Seven Shades of Blue: Tales from the Streets

By Jerry Schoenle

"Seven Shades of Blue" is organized in career experience segments, from entry to "Curtains." This book provides the reader with an exciting inside look at a career cop's life and the challenges that police face throughout a full career. It is written in a style similar to Joseph Wambaugh's, and in a format that mirrors Mark Baker's "COPS." However, the author's experiences with the military and six different agencies over four decades makes for a unique read.

The reader will be able to experience numerous real-life situations, including; my role as a correction officer in quelling a major disturbance at Attica, which resulted in a bloody stabbing death. My time as a street cop on a domestic call where a 270 lb. male had a fork embedded in his forehead, and my travels to China to train the Chinese police in hostage negotiations before the Olympics. On one of my tours, I had to guard a serial killer's victim who survived a vicious knife attack. Also included is my time in University Policing when officers responded to a call of a naked man in a snowbank screaming. It turns out he had hot sauce poured over his genitals as part of a hazing ritual and said he was just trying to cool the heat. The reader will be captivated by these stories and much more. This book provides a fascinating insight into the men and women behind the badge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098363307

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Seven Shades of Blue

Copyright © 2021 by Jerry Schoenle

ISBN: 978-1-09836-329-1

ISBN eBook: 978-1-09836-330-7

All rights reserved.

First Edition, United States of America

Buffalo News Feature Story December 8, 1985.

The author is on the left, shown with his longtime partner.

DISCLAIMER

This book is based on real-life incidents in the life of a street cop, spanning over thirty-nine years on the job with a parallel military career. Some of these stories happened in my early years on the job, and while they are true to the best of my recollection, my memory might be foggy on some details after having worked the 4 to 4 shift. When possible, I consulted with individuals or case file notes to refresh my memory. To protect the identities of those involved, some of the incidents were combined, and the cops I was privileged to work with are depicted as composite characters (and boy, were they characters). Their nicknames are also fictitious. I only hope I can do justice in bringing them to life for you, the reader. I would also use that cliché for the bad guys discussed in this book, that the names were changed to protect the innocent. But I can honestly say I firmly believe that of the one thousand plus arrests I made, each one was guilty! For consistency, their descriptions are also composite characters. By the way, if I could start over again, I would change not a thing. I love this job!

The agencies depicted on the cover have no responsibility for the content.

Acknowledgments

I dedicate this book to all of the wonderful women in my life, particularly my awesome supportive wife Joanne, daughters Laura & Marta, my mom, five beautiful sisters, and my former boss Barb. I am truly blessed and proud to be part of perhaps the noblest profession in the world. Thanks go out to my many dear friends and family who took the time to read earlier drafts of this work. Special thanks to Jeff Neuner, Ed Hempling, Victoria Casarsa, my daughters Dr. Laura Schoenle & Dr. Marta Schoenle, and my wife Joanne, who read countless versions. Thanks also go out to Josh Sticht for the cover design. Lastly, thanks to our men and women in blue, Cops take risks, so we don’t have to.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Jumping into a Career in Public Service

Chapter 2: Eighteen Months of Hard-Time

Chapter 3: My Dream Job

Chapter 4: New Partner

Chapter 5: Rookie Lieutenant

Chapter 6: Captain, welcome to management

Chapter 7: Retirement at Forty-five to Police Academy Director

Chapter 8: You are now a Texan, Chief

Chapter 9: Back to Buffalo as a University Police Chief

Addendum: Fixing our Police; Yes, Black Lives Matter

Introduction

Life is surely good, and I have no doubt been blessed throughout my life. My life has been dedicated to family and public service since I entered the Air Force at seventeen. Now at sixty-five, I reflect on that life as I plan for the next chapter. I retired my badge in April of 2018. Merely stating that I left this fine profession brings up many emotions. However, I am not as sad as I was when leaving the Buffalo Police (BPD) after twenty incredible years, thirteen as a true street cop. I was sort of an emotional wreck, and tears were falling as I left BPD HQ on my last day.

Sitting at my writing desk in our modest townhome in Cocoa Beach, with a slight ocean breeze, looking out at palm trees in the courtyard, as the sun shines on my Land Shark flag (autographed by the Coral Reefers), with Jimmy Buffet playing in the background, sort of takes the sting out of saying I will no longer be a cop after thirty-nine years. It has often been said, By being a cop, you have a front-row seat to the greatest show on earth! Please read on, and I will open that curtain so all of you can enjoy this show, as I surely have. So here is how the journey began.

Chapter 1:

Jumping into a Career in Public Service

At the advanced age of seventeen, during my senior year in Saint Mary’s High School, I enrolled in the United States Air Force (USAF) delayed enlistment program. This meant I would start Basic Training right after graduation in September of 1973. I knew at that age; I wanted to be a cop. (Just as a side note, cops like to refer to themselves as cops but prefer others call them police officers—sort of a respect thing.) I was conflicted on which career path to take: I was interested in mechanics but already longed to get into policing. Air Force friends advised that If you go in as a military cop, you will just be stuck guarding the flight line for four years. Since I was interested in mechanics, these same friends said I should go into aircraft maintenance as a crew chief. They felt working on aircraft would be far more exciting and rewarding, as that is really what the Air Force is all about. In addition, I would be able to travel. The appeal of working around jets won out; I was destined to be a crew chief.

Growing up, all of my friends’ fathers had been in the military, and they would often repeat their dads’ war stories at lunch recess, bragging about their dads. To be honest, I sort of felt left out in this regard. My dad had been a mechanic and never went into the military because of vision issues. This made my decision seem easy, and thus began the start of a twenty-two-year Air Force Career, both active duty and reserves. I have no regrets about my decision to be an aircraft mechanic. If I had chosen to be a military cop, I would not have been activated for Desert Shield/Desert Storm and learned what being in a MASH-type unit was really like (more on this later).

Choosing the Air Force over the other branches was also a no-brainer for me personally. They tend to have the best facilities and the best food—generally all-around better treatment even in war times. Overall, they do seem to be more demanding mentally. Of course, my friends in the Marines would say that we are their bus drivers. This is a true statement of sorts, as the Air Force is often tasked with moving troops to the front lines. While I have the utmost respect for Marines, I never felt a desire to be a Ground Pounder. I would take the kinder, gentler branch of the military any time over the rough and tumble ones. Once I witnessed a unit of Marine’s field strip and wash-up right on the aircraft ramp. They were waiting for their plane to be fueled. Then they were flown into a base closer to the ground fighting. On the flip side, Air Force types had large trailers with showers. Heck, we even had air-conditioned tents in the middle of the desert during a war. Plus, my favorite color happened to Air Force blue.

On September 27, 1973, I boarded my first aircraft ever, an American Airlines flight to San Antonio, Texas. For some reason, I was put in First Class and was told this would be a champagne flight, so have a drink (the drinking age was eighteen, as it probably should still be). A few drinks later, and after a short bus ride, I arrived at Lackland Air Force Base to start Basic Training. Being eighteen and really leaving home for the first time, I was terrified of the unknown. Upon arrival, we were marched into a latrine for a urine sample, and I was about to experience my first memorable Texas moment. Being a Buffalo boy with a cleaning fanatic Irish mom, I had never seen a cockroach (palmetto bug for you Floridians) before. Well, it is true that everything is indeed bigger in Texas. As I went to wash my hands, in the sink was the most gigantic roach I had ever seen, even to this day. This six-inch critter was trying to get out of the slop sink, but the water was running slightly, and it kept sliding back in down the slippery side of the basin. This is a vision like many I have had as a cop that is permanently etched into my memory. Welcome to Texas and the military soldier. Your life will never be the same.

Next came a short night of not so restful sleeping, with sixty men crammed together on steel-framed squeaky bunk beds. Early the next morning, I was awakened at 0500 hrs to a screaming 6’, 250 lbs., bald DI (Drill Instructor). He was not wearing a shirt and had a big gut hanging over his belt. He was yelling in a heavy southern drawl, Get up, you hoggies. Do you think you are going to get to eat free Air Force food, wear-free Air Force clothes, and work on our multi-million-dollar aircraft without having to earn it? For the next six weeks, I am going to be your mother, your father, your boyfriend, and your girlfriend, so get used to it. Thus, my military journey began. That was, without a doubt, the longest six weeks of my life. It truly seemed like six months.

One thing I really hated was having to pay ninety cents to get my wavy shoulder-length red hair cut by the military barber for a haircut I didn’t even want! After the buzz cut, we entered an assembly line to receive our military clothing. As we entered the formation, a group of more seasoned recruits were whistling at us and shouted, Here come the PINGS. Later, we learned the word PINGS comes from sonar terminology. In sonar, a ping is an audible sound wave. In our case, PING referred to the subsonic sound our freshly shaved hair particles make as they grow ever so slowly, or at least that is what we were told. But, we never heard that term again after leaving Basic Training.

We went back to the barracks with our duffle bag of new gear and were told to strip down and put all of our personal possessions into a plastic bag that we would not see for six weeks. Somehow, we managed to sew hems in our uniform pants and got dressed in our fatigues. Looking around, this was an enlightening moment. Seeing sixty young men, all basically bald now, all wearing the same clothes, and clean-shaven, we barely recognized ourselves, let alone our fellow soldiers. This is the military philosophy of tearing you all down and then slowly building you back up into their mold. This was a bit tough to take for the rebel that I was, but I adapted quickly.

There is no doubt Basic Training does get you in shape. I entered at 6’2, 166 lbs. and left still 6’2, but 177 lbs. If you were skinny, they managed to put weight on you (lots of instant potatoes). If you were fat, they slimmed you down. I was a Catholic schoolboy, so I had little trouble complying with the demands, but I seemed to have a problem remembering to always respond to the DI with the Yes Sir as they required. After forgetting a couple of times and having responded OK instead of Yes Sir, I was severely chastised. The DI asked where I was from, I responded, Buffalo, N.Y. I was chastised again for being from New York. Then I found myself part of a work detail that got to wax the barracks floor by hand on Sunday afternoon when everyone else had free time. Lesson learned; when it came time to run the final Physical Training Test in combat boots, there was no way I was going to fail it, even though I had a severe case of shin splints from running in those lousy combat boots.

One of the things that helped you get through Basic Training was receiving mail from home. Having a large family and a good circle of friends, I did receive a great deal of mail. I received so much mail that the DI used to harass me about it at mail call and told me to have it lighten up. I had a few female acquaintances who would write to me regularly, including my girlfriend. I experienced many of the romanticized visions of being in the military throughout my military career. This included the highs and lows of going to war, returning home after activations, meeting Bob Hope while in a war zone, and of course, the one letter that all soldiers dread receiving, the Dear John letter. I had been dating my girlfriend Terry casually for several months and spent a great deal of time hanging out and drinking coffee at Skaros, the greasy spoon restaurant where she worked.

As you will read later, I seemed to have a thing for coffee shop waitresses. Terry was a typical high school girl, cute, witty, and silly. The last time I saw her was at my going away party. Ironically, at that party, which was a pretty large event, she met an acquaintance of mine who was a friend of a friend. During most of Basics, she wrote me friendly, perfumed, girlfriend letters, which I appreciated at the time. Towards the end, the letters slowed up some. Finally, before the end of Basic training, I received the last one after talking about coming home on leave. This letter was sweet in a way, although it broke my lonely teenage heart at the time. I do recall that she did write, I will always have room in my heart for Jerry Schoenle. She did go on to marry that guy she met at my going away party, had a few children, and lived happily ever after, as far as I know. But it did hurt that at my going away party, she was already moving on. At eighteen years old, it was unrealistic to think the relationship would last. But, on the upside, her best friend started writing me letters.

I checked off my first romanticized vision of being in the military, receiving a Dear John Letter, but I still had to go to war and meet Bob Hope.

The next thing you know, it was our last day at Lackland, and we had our one-day leave in San Antonio. We had strict instructions to avoid a particular strip club establishment (virtually every base has a strip club or bar right outside the main gate) as we would surely get arrested and end up in the stockade. Now being a former long-haired rebel type, you might guess where I ended up along with my group of friends. We enjoyed a few laughs and Tequilas with the girls. The good news is, other than having several beers, the visit was uneventful. We even had time to tour the Alamo.

I was looking forward to being done with Basic and Texas being a northern guy, plus starting Tech School and being hands-on with jet aircraft, seemed exciting! Finally, the orders came in. My Tech School was in Wichita Falls, Texas. No worries, I was happy to be leaving and getting to a more normalized world. Plus, there was beer in vending machines in the barracks at Tech School. What the recruiters had told some of the guys about beer wasn’t entirely wrong; it just clearly wasn’t available during Basic Training. We were excited to be able to go into a city. That was until we went into Wichita Falls. At every corner, it seemed someone was trying to rip you off or sell you a prostitute. We were warned there were many sexually transmitted diseases (STDs) in this poor community. I only went off base a couple of times during Tech School. I worked hard and was at the top of my class, so I was able to get through on the advanced cycle. This significantly shortened my training length and allowed me to move on to my duty station in only six weeks. Our first assignments came in; California, here I come!

Edwards Air Force Base (AFB) California was a great duty station, but it was in the middle of the Mojave Desert, not great for an eighteen-year-old just out of Basic and ready for action. I arrived in L.A, ninety miles from my duty station, and I had to figure out how to get to the base. As required, I wore my dress blues when traveling. Seeing the uniform and sensing my confusion, a woman struck up a conversation with me at the airport. She was returning to Edwards AFB to meet up with her husband and gave me a ride to the base. One thing about the military family, they are the friendliest people you will ever meet. To this day, I truly enjoy being around military folks. The ride had me a little depressed. It was eighteen miles to the first building from the entrance to the base, and those eighteen miles were nothing but a barren desert. Over my time there, the miles to get off base didn’t seem that bad. With nothing on either side of the road, you could really fly. My little souped-up Ford Fairlane could easily go over one hundred miles per hour!

In my time at Edwards, I learned a lot about being a crew chief on a T-38 and later was honored to be selected for the F-5 Project. The F-5 is a fighter version of the T-38 used by some of our allies. After the long work week, we spent our weekends driving to the beach one hundred miles away. We would spend one night at a hotel and the second night was camping on the beach mainly because we couldn’t afford two nights at a hotel. Cooking eggs on a campfire didn’t work well, so we usually went to Sambo’s for the ninety-nine-cent pancakes and ten-cent coffee, a soldier’s dream. We did have a lot of fun, though, and there were four or five of us that would go on these weekend excursions. When we checked into a hotel, they always asked what branch of service we were. When we told them the Air Force, they always responded positively, saying they wouldn’t have rooms if we were Marines. Apparently, the Marines had a reputation for fighting and tearing the place up, and there was a base near-by. On one of our wild weekend excursions, we went to Tijuana, Mexico. We were not supposed to leave the country without the Commanding Officers (CO) authorization. We had heard many stories about Tijuana, and being an adventurous group of men, we had to check it out. Fortunately, none of us got hurt or arrested. Suffice to say, the stories are all true, and we now know why we were banned from going there.

OK, I will tell you this, it was just blocks of strip clubs and rowdy bars. Not a good reason I can think of for going there. We were told if we were arrested there, the CO would have to come and get us out personally. That would not be a good situation, for sure.

My first stint of active duty was a good experience overall, but with the Iran crisis over, they wanted to reduce the number of soldiers and put a freeze in place. This meant you could not transfer out of Edwards AFB for at least your entire tour of duty. Not relishing the thought of four years