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By Les Fetterman, Director of Public Safety,
Gannon University, Pennsylvania.
The car’s air
conditioning ran full blast in a battle against
fully opened window like a warm jet stream
meeting a cold front. We always kept the window
down to stay in touch with sights, sounds, and
smells of the inner-city streets. I reached up
and grabbed the neckline of the bullet proof
vest under my uniform shirt. I pulled it away
from my sweat soaked tee shirt and the heat hit
my face like opening a brick oven door.
It was one of
those hot and muggy summer nights, the kind
when there is no relief even after the sun goes
down. I sat in my dented police car with
160,000 plus miles on it. The K-9 vehicles were
older than the rest of the fleet; I guess that
was our reward for working the high crime
hours, 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. in the high crime areas
in Erie, Pa. But I chose this position and
could opt out anytime. Well, that is if I
wanted to go back to switching shifts and lose
this take-home car. Although, some nights I
wondered if my K-9 partner (Grand) and I might
make it all the way home without the car
breaking down.
Our main
assignment was targeting street crimes, a.k.a.
drug dealing, street violence and large unruly
crowds. There were nine of us that made up the
K-9 corps and I loved it. Not to mention the
extra bonus of being able to work with my
“raised in the housing projects” best buddy
Terry. Terry was larger than life from the
moment I met him. Only five years older than
me, he liked to talk as though he was from
another generation. Hard to believe eleven
years had passed since we started the academy
together in January of 1989. We became close in
the academy while driving the 45-minute route
to Meadville, Pa together, studying on the way,
both secretly trying to outdo each other with
every test score. Neither of us had gone to
college, but I was proud of my 98.2% overall
test score average and thought it might hold up
for the high scholastic award. But I guess a
98.6% average is a little bit better, and such
was the theme on graduation day as Terry
collected more awards than Jesse Owens in the
36 Olympics. This included the outstanding
cadet award, which he deserved, although I
would never admit it to his face.
Neither of us
held any rank on the K-9 Corps and even though
we had a Sergeant, I and all the other members
on the K-9 Corps knew in our hearts that Terry
was our leader. He could spot crime or a wanted
criminal a mile away and he never took a break.
Man, the City of Erie sure got a bargain when
they hired him. I long suspected his keen eye,
and sixth sense were honed during the years
running FROM the police through the alleys and
along the railroad tracks near the projects he
lived as a youth.
The sweat ran
down my forehead as I sat in my car waiting to
see if the eerily quiet night would be
interrupted with the boisterous crowd from the
nuisance bar spilling into the street when they
closed. Grand lay sleeping in the back
caged-off area, tired from a shift of barking
at everything that moved. I jealously thought
“how comfortable you must be, I can’t even
recline my seat because of your stupid cage.”
There was hardly enough room for a horse jockey
up front, let alone an ex-defensive lineman.
I had not always
worn the vest which was causing so much
discomfort as religiously as I do now. My
thoughts drifted back to that night in 1991
when we were out to dinner with Terry and his
wife. I mentioned to him how hot and
uncomfortable the vest was, and that I did not
always wear it. The voices stopped, the beer
quit flowing, and the laughter subsided. It
always seemed that way when Terry was pissed
about something or wanted to get his point
across. I thought to myself “man, here it
comes.” I had seen it before in the academy,
sometimes it was standing up to argue with the
instructors to prove they were wrong while the
rest of us sat like quiet sheep staring at the
desk and thinking “I know he’s right, but just
shut up before we end up running an extra three
miles in P.T. class. The routine is always the
same; first, it’s the icy cold stare with his
blue Irish eyes that went right to your soul.
Then came the finger point along with the
verbal assault; “You stupid shit!” As usual he
was right; always holding the stare until you
either submitted, even if you disagreed or
opened yourself up for a barrage of his well
thought out points because you dared to speak
your mind. I would see this time and time again
over the years as we watched our kids grow up
together. It was one week after this tongue
lashing that Terry was shot in the chest on a
drug raid, the vest saving his life. I wore it
like a layer of skin after that, although never
really becoming used to it.
The relief of
daydreaming was short lived; I was hot, my gun
belt was digging in, and the leather combat
boots I wore were much more conducive to a cold
winter day. The 25 pounds of equipment I
strapped on for work every night felt more like
50. Nothing new, just the way I felt at the end
of most shifts. I am pretty sure I mentioned “I
chose to be in this position.” I loved it, but
my kids were getting older and the strain of
the constant 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. shifts, working
weekends and holidays, made me think that I
needed a change. I did not anticipate that
everything would indeed change over the next
few hours.
Usually on these
nights, Terry and I would park together at the
end of shift watching one of these troubled
spots together. The time would pass as we
discussed how wonderful that first sip of cold
beer would taste when we got home. But tonight,
I sat by myself since Terry had worked an
earlier shift with a couple of the K-9 Officers
to address another problem. I smiled thinking
how close we had become. We and our families
were inseparable. I still occasionally got the
stare down and tongue lashing from time to
time, but it no longer intimidated me the way
it used to. And you know; I think that bugged
him, oh so slightly, giving me an almost
brotherly satisfaction. You know the kind I
mean; like when the younger brother wins that
first game of one on one, and you know from
then on things are going to be a little more
even.
I glanced at the
faded flickering digital clock display barely
visible through the scratches from shift after
shift of throwing the duty bag in the front
seat, 3:02 a.m. It appeared like there would be
no problems at the bar tonight. A few more
minutes and I could slowly start edging my car
toward the city line and be even that much
closer to home. I thought about how great it
was going to feel to pull off that uniform
along with the gun belt which held not just my
weapon, but my portable radio, extra handgun
magazines, pepper spray, a baton and yes
finally take off that dreaded vest that now
smelled like the sweaty shoulder pads I used to
wear playing football. What a wonderful feeling
to get that stuff off and jump into the shower
or even my pool for a 4 a.m. swim. It reminded
me of hitting the shower after the two-a-day
football practices on hot August evenings. I
reflected how much I loved that I was still
part of team and I felt that same bond with my
brothers and sisters in blue and our team
captain Terry.
My drifting
thoughts were interrupted by the crack of the
radio. I recognized the officer’s voice, an
officer in the patrol division who was
initiating the routine traffic stop, a broken
taillight. I almost laughed out loud; I do not
remember the last time this old worn out, but
lovable veteran had conducted a traffic stop,
what was this, some sort of a rekindled spirit
I wondered? Then I heard Jay, a fellow K-9
Officer, transmit that he would be out as
back-up, a normal procedure. Next, the veteran
officer’s familiar sarcastic tone was loud and
clear over the radio. I am sure he was probably
already regretting this new-found initiative.
“It looks like this guy is running on foot.”
“The K-9 officer is in pursuit with his
cruiser.” I had heard this tone from him
before. It said everything to me. In my mind it
relayed to me “these guys are blowing
everything out of proportion again.” “Just let
the guy go, if you catch him, we will have all
this paperwork to do” It also told me that he
was not going with him to help when Jay caught
the guy! I instinctively punched the steering
wheel. I was frustrated from years of hearing
this nonchalant attitude, as well as the fact
that I couldn’t be farther away. This stop was
almost all the way to the east City line, and I
was downtown. I turned on my lights and siren
as I sped that way. These stops and chases were
a normal course of business on the K-9 Corps,
but this one was at quitting time, and I knew
it would be Jay and me doing all the paperwork
well past our shift. There was also the natural
protective instinct to get there before the
slightly framed Jay had to wrestle this guy
into handcuffs by himself.
I was about
halfway there when Jay’s trembling voice came
over the radio: “I’ve been shot, he has my gun”
“He ran south” It was not till much, much later
that we would learn the exact details. This
“unarmed young man” who did not want to be
taken into custody was cornered in a parking
lot by Jay, his drugs and gun were still in the
car. He turned, walked toward Jay with his
hands partly raised and supported by arms that
resembled oak trees formed by the weights in
the prison he had just been released from. He
walked toward Jay repeating “what” over and
over again as if to say, “what are you going to
do now?” As Jay tried to process these rapidly
evolving, tense and uncertain actions in the
few seconds that he was afforded, he had to
make a split-second decision. Of course, his
vehicle was as worn out as mine and the door
popper to let his dog out was not working; what
the hell? This criminal with evil intent in his
heart. . . I mean “unarmed young man”, had now
sucker punched him, taken his gun, shot him in
the hip and stood over Jay thinking he was
dead. He then fled, except NOW he was
armed with a semi-automatic handgun and 14
rounds of ammunition.
I thought my
foot would break through the metal floor as I
stomped on the gas pedal. Grand, now alert,
balancing on all fours, howling in perfect
rhythm with the siren. I resisted the urge to
go to the scene where Jay lay bleeding; I knew
other officers were arriving there. Thoughts
were screaming in my head “Where would this guy
be headed, where can I cut him off?” This
wasn’t one of the normal neighborhoods that we
chased criminals through over the years. It was
an industrial shop area with several acres of
thick brush with two sets of railroad tracks
and trees to the south, then more trees and
brush before giving way to the home court
safety of the housing projects. He had to be
trying to make it there. That is where I would
go.
My cruiser
literally caught air as I flew over the
railroad tracks. I just knew I had arrived
there before the suspect. I parked my cruiser
on the edge of the woods by the projects. He
never could have got through all that thick
brush and trees by now. I shut the car off to
hear the sounds. The steam rose from the old
worn-out engine, and the smell of overheated
brakes filled the air as they were probably
just one pedal push away from ever actually
stopping the car again.
Then it hit me
how big this area was and that we were not even
close to having enough officers to set up a
tight-secure perimeter. The questions over the
radio started flooding into me; “Where do you
want me?” “Is there a better description?” “Can
I meet up with you?” It never dawned on me at
the time that I was not the supervisor, or even
more important “where the hell was the
supervisor?” I just answered and directed the
best I could, somehow, I was now in charge of
this manhunt.
I sensed that
this guy was still laying low in the brush, but
the gaps between where officers staged were way
too large. We needed more officers and there
was still about three to four hours before
daylight. I was also a member of the City’s
SWAT (Special Weapons and Tactics) Team. I was
the only one of our 25-man team on duty this
night. Like most SWAT Teams throughout the
country, we all had our full-time assignments
and then were activated when needed. We were
called out on average of about twice a month
for drug raids, high risk warrant service and
barricaded gunmen. We also trained 16-hours
every month and if ever there was a time to
assemble the Team, this was it. I transmitted
on the radio to request that the SWAT Team be
activated, and all available members called in.
Tragically, many
things went wrong that night. The only street
supervisor got tied up at the scene where Jay
was shot. He totally forgot that we were
looking for an armed man desperate to escape or
if I wanted to cut him some slack (I did not),
just got caught up in the moment. The next
thing that went wrong was that the request I
had just made for the SWAT Team to be
assembled, was ignored! This should have been a
no-brainer decision, but it was flippantly
disregarded by the captain inside, our Officer
in Charge for the night who was now going to
miss stepping outside for a cigarette in his
bright white shirt while his only equipment he
had strap on to come to work, his handgun, lay
comfortably sitting in his desk. Worse than
that, it was never relayed to me or any of the
officers on the street that they were not
calling in the SWAT Team as requested. Officers
remained on high alert, shining their
spotlights with wide open eyes straining to see
anything that moved in the pitch-black area
with no street lighting, waiting for something
to interrupt the deadening quiet as if watching
a horror film.
I loved my job
patrolling the streets but being on the SWAT
Team was my passion. I soaked up every bit of
knowledge that had been passed on to us by our
Team Commander, one of the best leaders I ever
worked for. What I never did get used to, was
the jealousy and deep-seated resentment of a
handful of officers who were not on the team,
nor did they want to be on the team. We were
not better than officers who were not on the
SWAT Team; we were just better trained and
equipped for these situations. Unfortunately,
as fate would have it, this Captain was one of
those officers!
Jim, an officer
who had ten years more seniority than I did,
met up with me asking what we should do next. I
did not give his seniority a second thought,
and to his credit, he didn’t either; we just
wanted this guy caught. We walked down the road
and the sickening realization of just how huge
this area was; sucker punched us right in the
gut.
We started doing
the best we could, searching the edges of the
woods, looking around the industrial buildings
and peering into dumpsters. “Never, ever search
for an armed person at night in a wooded,
brushy area, always try to contain and wait
till daylight.” That previous training advice
echoed in my head, it was loud and clear, but
what was I doing? I was searching. Oh, we
didn’t go in deep, but there were so many gaps
he could slip through. My hands were literally
full; I had my K-9 partner Grand on a long
leash, I grasped my rifle and tried to hold my
flashlight. Jim stayed with me and provided
cover. The questions flowed in over the radio
like a roaring river. I gave out instructions
the best I could. My senses were overloaded,
and I was letting myself get caught up doing
too much. At one point I was even climbing
railroad boxcars and sticking my head and light
over the top to peek inside. Not a smart move
and something I would eventually train other
officers to never do . . . do as I say, not as
I did!
At one point,
during all of this I requested that the
Pennsylvania State Police helicopter be asked
to respond. They could be here within an hour
and had a fully equipped infrared radar system
that could pick up body heat and enormous
spotlights to light up the area. SWAT had
trained alongside them and these fine men
always stressed they would drop anything at a
moment’s notice if ever needed to help one of
our own. Yep, one more request for the captain
to ignore and tighten that demotion noose a
little tighter around his neck. I do not think
we will ever comprehend why these decisions
were not made.
All of this
played out for about an hour and a half,
sometimes seeming like seconds and at times
like an eternity never really grasping that the
SWAT was not coming (most were in bed sleeping,
unaware that this was even going on). Adding to
the chaos we had to stop a train and now it sat
idling on the tracks.
I think
everything sort of hit home when I climbed a
30-foot pile of mulch in the middle of the
tracks so that I might have a better look
around. I pointed at a blue light, “is that the
helicopter?” “I think I hear them.” I said to
Jim. “No that’s a radio tower and you are just
hearing the train.” he tiredly responded. I saw
the expression of despair on his face. I
glanced at my exhausted K-9 partner who had
searched and done everything I commanded him to
do, his high prey drive stretched to the limit.
Selfishly I never even thought to reward him
with a drink of water like cowboys do when they
take care of their horse before themselves. My
clothes were soaked with sweat and covered with
burrs from all the ill-advised searching. I
remember commenting to Jim: “I feel like we are
in Vietnam and the commanders are ignoring our
requests for more firepower.” His look of I’ve
have ten more years of dealing with this crap
than you do kid, said it all. It also explained
why he was willing to take a back seat to my
commands.
Let’s regroup I
suggested. I went back to my car, got Grand
some water, and advised everyone that we should
just wait for SWAT and the helicopter. Never
coming to grips with the fact that they should
have been here by now as my overload of
adrenaline had whisked away any thought of time
like sweeping the dirt under a rug. My next
thought was to call Terry and let him know what
is going on. After all, he was even more
overprotective of our partners than I was, and
he needed to know Jay was shot or the guilt
would haunt him over and over. I was so drained
it did not even dawn on me that he too was SWAT
and should have already been called. He
answered the phone and as I began to explain
the situation to him, he interrupted “Yeah, I
heard about Jay, I guess it’s all over and the
guy is long gone, I spoke to the captain (I
will not say what he really called him.” “What
the hell are you talking about?” I asked. He
could not believe it when I filled him in on
the details. Terry’s next call was to the
captain to tell him he was coming in. Can you
believe it; The captain said he was not needed!
But in typical Terry fashion, albeit with no
staring blue eyes over the phone, although I
know they were glaring loud enough to be seen
on the other end; he explained, or should I
say, demanded that he was coming in. The
reluctant captain agreed knowing he was on the
losing end of this debate with this patrolman
just as like the instructors were back in the
academy days.
We had been on
scene about three hours when Terry arrived.
Somehow, he got dressed, got his dog in the
car, and made the 25-minute drive from home in,
oh, I would guess about a total of fifteen
minutes. I explained everything to him as I
leaned in his cruiser, those blue eyes looking
in disbelief as he observed my disheveled
uniform. At the same time, I debriefed our
internal affairs commander who was now on
scene. I selfishly took some pleasure of
leaning in to directly address Terry and making
the Internal Affairs Inspector hover behind me
to hear everything, but I give him credit, he
was on scene. Ironically, I had learned this
game from Terry, but never played it with the
bravado and as naturally as he did. The
inspector was good man, but I was losing my
patience with the Command Staff tonight for the
lack of decisions.
I was still
filling Terry and the Inspector in on the
details when a patrol officer named Paul
approached me. He called me by name, “Les, I
have a woman who has to walk down this street
to get to work, what should I do?” The street
being the road we were using as the west side
of our very loose perimeter. I thought to
myself: My God there is a commanding officer
right here, why are you asking me? But it was
not Paul’s fault, this was the command
structure that informally transpired that night
and I just responded, “Okay, but walk with her
and stay on the west side of the road.” I did
not take the time to assess that this officer
was only in partial uniform as he had been on
an assignment that night staking out an area
being hit by vandals and in the darkness, he
would not be immediately recognized as a police
officer.
Moments later,
while I was still talking with Terry, the
frantic voice screamed on the radio “Les, I
think I might have the suspect here” “This guy
came out of the weeds.” Later I would
hypothesize that the suspect thought he could
blend in and walk off behind this couple
walking down the road, then realized he was
cop. Terry sped off in his cruiser toward them
before I could finish my sentence. I looked; my
car was about 75-yards away. I sprinted to it,
and it seemed like I was running a mile, I
could not get there fast enough. I am pretty
sure I had put the car in gear before I even
hit the seat. They were still about 100 more
yards away. I did not think you could get a
cruiser to go from zero to 70 miles an hour in
100-yards, but it is possible.
As I exited, I
could hear Terry shouting the correct commands
we had been trained over and over on the SWAT
Team “Get on the ground!!!” We always put the
suspects on the ground, you could control
everything that way. I heard Paul’s untrained
and unsure voice “Put your hands up.” It was
still pitch black with no streetlights and I
guess we all jumped out of our cars with no
flashlights. I strained to see, almost willing
my eyes to have night vision “what the hell was
going on?” As I got closer, I saw Paul leaving
his feet to tackle the suspect. Almost
simultaneously, Terry fired his weapon. My
initial thought was “Oh my God he just shot
Paul” who had dived in front of him. Paul and
the suspect tumbled into the darkness down a
slight hill full of high weeds. Crown Vetch was
the type and name of the weeds, something that
would forever stick in our minds. A barrage of
shots immediately followed, I could only see
muzzle flashes and I thought Terry and Paul
were in a crossfire shooting at the suspect
between them. I instinctively turned to duck
behind my cruiser door for cover, only to
discover I was not near it anymore. I had been
moving toward the shots without realizing it or
even to this day, remembering moving. As fast
as you could pull a trigger, I heard the shots
being fired and I swear I was trying to sink
into the asphalted road behind a four-inch curb
for cover. I strained to see what was going on.
Later the Internal Affairs Inspector said I was
moving toward the gunfire which I also cannot
remember doing, but I must have, as I now stood
on the sidewalk at the top of the slight
embankment. I saw the suspect face down, but
still squirming. I could not see Paul, but
there was Terry struggling to stand up. He
looked up at me, those icy cold blue eyes now
in a state of shock and said “Les, I’m shot.”
Then out of my mouth came the most stupid words
I have uttered in my life. These were the words
that my best friend and I would reminisce about
time and time again. And those words were “did
he have a gun?’ then the response in typical
sarcastic Terry bravado, those blue eyes
snapping back to normal: “He fucking shot me!”
This brought me
back into reality. My perception because of the
slight delay behind Terry when I arrived was
that Terry and Paul had been shooting at the
suspect in crossfire and I could not see
anything but muzzle flashes. Paul’s radio
transmission of I think I might have the
suspect had laid the groundwork for the
formulation of my thought process. Another
lifelong training lesson of why different
officers, just like witnesses of a crime may
have different perceptions. Only later did we
learn that the untrained Paul had thrown his
own gun to the ground and tackled the suspect
when he drew Jay’s handgun from the sagging
waistband of his gym shorts. Paul’s finger was
blown off as the suspect fired his first shot.
The suspect rattled off 13 shots after that as
fast as one could fire them. Paul had rolled
off after he was shot. Terry could only aim and
shoot at the blinding muzzle flashes when he
saw them. He could not see the suspect or Paul
and had to wait for each muzzle flash to he
knew what he was shooting at; even though each
time there was a muzzle flash a bullet was
headed in his direction.
Terry could not
just indiscriminately spray bullets, he had to
try and make each one count, not something
criminals worry about when they scatter bullets
like a farmer spreading bird seed. The bullets
tore through Terry’s flesh. One bullet went
through his knee taking out the ligaments and
one zipping through his thigh. Then the one
striking his left hand, yes this was the left
hand he injured in accident a couple years
prior. The same hand that the doctors
reattached his thumb to after the accident. The
bullet blew apart his fused wrist. The hand he
had worked so hard to rehabilitate to so he
could come back to the job he loved, the job
that he was great at. The hand was now useless,
it dropped to his side, and he stumbled losing
his balance in that damn Crown Vetch,
regrouping, struggling to stand as he
methodically returned fire with one hand . . .
waiting for the next muzzle flash knowing the
next bullet was coming his way slash through
the next part of his body sculpted by the years
of weightlifting and boxing, but that was the
only way he knew where the target was. Terry
hit the suspect with four of the eight shots he
fired, an amazing statistic for police
shootings and even more incredible under these
conditions.
The suspect was
still moving with his hand’s underneath him.
Holy crap, does he still have the gun I thought
when I pounced on his back like a Cheetah on
his prey. I tried to pull his hands behind his
back, my hands now wet with blood, slipped off
like trying to hold a bar of soap. I tried
again and he resisted. Now covered in his
blood, my clothes soaked as if I was bleeding,
I desperately forced all my weight on him to
hold him down. I still had not seen a gun and
needed to get his hands out from under him. I
struck him on the side of his head unknowingly
breaking my finger. Finally, one arm
handcuffed, then the other. Other officers
arrived to help, they rolled him over and there
was the gun, the one taken from Jay, the one
that was used to shoot Jay, Paul, and Terry.
The gun laid there, the slide locked back and
empty of its fourteen rounds as if saying if I
only had 30 more rounds, I would still be
shooting. It was in fact Terry’s courageous and
justifiable use of deadly force that had
stopped this suspect, the one that started out
as an unarmed young man, from shooting others.
My attention was
now back to my buddy, he looked it at me while
emergency medical responders tended to his
wounds: “You have to be the one to tell Renae
(his wife).” Well, it probably was not the
smartest thing I had ever done, but along with
all the other not the smartest things I had
done that night in the name of getting the job
done and considering the stress I had been
privy to that night. But I jumped in the
overheated cruiser and drove to his country
home fourteen miles away. Let me just say I
broke the record time that Terry had just set
while driving in. But before that, when I was
running to the car, I noticed paramedics
working on Terry and Paul and officers were
standing by the cuffed suspect. I grabbed a
firefighter by the bulky sleeve of his
protective jacket and led him to the wounded
suspect as we were short on paramedics. My
exact words were “It will not break my heart if
this guy dies, but he needs medical attention.”
Contrary to popular belief, we are ethical men
and women and have a moral obligation to render
aid. We stop using force when compliance
starts; and alone in the dark it was just us
and him before the medical responders would
arrive, anything could have been done, but that
is not who we are. Now, time to set the Daytona
speed record.
I stopped his
son in the driveway as he stood waiting for a
ride to his summer job. Yes, the same son who I
comforted after he and I witnessed Terry’s
accident when his hand was demolished the first
time. I pulled him up to the house. I entered
the home where I usually spent at least one of
my nights off every week with my friend. This
is the house where our families shared many
meals and attended summer picnics. Renae, who
like my wife had just saw the morning news clip
with the lead in “Three Erie Police Officers
shot more after the break.” My wife’s worry and
terror would last a little longer. Renae saw me
and yelled “I do not want to hear your voice!”
Into the cruiser on the way to the hospital we
went putting a few more high-speed miles on the
cruiser during the never-ending shift.
July 07, 2000,
our lives changed forever that night. Terry was
forced to retire due to his extensive injuries.
Sometimes I feel guilty because the incident
eventually led to a promotion for me. I ran the
new training unit and provided all officers,
not just SWAT with some training and tactics
that might just save their life one day. I
would hold Terry as the epitome of how one
should act in a police officer involved
shooting incident. I also became the SWAT Team
Commander and fulfilled my passion in police
work. Many things improved for the Department
after that, other than losing one of our finest
officers to an early retirement. But no
worries, we eventually hired another 20 or so
officers that would equal what we lost in one.
The suspect was sentenced to prison for most of
the rest of his adult life and should be
recovered from his injuries.
Terry and I
remain just as close as ever, and every now
then we will bring this night up, oh maybe not
every single detail and now more laughs than
tears, although they still flow every July 7th,
but each time we reminisce it will always
include the infamous question; “Did he have a
gun?” and the response complete with these
glaring blue eyes “He fucking shot me Les.”
About the Author
Les Fetterman is a 33 year veteran of law
enforcement. He began his career with the
City of Erie Police Department (PA) and
spent 26 years there before retiring to take
the Assistant Director of Public Safety at
Gannon University (PA). While a police
officer with the City of Erie was a member
of the SWAT team; spending the last 10 years
as the SWAT team commander. A graduate
of the FBI National Academy (2009) he is the
current Director of Public
Safety at Gannon University, Pennsylvania.
His contact information is available through
the editor of the website.
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