Badges, Bullets and Bars

By Daniel Shanahan

Badges, Bullets and Bars is brutally honest, raw, and gritty autobiographical book. It depicts the good, the bad and the awful experiences and encompasses the continuous struggle between good and evil, righteousness and injustices, suffered throughout the author's career as a former Baltimore City Police Officer.

This cour

• Language: English
• Publisher: Go To Publish
• Release date: Jan 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781647497460

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Badges, Bullets and Bars

Copyright © 2022 by Daniel J. Shanahan

ISBN-ePub: 978-1-64749-746-0

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions.No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

Printed in the United States of America

GoToPublish LLC

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1 Prelude To Death

Chapter 2 Shoot Me, Kill Me, Let Me Die!

Chapter 3 The Beginning

Family Of Cops 1973

Johnny, Don’t Die

End Of The Innocence

Chapter 4 The Rookie

Baltimore, Maryland 1974

Catalytic Converter

Cap’n Crunch

Darryl

D.o.a

Chapter 5 My First Years . . .

Officer Daniel J. Shanahan (The Streets Of Baltimore)

Thanksgiving Day

Mother’s Day

Just A Kid

A Monster

Taking Down Doors

A Little Fun

Nicole Hopkins

Tiny

Straight Razor

Two Small Words

Ice Cream Boy

Deadly Pressures

War Stories

Mikes War Story!

Charlie Bell’s War Story!

Safe Again

Choir Boys

Pearlman Place

Sonya

Chapter 6 The Good Cop

Palm Grove Liquors

Chase Street

Maggots

Lies Of Revenge

Lies Of Protection

Unprofessional

Blood

Mistakes

Kill Officer Shanahan 1979

Chapter 7 The Motorman, The Rituals

Speed Thermometer

Die Bitch Die!

Bj And The Bear

Take Out

Chapter 8 Booker Lee Lancaster

July 13, 1983 The Death Of Booker Lee Lancaster

Lancaster; Moments After

Appease The Black Community

The Warehouse

Look Good To Die

The Trials

Chapter 9 The End Of My Career

Bad Cop

Chapter 10 Federal Prison

February 1985 Big Spring, Texas

Chapter 11 Notorious

Smile For The Video Camera Dan

Good Cops, Bad Attitudes

Back To Jail

Chapter 12 The Diaper Room

1996

Psychos, Murderers, Rapists, And Me

Chapter 13 The Maryland Penitentiary

July 14, 2001

One Month

60 Days September 5, 2001.

Prison Etiquette

911

C Block

Chapter 14 A Mother’s Story

Chapter 15 Final Chapter

Epilogue

This book is written in Loving memory of my dad, John (Jack) Shanahan and my mom, Jeanne Shanahan. Both of whom had a tremendous effect on me over the years And never stopped supporting and loving me.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Pictures and Picture Content Editing/Captions: Daniel Bleclic

Original Editor and Interior Design: Barbara Pike

Custom Cover Design: George Kalwa

Manuscript Editing, Back Cover Additions and Deletions: Dennis Parkinson

Baltimore Police Pictures and Newspaper Articles: (Author) Daniel J. Shanahan Sr

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to all the fine Baltimore Police and other Law Enforcement Officers who have taught me, guided me, and helped me throughout my career and who continued to support me through the difficult times that followed.

Also, for all the love and support I received from my family, friends, and normal citizens that I did not know. This book is written for all the excellent Law Enforcement officers who shortened their careers by crossing that THIN BLUE LINE, into the wrong territory, sometimes into criminal territory, not being able to return to the righteous and proper side of that, THIN BLUE LINE. Therefore, permanently tarnishing their badge, reputation, family, and all the good that badge stands for. This book is for the officers that could not find their way back, wanted to make a difference, and unfortunately, could have.

This book is for the honorable, heroic, and ill-fated officers that sacrificed their lives wearing that badge of courage.

Sometimes an officer cannot return to that shiny side of their badge. That badge that means so very much to a police officer; that badge that somehow gets into your blood like a disease, providing excitement, power, passion for the job, and an overwhelming sense and feeling of doing what is right, just, and proper.

Sometimes an officer cannot make it back to the extraordinary and all-consuming life of, Badges, Bullets and Bars; ultimately, everyone loses out and suffers.

1

Prelude to Death

After the shooting and killing of Booker Lee Lancaster, and years later when events in my life took a turn for the worse, I would spend time with my first wife Nancy, and my daughter, Jacquelyn. My present home and marriage seemed dark, dingy, and unhappy. The glue keeping me in the second marriage was my two children. Conversely, Nancy and Jackie’s home were bright, uplifting, and made me feel upbeat, happy, and content. There was music, love, and contentment the re for me.

I had left my second wife six times over the years since my divorce from Nancy in 1985. The divorce from Nancy occurred while I was incarcerated in Federal Prison. I continually swallowed my pride and returned to my second wife to be with and near my two children, Danielle, and Daniel Jr. I missed them tremendously as I did my first child, from my first marriage, Jackie. These three children were my constant, my hope, and my life. How dare I attempt to take myself away from them! I was so very selfish.

October 1996; Weeks prior to being shot, I sat with Nancy at the end of her one-hundred-foot pier at her waterfront home and I shared with her my incessant thoughts and desires, as well as my relentless drive to commit suicide. I outlined for her how I was mentally planning this selfish act, this heinous act, and my desire to see it through to its sad, illegal, and sinful ending.

Not only had I a deep dark desire to take my life, but I also had a burning desire to kill and maim as many blacks as I possibly could before I was to be gunned down. I wanted my own place in the annals and history books as the ruthless murderer of blacks, criminals, and bad guys, in the history of Baltimore City.

The officers and detectives that investigated my shooting and attempted suicide, never inquired as to the reason I had over (120) 9mm rounds in my pockets and in the car. I had a dark and evil intent.

I had no preconceived thoughts or notions of killing very young or very old Black people, for I would not harm them. They are who I placed my life on the line for as a police officer. My main targets were that of the younger blacks, the gladiators. The fifteen to thirty-year old, the murdering drug dealers, the rapists, the convicts, the criminals that roamed the streets menacing the innocent, the old and very young. The blacks that I wanted to destroy were the ones I had to leave alone as a police officer, the ones I could not catch or arrest. It was my turn to be a violent vigilante, my turn for paybacks, and a time to end my life as well.

I had knowledge of the bad guys’ whereabouts, their hideouts, havens, and shitholes. I knew the corners where they loitered. I knew exactly where to go to have my murderous, revengeful, sinister, wicked, and immoral plan come to its fruition. Fortunately, when I left my shop the night of the attempted suicide I drove North on Harford Rd. and not South to the Eastern District of Baltimore City. The district I had worked for so many years, the district that I became so familiar with, and I connected so deeply with. It was if I had bonded with the crime, suffering, hatred, and racism. I had become part of what I hated and despised. All of that consumed me.

I would like to think that my terrible desires were just racist bravado talk and not my true feelings. Today I harbor no ill feelings for any race. I have grown to realize that I was wrong in my ugly racist mind, the mindset I had when I was a police officer. That heavy burden has been lifted.

I was heavily drinking the night of my dry run to death, for I was seriously depressed. All the signs were present but not noticeable to me, my friends, or family, until a month later when I lay in Hopkins Bayview Hospital fighting for my life. A life I wanted to end but obviously did not.

I left my auto detailing shop I started in 1990 on Harford Rd. and was driving East on 695. I turned off South onto I-95 and headed for Eastern Ave. This is the same route I traversed the night I was shot. I was on my cell phone calling Lt. Ernie Meadows, my field training officer, my friend and partner for some time. He was working the Southeastern District that night and I wanted to see him. I had a small arsenal of weapons on my front seat next to me. My 9mm Glock automatic, my .45 caliber Colt, my .22 caliber automatic, .25 caliber automatic, and the revolver that saved my life, a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson 2-inch barrel, five shot revolver. All weapons were loaded to maximum capacity. This night I had little or no idea what I was going to do with this cache of weapons. I feel as though I was beginning my ride to murder, ride to murder the undesirables, the true criminals.

I am not sure why I called Ernie that night, I feel as though I was fighting an inner struggle, a war if you will, in my mind, heart, and soul, for I knew what I intended to do was so very wrong in so many ways but had serious intentions to follow it through.

Ernie met me across the street from the Southeastern district. As he pulled up next to my car, I exited my vehicle and began yelling at him. I told him I wanted to die and wanted to take as many blacks as possible with me. Ernie told me later that I looked crazed, not myself, not in control of my actions and words. I had placed all five handguns on the roof of my car where I had easy access to any one of them. I was talking crazy. I was drinking, depressed, and confused. I had no thoughts of killing myself that night, but I would have murdered Ernie.

As I was babbling, Ernie called my attorney and friend, Dave Love. Dave was a retired State Trooper and was familiar with my instability. He and I thought along the same lines when it came to police matters, guns, and shootings. Dave tried to persuade me to give up the handguns. I hung the phone up on him. I gave one gun to Ernie. The entire time I was pointing the Glock 9mm at Ernie’s head. He was standing across from the roof of my car, approximately ten feet away from possible, maybe imminent death. Ernie then called Tim, my brother, who in turn called me on my cell phone. It amazes me that I would take time to talk to loved ones in a such a serious situation like this, I was reaching out for help. I just don’t know.

I was ignorant to Tim which is extremely unusual, and I began to cry. My eyes watered but I shook that moment of weakness off and screamed into the phone, Fuck you! Leave me the fuck alone! I won’t let you stop me, Timothy! I angrily hung up on Tim also. I did not want to talk, I wanted to shoot. Shoot someone, something, maybe myself. I was emotionally unstable and mentally crumbling apart, I was obviously having a nervous breakdown. Ernie talked me out of all my guns—save one but made a serious mistake by putting his two-way radio up to his mouth as if to call the dispatcher, call for assistance, Ernie threatened to arrest me. He was going to call for a paddy wagon to have me committed. He was going to have an emergency commitment warrant served on me at once. Ernie was going to attempt to lock me up in this unstable condition and in this serious situation. He had a situation. Before he could press the mic and talk, I cocked the only weapon I saved, the only weapon that he could not talk me out of, the weapon that was special and close to me, the weapon I felt safe and secure with, the only weapon that I was sure would not let me down, my Smith & Wesson .38. The same handgun that snuffed out Booker Lancaster’s life, the same weapon that saved my life, the same weapon I felt attached to and at ease with. That weapon! That very special .38 caliber handgun with a notch on the handle put there with a small file by my partner in the motorcycle unit, Norm Stamp. An indentation in the wooden grip that marked the death of Lancaster, a constant reminder, a tradition followed by the gunslingers from the days of The Old West.

As I stood with the hammer cocked back and the weapon trained on Ernie’s head I yelled, You call the fucking wagon and have me put in a psych ward and I will blow you’re fucking head off cocksucker! I mean it Ernie; you press that button and you fucking die! It was obvious that I was agitated and angry. There was no fear in my mind or heart. I wanted my way, or someone would die.

Ernie was cool. He did not move, and he dared not touch that radio. He could see that I was extremely unstable and very serious with my threat to kill. My eyes were trained on that button and Ernie’s eyes. I watched both with death in my mentally disturbed eyes. He remained cool, calm, and collected. He said very calmly and quietly, Okay Dan, I won’t call, just give me the gun. Come on buddy you don’t want this. You know you do not want to hurt me. Come on buddy, put the gun down.

I suddenly realized that I did not want to do this. I knew I could turn back, unlike later, I knew to stop and regain control of myself. I slowly let the hammer drop to a safe position and slid my gun across the hood to Lt. Meadows. I began to sob and sat down on the curb. He came around the car to me after placing all the weapons in the back seat, back floor, of his marked radio car, out of my reach.

The situation had ended. I can’t recall how I got home that night or who I spoke with, but reflecting back, this night, this prelude to death, should have been some indication that I was having problems, serious mental and emotional problems, yet myself nor anyone else could see that this highly explosive tinderbox was slowly smoking, slowly smoldering, slowly waiting to incinerate and explode. Incinerate and explode into a horribly disastrous, actual run, to my death.

2

Shoot Me, Kill Me, Let Me DIE!

I awoke to bright white lights, a tube in my mouth breathing for me, and more IV lines and monitors than I had ever seen. I began to choke, gag, and panic.

I was trying to catch my breath but was unable to do so due to the life support system that had been breathing for me for the last seven days. I saw that my brother Tim was at my side. Tears came streaming from my eyes. I began to move my arm in a writing motion. Tim scurried to find a brown paper towel and a pen. I scribbled on the paper. Tim took it from me, attempted to read it and said, Can’t do what Dan? Oh, you can’t breathe? I nodded yes. I was fighting to get air into my lungs. I was fighting the resuscitator to see which of us would win and breathe for me. A nurse arrived, evaluated the situation, and removed the tube, the tube that had been keeping me alive for 7 days. I gasped, took several deep breaths, and gazed around in bewilderment and wonder. Where was I and how in the world did, I get here? I had absolutely no idea.

I began to fade back into unconsciousness. While out, I noticed two flashing objects on either side of my head, my inner peripheral vision. They were like doodle bugs that were lighting up and blinking. They reminded me of Tinker Bell. Suddenly I heard someone say aloud, Mr. Shanahan, BREATH! You must breathe! I took a deep breath and the objects faded off into the distance, continuing to flash. I calmed down. Suddenly the flashing objects were once again advancing on me. They were flashing, jittering, moving in every direction. I was amazed. Again, I began to black out. Again, I heard, DANNY, Breathe! You must breathe! It was the same nurse and my brother Tim talking to me. I took another deep breath and the flashing, blinking, fast moving; visitors disappeared, never to return. I will never understand what those objects were or signified. I continued to breath on my own and would be fine.

I was, in fact, in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit at Hopkins Bayview Hospital. I was suffering from eight gunshot wounds, six of which entered and exited my body. Two grazed my head and shoulder. Included in those eight shots was a blow out fracture to the femur in my left leg where one of the eight black talon police rounds shattered the bone. I learned later I had a bullet lodged in my chest, inches from my heart, a bullet that would never be removed. I was not only blessed I was, at that moment, lying on God’s lap, head in his hand, with my guardian angel and my dad next to Him. I had survived a horrendous amount of violence, a hail of bullets, eleven to be exact, and my third suicide attempt.

Suicide is a very selfish act. It comes when one feels helpless, hopeless, and thinks of ONLY oneself. I feel it is a very ignorant and self-serving act and denies the family members of any closure. I have attempted suicide three times now and pray that I will not allow myself to reach such a low ever again. I have checks and balances in place to assure and ensure that I go for help first and that I do not take the easy way out ever again. Former Baltimore County Police Officer Craig Kalman, and CSW Meadow Lark Washington have assisted me in these decisions. Alcohol Anonymous has played a large part, at times, thru my recuperation periods. All three, have in some way, unselfishly acted to save my life. 1996 was an awfully bad year for me, evidently.

I was losing my business due to some improper business decisions and not knowing how to run a business, I was in a personal bankruptcy, my second marriage was falling apart, and my father was diagnosed with cancer. I was contemplating leaving my second wife for a fourth time, continually returning for my children.

Every day for many months I would leave my business; take my dad to Good Samaritan Hospital for his chemo and radiation therapy. I watched him fading away both physically and emotionally, as did my mom. He was fighting this horrible disease but had a terrific attitude. However, being so close to this everyday was quietly, slowly, and little by little, taking its toll on me mentally, emotionally, and psychologically. I was not aware. I did what was expected as a son.

My father passed away in the early morning hours of June 14th, 1996, my mother, my five brothers, and the sisters-in-law were present, as was my daughter Jacquelyn, and other family members. Each one of us took a turn at the head of the bed holding my dad’s head and talking to him. My time arrived. My dad was unconscious and was being given large doses of morphine thru an IV. His breathing became shallower with each passing moment. Suddenly he took his last small breath of life. I was right next to him. AGAIN, I witnessed death firsthand and closeup, close up and personal, as I had so many times over the years. However, in my forty years of existence never had I experienced the death of a loved one. The first had to be my dad and I had to be at the head of the bed.

He took his last breath. I had my hand on his chin. Suddenly he spit up in my hand. I heard that damn death gurgle, the death gurgle I would be witness to so many times in my career. And my dad expired. When he spit up in my hand, I immediately covered it up, so my mom did not have to witness that grotesque moment. For some reason, my thoughts were immediately transported to Harford Rd. and Broadway, at 9:23 a.m. on July 13, 1983. The day I was forced to kill Booker Lancaster. Then all the other deaths I had witnessed came back to life in my memory.

It was done! All the wounds reopened. The killing of Lancaster, the indictment, the two trials, the bank robbery, over two years in Federal Prison, all the bad and ugly surfaced at that very moment. No good was to be found that morning. I left the hospital feeling sad and empty. I went home to be alone and as I wept the phone rang; it was my mother informing me that my grandmother had passed away. My mother had lost her husband, of over forty years, and her mother, in a twenty-four-hour period. My heart was given out to her that morning. She was dealt some dirty cards, we all were.

November 2, 1996, 10:00 p.m. I was being forced to close my business of nine years due to money problems. I was to be evicted. I was drinking a beer with my brothers Tim and Shawn at The Bowman’s restaurant in Parkville. I was in a good mood. my spirits were high. After taking my brother Shawn home I went back to Bowman’s and had my second beer. I left to go home. Upon entering my home, my second wife of nine years, JoAnne, approached me and said, I’m leaving you and taking the kids, were going to Oklahoma! At that point in my life, my three children were of extreme importance to me. Even though Jacquelyn was from my marriage to Nancy, my first wife, I was very much attached to her. My children were the glue that was completely necessary, at that time in my life, to hold me together, to keep me from taking my life.

Upon hearing those words from JoAnne, I snapped! I had a mental breakdown. I recall little after those words passed her lips. I knelt and kissed my eight-year-old daughter, Danielle, goodbye, and then I hugged my three-year-old son, Danny Jr., and left in a hurry. I was in a hurry to kill myself! Of course, many people thought I was drunk, but later it was found that my blood alcohol level was low. I was told that I demanded that Joanne retrieve my Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver. She refused. I became irritated and said, That’s okay, I’ll go to the shop and get my Glock!

I headed to my business. My wife called my brother Tim’s house, he lives close, he was asleep. My sister-in-law and her young daughter, Trina, sped to the shop to help me. JoAnne had explained to Tim’s wife, Ingrid, that I may be hinking of suicide. I arrived at my shop. Not known until later, I had retrieved my life insurance policy from my file cabinet to make sure that my family would receive my $750,000.00 of insurance money if I committed suicide. I discovered that the insurance company would pay since I had been insured for over two years. I again called Nancy. I said, Listen to this! I fired a round from my Glock. Goodbye Nancy! I hung up. I have no idea what must have been going thru everyone’s mind. I have not had the guts to ask them to this day. It must have been a horrendous and helpless feeling.

Somehow, I came to be standing on the parking lot out in front of my business. I fired two shots from my 9mm Glock, both crashing thru a plate glass window across the street where a bank was situated. This action eventually brought the FBI into the picture.

A passing motorist immediately contacted the police department. Ingrid and my niece tried to stop me as I was attempting to leave the building to escape. Ingrid tried to get my gun off the seat. I immediately caught on to her scheme and pushed her away from the car. I had no idea where I was going.

I learned later from a friend that I had walked back into the shop and emptied my 15 shot 9mm clip into several walls in my office and into walls at the front counter. This friend had arrived at the shop early the next morning before the Baltimore County police walked in directly behind him. He was very busy and to preoccupied to even notice the arrival of the police that were investigating the attempted suicide and shooting for he was busy relocating pictures on the wall to cover up all the bullet holes I had fired the previous night. The police never discovered this excellent cover up performance and I’m sure that saved me from incurring additional criminal charges.

I was told later by my niece, Trina, that there was no life in my eyes that night, my stare was unending. There was nothing there. She said. This eleven-year-old girl saw the emptiness and sadness in my eyes. I felt hopeless and wanted so badly to die. I got into the Lincoln I was driving and quickly left the parking lot of my business with a fully loaded 9mm Glock with two rounds missing plus more than 120 rounds of ammunition in my pockets and on the front seat. I was ready to kill and to be killed.

I traveled a short distance to a bar that I felt comfortable in and had been frequenting since my teens. I felt comfortable because I knew the three sisters that owned the Linway Lounge and was friendly with the two male bartenders. I walked into the Linway looking for Jeannie, a friend and one of the owners. She was not there. Melanie was working. She was also a friend. She walked up to me and asked what would I like? I put my fully loaded 9mm handgun on the bar in front of her. I cocked the trigger and said in a melancholy but stern voice, Give me two beers Mel, one for now and one for the road, you won’t see me again, I’m going to kill myself tonight, see you in the papers. I guzzled my first Coor’s Light, and then walked directly out the back door. I have not seen Melanie since that night. I feel for her and what I put her thru.

I got back into my car, pulled up to the exit of the bar. I stopped my vehicle and slowly looked south down Harford Rd. then slowly and deliberately looked north, away from the city of Baltimore. It was at this point I must have realized that killing as many Black people as I could before being killed was wrong, very, very wrong. I don’t know how long I sat at that exit in front of the small neighborhood bar pondering my next action, but eventually I turned left, or north. Then, as the movie title says, Fate is the Hunter, fate was the hunter at that point on that particular night, heading north on Harford Road, not south.

I am fortunate that I traveled north on Harford Rd. and not south! I had very bad thoughts going thru my mind, thoughts of killing Blacks. God must have guided my hand. I drove away from the city.

During my ride to the shop from my home, I called my mom on my cell phone, told her I loved her, and then I said, I’m going to kill myself mom, goodbye! I heard my mother say, No Danny, don’t, I need you, come to the house! She was frantic. I nonchalantly hung the phone up. I recall being angry because no one was going to talk me out of taking my life. I wanted to die! I was going to die! Then I called Nancy, Nancy, I love you, I always have, and I always will. Do you understand? Yes Dan. She said quietly. Let me talk to Jackie. I spoke. Hi daddy! She said happily. She was thirteen. Jackie, no matter what you hear after tonight, I love you very much, I am not a bad man, okay? I love you, Jack! I hung up and once again pulled into the parking lot of my business. To think. It was time! Time to DIE!

I then sped North on Harford Rd. I still had no idea where I was going. I later learned that after I left my shop, I crossed the center line on Harford Rd., about five blocks from my shop, in front of the Emerald Tavern. Evidently, I did this because there was a police car in front of me. A police car that was looking for me, due to the call placed earlier by the citizen driving by my car detailing shop. And I was looking for him! Sgt. Marvin Haw immediately told the dispatcher that the suspect that he was looking for just passed him at a high rate of speed crossing the double yellow line. The chase was on! I was going to my death and a police officer was going to have to kill me. It was my plan. I would not deviate. I would stay the course.

I had pictured my plan many times. I would have the police chase me. I would pull out an empty handgun and point it at the officers so that they would shoot me to death. Once I was dead the police would see that my gun was empty and realize that I would never hurt a police officer. It changed some, in reality.

For some unknown reason I entered onto 695 from the Parkville exit heading east. At that point Officer Cedric Johnson joined the chase. I recall the lights and sirens but everything else about the chase was fuzzy, I cannot remember. Sgt. Haw spoke over the radio, "We are chasing former police officer Danny Shanahan, he is suicidal, armed, and shots have been fired. We reached speeds in excess of one hundred MPH. I was unaware of my surroundings; I had completely snapped.

I exited off 695 and entered onto Interstate 95 headed south. The Maryland State Police joined the chase, as did the Baltimore City Police when I exited onto Eastern Ave which is in Baltimore City. I learned later that I sped thru every intersection on Eastern Ave. until I was forced to turn north onto Eaton St. I crossed at least ten to twelve intersections without hitting another car. UNBELIEVABLE!

I recall seeing a roadblock at Eaton St. and turning right. Then I remember a white flash and my car stopping. I had driven two more blocks from Eastern Ave. to Gough St. and at the intersection of Eaton and Gough St. I hit a parked car on the wrong side of the street head on and the white air bag exploded in my face. I remember trying to get the clip out of my gun, to no avail, for that was the plan. I can recall nothing else at that moment.

Later, I was to discover that I jumped out of the car and pulled off my pager and threw it onto the ground and stomped on it several times. ( A pager was a small device that clipped to your belt and if someone wanted to speak to you, they would call your pager number, their phone number would appear on the small screen and the person paged would then call that number.) I then pulled my 9mm Glock from my waistband and began to wave it around my head. I was ordered to drop the gun.

I did not point the gun at the officers because I was unable to unload it. I was fumbling with the gun. I yelled, "SHOOT ME, KILL ME, LET ME DIE! I was then shot two times in the left leg. I dropped to one knee but would not go down. I once again stood up. Again, the police shouted, Drop the gun! Again, I refused, waved the gun above my head, and screamed, I want to die! Kill me!"

Eaton & Gough Sts.( Sidewalk where I fell dying)

I began waving the gun once again. It was at that point that both Baltimore County officers shot at me an additional eleven to thirteen times. In all, approximately fifteen rounds were fired at me. I hit the sidewalk.

I remember voices, people tugging and pulling on me and most vividly I recall the overwhelming peace of mind that settled over me when my head hit the sidewalk. I can recall nuzzling the sidewalk as if hugging it and feeling as though the entire weight of the world and all my problems were lifting off me. I didn’t have to take care of anyone’s problems anymore and I did not have to care about my shortcomings and past actions.

Bullet still lodged in back

I was dying. It was a soft, serene, comfortable, warm, peaceful feeling. I can recall saying to myself as I lay there bleeding to death, you did good Danny, you did good. You’re dying, now close your eyes and go to sleep, it’s over. I could not move. I was in a state of serenity. That moment on the sidewalk at the corner of Eaton and Gough Streets was the most comfortable, calm, relaxed, and fulfilling moment I had since I was a baby in my mother’s arms. I was at peace with the world and myself; I felt no guilt, shame, embarrassment, or regrets, for the first time since I was twenty years old. I was forty. I always felt as though death was a horrible experience. I had seen so much death I assumed it was horrible, painful, and unsettling. Not so. I was finally at ease.

Later after I left the hospital, I spoke to Officer Mike Ogle, and several Baltimore City police officers that I had worked with over the years. I was so intent on dying that my former coworkers had to handcuff me because I was kicking and pushing the paramedic away as he was attempting to save my life. City Paramedic, Doc, Watson, worked feverishly to save me and I was kicking at him because I knew he was trying to save my life. I would not hear of it! I kept saying, I want to die! Let me die! I want to die! I know what you’re doing! LET ME FUKN DIE! I also learned that the Baltimore City police officers on the scene did not fire at me, they said, I wasn’t a threat!" However, Sgt. Haw and Officer Johnson did as they were trained, and as I expected. I was not aware enough mentally to expound on that decision, and I dare not Monday morning quarterback. I would have shot me too. That was what I was counting on.

Bullet hole in pink wall that missed me

I remember none of this. I had to be told. The next thing I recall after the white explosion in my face, and talking myself into closing my eyes to die, was a bright white light. I found out later that the helicopter was shining the light down on the intersection and the light was reflecting off the pink wall behind me. I awoke in Hopkins Bayview Hospital, 7 days later. Throughout this entire ordeal, that night, I felt no pain from the bullets tearing thru my body and shattering bones, no sadness, no remorse, and absolutely no fear. I did not think of my family, only me! I was being completely selfish to my wants and desires, not thinking of the repercussions I would have caused within my entire family if I had died that night. I cared not about my five brothers, their families, my mom, children, or myself. I wanted to end the pain and suffering. I felt destroyed due to being fired from the police department, a failure, for losing my business and two marriages, and was tired of trying to pick up the pieces to go on. I wanted all of it to stop!

My brother told me that as I was being taken into surgery after leaving the ambulance and as I went up the elevator I began kicking, thrashing, and cursing, causing blood to splatter everywhere from the eleven bullet holes and cuts. There was a guard present as we traveled on the elevator. Later the hospital guard asked if I was related when he rode on the elevator with some of my family. Yes was the answer. Don’t worry, he’s a fighter, he’ll survive! I did.

As I lay in the hospital looking at the three gaping holes in my chest and my ruined left leg, I began to fade in and out of consciousness, which was caused by the elevated levels of morphine I was receiving via IV to ease the pain and my body trying to heal itself from such massive wounds. I would continue to heal my body, with the help of nurses and doctors that have dedicated their lives to saving poor souls such as me. I also owe my recovery to my second mom, Ann, who nurtured me back to health. And my mental recovery to my family and a few friends. I am blessed. I began to wonder, wonder, and reflect on what I had done.

I wondered how I came to be in this position. What had happened? What had I done to myself? I began to reminisce about my life and career. I found myself recalling, with detail, most of my experiences as a police cadet and a Baltimore City Police Officer. Here are some of my experiences and stories, both, good, bad, sad, and funny, and what being a police officer is about. Maybe you can become as engrossed and enthralled with this book as I was with my job. The ups, downs, death, fun, and overall experience of performing that job. That, never knowing WHAT TO EXPECT job, of being a police officer.

3

The Beginning

Family Of Cops 1973

1973-Cadet Daniel J. Shanahan

I really wasn’t certain I wanted to become a police officer. I was eighteen and had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I was fresh out of high school and decided to join the Baltimore County Police Department. My brother Mike was a Baltimore City police officer and my Uncle Skip Shanahan, was, at that time, the youngest lieutenant colonel