Editor’s Note: Police1 “First Person” essays are the place where P1 columnists and members candidly share their own unique cop’s-eye-view of the world, from personal insights on issues confronting cops today to observations and advice on living life behind the thin blue line. The essay below was among the finalists in a contest held last Autumn on CopsOnline. If you haven’t already done so, you can check out essays from other contest entrants, including Tony Luketic, Jason Davis, Jason Evans, and Andrew Hawkes.The author of this column, Keith Hellwig, is a Captain with the State of Wisconsin Department of Corrections and a Patrol Officer for the Campbellsport, (Wisc.) Police Department. Do you want to share your own perspective with other P1 Members? Send us an E-mail with your short article.
By Keith Hellwig
Campbellsport, (Wisc.) Police Department
On Sunday, October 19, 2003, I was on patrol. It was a beautiful, clear, fall Wisconsin day. The leaves were turning, and the farm fields were freshly cleared of their harvest. Flocks of geese were in the air, flying south to escape the ravages of the coming winter. It was unseasonably warm, as though summer was having one, final gasp before leaving.
It wasn’t too busy. I’d only been on duty for a couple of hours and had made one stop. There was the usual chatter on my squad’s radio. Most of the calls were normal traffic stops, and then I heard the call go out: “Green Lake Dispatch to Green Lake 42 and 52: Respond to a possible 10-16 in the apartments on South Street. Complainant reports that her husband struck her and is holding a child hostage.” He went on to repeat the address and the apartment number.
“42,” came the response, “I’m en route, ETA 5 minutes.”
“10-4,” Dispatch answered.
“52 to Dispatch and 42, I’m a couple minutes behind you. I’ll meet you there.”
A “10-16” is a domestic dispute. In domestic dispute cases, you always go in with a back-up. I’d heard the call for 10-16s go out hundreds of times, and have been to more than a few myself. What made this different was the hostage. Just then a car went speeding by me, and I pulled them over. The 10-16 was in a neighboring county, about 10 miles west of my location. I knew my involvement would be listening on the police radio. I was getting out of my squad when the Green Lake dispatcher came on the radio. “42 and 52, be advised that the wife and children are all out of the apartment.” I breathed a sigh of relief.
Even though there was no longer a hostage situation, 42 and 52 still had to go to the scene because the man had struck his wife.
I was talking to the driver I had pulled over for speeding, when the voice of the Green Lake Dispatcher came through on my hand-held. “42 and 52, the wife reports that when she left, the husband was going into the bedroom. She advises that he has a loaded 9mm and an AK-47 and an unknown amount of ammunition with him. Exercise extreme caution.” 42 and 52 acknowledged the transmission and together they planned their approach.
I went about my job and was writing a ticket. I thought about 42 and 52. I was sure that I had run into them over the years. We shared a border and sometimes my business strayed into their jurisdiction, and sometimes theirs strayed into mine. My uniform was blue and theirs was brown. My badge was a shield and theirs was a star. Though we were strangers outside of our jobs, we were brothers on the job.
“42 to Dispatch, I’m 10-23.” 42 was at the apartments.
“52 to 42, I’m about a minute out,” replied his partner.
I left my car to issue the ticket. As I was talking to the driver, I was listening on my radio. I was on my way back to my car, when the call came out: “Officer Down! Officer down!” Working in a rural area, I had never heard those words broadcast before. “Dispatch to unit calling: What’s your location?”
“52, I’m at the south end of the parking lot! Get an ambulance here, fast!” came the response.
I went back to my squad and I sat in the car. It was as though someone had punched me. My breath left my body in a soul wrenching expulsion.
“Lord,” I said aloud, “Please be with them.” The Green Lake dispatcher was calling for an ambulance and sending what available back-up there was to the location. After a couple of minutes, he called neighboring counties for mutual aid, as well as the State patrol. I hadn’t been called, and because it was beyond my jurisdiction, I had no authority to go. I could hear the anguish in the voice of the dispatcher as well as the stress in the voices of the officers on the scene and the other officers responding. Again, I said a prayer for all of them.
I tried to conduct my business as normal as possible, waiting for a call. About an hour later, it came: “757 to 758,” came the radio blared, “Meet me at the county line.” I’m 758, my Chief is 757. “758 to 757, I’ll meet you in about 5 minutes.” I went to the county line, and Howard, 757, was waiting in another squad car. He motioned and I followed him to the staging area at the city of Green Lake Fire station.
We arrived at the Command Post and there were cops from at least 3 other counties and 5 other cities there, all willing to help. SWAT teams were gearing-up, loading magazines and checking equipment. Some cops were assigned to traffic control on a nearby State hi-way, while others closed off surrounding streets and established a secure perimeter. We were told to stay at the Command Post, and keep the area secure. We had been joined by another officer, Kevin, the Chief of a nearby town. At an informal briefing, we were told what had happened.
42 had gotten to the apartment building, and the wife and children were outside. The husband had loaded an AK-47 and was waiting for the officers to arrive. As 42 got out of his car and motioned for the wife and kids, the man opened fire with the assault rifle. He had been waiting on a second floor balcony and had an open field of fire. Before 42 could react, he had been shot 4 times. 52 got there and saw his partner down. He dragged 42 behind a squad, out of the line of fire, and radioed for help. He dragged him to safety so an ambulance could take him to the nearest hospital, 7-miles away. The suspect had 2 other officers pinned down, but they were OK. There was an armored car coming to get them out. The apartment where the gunman was holed-up was about 2 or 300 yards away, on the other side of a sloped, grassy hill.
I won’t bore you with the details of what little I contributed to the situation. After 42’s car was brought into the fire station and covered with a tarp, I was assigned to keep watch over it and not allow anyone near. I’d been there about an hour, when an EMT approached me. She asked if I needed a sandwich or anything. I told her that I was fine, and then I asked her if she knew anything about the Deputies condition. Tears welled in her eyes, and I had the answer. “I’m not supposed to tell.” She said. Then, she went on: “He’s gone. There’s nothing we could do. We got him as soon as we could.”
I blinked away the tears that filled my eyes. “I’m sure you did everything you could,” I offered.
“They don’t want the news out yet,” she told me. Green Lake is a small community, and all of the officers are more family than just co-workers, so I understood. I leaned against a fire truck and wondered about 42. I didn’t even know his name, if he was married, if he had children. I didn’t know where he lived or what he looked like. “His name is Bruce Williams, but everyone calls him ‘Goose,’” she told me, as though she had read my mind. “He was a good cop and a good guy.”
I was relieved in the garage a little while later, and I went to find Howard. I know that I had told the EMT that I wouldn’t tell anyone, but when Howard came over, I could see tears in the corners of his eyes. By looking at each other, we could tell that the other knew. Kevin joined us, and without a word, he also knew. “Who was it?” he asked. When I told him the name, Bruce Williams, Kevin was shaken to his core. “We went to the academy together,” was all he said. Then he slowly turned away and stood by himself for a few minutes, his shoulders quaking in the moonlight as he grieved the loss of a friend.
Later that night, a SWAT team from Fond du Lac County moved into the apartment building to clear it before assaulting it. Kevin and I were assigned to follow and help evacuate the building. We were driven down the darkened streets in a school bus that was going to take the people to the fire station. When we got to a small woods about 100 yards away from the apartment building, the bus stopped. There were 2 Winnebago County officers by an armored car to provide cover as Kevin and me met a SWAT team member by the far edge of the woods and took people one at a time to the waiting bus. First out was an elderly woman. As I took her arm and walked her quietly through the dark woods to the bus, I could hear her crying. She clutched my arm and as I led her to a seat, she softly said, “Thank you.” I went back into the woods for the next person, and the next, and the next, and the next, until everyone was safely on the bus. All said simply, “Thank you.” As the bus moved down the moonlight street, I tried to imagine the horror that they had witnessed, the terror that the gunfire must had instilled in them. “Thank you,” they told me. “Thank you.”
Earlier in the evening, I had stood outside, looking into the stars. Kevin was beside me, and we were both standing in silence. A shooting star crossed the sky, and before I could say anything, Kevin pointed at it and said, “Look.” It made me think of when I was a child. I had asked my Mom what the stars were. “I don’t really know,” she told me, “but I like to think that they all of the people in heaven, looking down at us and protecting us.” I know as Kevin and I saw that shooting star, we were both thinking of Deputy Williams.
Later that night. Fond du Lac County and Winnebago County Officers assaulted the apartment, and found the coward that shot Deputy Williams, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Deputy Bruce Williams, call number 42, was 38-years old. He was married and the father of three little girls, all under the age of eight. I had met him on traffic stops and car accidents. I never knew him. I wish I had. I went to his funeral along with hundreds of other officers. I stood at attention in front of the church, with hundreds of his brother and sister officers. I saluted, with hundreds of officers when his wife and children followed his coffin out of the church. I followed as the funeral procession twisted through Berlin Wisconsin, where Bruce Williams had grown-up and where his wife taught Middle school. I choked with emotion as the cars went by the school, and every child in the school was lined up on the lawn, silently holding their hands over their hearts as they watched the mile long line of squad cars. Both sides of the street were lined with people. On one corner, I saw an old man in a military uniform, tears streaming down his cheeks, holding a salute as the procession passed. On another street was a young mother with her children. As her children stood, holding American flags, and signs that said, “Thank you, Bruce,” her eyes met mine. I could tell she was trying to hold herself emotionally, but it suddenly became too much and she allowed herself the freedom to cry. Everywhere, there were signs, honoring a man that had given his life protecting others.
At the cemetery, Bruce Williams was laid to rest. At the conclusion of the services, the call went out: “Green Lake to Green Lake 42.” There was silence, save the muffled sounds of grief. Then, “Green Lake to Green Lake 42.” And 1 final time, “Green Lake to Green Lake 42.” “Green Lake,” came an anonymous voice over the radio. “Green Lake 42 is 10-23 at St. Stanislaus cemetery. Green Lake 42 is 10-42. Rest in peace, Bruce.”
Deputy Bruce Williams, friend, father, husband, “a good cop and a good guy,” was officially off duty.
In the years since this, I have often thought of Deputy Williams, and the sacrifice he made. It has made me think how vulnerable that each and every officer is on every call they respond to. It has made me treat every call as though there is someone waiting to harm me, or my fellow officers. It has made me realize how thankful I am for the life I have.
