As a rookie midnight-shift police officer, my assigned zone (beat) was mostly residential with a sprinkling of commercial properties. One resident, whom I will refer to by first name only, had several mental diagnoses ebbing and flowing like the ocean’s tides. Some days Nancy was peachy, other days she was a loud, explosive tyrant hell-bent on making sure everyone knew she knew how much “the system” sucked: The doctors don’t have a clue! Hospitals only want money I don’t have! Child Protective Services took my only child because I speak my mind! Damn paramedics keep taking me to the ER! Police don’t do nothing to help me get my son back! Cops don’t listen! You don’t care! And so it went.
Nancy had a history of hostility toward other cops—my peers. Not physical aggression; she seemed to know the red-line boundary. But she often came quite close to qualifying for a trip to jail under Florida’s assault statute–other than proximity, direct threats, and the putting in fear a would-be victim, no physical contact is necessary to wind up on the defendant side of a judge’s bench.
Indeed, the jock-ish jeers came as, early on in my cop career, I became the latest catcher to field Nancy’s onslaught of hardly cogent but often visceral diatribe. In retrospect, it is believed Nancy harbored ill-will towards law enforcement since, in Florida, cops accompany Child Protective Services (CPS) workers who assume custody of children deemed abused or neglected. Nancy was deemed by the state as an “unfit parent” thus causing the removal of her son.
Since the first of myriad calls placed via 9-1-1 by Nancy, I responded and listened. It was mostly repetitious rehashing of the same spoils she felt helpless about, but consistency was key. Reciprocally, I would show up and hear her side. Carefully, I would convey how it is the laws she was angry about, and how law enforcers were the go-between folks just doing a job, nothing personal.
After the first few calls I responded to, it was discernible when Nancy just took her meds, when her meds were wearing thin, as well as the middle-ground integer when she made some sense and calmly orated her complaints against authority figures. A paradox. I can tell you her paranoia often set me on edge, accompanied by pre-conceived thoughts of defending myself by employing deadly force. Yes, she was that unpredictable in nature and often predictable with regard to going off her meds and thus…going off, darting eyes and all. Each time, she’d look back at her door as if expecting someone else to appear. Despite guessing she was reminiscing her young son walking out to play or whatever, I was prepped to shape-shift from innocuous listener to armed-in-the-wind warrior. Somehow, I guess my listening ears subdued her enough.
As days lapsed, I learned she started to ask for “only Officer Owsinski” to respond. I also learned from my squad supervisors that, on my days off, she called the PD and rescinded requests for a “Police Service Call” when she was told I was off-duty. Although she tried to schedule responses in advance, police departments do not necessarily take reservations. Nancy never digested that factor; the calls continued as if she ruled her police force and snapped fingers when she wanted made-to-order cops to stand for her latest gulf of protestations.
Although flattered by the compliment, I knew that sort of pattern could present a slippery slope. It got to the point where police administration officially addressed Nancy, diplomatically conveying to her that all cops are trained equally and highly competent; any one of us could serve the citizenry fairly and equally. Command staff let her know she gets whichever cop is in-service when she calls. Flattery aside, it was the nature of the police profession. Availability dictates who responds.
In a display of grace and humility in terms of leadership, my squad commanders often piped up on the radio when they heard dispatch assign me to yet another call from Nancy. “618, I can take that one…” were the gratis offers from cops for whom I worked.
Nevertheless, the calls persisted and I responded when it was conducive (not on a call and in my beat/zone). This went on for months. Then Nancy stopped calling. Cold-turkey! Speculations were that she moved. I can’t deny that was a Mardi Gras moment for me/us. Records did not reflect she was being treated under any mental health order served/administered by Florida’s Mental Health Act.
Subsequently, the first call for service after roll call one night was from one of Nancy’s neighbors who reported her concerns, stating she had not seen Nancy “in days.” Guess who got the “Welfare Check.” My gut signaled to go with back-up, so I requested another officer respond as well. We arrived simultaneously. No answer to several knocks and repeated doorbell uses. Her phone was disconnected. Breaching some front-window shrubbery like a bushmaster, I saw that the blinds were disheveled, allowing me to peer in. The place was in total disarray, and Nancy’s figure was clearly on the living room couch, face-up and motionless. Within minutes, the sun set. Other than the strobes of my and my partner’s Maglites, all views were now total darkness; not even an LED clock’s numbers were evident. It was all so shimmer-less, still and stale.
Yeah, that was our thought as well.
Circumstances dictated lawfully breaching the door or a window so as to exigently get in and assess Nancy’s medical condition. Supervisor approval was granted. Through the window we went. The tiny townhome was without electricity and running water which meant absolute stench in an environment baking for who-knows-how-long. Stale, hot air wafted odors of urine and fecal matter and rotted garbage. Flies were everywhere, buzzing and telegraphing attraction to spoiled…things. Indelibly, I recall the perspiration in Nancy’s closed eyes, like two tiny club med pools—the prescription kind, not the vacation brand. She was clothed but emaciated. Her prescription bottles were scattered throughout the area, knocked over and empty. Lifelessness was claimed by these rust-colored plastic barrels, the previous contents of which quasi-mummified Nancy on the couch.
My back-up and I offered each other that certain look cops give each other when the stark reality of death is under pour noses. But, we had to make sure of that while fire/rescue personnel were en route. This time, partner and I exchanged another of those cop-specific gazes. She’s alive!
Her pulse was barely ticking but it was there. Close to death but still with us. Fire/Rescue arrived and transported Nancy to the hospital.
So as not to be misconstrued, Nancy was a pain in the hiney at times but, in her antipathetic way, I was glad she was reaching out for help. Nancy became so reliant on the police, but it allowed us to understand each other and “make a difference,” especially withdrawing her from the brink when it appeared she surrendered by holding chemistry’s hand. Nancy’s neighbor was an integral factor in saving her life by eliciting police assistance. I made sure I told her that, glorifying how police/community interactions can always be on the same team bench.
Last I heard, Nancy stayed at a mental health facility until she was counseled, deemed rehabilitated, and equipped to rekindle relations with her son. I hope that came to fruition without reservation.
