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It happened very quickly. One minute I was at the barracks doing paperwork and 11 minutes later I was standing over the dead body of a man who had tried to shoot my fellow troopers and me.
I fired on him when he wielded a shotgun toward us after maneuvering as close as he could by holding his hands in the air. It was all handled very professionally. We made perfunctory attempts to administer first aid, mainly for the benefit of the onlookers. All of us knew there would be no surviving a shotgun wound to the chest – he was already dead. I took notes quickly, in order not to forget any details, with a shaky hand but clear enough to be read later. My sergeant radioed the shots fired call and requested an ambulance. Another trooper secured the suspect’s shotgun.
I was struck by the fact that I felt no horror at what had just taken place and that the only sensory distortion that I had heard so much about in training occurred just in the instant I pulled the trigger on the shotgun – I barely heard the shot. Shortly, others began to arrive; another trooper who thought we were kidding when told of the shooting; A local deputy sheriff who had been interviewing the wife of the suspect; An Investigator from my station; The county sheriff. Later in the evening a small army of forensic specialists, investigators and even the District Attorney would descend on the quiet country road. In a short time, I was on my way back to the station with the investigator from my station. I telephoned my wife to tell her I would be very late getting home – and why. This was the only moment I had become emotional. I felt a sense of profound sadness at having to tell my wife that her husband had just killed a man, and that someone had tried to kill me.
A few hours later, the troop commander and Internal Affairs investigators from Albany arrived. The process was relatively painless, although taking several hours. I gave a formal statement to the investigators, who had patiently explained the entire process to me earlier. The troop commander assured me that there was no question about the propriety of my actions and expressed his appreciation for a job well done. He asked if I was OK and offered whatever assistance I might feel I needed. My Captain even telephoned from his vacation to ask if I was all right. The recruit trooper who was present at the incident with his field training officer thanked me – as if I had saved his life.
Before leaving, as was required, a counselor from the Employee Assistance Program spoke with me about some of the emotions I might experience in the days to come. She was compassionate and pleasant and did not push any unwanted therapy or advice – she merely offered help if needed.
When I left the barracks at 11:30 PM, four and a half hours late from my twelve-hour tour, I met the other troopers from the shift along with some of the investigators from an adjoining station who had been called in to help, at another trooper’s house. We drank some beer outside in the warm June night air and laughed at some of the funny events of the evening. Some talked about other shooting incidents they had been involved in or heard about. It was an unstated celebration of a feeling everyone felt, but had not tried to name. (Troopers are not in the habit of talking about their feelings) It was a celebration of being alive, of having triumphed over a bad guy who had tried to kill some of us.
Back in at 7:00AM the next morning, I ate breakfast at the usual spot with my fellow troopers. It was like any other day except the newspaper the customers were reading was emblazoned with the headline; “TROOPER KILLS MAN”. Most everyone had read or heard about the incident on TV or radio. The people at the counter were reading my name and the story of what happened, but none of them knew that the person they were reading about was sitting in the same room. I was asked several times that day and for many days after, if the trooper who had shot the man was doing all right. I told them he was fine.
The Superintendent of State Police telephoned from the state capitol that morning to tell me that I had done well. He assured me that there would be no second-guessing my actions and that the Division would provide me any needed assistance. I spoke with the troop commander every week for over a month, as he kept me informed of the progress of the investigation. I received no fewer than fourteen cards and letters from ordinary citizens – complete strangers - expressing sympathy and gratitude. I received emails from academy classmates and from troopers I’d never met congratulating me on a job well done and offering sympathy and support. An anti-domestic violence organization even issued a proclamation praising my actions. The only negative correspondence I received was from the man’s mother, who sent me a hate letter along with rose petals from her son’s casket floral arrangement.
As the first week or two passed, I began to become concerned that I felt no sadness or sympathy toward the man who had died. He had tried to shoot me and I shot him first. I could see no reason to feel guilty about going home to my wife and two little girls rather than the alternative; my death and the continued existence of a man who gets drunk at 5:00 in the afternoon, threatens his wife with a shotgun and tries to kill policemen. I spoke to a priest who told me that I was right not to feel badly, and to two academy classmates who had killed in the line of duty and who said their feelings had been very similar to my own. I quickly dismissed any worries about my mental health.
In the end, the District Attorney opted to not even present the case to the Grand Jury as is customary in any shooting. He simply issued a statement saying that my actions had been justified. I was promoted to Sergeant, as had been previously ordered, nine days after the shooting.
What is ironic and unfortunate is that having shot a killed a man on a sunny June afternoon would turn into the single most positive experience of my entire career. It was one of the few occasions that anyone ever told me that I had done a good job. It was the first time a commissioned officer had asked if I was OK or if I needed anything. I was praised and thanked by both my colleagues and civilians. I was a minor local celebrity, if in name only, for a few weeks. Myself and other area law enforcement were the beneficiaries of the increased respect and courtesy that police receive for a month or so after a policeman kills or gets killed.
What only a police officer could understand fully is this; living through a shooting is not hard. What is hard, what tears apart your soul and eats like acid into the foundations of everything you have faith in, is what happens to you in the day-to-day experience of wallowing among the dregs of society. What is hard is waiting for the day that you will have to kill someone to save your life or the life of another; having to keep yourself honed razor-sharp and ready to fight for your life at any moment for twelve hours at a time, yet treat the scum you deal with as if they were customers at a bank. What’s hard is getting yourself ready to fight or kill five times a day, only to have nothing happen, then going home to think what could have happened, and when the first – or next – time will come that someone tries to hurt or kill you. What’s hard is being scared to death in a situation where you know your life is in jeopardy, but that, when described to another, sounds like baseless paranoia. What’s hard is going alone to a trailer full of guns in the dark of night, because a drunken welfare-rat is arguing with the mother of his illegitimate children over cheese, then returning home to kiss your children in their beds and contemplate whether such a mission is worth making them orphans. What’s hard is dealing with drunks, drug-addicts, thieves, rapists, and murderers and watching them escape justice almost without exception.
What’s hard is dealing with all of this and then having people assume all you do is write traffic tickets because that’s the only image put forward by the media. Having to do and see all that you do, then have abuse heaped upon you by otherwise law-abiding citizens because you are required to write them tickets for not wearing their seatbelt; to have to deal with the hopelessness, pointlessness, injustice, filth, and stark violence of the underworld, then listen to cute cop doughnut jokes when you try to take a break and buy a cup of coffee. Nothing is more corrosive to the soul than the anger engendered by the experience of being a police officer. Witnessing the violence, the battered and hopeless children, the savages who live among us and feed off the labor of others receiving welfare to subsidize their criminal careers, the brutish and purposeless existence of so many – this is what takes its toll on police and has taken its toll on me.
All of this I know is largely an exercise in self-pity. I chose my career knowing the risks and the people I would deal with. When people speak to me about sympathy or pity for having been involved in a shooting, I remind them about how many shooting incidents my grandfather endured during combat in World War II, or what our soldiers are facing today in the battlefields of the war on terrorism. On my desk, I keep a large, rusty chunk of shrapnel my grandpa gave me to remind me what real hardship is like. But, what I could not know at the outset was the vastness of the problems in human society. I did not fully comprehend the violence and ignorance of the beasts that walk among us. I had no knowledge of the moral bankruptcy of the entire criminal justice system. I did not realize how utterly thankless doing my duty would be. I was not seeking to become a hero, but did not know that even the most significant of efforts would not be recognized, that is, until I killed someone.
I do not regret becoming a trooper. It has been a grand adventure providing me a lifetime of experiences in just the first few years. I have been to riots at Indian reservations on the Canadian border and western New York, and spent weeks in New York City following the 9/11 attacks. I have had the privilege of meeting and working with some great people. Had I not chosen to become a trooper, I would have spent the rest of my life wondering what it’s like and if I had what it takes to do the job. I would never have known all that I know about the world – and myself. I was seeking like most others who enter law enforcement, the knowledge of what goes on behind the scenes, what happens in the mysterious world behind the crime scene tape and what lies under the blankets in the street. I wanted to know and I wanted to help protect the innocent. There are times I wish that I knew less, and though I have helped some innocent people, there are very few I can list by name.
I am now an administrator and almost entirely removed from the fieldwork of law enforcement. I no longer have to deal with the ugliness. The real answer in 2000 to the question, “Is that trooper OK?” was no. Not because he had to shoot someone, but because of all the days that came before - what he had witnessed and the waiting for that moment to come.
Todd D. Keister is a lieutenant with the New York State Police. Add this page to your favorite Social Bookmarking websites        
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