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Shades of Gray

During my first day as a cadet at the state police academy in Hershey, we members of the new class were all mustered into a large double classroom. The plastic curtain separating the two rooms was opened so that one instructor could address us all. There were a hundred and nine of us, and like myself, many were Vietnam veterans. After several gold braided commanders welcomed us and said some clichéd motivational words, we were left alone with Corporal Lovell, our first police instructor.

“Gentlemen,” Corporal Lovell began, “there are two kinds of womanizing scalawags in this world. One kind are sailors, and the others are state troopers….”

That was a long time ago, but it remains a vivid memory of my first day as a proud gray-clad trooper. As a former sailor, it wasn’t the originality or wisdom of the corporal’s words that imprinted on my mind. Some of us had been through too much to be easily moved by such an irrational statement. It was his impressive physical appearance that gave me the first clue. Pennsylvania’s “finest” were somewhat less than perfect. He was about 5’10” and all of 250 pounds. He was so large that he had to rotate his body something like a duck’s waddle in order to walk across the spotless classroom. The buttons on his gray uniform shirt threatened to pop at any moment.

Upon my retirement thirty years later, I was asked to relate one of the highlights of my long career as one of Pennsylvania’s finest.

It was a Friday night during the summer of 1975. My partner, Trooper Joe Taylor, and I knew it would be a long night. There was a light rain falling. It was just enough to make everything wet, and a wispy fog drifted in and out with the occasional breeze. Joe and I were the only patrol out to cover three counties: Northumberland, Snyder, and Union. On U.S. 15 across the river there were three tractor-trailers piled up blocking the entire four-lane highway. We were sent over to relieve the three to eleven shift, which was going on overtime. Since we started at eleven we were assigned to relieve them and save a few dollars in the overtime budget. With the old strobe light atop the patrol car rapidly snapping out its blood red warning to other traffic, and the siren blaring in our ears, our radio crackled again.

“What the hell?” Joe shouted at the radio. “One at a freakin’ time, will’ya?”

I took the mike in my hand knowing that the sergeant was still on station. It wouldn’t do for him to hear Joe railing at him on the air.

“Sarge, what’dya got? We have to relieve the P.M. guys at the accident scene.”

“Ten-Four, Sarge.”

“Homicide?” Joe snapped. “Probably domestic—some drunk shot ‘is wife. The roads are slippery here, Todd, don’t speed. We won’t do anyone any good if we crash too.”

Joe was right, but at the age of twenty-seven it was really hard to resist the temptation to charge at full speed to the homicide scene. It could be a chance to apprehend a real criminal instead of just writing traffic citations. Joe wasn’t quite as ambitious, though, and I knew he was hoping it would be resolved before we got there.

“Captain don’t give a shit if we catch a murderer anyway,” Joe said. “Just so we have a bunch of traffic citations at the end of the month. That’s what matters—I know you’re chompin’ at the bit now, Todd, but take it easy.”

Joe Taylor and I had been riding midnighters together off and on for four years, so we knew each other well. Joe was the Riverside Station bull, about 6’2” and 200 pounds. He complained continuously, but when one needed a common sense approach, he was our man. He had this large hooked nose and a strong chin. He was married to a childhood sweetheart and had two sons. I knew he became impatient with me at times, with my conscientious approach to everything. We worked well together in spite of our differences. I was one of the smallest troopers in the state back then. At only 5’9-1/2” and 160 pounds I was indeed a lightweight. It made me the target of the drunks we encountered. They always picked out the smallest trooper to take on. Joe was always watching my back, knowing I’d be the first one rolling on the ground. It was understandable that he was sometimes perturbed at my aggressive stance with people.

There were red lights in every imaginable configuration flashing and rotating on the many fire trucks at the accident scene. It looked like a war zone. There were sixty-foot I-beams scattered about the highway from an overturned flatbed. Another truck had dumped its load of crated car engines. The green beans were the worst. Everywhere you looked, green beans from another rig covered everything.

“Where the hell are those two?” I asked in frustration. Troopers DeVoe and Simonton were supposed to be at the accident scene. Their patrol cars were there, parked in by the many unneeded fire trucks, but I didn’t see them.

We walked down behind their cars asking the perspiring firemen where they were. None knew, so while waiting we got a rundown on the accident. It would prove to be the worst traffic accident that had ever occurred in Central Pennsylvania. We started down a very familiar side road, hoping we wouldn’t find “Sim” where we suspected we might.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I exclaimed. “Look at this, Joe.” I knew Joe was already looking at her.

A vision of my wife, Beth, and the boys suddenly flashed through my mind. Beth and I had been together since high school. She remained as youthful as always, and as pretty and fresh as a blooming rose. Somehow, though, thoughts of her didn’t seem to belong in that place and time.

“Shiit, man—now what’re they into?” Joe said at the sight in our headlights.

I quickly turned the lights off so the firemen wouldn’t see her. There was this petite blonde standing in the middle of the road wearing nothing but a trooper’s gray uniform shirt. She appeared to be glad to see us. Before we could adjust to the sight, she was at our back door trying to get into the patrol car. She was soaked and was barefoot.

“Whoa, Girly!” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Them guys pushed me out in the rain,” she said, smiling at me. “They can’t handle all four of us girls. C’mon, Guys, let me in and take me back to the trailer.”

I got out of the car and she immediately bumped against me, pulling her borrowed shirt up.

“Get back,” I said. “There’s no time for this foolishness.” I wanted to get her out of sight before the volunteer firemen saw her.

She took my hand and rubbed it against her breasts, but I jerked away. Joe grabbed her arm and put her against the car as if to frisk her, but she didn’t have any clothes on. We couldn’t help staring at her bare cheeks as she assumed the position. I felt the old familiar rise, and hesitated for just a moment. Glancing over at Joe, I could see that he was having similar thoughts.

“Hold it,” I said. “Where are Sim and Jack? Be serious, we have police work to do.”

“Here comes the bums,” Joe said, pointing to a nearby house trailer.

Sim lacked his shirt, but soon took it from the little blonde, who then ran naked into the trailer.

“You guys wanna get back to work?” I shouted. “There’s debris all over the highway and you’re out here playing hide the weenie with freakin’ groupies after your pensions. We have a homicide to get to in Riverside.”

“Okay, General,” Sim replied sarcastically. “Go catch yourself a bad guy, we’ll handle this.” He was hiding behind a tree as he spoke, putting his wet shirt on where the firemen wouldn’t see him. “You better get that radar set out along the way to Riverside, ‘cause it won’t matter what you do there. It’s almost the end of the month, and your production ain’t lookin’ too good….”

“Let’s go, Todd,” Joe said from the car. “Riverside’s yelling for help.”

I immediately jumped behind the wheel and peeled out in the direction of Riverside, knowing that Sim was right. It didn’t matter though, I still liked to sleep when I lay down, so I’d do what I felt was the best police work I could. Joe agreed, the Riverside P.D. was asking for help, and that should take precedence over anything else. At “statie speed” it took only a few minutes to travel the five miles back to the Riverside Bridge crossing the broad Susquehanna River.

We went directly to the homicide scene. It was a main intersection of streets in the small town. The victim was black, and lay in the parking lane up against the curb. Even in death he had a strange look about him. There was something different, and it wasn’t his skin color. He had five twenty-two-caliber holes in his chest. That was it, I suddenly realized while examining his wounds. His chest had been shaved down as smooth as Blondie’s petite cheeks. After further examination, it was clear that his entire body had been shaved, and it smelled of strong perfume.

“What the hell is this, Donny?” I asked Patrolman Donald Knowles of the Riverside P.D. “Who is he?”

“From Syracuse according to his I.D. I never saw him before. It’s probably a gay lover’s fight, but some things don’t add up. What were they doing here in Riverside, in Northumberland County? We’d like you guys to drive down 405 and 147 and check out any hitchhikers you see.”

“Any idea who we’re looking for?” Joe asked.

“White truck driver, I think. A witness over here said a tall white guy wearing a blue shirt and blue jeans ran from the scene. He had a ‘huge wallet on a shiny chain’ in his hip pocket. She didn’t actually see the shooting, but the tall guy isn’t here now. Why did he run?”

“’Cause he just killed his bitch—that’s why,” Donny’s Riverside partner chimed in. “You got a big crash over on fifteen, don’t you, Todd? I’d get on the radio and find out if all the drivers are accounted for.” He shrugged his shoulders, “who knows?”

“I’ll check with Sim at the scene,” I said. “There were several body blankets covering body parts in the wreckage that I saw. It’s a real mess—they’re waiting for a crane to move the I-beams. A Bean hauler with a semi dump was stopped at the light. Stopped behind him was a semi loaded with car engines. The steel hauler with a load of sixty-foot I-beams must have been asleep—came down on them at cruising speed and never even slowed.” I looked at my watch, it was past midnight and it was still raining lightly, and the fog was worsening. “Okay, let’s take a ride down 405 and see if he’s there,” I said to Joe. “It’s only a matter of time till someone else crashes in this fog.”

We drove slowly down route-405 along the river. The fog was settling in along the river for the night, and it was still drizzling. Visibility was becoming limited to a few hundred feet.

“Riverside-Two,” the dispatcher called.

“Now what?” Joe asked. “Damned drunks probably….”

“Two by for Riverside,” I replied into the handheld mike.

“10-45 down on 147—one car into a utility pole.”

“Negative, Todd, you’re it.”

“Shiit! Damned drunks—why the hell don’t the nitwits do their drinkin’ at home on a night like this?” Joe asked the windshield.

“We’ll check it out.”

We went down 405 and turned north on route-147. The poor visibility was getting worse. We had often wished we had fog lights on the patrol cars, but the funding wasn’t there. We knew the commanders had their own ideas about what we needed, so we just did what we could with what we had. The thirty-eight caliber revolvers we carried were a long-standing joke. I remember thinking, at least this guy only has a twenty-two—we can out gun him…

“There it is….”

“Two to Riverside—we have it. Call the power company, there’s a pole down and cables all over the place. One mile north of the river bridge.”

“Ten-Four, two—ambulance is already dispatched.”

“Look at this character,” Joe said.

“Hey—that could be our man,” I said excitedly. “I’ll bet he stole that car in Riverside….”

“Could be, let’s approach him cautiously,” Joe said in his usual common sense way.

The tall stranger was standing on the shoulder near the wreckage. He had apparently driven off the road in the fog and hit the pole. Playing my flashlight on him I could see the shiny chain draping from his belt to his hip pocket. His hands were in his pockets and he just stood there. It seemed like he was daring us to approach him.

“Watch out, Joe, these wires are hot—careful.”

“Yeah.”

I stepped gingerly over the cables, watching the suspect all the time. Suddenly I heard the sound of Joe stumbling, and turned to look back. He was kicking a thick electrical cable that had coiled up on the asphalt road surface. It was strange, but I thought it looked like a giant snake waiting to spit fire.

“Careful there, don’t touch that,” I said again, and turned to approach the suspect.

I concentrated on the suspect’s eyes, hoping to read any sudden moves in them. Suddenly his eyes opened wide and he started backing away, but he was looking behind me.

The sudden crack sounded like a sonic boom on the ground and the whole area lit up like a million suns suddenly turned on. It cracked repeatedly like lightening, and the blinding light was paralyzing. I covered my eyes and turned around, and was totally astonished at the horror behind me. Joe stood there, outlined by fifty suns and holding the forty thousand volt cable in his hand.

“Drop it!” I screamed. It was clear he couldn’t hear me. Looking back now, I think he was already dead.

After what seemed a lifetime, he dropped the cable and fell onto it. The deadly arching stopped, but I could hear a sizzling crackle all around me. I knew I was standing on wet asphalt, and it would be a miracle if I didn’t get electrocuted. In front of me I watched the tall suspect run into the trees along the river and go out of sight. Turning again, there was my friend, Joe. His blackened smoldering body lay face down on the cable that had lashed out so violently. Smoke rose from his body and mixed with the fog. I stood rock solid stationary, waiting for my turn to light up.

My Vietnam experience had hardened me, but nothing had prepared me for this. Joe’s body continued smoking, and soon the burning flesh odor reached me, but I couldn’t move. The cables lying like giant snakes around my feet continued sizzling and humming. I thought I could feel the voltage flow through me, but I knew I’d be dead if it had. Was it possible to receive small jolts without getting the full forty thousand shot? I didn’t know, but I resisted the instinct to run from it. I recall fearing that the movement of my breathing might make my feet move slightly and get too close to a buzzing cable. I tried to hold my breath until I became dizzy, but then realized I was just being panicky.

Finally I saw the revolving amber light approach from the direction of East Lewisburg, and raised my hands high, trying to warn the PP&L repair crew. At the same time, the ambulance approached from the north with its red revolving lights. I signaled the ambulance crew to stay in the vehicle. They quickly saw my predicament and followed my instructions. I was dismayed when the rain picked up. I also began to wonder why I was still alive.

The repairmen quickly donned their protective clothing and went to work. The buzzing and crackling abruptly stopped as a crewman climbed the next pole down the line and de-energized the cables at my feet. That was when I began to tremble. I knew it was the adrenaline flowing, and I also knew that I would steady out again when I got the tall trucker in my sights. Soon, familiar sirens approached and I knew it was the Riverside Station turning out en masse.

I shook myself free of the mental bindings that had held me stationary, and darted across the road into the brush and trees along the river. I had fished there with my young boys, so I knew the woods. He wouldn’t get far until he hit the wide river. He would either swim for it, or sit down and wait for me. He knew I was coming in the fog—I could feel it all around me, like a jungle ambush about to erupt. I was glad for my gray uniform. It made good camouflage in the gray and black fog.

His breath was audible. He was close, I could hear and feel him. I knew he couldn’t run, there was nowhere to run to, and we were sinking in soft mud. I had to think it through; what was I doing there? Was it to kill him? I certainly could. Joe had to be avenged—this stranger had lured us into the live cables. He murdered Joe just as surely as if he had shot him five times with his little twenty-two.

Suddenly I heard the sharp crack of the twenty-two and saw the tiny flash. He missed, and was straight in front of me. If my guess was correct, he was out of ammunition. Five shots in his gay victim, and one over my head makes six. Some twenty-two’s held more than six, but this was a small handgun, one he could hide in his pocket. I knew I had him.

“Hey, Cop,” a deep voice said from the misty darkness in front of me. He pushed the brush aside that he had covered himself with and sat in front of me in the smelly mud.

“You’re a dead man,” I said calmly.

“Yeah, I know—do it, Cop. No one will ever know exactly how it happened. Self-defense—you had to pull the trigger.”

His eyes were sort of greenish, and very wet. In spite of his size he was not intimidating—he was a pitiful sight.

“Why did you kill that queer?” I asked.

“Bastard had my money. When the rigs crashed into the rear of us, he grabbed my expense bag and took off running. I caught up to him in that town.”

“What was he doing in your truck?”

“What’dya think?” He looked down at the ground and mumbled. “We weren’t havin’ a prayer meeting.”

“Why didn’t you shoot me just now—you aimed it over my head?”

“I was hoping you’d draw and shoot me dead. I can’t face my family now—not after they find out.”

He began to weep, like a baby in the mud. There was no doubt in my mind that he had to die, but I wasn’t going to do him any favors. Let some big ugly prisoner in the Rockview State Prison do it at his pleasure.

The Riverside Station Commander, Lieutenant Luskoski, came out to the scene and sent me home. I was glad not to have to do the reports right away. He even relieved me of the obligatory news release.

I went home and drank a half-pint of Jack Daniels before finally falling off to sleep.

“Look at this, Todd,” I heard my wife, Beth, saying.

Not yet ready to open my eyes, I turned and moaned; “what time is it…?”

“Wake up and look at this headline in the Sunbury paper,” she insisted.

I opened my eyes and looked up at her standing there in her crimson robe. She was beautiful, I thought, but what was so important to wake me up? She held the front page of the anti-state police daily rag out in front of me, but I was looking at her. She had large brown eyes that were always alert, and her ready smile still amazed me. She was only 5’5”, but could put any model to shame with her superb conditioning.

“LT. LUSKOSKI AND RIVERSIDE POLICE CHIEF MILNER GRAB MURDER SUSPECT!” Immediately to the right of it, in another column was the headline: “TPR. JOSEPH TAYLOR KILLED IN ELECTRICAL ACCIDENT!”

“That goofy lieutenant didn’t catch anyone, did he?” Beth asked in her bedroom voice.

“Who cares, Babe?” I replied, pulling her down to me.

That was 1975. Much has changed since then, but I suspect that if the overweight corporal from the late sixties were still at the academy he’d be giving the same opening speech.

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