Coppers
are storytellers. Partly, I think, because so many stories happen to us on a
daily basis—stories that, as I’ve said before, 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
already written about him, 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—
 |
| lunch break |
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.
The
fact is, 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 sort of like 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 Patrol, 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.
 |
| Working in DC |
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.
Marc Cameron is a retired Chief Deputy US Marshal and 29-year law enforcement veteran. His short stories have appeared in BOYS’ LIFE Magazine and the Saturday Evening Post. He's published eleven novels, six of them Westerns.
DAY ZERO, fifth in his USA Today Bestselling Jericho Quinn Thriller series, is available now. Marc lives in Alaska with his beautiful bride and BMW motorcycle.
Visit him at:
www.marccameronbooks.com
http://www.facebook.com/MarcCameronAuthor
