I heard later that he had been bragging at school afterward that he was there to draw us out.
Trooper Jenkins and Mark began yelling at the figure in the dark, giving him verbal commands to come across the street. I did not see what became of him, as my attention had suddenly been drawn elsewhere. A silver pick-up truck drove up the street that ran perpendicular to our location. It rolled slowly through the intersection and then came to a stop.
Then, to my disbelief, the reverse lights came on and it began to back through the intersection!
I remember thinking, “Don’t turn this way! Don’t turn this way!”
The truck stopped backing, and then, incredibly, it turned toward me, exposing me with its headlamps. I had taken a position in front of the pick-up in the darkness, to cover the side of the property across the street and, in doing so, I neglected to get behind cover. Hell, I wasn’t even behind concealment!
I began yelling at the driver of the truck, trying to get it out of there. The truck was moving much too slowly for my liking. Of course, this has the opposite effect on whoever was driving it: the truck stopped right there, leaving me fully illuminated to God and everyone else. I was still crouched, rifle slung across my chest, and waving my hand at the truck, when the first shot rang out.
I felt it as soon as I heard it. It hit me squarely in the center of my chest.
I just got shot!
I couldn’t tell if the bullet had entered my body, so I took a quick breath, which felt normal normal to me. Nothing felt out of the ordinary at that point, until more shots rang out and I began to take more hits on my lower body. I found myself lying on my back and I tried to kick with my right leg, to get out of the line of fire. It did not respond. I began kicking wildly with my left leg and yelling.
I yelled, “I’m hit!”, as I continued to struggle to get away from the shots that were now raining down upon me from somewhere in front of me.
I heard, from behind me, “You’re hit? Get out of there!”
I had gotten hung up on the curb and I was struggling with one leg to get over it, so I yelled, “I can’t!”
Meanwhile, I was looking frantically for a flash, a glint, some sign in the darkness that showed where the shots were coming from. I was pissed and I was going to return fire! I was going to get that son of a bitch!
I can now say what is the most frustrating thing in the world for one to experience. It’s not having to wait in line during your lunch break at the bank while a little old lady makes sure she has counted all the dimes, nickels, and pennies in front of her at least three times. It is not trying to catch that little white poodle-like, doggish looking thing that had just moments ago run out in front of your vehicle and now sits just out of reach while you try to coax it close enough to catch it and take it to the pound. It’s not even having to deal with a sergeant or lieutenant who you suspect was promoted to that rank for reasons other than his or her qualifications or abilities. I know now that it’s having someone trying to harm you in the worst way possible, and you can’t do a damned thing to stop him from doing it!
I held my fire. I had no idea from where those shots were coming, and I was not about to cut loose without first confirming my target. I did not want to have more of my bullets going into the wrong place again that night.
I then heard the other officers yelling something I never thought, in all the years I have been doing what I do, I would ever hear: “Officer down!”
And it was for me.
Then, with lead still raining down on my position, I felt strong hands grabbing me around the shoulders and they pulled me to cover. The officers dragged me down to my vehicle and dropped me on the ground next to it. By this time, Sergeant Nicholas Czegledi of the Elko County Sheriff’s Office had arrived on scene and he became part of the evacuation team.
The officers struggled to open my vehicle, as I had locked it just minutes ago. I told them to hold on, and I reached down and hit the remote key on my belt. When I did that, I could see a large dark spot on my right thigh out of the corner of my eye.
“Don’t look at it! Don’t look at it!”, I thought to myself. I had the mental image of a large hole blown through my upper leg and I did not want look any closer to if that was true. I have learned over the years that there are certain things you do not want to see on yourself: blood draws, inoculations, and, I suspect, large gaping wounds. I’ve fainted from the previous two, and I was not about to faint from the latter.
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Having gotten my unit unlocked, we struggled to get my two hundred and ten plus pounds, with all my gear on, into the backseat. I was unable to help much, as my right leg was dead, and I was having trouble getting a purchase on the running board with my left foot. My buddy Mark, all one hundred-forty pounds of him, then got on top of me, to keep me from falling out of the quarter-cage of my unit. Sergeant Czegledi backed us the hell out of there, down to the ambulance which had staged several blocks away.
I was yanked out of my unit and onto the street. There was a flurry of activity as they started tearing stuff off of me. I helped them with the two belt-keepers on the back of my duty belt. Then, they started to cut my uniform from me. Soon, I was a pasty-white naked man, lying stretched out on the cold pavement in twenty-six degrees, and it felt good.
My modesty, what little I actually had prior to that night, had flow the coop. It could have had something to do with the fact that I had been made into a fleshy, hairy swiss cheese several minutes prior. I didn’t care: all I knew was that the cold air and pavement felt damned good.
Rudely, I was loaded onto a backboard and then hoisted up onto a gurney, where I was strapped down. They then stuffed me into the ambulance and drove me to the Wells municipal airport, to await the arrival of the medevac helicopter.
After getting shot, I felt no fear and no pain. I knew I had been shot several times, but I had no idea how serious were my injuries, nor how many total injuries I had sustained. I knew of at least two: the first one to center of mass, and the one that took out my right femur. Beyond that, I did not have a clue. All I knew was that I felt crappy.
Waiting for the helicopter was misery: I could hear the voices of my fellow officers on the ambulance’s radio. I heard fear and worry in all of them. I was relieved when all officers on scene switched over to SO tactical, and I could no longer hear them. I was seriously worried that one of my fellow officers could end up like me, or worse, and no longer hearing them on the radio allowed my to concentrate on myself.
I set a goal for myself: I told myself that I would not pass out until we got to the hospital. Once we were on the ground and in the ER, I told myself that whatever happens, happens. Until then, however, I was going to stay awake.
The helicopter landed and, after evaluating me, the aircrew told me they were flying me directly to the University of Utah Medical Center, which has the best trauma center west of the Mississippi. That came as a great relief to me, as flying me to Elko would have added another hour to my ordeal, and I was not sure I could have hung on for that long.
They loaded me into the bird, put a set of earmuff on my head, and lifted off. The flight, I was later told, had sort of set a new record for flying to Salt Lake City. We had a forty knot tailwind the whole way. And, two minutes after we landed, the helipad became socked in by a blinding snowstorm. The aircrew had to be driven back to Elko later that night.
Now, I remember landing. I remember being unloaded from the bird. What I don’t remember is the elevator ride down to the ER. I do remember, however, the fluorescent lighting in the ER, a lot of voices around me, and me complaining that I had to pee.
Someone said to go ahead and go.
What? I’m not going to pee on myself!
I thought someone would be nice enough to bring me a urinal or a bedpan, but no joy. They kept telling me to just go right there on the gurney.
I was full of holes, naked and bleeding, but I still had limits. I was not going to pee on myself. I began demanding a catheter and, after several minutes, someone obliged me. I don’t remember much of that, though. Right about the time the nurse was do that, someone snuck up on me, clamped a mask down on my face, and the world went dark.
I awoke to a drugged stupor hours later, unable to talk due to the various pipe fittings that had been jammed down my throat. I remembered that I had been shot several times, but it really did not bother me. My partner in sniper training, Deputy Valerie Steinfeld, was holding my left hand. Sergeant Dave Prall was on my right. My lovely wife was standing at the foot of the bed. Then, after some time, of which I have no clue how much longer due to a lose of the concept of the passing of time, they took all the tubing out of my throat and I was finally able to talk again.
Not that I had much to say, as I was pretty high. One of my buddies, Deputy Jim Mathes, is a DRE and he later told me I was definitely high, as my pupils were huge!
The following days were a blur, mostly due to pain-killers and to the worst pain I had ever experienced in my entire life. A staple had come loose inside and fluid was leaking into my abdominal cavity. This was causing my abdomen to swell. Morphine didn’t even put a dent in it. It felt like two thick steel cables were being forced down over both my shoulders and pulled very hard. I was re-evaluated and I went back down to the operating theater.
I was again opened up, my innards removed, the leak repaired, and then my guts were stuffed me back into me like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.
The following weeks in the ICU were among the worst days in hospital. I suffered vivid, full-color nightmares, as clear as if I was standing in front of all the horror in the world today. I dreamt of abandonment, of helplessness, of being cast aside, neglected. I know what my hell is, now: it is being totally helpless, as helpless to save my friends and my community from harm as I was to save myself.
I was fed through a tube inserted into my nose. I was not able move without the aid of nurses. I lost twenty-five pounds, all of it muscle. I had to relearn how to sit up again. After several MRI’s, many x-rays, scores of pills, daily blood draws, and a lot physical therapy, I was finally able to walk out of the hospital two months after I had checked in.
In total, I took six shot, five of which caused injuries. The shot to the chest was stopped by my vest, but barely. I have an indentation in my sternum with a scar over it.
One of following shots entered the outside of my right thigh, about half way up, and blew out the femur. There is a titanium rod inside my femur now. It is a permanent part of me.
Another shot hit me on the left side, just below my body armor. It destroyed my left kidney and passed diagonally across my abdomen, nicking my liver, my stomach, and destroying a section of small intestine before existing my right hip. The left kidney and twenty-six inches of small intestine were removed.
The most damaging shot hit me in the right groin, just missing my femoral artery. It damaged my sciatic nerve. The feeling is still returning to my right foot, but I doubt it will recover fully. In the meantime, I take medication to control the extreme burning sensation in my right foot. Without my pill, it feels like it is being roasted on a charcoal grill.
Another shot hit me in the left ankle, which went up my tibia before blowing that out. It also ruined a good pair of brand new expensive uniform boots, too. One now has a hole in it. I have also a titanium rod in my left tibia, for good measure.
One of the shots hit me in my extra magazine pouch. At the time of this incident, I was carrying a 1911 pistol for duty, which holds eight shots in the magazine. As such, I was carrying four extra magazines on the right front side of my duty belt. Because of that, I was saved from another grievous abdominal injury by one of the steel magazines, which took the full force of the shot. One round inside the magazine exploded, but I was not hurt, in spite of this.
The suspect in this, the man who caused me and my family much grief, was eventually arrested. After nearly two years of waiting, delays, motions, and legal maneuverings, he was finally sentenced to a long term in prison after wisely taking a plea agreement instead of facing a jury in a trial. I am satisfied with this outcome; well, as happy as one can be, when facing the end of a much loved career.
My injuries have rendered me physically unfit for duty. This saddens me, knowing I can no longer go back to the fun and adventure my career choice sometimes gave me. Yes, it was dangerous, and at times extremely scary, but that is what gave me the rush, the thrill. I was able live on the edge in a manner that was socially acceptable, and I could give something back to my community while doing so.
There is a problem with living on the edge, though. Sometimes you get cut. In spite of that, I did it, and loved it. I will miss it, but that is beyond my control now. It is time to move on.
The only direction I must go is forward.