By James Gilbert
I want to tell you about the Bear. He
was, and to me still is, all that is pure and
admirable about being a cop. I was assigned to
him during the summer of ’69, and my five
months with him left me so in awe, so touched
and troubled, that I still often think of him.
The bear flew to the scene of an incident
like an avenging angel. His small thick hands
grasped the wheel so tightly in anger that I
actually feared for the life of the unknown
suspect at the other end of the ride. No red
lights or siren; just a gut-wrenching wide-open
acceleration born of Bear’s fury. I was
nervous with this field training officer, who
was known to all as Bear – or THE Bear to those
who were perpetually in wonder of him, as I
certainly was. I stole a glance at him as we
throttled around the corner, a block away from
our assigned location, and involuntarily
shivered at the sight. A 220-pound, five feet,
eight-inch body swathed in blue material,
harnessed by a gunbelt partially obscured in
fat, topped by an undersized head sporting a
marine-style crewcut. A bear indeed, with an
animal-like anger to match. He scared me then,
for he looked so formidable. But this was
before I came to know him. And it was before
his final bout with evil.
You see, there was so much to know about
the Bear, so much that was missing to those
unable or uncaring enough to see beneath his
gross surface. I’d never known anyone quite
like him. He seemed to resemble a complex
chameleon, always changing, never predictable.
Just minutes before the radio call that sent
him into a rage, he had been patiently
explaining how to hear life in a tree. “You
see, we got blinders on this life-thing,
partner. We like it that way. Know why?”
“Why, Bear?” I asked dutifully. “So we can
destroy the entire goddamn earth in good
conscience, that’s why.” He continued, his
small blue eyes blinking rapidly: “You think
those trees and plants don’t have feelings?”
“I never really thought about it, Bear.” He
gave me a chastising look for my lazy mental
attitude. “Well, they do. All you got to do
is put a stethoscope up to a tree during spring
when the sap’s flowing, and you can hear its
heart beating!”
The Bear was always going on like that.
It was simply amazing to me, for I know he had
no formal education, and had struggled to
obtain his G.E.D. to qualify for the
department. Yet I, with a master’s degree,
simply paled in intellectual diversity before
the Bear.
The unit braked to a stop in front of the
residence. The call had come out as a standard
family fight, but Bear apparently recognized
the address and knew from prior experience what
he’d find. He was out and moving towards the
tattered screen door before I had even
unlatched my seat belt. I know there was going
to be trouble. I’d already observed that the
Bear rarely lost control, with one major
exception. He simply could not tolerate, under
any condition, abuse of the vulnerable.
Children, animals, the elderly, all were the
Bear’s personal wards. And he was their
wrathful protector.
I followed him into the one-story stucco
house, so common in California. It had been a
beauty in the ‘30s, but now it was a weathered
trash heap. A Battered woman was sitting
rigidly on a filthy imitation-leather couch
intently staring at a black velvet portrait of
Christ on the opposite wall. Her nose appeared
to be broken with her right eye beginning to
puff into a darkened slit. Tiny droplets of
blood covered the upper portion of her torn
cotton dress. Bear totally ignored her as he
frantically searched the small home. He
stormed back into the living room and sat down
by the woman. “Where’s the boy, Gaylene, and
that bastard of a husband of yours?” She
answered in a whispered monotone, never
shifting her gaze from the portrait: “He
finished on me and went after Jason. Said he’d
cut him, kill him.” Bears’ chest was heaving I
anger as we hurried to the car. He transmitted
the situation on the radio as we drove wildly
through the neighborhood. “What’s going on?”
I yelled above the roar of the engine. “The
husband, he’s the worst kind of garbage. Beats
the wife regularly, but it’s the boy he really
wants.” He stopped the car, shined the
spotlight into an alley with no results, and
drove on. “He wants to kill his son. A little
seven-year-old and he wants to kill him. Who
the hell knows why, but he wants to. Broke his
shoulder last year. Nobody could prove it,
you’ve seen the wife. They claimed he fell
down the basement steps onto the concrete. But
I knew.” The Bear braked the car so violently
that I slammed toward the dash, bracing myself
just in time. We had found the boy.
I’d have never seen him, but of course
Bear had an eye for such things. The boy had
crawled underneath a Volkswagen van. He looked
like a pile of rags to me, until Bear put the
spotlight on him. He peered upward through
eyes that were decades older than the rest of
him. Bear got out and brought him to the car
with a gentleness he reserved for the crushed
of this world. We took him to the hospital
just to be sure, but he was all right, at least
in terms of physical damage. His father had
been far too drunk to catch him. A neighboring
unit had found him, passed out in a hedgerow,
the six-inch steak knife still clutched din his
hand. The Bear held the boy close as he drove
home, his huge arm lightly draped around the
frailest of shoulders. The kid never spoke,
but I watched his terrified eyes search the
night through the windshield.
One shift ended and Bear invited me to his
place for a drink. He lived in a mobile
home park known to the department as the
graveyard. All but Bear referred to it that
way due to the constant stream of dead body
calls originating from the park. It housed
mainly the elderly, those who were too lively
or too frightened to face the indeterminate
sentence of the nursing home. Bear’s trailer
mirrored his personality outside of the
uniform. It was orderly and clean, and totally
devoid of character. And it was lonely. You
could feel the blue-gray emptiness settle on
your chest as you entered.
He had begun to invite me over with
greater regularity now, but I was rarely
comfortable with him. Off duty, Bear was like
an overcast winter day. Quiet and colorless,
he seemed to come to life only when warmed and
brightened by his uniform. We sat around his
gleaming Formica breakfast table and had a
beer. His television droned to itself in the
corner, throwing flickering light about the
walls. Bear compulsively turned it on whenever
he was home, yet he rarely watched it.
It was fortunate for the father that Bear
didn’t find him that night, for this was the
third such incident since the boy’s broken
shoulder. I had heard that four straining
officers had to hold Bear back during a
previous encounter. There was little
conversation as we drank, for he was troubled.
Something was working on him, grinding away,
making his tense and uncommunicative. I tried
to get it out of him, for he was starting to
worry me. “What do you think we should do
about this kid and his father?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he answered in a matter-of-fact
manner. “That situation is gonna take care of
itself.” There was something about the way he
said that, its finality, that alarmed me. Bear
tipped his beer and emptied the contents
without pause. He crushed the can and clashed
aterse grin at me. He seemed to feel a great
deal better.
We were patrolling beat eight, the
Southside, mainly poor black and brown
neighborhoods. People who lived here
seemed to have the purest emotions for the
police. Love and hate, immediate respect and
violent contempt; all open and aboveboard.
None of that white middle-class hypocrisy and
contempt concealed behind toothy false smiles
and quick waves. I liked working this part of
town, as did Bear. We were halfway through our
shift, which has consisted thus far of two
family fights, one lockout, a reckless driving
citation, and dinner. Between calls, Bear had
been holding forth on the connection of
moon-reflected solar radiation and criminal
behavior. “People are nothing but electricity
and chemicals, partner. Just like plants,
right? So when the moon is full our air is
bursting with solar radiation. Ya see what I’m
getting at don’t you? That screws up the
atmosphere and that messes wit their minds!”
He could sense my skepticism, and started to
dig into his briefcase for some obscure Duke
University study on the subject he’d sent for,
when the radio caught our attention. It was an
assist to the fire department no more than two
blocks away. As we rolled Bear paled
noticeably; he face seemed to collect more
sweat each time the passing lampposts threw
light into the car. He pulled directly in
front of the location, a two-story wood-frame
apartment building partially engulfed in
leaping orange flames. The fire units were
arriving, their amplified sirens rocking the
night. Windows were breaking, children
creamed, men shouted and cursed, dogs barked.
It was a nightmare out of hell.
“Get out,” he whispered. I thought I
heard him wrong. “What, Bear?” “Get out, they
don’t need us both to guard these goddamn
trucks. I’ll come back for you later. Get
out!” You had better believe that I got out.
He drove off and left me standing in a pool of
hydrant water, surrounded by havoc. An hour
later it was over. A gutted shell remained
where 24 relief families had once lived.
Somebody tried to barbeque ribs too close to an
outside stairway. The first light of morning
began to break, and the place was actually
serene in some sort of surrealistic way. The
spent firemen began to slowly gather their
hoses and to axe the tottering frame of the
apartment. I scanned the intersection for
Bear’s arrival, pondering his erratic
behavior.
“Where’s your partner?” It was the fire
marshal, a tall, gaunt man covered in soot who,
unbelievably, was in the act of lighting a
cigar with a flaming Zippo lighter. “To tell
you the truth, I don’t really know, “I
answered. He shook his head and leaned against
one of the trucks. “This could have been a bad
one,” he said. “Could have fried the shit out
of some of these people.” He glanced at a
crowd of former residents who gathered to stare
and pick through the rubble. “I know you’re
wondering about your partner. Let me tell you
a little story, maybe clear thing up a bit.
‘Bout seven years ago we had a nasty thing go
down on Alameda Avenue. Fact it, it was just
about this time in the morning, first light.”
He paused and took a quick puff, his mouth
making a little smacking noise. “Well, this
gal was coming home from work, a waitress over
in ‘Frisco, I think, and she falls asleep at
the wheel. Broadsides a parked sanitation
truck but good, must have been doing 50 or 60.
She totaled her car and flipped it on its
roof. The friggin’truck didn’t even move from
the impact – typical, right? But she can’t get
out, the dash and seat got he pinned tight.”
The fire marshal looked at his cigar as if he
just discovered it in his hand. He threw it
down and stomped it. “Well, about this time
her car started to catch; the gas tank was only
half full and it flew. Just then a cop
arrives, and I’m right behind him, only people
on the scene. We tried to get her out of
course, but it was no go. She was burning by
then, pounding on the windows, screaming and
thrashing, hair on fire. She begged him to do
it you know, shoot her. She knew she wasn’t
coming out of there except in a body bag. We
kept trying to get her, over and over, burned
the living hell out of our arms. But that
friggin’ car just wouldn’t give her up. So
he did it, popped her right then and there,
right in the head. Your partner.” He stopped
talking then, and just stood and stared at the
charred remains of the apartment. “By the time
the trucks arrived the car was like a Halloween
bonfire. Bear was just sittin’ on the curb
watching it sizzle, still holding his gun.
Holy God and sonny Jesus, I’ve sure tried to
forget that morning, but my dreams won’t let it
go. No way I could have done it, but he Bear,
well you know, he just ain’t like the rest of
us.” He turned and walked away, looking a
whole lot older than when we started the
conversation.
Bear eventually picked me up, but we never
discussed it, ever. In the weeks that
followed I became more concerned about Bear.
Nothing that anyone could notice, but I had
gotten to know him well, as well as anybody on
the department. I had been his first, and
last, rookie trainee, for the brass disliked
his style and refused to assign anyone to him.
But you remember how it was in ’69, all hell
breaking loose, hippies, riots, a lid of grass
behind every bush. A ton of federal money was
pouring in to stop crime; it was about as
effective as sandcastles against the tide.
Of course quite a bit of the federal
money was used to hire more cops. My academy
class was the largest ever; we spilled out,
eager to kick ass and take names. They
assigned me to Bear, for every senior man on
the shift was pressed into service as a FTO. I
think they assigned me because they felt I’d be
the least likely to becontaminated by him, due
to my education. But like I said, they didn’t
really know the Bear at all.
What really had me worried was that Bear
seemed to be losing interest in his work, which
was simply his fuel for living. His
concentration, drive and strength were
diminishing. Once during burglary report I
watched Bear stop writing while a 50-year-old
man, struggling to keep himself from weeping,
tried to describe a stolen ring left to him ay
a long-dead mother. Bear just closed his
notebook, looked at me, and walked out of the
guy’s home. He was changing, all right, and
I couldn’t figure it out, or help him.
We were riding the northside now, the campus
district, with its loud parties and surly
college kids, visions of revolution dancing in
their heads. The district was viewed as
one big free shopping center by our local
criminal element. It drew the worst from
Oakland, like wolves to the tasty sheep.
Sympathetic, naïve and guilt-ridden, the
well-to-do college students accepted their
victimization as partial absolution for past
collective sins.
Bear was silent and still; he insisted
that I drive most of the time now. He seemed
to start constantly at the radio, an angered
look on his face. It was as if the Motorola
had become his enemy, and he wiled it to leave
him be. Our first call of the night was to
meet the complainant regarding a down animal.
We rolled to an off-campus sorority house
styled like little sister to Gone with the
Wind’s Tara. A crowd of girls were on the
porch, hands to their faces, eyes wide in
horror. On the sidewalk lay a fine large sable
collie, whining and kicking its hind legs. The
dog was the house mascot and I recognized him
from prior disturbance calls to the house as a
friendly licker who was as nonviolent as a
monk. The housekeeper had let him out before
locking up, and watched unbelieving, as a
laughing carload of scum slowly drove to the
curb and shot him. As I interviewed her, Bear
walked over to the animal and sat beside it.
The housekeeper was hiving difficulty speaking,
for she was shaking with anger, but she a gave
a detailed description of the auto. She was a
widowed farmer’s wife from Northern California
who cooked and cleaned for the girls, and made
sure they too their birth control pills. She
was short and tough, and spoke her thoughts.
As I turned to go, she grabbed my Tuffy
jacket. “You boys find them now, you hear me.
Don’t let them get by with thin thing. You
find 'em!”
I drove to the city vet in a hurry, for the collie was starting to
bleed heavily. Bear sat in the back cradling
the dog. He tried to bit Bear several times,
for he was in wild pain, but Bear never
flinched. When the sleepy vet arrived, Bear
handed over the dog and walked quickly back to
the unit. “Head to the Oakland line, now,”
he commanded.
Bear assumed, correctly, that the suspects
were from Oakland. Vicious kids who had
shot the animal to top off a well-rounded night
of reefer, theft, and general hell-raising.
His instincts were right on target. Urban
vampires, they would head back to the bowels of
the city before dawn, to the safety of the
projects. Brea put us out of service and we
sat on Telegraph Avenue, the main artery
between the cities, communities the polar
opposites of each other in every way, and
waited. Not quite an hour later the car came
into view, moving slowly, confidently, towards
the city limits. It was the described Lincoln,
riding low, fender damage, gangster sidewalls,
puke pink, no mistake. I made the pull-over
and all four of them were out before our unit
came to a stop. They stood by the car flashing
hate stares and waited for The Man.
I turned to Bear to see if he wanted a
backup, but he was halfway to them. He wasted
no time in getting to the point. “I’m going to
ask just once. Which one of you hurt that
dog?” The taller of the group smiled at the
others and strolled to the Bear with the
bad-ass, step-aside walk, known to every ghetto
in America. “Sheeit, dog don’t do much for us
man, but I can tell you all you want to know
‘bout pussy!” He threw his head back and began
a high-pitched mocking laugh that I was sure
many a victim had heard must before the final
punch or kick. His laugh changed mid-chord
into a shrill scream that could have rocked a
building. Bear had him by the testicles and he
wasn’t letting go.
You know how it can be out there. They can challenge you, taunt you,
drive you to the wall. I thought I’d seen it
all, an extra chop with a nightstick, cuffs
just a bit too tight, or a head colliding with
the elevator wall on the way to booking. But
this was beyond retribution, too much to glance
away from. I ran to Bear and pleaded with him
to let the guy go. The suspect was on his
toes, his voice reduced to a barely perceivable
rap. “Let me go, no more man, let me go.” He
was heading into shock and Bear let him drop
like a rock to the pavement. Bear stared down
at him, a look between pleasure and despair on
his face. I had totally forgotten to cover the
other three during it all, and I watched them
disappear into the shadows, running wildly.
Bear walked back to the unit, his steps slow,
like he was wading in knee-deep water.
I knew then that Bear was heading to the
edge, and that he was going over soon. I just
didn’t know how to stop it, to reverse what y
gut told me was going to happen. The weeks
passed, but he was fading from his former
self. He worked his end of it, but he changed,
the pleasure of the profession was gone for
him, the battle lost and he is full retreat.
Our roles were changing, I was the watcher now,
responsible for him, and I, to my shame,
carried the burden poorly.
One night during our fifth month together
he suggested that maybe he was ready to work
alone again. He had cleared it with the shift
commander, who has agreed that I could be cut
loose, if I wanted it. I did. I’d had enough,
for he was depressing me, making me anxious and
upset. We still l worked the same midnight
shift, the cord was cut, but II felt no better
alone. We both were just waiting for the end,
his end.
I was out of my unit, shaking doors and
getting some moist air into my lungs, when the
dispatcher handed Bear his call. The call
stopped me dead, momentarily freezing me as the
portable radio announced his fate. They were
sending him back to the boy, the child abuse
case, the raving father.
It was clear across town but I beat his
back-up to the scene. Bear had parked his car
parallel to the home, in the middle of the
street. The engine was still running, and the
driver’s door was wide open. He was inside the
house, and I could hear the screaming. I ran
in just as the assigned back-up pulled up. It
was one of those visual things where your eyes
don’t know where to look first. The woman was
cling to a wall, an awful knife wound in hr
kidney area. The little boy was gazing form
behind the couch, where the mother had hidden
him, his face awash with tears, ad Bear had the
father.
Bear hadn’t touched him, he was just
holding the drunk by his shirt at arm’s
length. The moth before the flame. As I moved
to them Bear hit him, just once. All of Bear’s
rage and confusion seemed to crystallize into
that one moment when he slammed his fist into
him, a pile-driving force right to the face.
The father slipped to the floor, his face a
night-long challenge to the emergency room.
Bear walked past me and jus drove away into the
night. He quit the next day.
It took me about a month to sort
through it all, to sense what had happened to
Bear. The shallow answers came fast and
meant little. He was stressed, he had seen too
much, took the job too seriously, wouldn’t
leave it at the station. No good, not Bear; it
was more. It all came together about a month
after Bear had turned it in. I was sitting
with him in his trailer. He had taken a job as
the park’s maintenance man and looked obscenely
out of place in his khaki work-clothes and
cap. As he sat there listening with wearied
and faraway eyes, he looked exactly as though a
surgeon had cut half of him away. The Bear was
gone. I stopped talking, for he wasn’t really
hearing me, and I stared at him. A silence as
loud as a scream in the ear filled the room.
He was sitting there, looking down at his
hands, unaware that I’d even ceased speaking.
As I watched him, the living memory of his
former self, I understood.
The real meaning of being a cop was to
absorb evil. We weren’t really protectors,
trash collectors, or even centurions. We were
like Oscar Wilde’s story, where a portrait grew
hideous in place of its subject who remained
fresh and whole. The people lived free of
contamination, happy, and unstained, at a
price. They lived a good life, ignorant of the
realization that the tainted and corrupted were
in their mirrors. The toll was extracted from
the bodies and minds of the cops – some cops,
those who dared to look, the ones who felt the
deepest. Bear had enough; his cup was full.
No more. As I watched him, he looked up and
locked in on my eyes. I felt his weight, the
burden, pass to me. The student finally
understood the lesson. Bear’s lesson.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A former police officer with
the
Berkeley Police
Department (California),
James N. Gilbert
joined the University of Nebraska (Kearney)
as the Criminal Justice department as Chair
in 1988. Dr.
James N. Gilbert
received his BC from California State
University, Long Beach; his MS from Eastern
Kentucky University; and, his Ph.D., from the
University of Southern Mississippi. He is the
author of
Criminal Investigation
and
Criminal Investigation:
Essays and Cases.