Stationhouse Tales - Keith Bettinger

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Stationhouse Tales - book excerpt

WHY I BECAME A COP

Back in the early 1950s when I was growing up, my mother and I lived with her parents, my grandparents. Also, in the house was my uncle, my hero because he was a fireman in the volunteer fire department. Like many a young child, I too listened for the sirens and clanging bells of fire trucks. I wanted to be just like my uncle, racing out of the house as the fire siren sounded, calling all the firemen to the firehouse. Once there, they boarded the fire trucks; pumpers, the hook and ladder truck, and even the light truck equipped with giant floodlights. From the firehouse, they would race to the scene of the fire with a cacophony of sirens, bells, horns, and flashing lights.

In order to be like my uncle, I always wanted to go to the firehouse with him. As soon as the fire siren sounded, I would lock the house door with the skeleton key that secured it. My uncle would holler, “Open the door! Give me the key!”

I wouldn’t take the key from where I hid it until my mother had me dressed, and ready to ride to the firehouse with him. To this day I still wonder why he didn’t reach into the china closet drawer, the same drawer where I always hid the key. Better yet, why didn’t he get a duplicate skeleton key of his own? I mean securing the door with a skeleton key wasn’t high tech. We weren’t securing Fort Knox. Back then, it was pretty much one skeleton key that fit all skeleton locks.

We would hurriedly drive to the firehouse, and he would run to get on a fire truck and tell me “Stay out of the way!” While he was gone, I would patiently wait in the firehouse for his return. If the fire was a major conflagration, my grandfather would eventually drive to the firehouse and pick me up. The best part of that was sometimes my grandfather would take me to the scene of the fire to watch the battle between heroes and flames.

My uncle and my grandfather owned a furniture moving business and had a couple of moving vans as well as a pickup truck. The pickup truck was used for small jobs, running errands, or simply taking the place of the car when the car wasn’t available. The pickup truck had a green body and a red cab – it was halfway to being a fire truck. Just behind the cab on either side of the truck were running boards. The running boards offered a great place to stand just like a fireman on a hook and ladder truck. Many a day I played fireman hanging on the side of the pickup while it was parked in the driveway.

My grandfather was a wonderful playmate and co-conspirator. He did nothing to stifle my imagination or curiosity. He knew how much I wanted to be a fireman. He would drive the pickup to deserted streets and let me stand on the running board while holding onto the side of the pickup truck, just like a fireman would do on the way to a fire. He would drive slowly, letting my imagination run wild.

Of course, if I was a child today, my grandfather would probably be reported by some do-gooder for child endangerment, and he would be occupying a jail cell for allowing me to ride on the side of the pickup truck. But back then we had a blast playing firemen together.

My grandmother and grandfather’s house was large and not insulated like houses are today. The house looked like a large barn with garage space on the ground level and the two floors above were the living spaces. The house was heated by a large coal furnace and steam radiators. In the mornings and evenings and sometimes even in the afternoon on extremely cold days, my grandfather or uncle would have to bank the fire and make sure the furnace had enough coal to keep everyone and the house warm. Many were the day I stood by and watched them shoveling copious amounts of coal into the roaring furnace.

At that time, my grandmother’s health was precarious, and she received intravenous infusions on an almost daily basis. The IV bottles weren’t returned, so a used one would become my fire engine, pumping water out the long rubber hose each bottle came equipped with. Now I could have my toy hook and ladder trucks with extending ladders and a pumper with a real water supply to fight my imaginary fires.

While I was growing up, every kid had a water pistol. My grandfather, when feeding the furnace, would let me give the roaring fire a few squirts of water from my water pistol, kind of like from the small booster hose on my imaginary fire engine. I was thrilled as the water and flames collided, causing a hissing sound and a rush of steam. The fire and the water engaged in their struggle to overcome one another.

Sometimes, my grandfather would give me a bigger thrill and let me spray some water from the IV bottle, my imaginary fire engine. This would cause more water to flow on the fire, creating a louder hiss and more steam.

One bitterly cold afternoon I was alone on the lower level of the house. Well, not completely alone, my dog, Snowball, a Siberian Husky, was with me and so was the coal furnace. Snowball had his water bowl, nearly filled to the brim, sitting on the floor. My curious mind wondered and began calculating if a water pistol makes a small hiss and a little steam, and an IV bottle acting as a fire engine make a bigger hissing sound and more steam, I wonder how much hissing and steam, Snowball’s bowl of water would make?

I opened the furnace door, gingerly lifted Snowball’s bowl, and on the count of three heaved the water into the furnace. I immediately found out how much more steam and hissing Snowball’s bowl of water would make – A LOT!

It was like being in a Turkish bath on a humid day. There was a great deal of residual steam floating around the ground floor as the orange coals turned black as the water won its battle for supremacy.

With discretion overcoming honesty, I decided the only one besides me who knew what happened that afternoon was Snowball, and he wasn’t going to say anything, except maybe bark for another bowl of water. After all, Snowball was my protector. My silence as well as Snowball’s would protect me from the wrath I could only imagine.

My silence protected me until early evening. It seems there was a consensus of opinion amongst the occupants that the house had become uncharacteristically cold, and Snowball was more thirsty than usual. People continued to wonder why the house was getting colder by the minute. Me, I had nothing to say about the chill in the air and the plummeting temperature within the house. I was trying to mind my own business. I had nothing to say until I noticed Snowball looking at me with accusing eyes. It seemed my loyal protector was about to rat me out. I knew it was over and I confessed my transgression to one and all.

I accompanied my grandfather downstairs when he went down to the furnace. He emptied it of its cold wet mess of coal and ashes. While my grandfather kindled a new fire and shoveled fresh coal into the furnace to rebuild the heat in the house, he had a smile on his face. He had a great sense of humor and thought it was funny, especially since I wasn’t hurt. At the same time, I figured out what I had done was dangerous and not the smartest thing I had done so far in my short life. I promised him I would never do it again.

I believe it was shortly thereafter, that my grandfather converted the old coal furnace to an oil burner. There were no more coal fires to tempt my firefighting skills and I was restricted to playing with my toy fire trucks in the yard, far from the source of any fire and flames. And that my friends, is why I became a cop, instead of a fireman.

THE LONELY WHEELCHAIR

October 1, 2017, will always be remembered as Las Vegas’ day of infamy. Death and injury rained down on country music lovers from the heights of the thirty-second floor of the Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino, stealing the lives of fifty-eight people and causing injury to more than five hundred others.

Survival instincts and fear gripped the attendees and performers. People began running away from the scene onto Las Vegas Boulevard as well as through the open fields being used for parking.

People ran for blocks seeking shelter in other casinos. Some broke through fences and then broke the windows of ground floor offices seeking shelter within from the bullets raining down on them. For those that kept running, many wound up on the McCarran Airport runways, taking cover in the adjacent rain channels. Others attempted to hide at the scene under bleachers or under canvas canopies, hoping out of sight also meant out of the assassin’s mind.

The murderer killed himself. The shooting stopped and the sun eventually rose that Sunday morning. All anyone could see were the remnants of the carnage that covered an extremely large crime scene, the likes of which few law enforcement officers had ever seen. It would take weeks to photograph, recover, inventory, process, and eventually, return items to either the rightful owner or their surviving family members.

The hard-packed dirt field just east of the stage and audience area was filled with cars, tractors and trailers, buses, and motor homes. The cars belonged to the concert attendees. The trucks, buses, and motor homes belonged to the performers and their crews.

For days, these vehicles did not move as evidence technicians processed the overwhelming crime scene. Eventually, the evidence was gathered, and the vehicles were released. Some were driven from the scene. Others were towed back to the rental agencies by a caravan of tow trucks since the lessees had left town. As they left the field, you could see the shot-out windows, doors, and fenders. The performers’ vehicles didn’t fare any better. They too had to wait days until they were allowed to leave what should have been a wonderful evening’s entertainment instead of a night of terror and carnage.

When the field was emptied of cars and trucks, and the blood was disinfected and cleansed from the ground, just one thing remained. An empty and overturned wheelchair.

Looking at the wheelchair in its lonely state left one wondering, trying to answer so many questions. Who was the occupant? Did the person make it this far on his own only to topple over? Was someone pushing him? Did someone carry him to safety? Was he pulled to safety behind a parked car? Did people, terrified and fleeing, leaving him to fend for himself?

Eventually, the wheelchair was not alone. Two evidence technicians walked across the field, righted the wheelchair, and pushed it into the evidence processing facility.

The wheelchair was no longer alone. It joined the other evidence waiting to be processed. But it left one important question unanswered – WHY?

WHAT WAS IT LIKE WHEN…?

I enjoy studying history. I watch the history channel, read the tomes of Stephen Ambrose, and love to read historical novels. I am a baby boomer, a member of the generation that came to be when our heroes returned from World War II.

When I read about the attack on Pearl Harbor, I wonder what went through the minds of the American public as they heard the news that the American military had been attacked I wondered what it was like to be suddenly pulled into a war. My parents, kids at the time, told me stories about rationing food and gas coupons, and friends going off to war. Every community has a memorial to those friends and heroes who did not return.

The war of my generation, The Vietnam War, was a long and protracted war. It too has many heroes that are now growing gray. It was not like World War II. It had been around for years, and slowly swallowed up the youth of the United States. Our returning veterans were not treated with the respect they deserved. The Vietnam war did not answer for our generation the question of what was it like when Pearl Harbor was attacked.