Coppers are storytellers. Partly, I think, because so many stories happen to us on a daily basis—stories that worm their way into our subconscious and shape who we are and how we view the world.

My wife and I had business that kept us in town late last night. Driving home, we passed through one of the rougher areas of Anchorage—which only gets more dangerous in the dark and bitter cold. I couldn’t help but think of our youngest son, who would soon be out patrolling these same streets. I know, I’ve written about him before, but I’m a dad, I know what it’s like out there—and I can’t help but worry. Anyhow, those thoughts brought to mind one of my favorite Raymond Chandler quotes:

“Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean…”

The rest of the quote is pretty cool too, but seems a little self-serving since I spent thirty years on the job.
My son’s a good guy, sweet really, with a kind heart and a gift of empathy that is rarely seen. He is also quite capable of…well, kicking ass. He and I have talked much lately about what makes a good cop. In some ways the job is different than when I started over thirty years ago. But it’s also much the same—

A mutual friend recently told my son that though he’d heard many of my war stories as he grew up, now that he was “on the job”, I’d likely tell some that that were new to him. That friend was absolutely correct. Some stories, you just don’t tell your eighth grader.

I learned early on that I had to be careful with my storytelling—especially at parties with those outside the profession. Years ago at a church social I sat at a table of sweet, tenderhearted family folk. One of them asked something about what it was like to be in law enforcement. I’m one of those pull-string dolls when it comes to war stories, so I began to tell them about a recent adventure—

I’d been dispatched to an apartment complex where the manager had noticed the windows to a certain apartment were covered with flies, lots of big, green-backed, nasty things, crowding inside the heavy drapes, leaving countless black specks and tiny trials of something more sinister on the glass. An incessant buzzing, enough to drive you crazy if you stood there very long, vibrated the air. It was mid summer and no one had seen the occupant for nearly two weeks.

Sitting there at the church social over punch and cookies, and oblivious to the under-the-table nudging from my wife, I explained to the paling folks around me that my backup officer and I dabbed our mustaches with Mentholatum jelly in anticipation of the gruesome scene we knew we’d find inside… Finally, my wife put a boot to my ankle and I realized a couple of our friends were about to throw up. I toned down the rest of the story, minimizing the goriest details of what we found in that apartment, while noting the entranced reactions from several at the table. I knew I wanted to write and some people were keenly interested in this stuff.

Writing about a violent conflict is of necessity different that the real deal. In a book or on film, fights, as I’ve noted before, are usually portrayed as contests of skill where opponents go toe to toe in a flurry of fists and feet, square off with knives, or even have a showdown at high noon. In reality, a person who wants to hurt you will rarely face you mano a mano. Extreme violence looks a lot more like an assassination than a fight—a brutal attack with overwhelming force. Think a brick to the head when you round a corner, a blade to the kidney that feels like a punch, or the bullet you never hear. There are, of course, fights. I’ve talked about the realities of a punch to the beak in past essays. When I was younger, I liked to box. I still enjoy a good scrap. But an honest to goodness fight—the kind into which I throw Jericho two or three times per book—those are a different story.

Many years ago while en route to pick up a load of prisoners in Ardmore, Oklahoma, my partner wrecked a van during an ice storm on I-35. We rolled one-and-a-half times, coming to rest on the passenger side. Other than the box full of leg irons smacking me in the head, I don’t remember many details—only that it seemed to go on forever. There was an odd hissing noise coming from outside once we stopped. Both my partner and I thought we might be on fire and scrambled out like gophers through the driver’s side door, which, and that moment, was pointed toward the sky. Turns out, the noise was air leaking out of the tires. My partner, the senior deputy and former Texas Highway Patrolman, nodded in approval as we stood on the side of the road—and told me he was proud I hadn’t wet myself and run off screaming. Interesting to find out where he set the bar on my behavior.

I think of that wreck often when I’m teaching defensive tactics—or writing about a fight—because real human violence has a heck of a lot more in common with a car wreck than a boxing match. Law enforcement officers know this. They see it everyday. So, they try not to fight, but when they do, they certainly don’t fight fair. A good cop, one who is well trained and fit, will always bring a gun to a knife fight—or even a stick fight—because they aren’t there to go toe to toe. They’re there to take care of the situation—and win.

Jericho knows this as well. When he fights, it will always be with the most overwhelming force he can muster. Of course, a good adventure requires the odds be stacked against the hero, so Jericho gets plenty of that as well.

Well-meaning folks often ask if I’ve ever shot anyone, if I’ve ever been shot, or if my vest has ever saved me. Most of that is none of their business. But the fact is, my vest has saved me from serious injury on more than one occasion—once, during a knock-down-drag-out fight in a restaurant kitchen where I was kicked in the chest and knocked into the edge of a stainless steel table. I reimagined that scrap for a scene in DAY ZERO. In reality, I was off work and peeing blood for a couple of days—Jericho is built of stronger stuff.
Hopefully, so is my son.