feared. 

Problem was, the odor, although noticeable, was slight, so we really couldn’t tell where it was originating from, but we had to investigate further to locate the source. 

The first apartment door we knocked on was I East. Eventually, an elderly guy came to the door. He wasn’t very friendly or co-operative.  He was dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts. We explained to him about the call we got, and asked if everyone was OK in his apartment. He stated he didn’t know anything about a foul odor, and closed the door on us. 

We went to each apartment. No one else answered the door for us. We walked down to the first floor to decide the next step. Eventually, we decided to try to talk to the old timer who answered the door, see if we could get into his apartment. 

We knocked for a few minutes, eventually he answered the door again, and he was pretty surly. We chatted him up again, except this time I put my foot in the door so he couldn’t close it on us. Sure enough, as we talked to him, we both felt that the odor we could smell was probably emanating from his apartment. 

The old timer did not want to let us in.  He told us he lived alone, but at this point I think Rob and I were starting to fear the worst. So, finally we decided we had enough information to believe something was wrong in the apartment. This call had turned into a “check condition” or welfare check on the old timer, hence justifying entering his apartment without his permission. 

When we went in, I found the apartment was really, really hot, the temp was around 90. It was cold out, but the heat inside was very, very oppressive. That’s the reason the guy was dressed in his underwear. The apartment wasn’t too dirty, it was sparsely furnished, but for sure, this guy appeared to live a lonely and not very cheerful existence, which is, unfortunately not uncommon for many elderly citizens. 

One thing for sure, we felt the odor was definitely strong inside this apartment. So, over his objection, I started to look around. 

By this time, I was pretty convinced that someone, possibly his wife, if he had one, had died and was laying and decomposing in one of the rooms.

The sweat was rolling down my face by this time, and the smell was starting to make me a bit nauseous. I came to a room with the door closed. The odor was really strong, here, so I opened the door, and went in, absolutely expecting the worse. 

Immediately, when I walked into the room, I almost threw up. The smell was so bad, the temperature so high, it was a real act of police poise not to have lost it and vomited on the spot. 

I looked around, and found with the exception of a kitchen chair in the middle of the room, the room was empty. However, there was one thing. Sitting on the chair was a large pot. Inside the pot I found a rotting, Butterball turkey, that apparently was once frozen. The wrapper and the Turkey had blown up, the gas and odor was one of the worst smells I have ever had to endure. 

Well, I immediately removed the pot and its contents, and ran, and I mean I ran, out the door, into the alley and placed it into a trashcan that had a lid. God help the next person who came along after me and removed the cover. 

Back inside, we opened the windows and tried to air out the apartment for the guy. He was still not happy that we were there. However, our on scene investigation, revealed a few things about this gentleman-

-The night before Thanksgiving, he took the frozen turkey, placed it in a pot of warm water in order to thaw it out, placed the pot in the room and closed the door. His plan was to cook it on Thanksgiving Day.

-He then promptly forgot about it. Furthermore, he had long ago lost his sense of smell, so as bad as it was, he never noticed it, never went back inside the room after closing the door. Until we did. 

-He told us he was always cold, and that is why he kept the heat so high within the apartment. Apparently he was also suffering from some degree of Dementia. 

-After looking around taking notes, checking his food supply and so forth, I came to the conclusion that he was getting to a point in his life where he wasn’t able to care for himself, and was probably self neglecting. We were not able to locate or call any relatives that I can remember, so, we did a report and forwarded it to Adult Protective Services for them to follow up on. 

Finally, it was time to get the hell out. Sadly, there wasn’t  much more we could do for the guy, and I hated to leave him alone, but he insisted he wanted us to leave and declined any further assistance. I will say this, I was almost gleeful when i escaped that apartment and that building and started breathing the first fresh air since our arrival the previous hour. 

As I was leaving, the guy started yelling at me demanding I return the pan I threw in the trash. He said there was nothing wrong with the pan, and after a minute or two, trying to reason with him, it was time to go. 

I got into my cruiser, and as I turned the corner into the alley, I could smell the turkey in the alley as I drove away. 

After getting as far away from this building as possible, I cleared the call as Solved at Scene, report to follow and referral to APS. The foul oder call really turned out to be a fowl odor.

Well, it is Sunday night, 1115 PM, and I sit here as I have for the past 24 hours, thinking about last night’s incredibly marvelous reunion. When it came to an end, I went back to my hotel, where my wife was waiting for me, and got very little sleep. 

Each time I fell asleep, I awoke, often suddenly, after dreaming about the reunion itself, or someone I knew, or some point in my life as it related to my time at Quincy High School. It was so very long ago, yet when compared to my life as a whole, it was such a short increment. But, the impact the time I spent there, and so many people who shared my time there had on my life going forward is immense to the point that I find it impossible to overstate or exaggerate. It is certainly difficult to explain to most folks. I am sure many don’t feel the same way about it as I do. But, last night, the harder I tried to fall asleep, the more thoughts and memories fought their way into my mind, which was firing on all cylinders until it started to get light outside.

By the time I noticed it was getting light outside, I found myself able to put some of these thoughts and feelings into a perspective, plug them into my own personal time line, at least in my head. It was something that probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone other than myself. But hey, like all of us, I look at life though the prism that our experiences have created for each of us. Some of us are better at controlling that lens or prism than others.

As I look back on those 45 five years, it seems as though when I graduated and finally left Quincy High School, leaving almost all of you I’d known there, I had been shot out of a cannon, or catapulted, into life from that day forward. 

At times, as I seemingly flew through life, trying to navigate and control my journey, I encountered so many twists and turns, different roads to decide on, turns and paths to take, or not. So many decisions, many simple and inconsequential, others with long lasting consequences, both good and bad. In each case, they were decisions that I and those who loved me had to live with.

Numerous times, during that journey, which we are all forced to travel, I often felt as though I was moving too fast, with so many challenges, that it was hard to navigate properly, if at all. Sometimes, the decisions I made seemed to be preordained. Other times, it seemed that I had to scratch, pull, push myself forward, even as time passed me by at it’s slow but ever steady and unrelenting pace. 

There were times when I wanted to stop, slow down, if even for just a bit. But, that was not to be. Time marches on, to its relentless, ever steady cadence, much like a well disciplined, stoic and ever determined Infantry Battalion, marching forward to face whatever it’s fate may be.

Except for last night. Last night, for me, time stood still for 4 hours. For 4 hours, not only did time stop, but I was actually able to take a breath, execute an about face, and gaze back upon the journey which I had (we all had) been launched into 45 years ago. It was like being able to stick my head up, out of the tube I’ve been in, and look back upon the road traveled. 

It was magnificent for me to be able to do so. It is Indescribable in so many ways. For my part, I found myself in that safe space I have sometimes yearned for, always remembered fondly, with so many of those who had surrounded me in those days. That was before I had been flung into adult life, leaving the sanctuary of QHS forever. Reluctantly, I left the place and the people. I had no choice. None of us do. 

When I graduated, I had hopes for a good future, but with those hopes I hauled with me a heavy burden of doubt and misgivings. So many of the people that I cared for, some going back to my days at the Pollard school, I had left behind.

Sadly, and suddenly, the realization came to me, that time hadn’t really stopped after all, for it was 11 O’clock, and time for us to go our separate ways, as we had done so many times before. That melancholy feeling came upon me, kind of wrapped me within in it’s gloomy shadow, and held me there. The realization set in that for most of you, it would be five more years before we would see each other again. Five more years before we, as a group, get the chance to seemingly stop the clock once more, for just a few hours, and enjoy each others company, like we were able to do back at QHS, so long ago.

Tomorrow, we’ll all get back to life, if we haven’t done so already, and for me anyway, this empty feeling will fortunately fade, not soon enough for me, as it has in years past. The feeling, for me, goes from complete joy, to  bittersweet and eventually sadness. But, as I rejoin the present, thankfully, all those emotions go away. And then, I manage to smile. 

Going forward, I hope to stay in touch with as many of you as I can. I love you all.

One night, early in my tour in Iraq, I had to use the latrine. Nothing unusual. Except for this night. I was hot, tired, miserable, which was normal there. Brought something to read. Went into the male latrine trailer. Took off my sweat soaked shirt and pistol, laid them carefully in the floor and sat down. Thought I was going to have a quiet few minutes. The guys out there know what I mean. How Wrong I was. Suddenly, mortar rounds started screaming in and peppering the area around the latrine. The ground was shaking under me as each round exploded nearby. Wasn’t my first or last time under mortar attack. However, this one and only time I was frantic! And I panicked. All I could think about was the indignity of getting my shit scattered (no pun intended) while I was, well you know. I did NOT want to be killed sitting on the toilet. Getting killed in action was one thing. All kinds of embarrassing scenes flashed through my mind, kind of instantaneously, while I scrambled to get myself together. Hadn’t had to dress myself this fast since the cop caught my wife and I making out in the car at the airport in Cleveland many years ago. Master Sergeant Swirko United States Army, killed, by enemy fire, not in action against the enemy, but while taking a crap. May not even qualify for a posthumous Combat Infantry Badge. Funny how my mind works. This possibility…it was more than I could handle. I must have been quite the sight. Hope nobody saw that spectacle. Trying to button up, while simultaneously carrying my shirt and shoulder holster, all the while fleeing the latrine searching out some decent cover, only to find some fool outside yelling “Incoming, Incoming” as though we couldn’t figure it out ourselves. Yeah, it was bad. I scrambled to get myself together and out of the latrine and into the open and into incoming mortar fire, where I ACTUALLY FELT better, if not safer. So were the indignities we were forced to endure…ah, the sacrifices we make. War is hell, for sure!

During 2005 and 2006