Around two in the morning dispatch called my number for an alarm at a liquor store on the far edge of town. It had been a quiet night and the alarm was one I had heard before. It usually didn't have much legitimacy: "alarm indicating general," not "glass breakage" or "door tampering," just a general alarm.
The liquor store was out toward the county line, far away, the type of store that was your last chance to buy alcohol before you entered the neighboring dry county. There was a long stretch of highway as you approached the store. It stood all by itself, with a few stores farther down the road, with woods and fields all around.
As I approached the business, even though it was just a general alarm, I still approached tactically. I turned off my headlights about a half mile before reaching the business. When the store came into view, I didn't observe any vehicles at or near the place. I quietly eased my patrol car to an angle off of the front of the business and got out. Once I was out of the car, I gently closed the door and began to walk around the store. I didn't see or hear anything, and everything appeared to be alright. Probably just another false alarm, I thought.
As I walked around to the rear of the store, there was an extremely large black male standing at the rear store entrance trying to break down an iron door with a sledgehammer. I'm of average height, and here I was facing someone who looked to be about eight feet tall–a slight exaggeration–holding a damned sledgehammer. The second he saw me, he dropped the sledgehammer and was off to the races. Thank God he didn't turn on me. I yelled for him to stop, but as you can probably guess, that didn't make him stop.
I was instantly on the radio broadcasting that the alarm "was a hit," and that I was in foot pursuit. By the time I got around to the front of the store, he had already bypassed my car and was running away on the highway pavement. He was running in the direction that I had just arrived from in my car, which was headed into oncoming traffic. I quickly thought to jump into my patrol car and give chase since he already had about a hundred-meter lead on me, but I decided to keep running after him on foot. My patrol car was parked facing away from the direction he was running. I figured that if I jumped into my car, cranked it up, and turned around to start pursuing him, he would run into the woods somewhere and I would never find him again. In a foot chase I would be able to see him at all times and be able to see if he ran into the woods.
I radioed the foot chase (direction and location), but the cavalry was on its way fast. It was also on the radio, along with dispatch, so no one heard me. Damn, I thought, why don't they just shut up and listen? The radio traffic was bad; everyone was stepping on everyone, and no one heard where I was. Meanwhile, I was slowly gaining on the subject. There wasn't much traffic on the highway at three a.m., but there still was some. There were two cars coming as we ran and I was afraid that a drunk or even a sober person would come along and run me over. I was wearing my dark uniform and he was wearing all black. As the cars approached, we were both running along the side of the road, and I took my flashlight, turned it on and ran with it pointed over my shoulder. I figured that maybe someone would see it and slow down or, better yet, see that I was a police officer chasing a guy down the road at three a.m. (that's not normal, is it?), slow down enough and render help by running into the guy for me (just enough to stop him, not turn him into a pancake). Well, the cars never slowed, and we kept on running.
As we ran, I continued to gain ground (the guy was fast for being such a large man), and then we ran into a closed Shell gas station. That's where the chase finally ended …and the fight began.
The gas station was built on a downgrade, so the parking lot was a lot lower than the highway and not very visible from the highway lane heading toward the store. When we got to the Shell station, and I could see that I had him, so I quickly radioed that I was at the Shell station and got out my pepper spray. Again, no one heard me. Everyone was now starting to arrive in the area, asking for my location, and dispatch was trying to check my status. Too many wanting to help, when just listening would have helped out the most. It really began to piss me off. I needed these guys and they were talking to each other.
When we got to the parking lot, the guy finally stopped running, turned to face me, and said, "All right, man, ya got me!" I responded with a blast of pepper spray directly to his face.
It was as if I had sprayed him with water; it had absolutely no effect on him. I had never had this happen before. He just kind of squinted up his face and took off running again farther into the Shell station parking lot. Meanwhile I could see the police cars racing by to my original location at the liquor store. When the other officers arrived at the store, all they found was my empty police car, an obvious burglary at the rear, and no radio contact with me. They began to search the area of the store, ditches, woods, and so on.
As the subject ran farther into the parking lot, I quickly holstered my spray and pulled out my expandable baton (my ASP). I am five foot eight, 135 pounds. This guy was later booked in as six foot one, 240 pounds–as I said earlier, he looked a lot bigger than that. I yelled at him to stop and to get on the ground. Again, he didn't want to listen to me for some reason. (Go figure.) I cracked him in the side of his knee, and that stopped him…for about seven seconds.
He turned to face me and again said, "All right, all right, you got me, man. You got me." He said it a little more desperately this time, though. I thought I might be getting his attention. I responded with "Get on the ground!" as I hit him again in the elbow area. He repeated, "You got me" as he advanced toward me. Maybe getting his attention wasn't such a good idea.
I repeatedly yelled, "Get on the ground." I hit him a second time in the knee, and then struck again up around the elbow. I tried to maintain good distance, and to "stick and move." The whole time I was backing up while striking and he was advancing, I thought, "Oh, shit." The guy didn't appear to feel any pain to spray or to impact weapons. He had to be on something! Here I was, fighting a giant who didn't feel any pain, with an army of cops a half mile away and they didn't know where I was. I didn't know whether I was more terrified than angry, but angry started to win out.
After I had backpedaled and struck him a total of four times, I tried to keep distance, but he was pretty close, and I went to strike him a fifth time. He stepped into me, took a little of my blow, but caught my baton up under his arm. He then reached out and grabbed the baton with both hands. There was an extremely brief tug-of-war for my baton, and then I let go. I needed to keep my distance, and if that meant giving up my baton, then so be it.
He was now armed with my weapon, but the second I let go of the baton, I had my Beretta 9mm pointed right at his chest. I told him to drop the weapon or I would shoot. He raised the baton above his head as if he were going to strike me with it. I yelled at him again, "Drop it or I'll kill you." This whole time officers and dispatch were squawking away on the radio wanting to know my status and where I was. My status was "Kind of busy at the moment"; my location was "Up shit creek without a paddle."
After I said to drop it or else I would kill him, he kept the baton raised as if to hit me and seemed to think for a moment. I guess he had to decide if he wanted to die or if he wanted to hit me. He made up his mind. He threw the baton away and took off running again. I thought for a moment how I'd just love to shoot him in the back and end it all, but I holstered my weapon and gave chase. (What I would have given for a taser!)
He ran through the parking lot and back onto a main road and started running toward the site of our previous marathon–the highway. I didn't have a baton anymore; pepper spray didn't work; and I didn't carry a taser…so what to do? I was faster and caught him quickly this time and got in front of him. I sprayed him a second time with my pepper spray. This time I gave him enough to knock down an elephant and yelled for him to get on the ground. Again, it was as if I'd just sprayed him with cool water. It had absolutely no effect on the man.
I went to holster my spray as I backpedalled. He had stopped running, but kept advancing toward me, and he grabbed hold of my left arm. There was a brief tug-of-war with my arm as I tried to get him to let go. This guy meant business. Again, no baton, spray didn't work, and no taser, but I still had one more gadget on my "Batman belt" . . . That's right–my trusty old Maglite! Not just the C-cell battery type, but the rechargeable one that weighs a ton. As he grabbed my left arm I hit him full force, directly in the face, with a little Maglite justice. That got through to him. He let go of me immediately, turned away from me, and started running. I then held my Maglite like a samurai sword and chopped him on the back of his head. This blow was full force, with both hands, and was devastating. It dropped him all the way to the ground, and I yelled at him, "Lay on the ground! Stay on the ground!"
Unfortunately, it didn't knock him out. He was on the ground for a second, and was already trying to stand back up. He got to all fours, and I kicked him directly in the stomach with everything I had. I was a little worried about the kick. Not about hurting him or anything, but I had a flash of worry that I didn't want him to lunge at me or be able to grab my foot and begin a wrestling match. If a wrestling match were to ensue, there would be no way for me to overpower him, and the bullets would immediately start flying.
The kick connected perfectly and hurt him, just a little bit. He remained on all fours and raised up his arm to defend himself from another kick or another flashlight attack. I rapidly holstered my flashlight and armed myself with a set of cuffs. Within a second, I had a cuff on him. It was only one cuff, though. We were face-to-face with me holding the cuff that was attached to him in a death grip. I was going to be in serious trouble in about one minute. But like I said, I got angry. I yelled at him to get on the ground repeatedly and yanked him down by the cuffed hand. I was able to get the better of him, and he went forward to the ground. Once on the ground, I couldn't attempt to secure the other hand because he was instantly struggling and trying to stand back up, so I just kept yanking on the cuff while he continued to tug and stand up.
The events of the night caught up with him–finally. I wasn't feeling too chipper either. He was exhausted and stopped trying to resist–finally. He lay on his belly as I dragged him down the road by his cuffed hand. I stopped dragging him once I felt he had stopped resisting enough for me to get that other hand secured. Now I had the complete upper hand. If I went to get the second cuff on and he fought, I could begin dragging him down the road some more.
When the struggling stopped, I hopped to the side, knelt down on his back, and was able to secure the second cuff. No sooner had I got the cuff on him than he started back up again. Now he was completely cuffed, yelling at me, and trying to work his way back up to standing. I stayed on top of him and began driving his face into the pavement with my forearm to the back of his head and yelled for him to stop resisting and to stay on the ground. With a giant sigh of relief, I keyed my radio and let everyone know that I was by the Shell station on the roadway, and had the subject arrested. It was an even half mile from the burglarized liquor store. (Yes, this time everyone heard me.)
The subject was requesting water, which naturally he didn't get, and it was discovered that where I had samurai-sworded him on the back of the head, he had a huge gash with some meat hanging out of it. During the struggle I hadn't even noticed it. I walked back and retrieved my baton and then received a ride back to the liquor store as the suspect didn't go directly to jail, but was transported to the hospital to have his head taken care of.
Now that all of the action was over, the fun stuff began. I was taken back to the store and the owner was there. I began to get my report book and paperwork and someone said to me, "Are you sure you're alright. Your arm is bleeding all over." I looked down, and sure enough, my right arm was bloody. I used the store's outside hose and washed my arm off to find that I wasn't hurt. It was the burglar's blood from the back of his head; as I was making him eat pavement, it got all over me. Well, it just so happened that I had a new baby kitten at home that I played and fought with and that bloody arm of mine was covered in scratches and cuts from my kitten. So, after my paperwork at the scene was completed, my shift was officially over, and I was off to the hospital to meet with a supervisor.
At the hospital, I found the subject was there being treated, too, as a host of officers stood by him. Here we were, only moments ago, struggling to kill or be killed, and now we were sitting next to each other being treated by nurses. This is a weird job.
The hospital determined that he wasn't under the influence of anything; he was sober! He was just some big muscled-up dummy who felt no pain and did not want to be caught.
I ended up being fine medically, but I did have to keep on being seen at the clinic for the next year. There were about four visits, and each time they had to stick me with needles, run tests, and take my blood. I didn't know if he had given me something, or if my wife or kid could get it. So for a whole year I was reminded of this guy and that night.
Many officers have said, "I would have just shot him." I didn't feel that it had reached the point of a shooting. Granted, once he took my weapon, I would have been very justified in shooting him, and had he given the slightest sign that he was going to strike me with that baton, I would have opened fire, but things worked out well for me that night. I never felt scared at any time; things were contained and I felt determined. All I was thinking back then was "I'm not going to let this guy get away."
Chalk one up for the good guys for once. I kind of compare the encounter to a fly at a picnic. Large humans have all this food, and this little fly just keeps on swarming around, keeping his distance. He stick and move to get at the food, gets swatted at, and knows the danger is there, but he just keeps on coming and will not quit. Well, on that night I was the fly that irritated the man, would not go away, and would not give up…and I got what I was after.