Editor’s note: This account has been edited to protect victims, investigative techniques and sensitive case details.
By Greg Lindsay
I pulled into my driveway a little after 5:30 a.m., put my car in park and sat there as the sun began to push away the darkness.
Then I cried.
Not quiet tears, but uncontrollable sobs. The events of that night would stay with me for the rest of my life: the tears, the screams, the wailing and, above all, the children.
Thirty-six hours earlier
It had been a normal day, or at least what passed for normal in the life of an ICAC investigator.
Around 5:00 p.m., my chief walked into my office.
“Greg, what do you think about this?”
He explained that one of our federal partners was chatting online with a suspect who lived about two and a half hours from our office. The federal agent wasn’t even in our state, and the suspect was actively sharing CSAM (child sexual abuse material).
Then he made a statement that changed everything. He claimed the children in the images were his own — and his infant niece.
I looked at my chief.
“What do I think? I think this guy needs to meet his Maker. Since we can’t ethically do that, I suggest we arrest him instead.”
My chief smiled.
“Seems about right.”
The race against time began.
State, local and federal agencies immediately came together. Attorneys were contacted, search warrants were drafted and phone calls never stopped. Cases like this don’t happen because of one investigator. They happen because dedicated professionals work together to protect children they’ve never met.
After only a few hours of sleep, I was back in the office, where the team immediately began preparing for the search warrant.
Roughly 24 hours after the initial notification, we located the suspect. He ran, but he didn’t get far. Undercover state police operators tackled him before he could escape.
While others secured the scene, I was assigned one of the hardest jobs: Interview the spouse and the known victim’s mother, identify potential victims and speak with the children’s family.
During my first conversation with the spouse, I overheard the suspect make a spontaneous statement.
“You’ll never see me again.”
Damn right, I thought.
I had no idea the hardest part of the night was still ahead.
As the interview continued, I eventually reached the question every investigator dreads asking.
“I’m going to show you something. I need you to tell me if these are your baby’s pajamas.”
She looked.
“No...no...no...”
Then she screamed.
“Oh my God...no...it can’t be...that asshole...oh my God...”
The cries that followed were unlike anything I had heard before. I still hear them, and years later, they still find me in my sleep.
Looking back, I also recognize that in the urgency of the operation, I had forgotten to request a Victim Witness Coordinator. We had live child victims, and that family deserved immediate emotional support. Paramedics eventually arrived, but I knew we should have had someone there specifically to help the family through what was happening.
As the search continued, investigators located hidden cameras inside children’s bedrooms and bathrooms. By the end of the night, we had the evidence we needed. The case was solid, but none of us walked away unchanged.
Between interviews and helping manage the scene, I checked in with the detective interviewing the suspect. At one point, the suspect attempted to take his own life inside the interview room. Officers intervened, and he was tased, medically evaluated and ultimately placed in a safety cell.
I didn’t feel sorry for him. I felt sorry for the children.
Around 2:00 a.m., we finally cleared the scene. Several of us stopped at a gas station for energy drinks before beginning the two-and-a-half-hour drive home.
One of my partners rode with me, and interestingly, we barely talked about the case. Instead, we talked about the weekend, whiskey, food and anything else that would keep us from discussing what we had just lived through.
Eventually, I dropped off my unmarked vehicle, climbed into my own car and drove home.
That’s where everything finally caught up with me.
Sitting in my driveway, I broke down and cried like I had never cried before. I couldn’t control it.
The lessons I carried forward
Looking back, there are things I would do differently. The biggest wasn’t an investigative decision. It was failing to request a Victim Witness Coordinator.
We were so focused on finding the children, securing evidence and making an arrest that I overlooked the immediate emotional needs of the family. They deserved someone whose responsibility was helping them through what was happening.
Victim Witness Coordinators understand trauma and can connect families with resources investigators may not even know exist. Once a scene is secure, they can provide a calming presence when families desperately need one. That lesson has stayed with me throughout my career.
The investigation also reinforced how much we depend on one another. Prosecutors, analysts, forensic examiners, patrol officers, federal partners, tactical teams, dispatchers and supervisors all had roles to play. No one investigator could have accomplished what that team did.
But there was another lesson I wouldn’t fully understand until much later. While I had been focused on protecting the children and their families, I hadn’t given much thought to what the work was doing to me.
What followed me home
Years later, I still remember that drive home and sitting in my driveway, unable to stop crying.
The suspect went to prison, and the children were rescued. Those were victories, but the case also became one of many bricks in the wall of cumulative trauma that law enforcement officers quietly carry throughout their careers.
Like many officers, I initially mistook my warning signs for dedication to the job. Irritability, emotional withdrawal, hypervigilance and anger slowly became my new normal. I believed I was simply carrying the weight of protecting children, when the reality was that I had stopped processing what I was experiencing.
Thankfully, I sought help before that trauma completely defined me. Counseling, my Christian faith, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and intentionally reconnecting with my family became important parts of my healing journey. They reminded me that beneath the badge, I was still a husband, a father and a human being.
If there’s one lesson I hope readers take away, it’s this: Protecting children also means protecting the professionals who investigate these crimes. We spend our careers helping victims through their darkest moments, and there is no shame in asking someone to help us through ours.
If this story encourages even one first responder to seek support sooner than I did, then sharing it has been worth it.
Excerpt adapted from the forthcoming book, “The Drive Home: A Trauma Professional’s Guide to Living and Leading on Purpose.”
About the author
Greg Lindsay is a 20-year law enforcement veteran, first-responder advocate, husband, father, author, and founder of UnShamed Purpose LLC. His career has taken him from patrol and corrections to major crimes, juvenile investigations, sex crimes, leadership, supervisory roles, and work within the Internet Crimes Against Children (ICAC) program, working cases most people never want to imagine.
Greg has spent his career serving others, leading through difficult circumstances, and learning firsthand what the badge can cost when the job follows you home. A husband and father, he is passionate about helping cops and other first responders become better leaders, better spouses, better parents, and better versions of themselves — without shame. Greg is also a practitioner of Jiu-Jitsu, and believes is one of the most helpful martial arts one can be a part of.
He is currently pursuing a master’s degree in counseling and writing “The Drive Home: A First Responder’s Guide to Living and Leading with UnShamed Purpose.”
