Reflections from the Shield

By Wayne E. Beyea

In 1962, the author embarked on a career with the New York State Police that would span a quarter century. More than just a career, it was a 25 year labor of love and personal sacrifice. A roller coaster ride of challenge, adventure, excitement, exhilaration, danger, fear, anger, sadness, happiness, joy, chastisement, and reward.
Readers of Reflections From The Shield will experience a wide range of emotions as they visit true events portraying humor, sadness, and horrific crime. They will learn of a criminal justice system in disarray and learn how New York State downplayed corruption in one of its largest state agencies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 12, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469754994

Book preview

1

As I stepped onto the porch of the house, a twinge of anxiety caused doubt as to whether I should enter the premises and complete my mission. You can do this, I told myself and knocked on the door.

It was late summer 1961 and the small gray cape cod style house was the local office of the New York State Police in Homer, New York. I was there to obtain an application to become a New York State Trooper.

At 23 years old, I had completed a hitch in the U.S. Navy, was newly married and working the midnight shift at Smith-Corona-Marchant, a typewriter manufacturing company located in my hometown of Cortland, New York; raking in the exorbitant wage of $1.35 an hour as a tool maker apprentice! I did not dislike the work but hated working in a factory and punching a time card. I was determined to find a career doing something that I enjoyed doing and which would provide security and stability. The State Police seemed just the ticket.

My wife Kathleen, had graduated from Auburn Memorial Hospital’s School of Nursing, passed RN state boards, and was working the day shift in the Nursery Unit at Cortland Memorial Hospital. Being newly weds, working separate shifts and sleeping alone five nights each week strongly contributed to my wanting to change careers.

While listening to the radio I heard a public service announcement advising, The New York State Police is seeking applicants for the position of trooper. Two hundred men (the SP did not have females in the force then) will be selected for employment. Applicants must have graduated from an accredited high school, be at least 5’9 tall, have 2020 vision, (corrected vision permitted) and be in excellent physical condition. The starting salary is $5200 per year."

I knew absolutely nothing about police work and perceived troopers as gigantic men in big hats who beat the crap out of people when they broke the law, then threw them in jail. Despite my somewhat negative, distorted perception, the state police was a respected organization, and its members were greatly admired by most of the populace at the time.

A gruff voice responded to my knock at the door. Don’t stand out there knocking. Come on in.

I opened the door and entered into a large room, which served as the station’s office area. I saw that the gruff voice inviting me to enter belonged to a rugged, gray-haired, ancient looking sergeant, sprawled behind a massive oak desk. He was smoking a large cigar, and his feet were planted on top of the desk. I stiffly approached the desk and stood at military attention. The old sergeant put his feet on the floor and asked, What can I do for you kid?

My reply surely sounded like an awestruck recruit responding respectfully to his drill sergeant. The only difference was, I didn’t salute. I hear the state police are hiring troopers, sir, and I would like to obtain an application, sir.

The sergeant fingered his cigar and studied me without saying a word for what seemed like an eternity. I broke out in a sweat and wondered whether I was passing muster. Finally he spoke, So, you want to be a trooper? I see you’re married kid.

I immediately worried that being married might negatively affect my being hired. Yes sir, I responded.

The sergeant rolled the cigar in his mouth, smiled and asked, Do you fool around on the wife kid?

Why is he asking me that? Absolutely not sir! I answered.

Hmm, the sergeant responded, shaking his head in the negative.

What is that supposed to mean? I wondered. His response was confusing and I was starting to get the feeling that he was going to reject me (for employment) out of hand.

"Do you smoke kid? He asked.

No sir, I replied.

Hmm. He again responded shaking his head in the negative. Well you drink don’t-cha? He asked loudly.

No sir, I truthfully responded.

Hmm. The sergeant responded, again shaking his head in the negative. You better forget it kid. You’ll never cut it as a trooper.

I was dumbfounded, at a loss for words and wondered how I had failed the oral interview for trooper by not smoking, drinking or cheating on my wife. The sergeant saw my apoplexy and laughed loudly. I knew then that he had been toying with my naiveté and anxiety. Still laughing, he took an application out of the desk, handed it to me and said, Good luck kid. Shut the door on your way out.

My first visit to a police station had been quite unsettling but I liked everything I saw and heard about the state police and knew I would enjoy working outside.

The application was voluminous and required a great deal of information. Much of the required personal information would be illegal to ask or require of an applicant today. The applicant had to describe himself completely, and also family members including any personal criminal record or criminal record of his family. The instructions provided that the application should be typewritten, all required information provided, and free of typographical and spelling errors. I had learned to type in the Navy and completing the application did not present a great challenge. I submitted the application by mail and received an invitation to take the entrance examination. The examination was not as difficult as I anticipated it would be. Having no background in, nor knowledge of law enforcement, I anticipated that most of the questions would relate to law. In general, the person tested was provided a complicated scenario and required to answer 4 or 5 multiple choice questions based on each situation. I was relieved because anyone possessing good reading comprehension and common sense could answer most of the questions correctly. I left the exam feeling optimistic about my chances for selection and in fact, received notice that I had successfully completed the written exam and was scheduled for physical examination and oral interview. If the applicant made it through those phases, the final process involved a background investigation conducted by an investigator in the bureau of criminal investigation (BCI).

At almost 6’3" I met the minimum height requirement and having eagle eye, uncorrected vision I was not concerned about passing the eye test. In fact, I exercised regularly, was in excellent physical condition, and had no doubt that I would pass the physical examination. My bubble of confidence nearly burst when I weighed in.

A uniform trooper was weighing each candidate and when I stepped on the scales he announced, 205 pounds. Sorry, you’re ten pounds over the weight limit for your height.

I nearly went into shock! I had always been big boned but I had a flat stomach, thirty-two inch waist and had not weighed less than 200 since high school.

A corporal was supervising the height and weight portion of the examination and when he heard the trooper reject me as overweight, he chastised the trooper. What in hell do you mean overweight, he’s just what we’re looking for. Continue on son.

Emitting a sigh of relief, I passed the rest of the physical with flying colors. After passing the physical I was shown to a long table and directed to sit facing three large, stern looking members of the state police dressed in business suits. These three members of the bureau of criminal investigation conducted my oral interview. I was not informed of their findings but they must have been satisfied because at the conclusion of the grilling, I was told that the final phase of the hiring process would be a background investigation conducted by an investigator. The lead interviewer told me, You may not hear from this investigator and if his investigation proceeds smoothly you will be notified when to report for duty. I left the physical and interview confident that I had scored well and would be called for duty. I was excited and the wait would prove frustrating. Once again, my confidence bubble would almost burst.

While waiting to hear of my acceptance into the state police, my wife presented the wonderful news that she was pregnant. I was proud and elated! Wow, our first child and hopefully by the time it’s born I will be in the state police. Shortly after learning that our family was about to expand, I was laid off from Smith-Corona. Not being one to sit on my hands and wait for the state police to call, I called a dairy farmer whom I had worked for while in high school and he was happy to give me work. Besides, it was late winter, maple sugar making season and he always needed extra help at this time of year.

One morning I was gathering sap in the maple woods and my boss came looking for me. His message was ominous! An Investigator Farron called from the Homer barracks and wants to see you down there.

Remembering what I had been told at my oral interview, this was not good news. What can possibly be wrong? I answered all of the questions on my application and at the interview truthfully. I have never been arrested. My references are favorable toward me. Maybe it has something to do with high school. I did participate in a lot of tomfoolery in high school. Maybe something came up about the accident I had two years ago. I could not think of what the problem was but knew I should not keep the investigator waiting. Still covered with dirt and mud from working in the woods, I did not stop to clean up and drove straight to the Homer barracks. My brain searched for a clue as to what could be wrong and I worried all the way there.

Investigator Farron met me at the door, invited me into the bureau of criminal investigation office and was very cordial. He advised, I discovered a couple of discrepancies in your application that need clearing up.

I sat looking at him in amazement because I had been extremely careful to complete the application truthfully and accurately.

He explained, On your application, you stated that your father had no criminal record?

This really confused me and I truthfully answered, To my knowledge, he doesn’t.

Farron smiled, My investigation reveals that your father was arrested for Public Intoxication (no longer an offense), in 1927, and served 15 days in the Cortland County jail.

I stared at him in amazement. This is sure a surprise to me and had I known that fact I would have put it on my application. Dad never told me about this.

Still smiling, Farron agreed that it seemed plausible that a father would not share that sort of information with his children. However, there is another discrepancy.

This statement totally confused me and I did not answer; however, the look on my face told the investigator that I was confused and concerned.

He said, On your application, you provided your mother’s maiden name as Morris. My investigation revealed her maiden name as Walters.

This I could explain. I knew that Mom’s father died when she was very young and her mother had re-married. I never knew her stepfather because he also died before I was born and I assumed that her real father’s name was Morris and stepfather Walters. Apparently, it is the other way round.

Investigator Farron seemed satisfied with my answers. I can see that you are not being evasive and are telling the truth. Thank you for coming in so expeditiously. I will be filing my report and you will be hearing from division headquarters.

I left the office once again optimistic that I would be called as a trooper and with profound respect for the investigative ability of the bureau of criminal investigation. I had just learned aspects of my parents lives that were previously unknown to me.

2

At last! The long awaited letter finally arrived congratulating me on acceptance into the New York State Police! I was sworn in on June 18, 1962 and attended the 78th session of basic training at Oneonta State University. The state police did not have their own training academy then, and utilized Albany State and Oneonta State universities to train the 200 new Troopers.

Kathy moved in with her parents while I attended training as we were trying to conserve money, and I would not know until after graduation, where I would be assigned. The only certainty was that it would be someplace in New York State.

The state police work schedule consisted of five, 12hour workdays each week, with unpaid overtime expected. To be consistent, recruits were required to attend 12hour per day training sessions, with the only difference being that we had every weekend off and were permitted to go home. The state police was defined as a semi-military organization, and maintained a rank structure similar to the military. Our training was intense and many of my classmates thought our duty hours, discipline and military protocol excessively brutal. Having experienced Navy boot camp—comparatively—this training was a cakewalk. We studied Penal Law, Code of Criminal Procedure, Vehicle & Traffic Law, Conservation Law and various other state laws. We learned how to conduct interviews of victims, witnesses and suspects. We learned pursuit driving, firearms discipline, how to use the police baton, rifle, shotgun, and tear gas training. We learned how the court system functioned, and the proper wearing of the uniform. We were required to take detailed notes while in class, and at night—after completion of the day and retiring to our rooms—had to transcribe the notes we had taken into typewritten double spaced format for placement in a looseleaf notebook. Our notebooks were subject to inspection by counselors at any time and anyone who failed to keep a neat, typewritten notebook could be failed from training. This procedure seems ludicrous but there was good reason for it. At the time, troopers were required to type almost all of their reports—including accident reports—in multiple copies. Transferring hand written notes to typewritten form provided practice to recruits needing to hone their typing skill. I should also explain for benefit of my grandchildren, that this was the pre-computer era.

Although most of our training was serious, exhausting and demanding, there were humorous moments. Most were spontaneous, unexpected, funny occurrences, but our shower facilities were a daily source of aggravation and humor. Our training had been scheduled while the colleges were on summer break, and we were housed in a girl’s dormitory. Yes, my grandchildren, I said GIRL’S DORM! Coed dorms were only a glimmer in the future. Our rooms were adequate, comfortable, and contained two desks—one for each of the two occupants. And though my feet extended beyond the foot of my single bed, the mattress was not lumpy and provided a good night’s sleep. The problem was, the shower head in our bathroom was located about five and one half feet from the floor, requiring us to turn into contortionists to wash our hair.

My roommate Walter, tall, thin and from New York City, was a nice enough guy but he was undisciplined and somewhat lazy. He had no military background and therefore was convinced our academy training was a brief sentence in hell. I soon wondered how Walt had passed the entrance requirements because he possessed little physical strength, was unable to make his bed military style, took very few notes in class, and was genuinely lazy. I was constantly helping him in all facets of training. Exacerbating his trouble was the fact he could not type, absolutely loathed typing, and refused to learn how. For three nights, I suffered through Walt’s hunt and pecking at the typewriter, (copying my notes), and constantly waking me with questions like: How do you spell misdemeanor? Does arrest have one r or two? The fourth day, I thought of a plan that would allow me to get some sleep and make money too. Walt seemed to have lots of money and he was a free spender. I had the advantage of having learned how to type in the Navy. I offered to type Walt’s notebook for him at $3 per page. He immediately accepted my offer. This only required about an extra hour of my time at night, and the money was easy because all of our typing had to be double-spaced. Although lazy and somewhat of a slob, Walt respected me and we got along fine.

As I progressed through my training and listened to instructors relate what their police experience was like, I knew that I would enjoy police work.

Over the course of the first few months, I came to the realization that the state police was not just a group of men employed in police work. It was a professional fraternity; a family, that worked together, ate together, slept together, drank together, played together, and who would die for each other if necessary. Members of this fraternity referred to each other as brothers. Enforcing laws, policing the highways, resolving emergencies, assisting citizens and each other when necessary, was family business. I was eager for induction into this respected family and eager to embark on a career often exciting and rewarding, but just as often frustrating, dangerous and exhausting.

At the time I entered this brotherhood it was in a state of transition. Troopers were no longer required to live in the barracks but could if they chose to, and all state police facilities maintained sleeping quarters. The workweek had recently been reduced from 80 to 60 hours; however, unpaid overtime was expected as required. Overtime was logged as compensatory time which in theory, could be taken as needed, when approved by a sergeant. Governor Nelson Rockefeller, had recently appointed retired FBI Agent Arthur Cornelius Superintendent, and he directed the state police to utilize the FBI report-writing format. This directive caused a lot of grumbling from veteran troopers; however, Cornelius soon won praise from his men by fighting for increased pay and improved benefits. Governor Rockefeller was also a staunch supporter of the state police and under his administration the state began fully funding our retirement program.

The New York State Police was a highly respected police agency and its effectiveness was in large part due to the members’ dedication to each other, and tenacity in being knights of justice in the communities they served. Unfortunately, the dedication and loyalty required of the police family created a paradox in troopers’ personal lives. Individual family, friends, and personal interests were required to take a back seat to the needs of the career and state police family. Membership in any civic association, fire department, school board, etc., was absolutely taboo. Men got so caught up in the demands of their career their personal lives and family relationships came under stress, causing the divorce rate for troopers to be very high.

When I entered the force, it was a super macho male organization. Members of this family were expected not to show weakness or exhibit strong emotion in situations that were extremely hazardous, often shocking, very stressful, and screaming for emotional response.

Troopers were expected to be all things to all people. They had to project an image of toughness, understanding, compassion, virtuosity and fairness, while being defenders of justice. In essence, we were expected to project an image of immortality, when in actuality, we were mere mortals with all the faults and frailties of mortals. A trooper was expected to resolve any crisis or illegal act. One of my supervisors had the habit of scoffing at a trooper’s request for assistance by proclaiming, One riot requires one trooper.

In the academy we learned that upon graduation, we would be assigned probation status for one year. The academy was our first stage of probation, followed by 1-3 months working under the close supervision of a senior trooper. This 2nd stage of probation could be defined as the hazing required to become a member of the fraternity. We were informed that our senior trooper’s authority was absolute and he was to be obeyed without question. The senior trooper would submit a biweekly performance evaluation and a poor performance evaluation could result in discharge from service.

While attending the academy, I was introduced to: pursuit driving, clocking a speeder, physical defense tactics and firearms training. As an experienced hunter, I was an expert with rifle or shotgun but I would never become proficient with a police revolver. Proficiency with a revolver brings me to relate the trials and tribulations of my roommate Walter during firearms training.

We were provided firearms nomenclature and lawful weapon use training in the classroom, but we also had to qualify with a revolver on the firing range. We spent an extremely disciplined week shooting (and being punished) at the firing range located behind Troop C Headquarters in Sidney. If any shooter failed to follow orders exactly as given, our entire group was required to run laps around the range. For some reason, we were always running laps immediately after consuming a hearty lunch, resulting in a lot of nauseated recruits. Promoting self-esteem apparently was not a priority in our instructor’s handbook as it was announced—by bullhorn—Recruit Walter ------is the worst shot and sorriest excuse for a trooper in the history of the force. Now that was a strong demeaning and derogatory statement because we knew that the state police had been in existence since 1917. However, I had stood on the firing line next to Walt, and did not doubt the veracity of the accusation. He scared the shit out of me! One bullet from the first 50 rounds that he fired struck his target and that was in the white paper outside the target area. In that sequence of firing he scored 0. In his second sequence of firing he managed to topple the wooden posts supporting his target. All of our class except Walt had qualified by midweek. The remainder of the week we were learning defensive driving in a classroom at Sidney. That is except for Walt. He was still out on the range with a firearms instructor and our ears were tuned for the instructor’s frequent bouts of cussing, followed by the pop, pop, pop of a thirty-eight. I felt sure that Walt would wash out of the academy, but somehow (and I think I learned why at graduation), he was retained.

Despite being involved in a horrible accident some two years earlier, I was eager to get behind the wheel of a high performance police cruiser. By the time I was approved by my senior trooper to patrol alone, I was very proficient at clocking speeders and pursuit driving. A negative aspect of this training was that it developed me into a fearless, fast driving offensive driver. My senior trooper aided and abetted this development because he flew to everything and constantly encouraged me to drive faster.

Graduation day finally arrived and it was held at Hellman’s The-ater—adjacent to the state university campus—in Albany. Governor Rockefeller was the most prominent speaker and presented us with our diplomas. The graduates occupied a few front rows of the auditorium and we were seated in alphabetical order. I was seated in the front row and roommate Walt occupied a seat beside me. Just before the ceremony got under way, a well-dressed woman appeared and Walter introduced her to me as his mother. We stood immediately in front of the stage exchanging conversation and the Governor—who was conversing with a group of dignitaries on the stage—spotted Walt’s mother. He immediately walked to the front of the stage, bent down, and greeted Walt’s mom by her first name. Then he kissed the back of the hand she extended to him! I was duly impressed and after his mother left us to take her seat I asked Walt how Rocky knew his mother. He explained that his mom was a big shot in the New York City Republican Party. It suddenly dawned on me why Walt did not flunk out of the academy and made it to graduation. This was my first lesson regarding the power of politics.

I will never forget the thrill of shaking Governor Rockefeller’s hand and receiving my diploma from him. When I approached the Governor to accept my diploma he startled me by saying, Congratulations Wayne. Your wife Kathy must be really proud of you. How is she, trooper? Confused as to how the Governor knew my wife’s name, I mumbled some sort of reply, shook his hand, received my diploma and returned to my seat. After returning to my seat, I paid close attention to the group on stage and came to the realization that as an aide handed each diploma to the Governor, he whispered something to him. That is how he knew! It lent a personal touch to the presentation. This was my second lesson in politics. The remainder of the program consisted of the usual congratulatory, political, conciliatory speeches that were of little significance to me.

Graduation day was the last time I saw Walt. I inquired about him a few months later and learned that he resigned from the SP on his first day under the tutelage of a senior trooper.

During our last week at Oneonta, we were issued our uniforms, two Stetson hats, Sam Brown belt, baton, whistle, Colt .38 revolver, gold shield and identification card. At last I was on the threshold of being a real trooper, and it was exciting!

Proudly, my eldest son Patrick would follow in my footsteps some 24 years later and don the uniform of a trooper. It is interesting how things had changed over those years. Patrick was issued winter and summer uniforms. His summer uniform was cotton and the shirts were short sleeve. We were issued only wool uniforms with long sleeve shirts and there was no such thing as a summer uniform. Short sleeve shirts were not allowed because (according to high ranking officers) Some troopers have skinny arms and if displayed in public would give an impression of weakness. The 4 inch barrel .38 Colt that I was issued carried only 6 bullets and did not pack the wallop that Patrick’s 15 shot, 9 mm semi-automatic pistol does. We were the first group of troopers to be issued a belt attached ammo pouch, which held six rounds of extra ammunition. Prior to this, troopers wore belts enlaced with bullet carriers, each loop holding one bullet and the ammo was exposed on the belt. Troopers now carry extra clips of ammunition for easy insertion into their semi-automatic. We were also the first group of troopers to be issued clip on purple neckties, which had to be worn at all times with our uniform. Today, troopers are not required to wear ties. The decision to introduce clip on ties had been made after several troopers were injured when their ties had been grabbed during scuffles.

Our patrol cars were not air conditioned, and in later years when a/c was under consideration, one crusty old colonel remarked, Air conditioning will make troopers lazy. On hot summer days they won’t want to get out of a nice cool car to do their job. Air conditioning will make candy-asses out of them.

My first patrol car was black and white and had a single oval shaped red light mounted on the roof that blinked when activated. The siren was mounted under the hood and when activated emitted a low keening noise. The red light was hard to see and the siren (when it worked), was hard to hear.

3

The existing policy provided that new Troopers could not start working patrol in the vicinity of their residence. My first duty assignment—under the supervision of a senior trooper—was at Troop A Headquarters in Batavia, which was about 200 miles from my hometown of Cortland. Upon arrival at Batavia, I was introduced to Trooper John Anna, a member of the SP for five years and highly regarded by superiors. John would be my mentor and direct supervisor for the next 1-3 months.

My first impression of John was negative. At five feet ten inches tall, he was shorter than most troopers but he had a trim muscular build, possessed a tremendous ego and was absolutely fearless. When meeting for the first time, John shook my hand, gave me a hard look and stated, Welcome to the real world. You will soon learn that the academy didn’t teach you crap. You will learn by watching what I do and I expect you to follow my orders precisely without question.

I stared back at him with a quizzical look and replied, Yes sir.

John replied, You don’t have to call me sir. Just call me John, but pay attention and do as you’re told.

Yes sir, ah, I mean John, I answered.

We began our first patrol together working the day shift, which began at 8 a.m. and ended at 8 p.m. John advised that he would drive until he felt I was ready to drive. He ordered, You are not to initiate any action, investigation, interrogation or arrest unless I direct you to do so.

Our cool introduction to each other, his abrasive personality and cocky demeanor gave me concern. Oh my God, how will I ever make it through three months with this guy? I was sure that he would be overbearing, and difficult to work with. John soon dispelled those concerns and I came to realize that he was an ambitious, intelligent police officer and ideal mentor. He had a sense of humor, a quick wit, loved the state police, loved solving crime, and was respected by supervisors. There was one negative though. His driving scared the crap out of me! I had never ridden with anyone who drove as fast as John, and he raced to everything whether accident scene or coffee stop. Though I would also attest to the fact that he was an excellent driver and had extremely quick reflexes. By the end of our first week together, John decided that it was time for me to drive. I was elated and determined to show John what a skilled driver I was. To my chagrin he constantly rebuked me, You drive like an old woman. Come on, speed it up. This criticism was hardly correct. If I were driving like an old woman then I was, (like a song popular at the time), The Little Old Lady from Pasadena, because I passed every vehicle on the road.

Before completion of my first week in Batavia, we alternated to the night shift, which was 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. On night shift, we rode patrol until 4 a.m. then returned to the barracks and spent our remaining four hours washing cars and doing paper work.

Having reported to Batavia, I was assigned a cot and locker located on the second floor of the large old southern plantation style building which served as Troop A Headquarters. The beautiful old pillared building was located beside Route 5 on the city’s east side. A detached, huge horse barn, located immediately behind the mansion, had been converted into a garage for housing and maintenance of vehicles. Over the course of three months I spent a lot of hours in that garage washing troop cars.

Batavia was a busy, interesting place for me to begin road training as a trooper. It seemed there was always something happening that needed police attention. At the time, the state police inspected and actively policed migrant labor camps, and there were several in the Batavia patrol area. Batavia Downs, a harness racing track was located on the west side of the city, and this attracted heavy traffic from Buffalo and the surrounding area. The roads throughout the area were generally straight and level resulting in a lot of drivers violating the speed limits, and consequently there were a lot of accidents. The Village of Attica and Attica State Prison were also located in our patrol area.

I soon enjoyed working with and learning from John, who patiently answered my questions, praised my work, demonstrated knowledge and ability as a police officer, and took great pride in wearing the SP uniform.

4

I did not mind working the night shift—except the car washing routine—because more serious crimes seemed to occur at night and it was easy to clock speeders then. Usually upon concluding the night shift, I went to bed, got up in early afternoon, then hung around the barracks polishing my leather or reviewing laws and procedures. Before the end of my first week on night shift, I was abruptly awakened one morning by First Sergeant Howard Smith. He called out to me, Beyea, get up, your wife just had a baby boy. Congratulations! Take a troop car and go home.

Startled awake, I sat up, rubbed my eyes and as the sergeant reached for my hand to shake it, his words sunk in! My firstborn! A son! Wow! What a hell of a way to learn about his birth. I hurried to get dressed, then headed for Cortland, driving my own car. I must confess that I made the trip to Cortland in record time. Finally there, I ran into the hospital and rushed to the maternity ward. Kathy was exhausted but pleased to see me and happy to show off our beautiful son. I was quite pleased and proud. How could I have guessed as I held my first born, that 24 years later he would follow in his father’s footsteps and become a member of the state police fraternity?

Kathy would not be able to return to work for a while, and although we had no idea how long I would be stationed in Batavia, we, (well more in truth I), made the decision that our little family should be together. When I returned to Batavia, John helped me find an apartment for rent. This second floor apartment, was located above my landlord and his wife who were a very nice, middle aged, Italian-American couple. Although the apartment had only three rooms and was very small, it would suffice for a short time. Also, at $47 a month, it fit very nicely into our meager budget. I paid the first month’s rent and immediately moved Kathy and Patrick to Batavia. We were able to pack all of our worldly possessions in a tiny U-Haul trailer, which we hitched to our new 1962 white Ford Fairlane.

I enjoyed having our family together and my training under John was starting to be fun. John was pleased with my progress and gave me excellent weekly performance evaluations. At the conclusion of my first month of training, I was called into the sergeant’s office and informed that John had certified me to patrol alone. Wow! Super! At last I am a full-fledged trooper! I was eager to go it on my own and was greatly confident that I could handle anything thrown at me. I had no idea that within a week I would face the challenge of personal survival. Before introducing you to the events of that horrible day, I will share some of the experiences I had while riding with John.

5

As previously pointed out, John was an ambitious, hard charging police officer who took great pleasure in solving crime and apprehending bad guys. One night John was showing me the proper method to check business establishments for burglary. John’s method seemed somewhat dangerous and questionable to me, but I was not permitted to question why he did it this way, only how. How he did it was by roaring up to the premises, turning off the headlights, then easing around the back of the building, checking doors and windows with the car’s spotlight. One night, he pulled quickly behind a gas station and, what in hell is that? A man’s ass was backing out of a broken window. We were on him in an instant and John yelled, Freeze ass hole or you’re a dead man. The surprised, hapless chump was so frightened he pissed his pants. John placed handcuffs on the thief as he begged us not to hurt him. I would point out that this was pre-Miranda era and it was not uncommon for police to beat the crap out of someone caught in the commission of a crime. John was tough and unmerciful with ass holes, but this defendant did precisely as directed and we were reasonably gentle with him. A search of his person produced a wallet with identification but not much else. The burglar claimed that we caught him just as he was going in the window, he was alone, and he had not taken anything. John called our arrest in by radio, and directed that the station owner be called to come check the premises. While waiting for the gas station owner to arrive, we learned that the burglar’s accomplice had dropped him off and would return to pick him up. The accomplice did not appear and it became apparent that he spotted us and took off. After the station owner checked and secured the premises, we took the burglar into the barracks for fingerprinting and photographing prior to arraignment. As John went through the procedures with me he explained, Remember, it is highly unlikely for a burglar to get caught during his first burglary so you should always attempt to obtain a confession from him detailing all of his crimes. This lesson served me well throughout my career and I passed it on to the troopers whom I trained and the investigators who worked for me. That night, this man who insisted on our drive to the barracks, This is the first time I ever did anything like this, confessed to committing several other burglaries and larcenies. He identified his brother as his accomplice. John directed the chump to call his brother and tell him to come to the barracks to pick him up. When the fellow appeared, we placed him under arrest as an accomplice in the crime of burglary. Both were arraigned before a local Justice of the Peace and we finished our shift after delivering the brothers to the Genesee County Jail. As I recall that was my first 18hour workday.

6

Every trooper received Red Cross First Aid certification training in the academy and was qualified to render first aid; however, we were only trained in basic first aid and were not equipped with the expertise or equipment needed to deal with serious medical emergencies.

I marvel at the efficiency and expertise of today’s ambulance squads. The well-trained, dedicated professional emergency medical technicians and first aid responders to emergencies save many thousands of lives each year. Such was not the case in 1962, and during the first couple of years I was working as a uniform trooper. Throughout much of rural New York, it was common for volunteer fire departments untrained in first aid and even worse—in two of the areas I worked—for the local undertaker to respond to medical emergencies utilizing a hearse as ambulance. You can imagine the additional trauma experienced by a seriously injured accident victim when placed in the back of a hearse. I am certain that many of the people who succumbed to injuries in the accidents I investigated would have survived if provided better emergency response medical care. Although well intentioned, many emergency medical responders exacerbated the victim’s injury.

One night patrol John and I, were directed to respond to a serious one-car accident on Route 5, east of Batavia. An MG sport car being driven too fast had left the side of the highway and struck a large tree head on. The front of the car was demolished and its driver trapped in the wreckage on impact. A passenger had been ejected from the vehicle and he was seriously injured. John and I administered first aid as best we could until arrival of the fire department and volunteer ambulance corps. In the collision with the tree, the car’s engine was pushed back into the front compartment, pinning the young male driver inside what was now a pile of twisted metal and broken glass. The young man was conscious, in shock and experiencing great pain from a multitude of severe injuries. The jaws of life extrication tool, had either not yet been invented, or was not available and it took the firemen a great deal of time and effort to pry the wreckage apart with pry bars and axes. After great difficulty, the driver, unbelievably still conscious, was removed from the wreckage. He was placed on a stretcher, covered with a blanket and carried to the rear of the box van style ambulance. The injured passenger who had been thrown from the car was unconscious, and had already been placed in the ambulance. As the firemen tried to shove the stretcher containing the driver into the ambulance, there seemed to be an obstruction and they couldn’t get the stretcher to go in. They gave it a mighty shove, but it still did not go in, and the victim let out a blood-curdling scream. John walked over to the volunteers, lifted the blanket and discovered the problem. The exposed shattered femur of the young man was hanging off the edge of the stretcher and had been rammed into the side of the van. The smashed leg was relocated on the stretcher, which then went into the ambulance easily. I was aghast at the ineptness and clumsiness of the emergency crew, and John, though holding his tongue was red faced with anger. As I recall, the passenger in that accident died from his injury and the driver survived.

Sloppy emergency response was common in many areas of the state. Less than one year later, while investigating an accident on Route 11, in North Syracuse—similar in that a vehicle had left the road and struck a tree head on—the responding ambulance crew screwed up. The driver in this accident was a young woman and she was the sole occupant of the vehicle. The woman had serious head and chest injury and was in deep shock. She moaned as she drifted in and out of consciousness. The ambulance attendants rushed to get her to the hospital and in their haste neglected to fasten a restraining strap over top of the blanket that covered her. While wheeling the stretcher across a lawn toward the waiting ambulance, the woman suddenly flopped off the stretcher falling about 4 feet to the ground. This occurred in front of a small crowd of onlookers whose gasps and screams attracted my attention to the situation. I shook my head in disbelief and disgust, as the embarrassed ambulance attendants placed the woman back on the stretcher. This time, they secured restraint straps before placing her in the ambulance. Amazingly, the woman survived.

7

Late one night John and I were dispatched to investigate a serious assault which had occurred at a migrant camp. All of the camps had a recreation hall where the men gathered at night to drink and gamble. A crew boss supervised the camp and operated the recreation hall. These crew bosses ruled the work crews with an iron hand and fleeced the workers of their meager earnings by requiring a percentage of each worker’s pay for the privilege of working on the farm. The crew boss also sold cheap liquor, wine and snacks at inflated prices.

When we arrived at the scene of the incident, we were confronted by a large group of very intoxicated Jamaicans. We were fortunate that the migrants were in awe of the state police and had great respect for us. Or was it fear? As John and I exited the car it was immediately obvious who the victim of the assault was. He was the hapless, intoxicated fellow bleeding profusely from numerous knife wounds. Our dispatcher had already called for an ambulance to respond but of course this was unknown to the victim, who approached us and babbled, Thank-a, Mr. Trooper fors comin’ takes me ta hospital.

John replied sternly, Who cut you?

The pitiful looking fellow’s eyes were as big as saucers and he was soaked in blood. He replied, Noboda cut me Mr. Trooper. Someboda trew whiska bottle out ta door an it hit me an busted.

John could be brutal at times and compassionate when it was least expected. I was amazed by his response to the victim’s obvious lie. Well, if nobody cut you, what were we called here for?

I needs ta go ta hospital Mr. Trooper. The poor fellow whined.

John pointed to the troop car and replied, Does this look like an ambulance to you?

This question confused the fellow and intoxication, added to his confusion. I noted a tone of panic as he responded, No suh but I needs a ride ta hospital.

John turned to me and loudly stated, Come on let’s go. He’s going to have to get a ride to the hospital from one of his friends unless he tells us who cut him.

I was mortified and could not believe that we would leave this seriously injured man here where he might be subject to further assault. However, I did not dare question John’s decision, even though my face surely expressed concern and confusion.

I’ll tell ya who cuts me Mista Trooper, the man pleaded. Please take me to the hospital. He identified his assailant and we bandaged his wounds as best we could.

While we were working on him, the ambulance arrived and took the poor fellow to the hospital. When the victim was removed from the camp we took the perpetrator of the assault into custody, and directed the crew boss to come into the barracks to provide a deposition. The knife was not recovered and the defendant claimed he did not have one. We learned that the victim and his assailant were gambling and both had consumed a large quantity of rum. They started arguing about who was the strongest and best worker, with the argument escalating into a fight. The man we arrested pulled a knife from a sheath on his ankle and sliced his opponent several times. For some reason, he did not stab the victim but caused several serious wounds by slashing the man’s face, arms and chest. John arrested the fellow for Assault 1st degree, a serious felony.

The victim of the assault survived his wounds and returned to Jamaica. I do not know what happened to the defendant because I was never called to testify and did not see him again.

8

While checking businesses on another night patrol with John, we apprehended a man siphoning gas out of a car parked behind a service station.

John taught me a lot during the month I rode patrol with him; however, I was eager to go it on my own and when that time came I was excited and happy.

I loved being a police officer and became engrossed in my career. Without realizing it, my work and the family of state police, began to take priority over my true family. Kathy knew how much my work meant to me and did not complain. We made the most of our meager time together and she did an excellent job of raising our children.

9

On a beautiful, warm, sunshine filled, October day, I decided to stop home for lunch. Patrick was growing like a weed and while Kathy was fixing my lunch, I could hold him. I called headquarters (by telephone), and advised the trooper working dispatch of my out of service location. Our landlady was visiting Kathy when I arrived, and she had Patrick cuddled in her arms. The woman had a wonderful smile and her dark, pretty eyes spoke the sincerity of the feelings in her heart, which was a good thing because she spoke only Italian. Although, I would add, she also expressed herself quite well with her hands. During our short time of residence in Batavia, I learned that Patrick was Bambino Patricio she had a lot of amore for him, and she wanted us to constantly Mangia.

Before finishing my lunch, the trooper working dispatch called and advised that I was to respond to a domestic assault complaint. On hearing this I thought, Oh no. Not on such a gorgeous day. Troopers and all police officers in general hated handling family assault cases. They were nobody wins situations, often involving a lot of strong emotions and frequently