One Little Slip, a whistle blowers story

Be Curious, Not Judgmental

Many things in life are not as they seem. If there is one phrase that has served me better than most, it is this: Be curious, not judgmental.

That mindset goes far beyond approaching situations with an open mind. It is about resisting snap judgments entirely. In law enforcement, you learn very quickly that nearly everyone you encounter is expected to lie—or will. Sometimes people lie to protect something big. Other times, they lie to hide the smallest, most ridiculous things imaginable. I learned to see each situation not as a confrontation, but as an opportunity. Not just a chance to solve a living puzzle, but an opportunity to meet a unique individual. People who aren’t smart enough to keep their mouth shut will almost always give you excellent material for your story.

In this chapter, I want to share experiences that harden some people and strengthen others—events that become what many would call baggage. I was fortunate. Despite everything I saw and did, much of it didn’t plague me the way it plagued others. It was easy for me to trivialize certain scenes when I knew friends were overseas, fighting for our country, seeing horrors that would redefine their version of unforgettable. There is also a particular peace that develops when you are a rescuer. You learn quickly that you can only control yourself in the moment—not what caused everyone to be there.

I’ve mentioned the Mexico vacation where four of us became involved with a drowning victim who did not survive. Her husband, a doctor from New Hampshire, expressed something I’ll never forget. Even in his grief, he thanked us. He felt comforted knowing his wife had received a higher level of care in her final moments. That perspective stayed with me.

Because I am the kind of person this sort of thing happens to—what I’ve described before as a kind of magnetic energy—I’ve never been afraid to get involved off duty. If I witness a crime or something preventable, I step in. Those first few minutes matter more than most people realize, and staying engaged keeps you ready for almost anything.

Alcohol, however, has always been one of the most predictable and dangerous constants.

I could tell you countless stories of intoxicated drivers. There was the seventy-year-old man on a sunny Sunday afternoon who drove straight through a stop sign, across a driveway, and into a fence—slow enough that the fence didn’t even fall over. When I approached him, he was still seatbelted in, windshield wipers going, as if nothing was wrong. He blew over a .30 BAC. For those unfamiliar, that’s an automatic hospital transport. Chronic alcoholics can survive levels that would kill someone like me.

That was a fairly standard incident—nothing compared to the Glenmont man whose license had been revoked for drinking and driving, yet decided it was perfectly reasonable to take his John Deere lawn tractor up the road to the Grand Union and liquor store. He made my job easy by driving on the wrong side of the road. He, his bottle, and his thirty-rack came with me. The tractor went on a flatbed. Still better than arresting someone on a bicycle.

Alcohol has a way of making very bad decisions feel reasonable. Anyone who has ever sat in a bar and watched someone—friend or stranger—stagger toward the door, presumably heading for their car, should pause longer than just thinking, That’s not a good idea. Think instead about the people you love who might be sharing the road with that rolling missile. Bartenders are better today about cutting people off, but it’s still a drop in the bucket.

One recent night, a friend reminded me of an incident years ago he witnessed while sitting with my wife and me in the dining area of a local bar. We’d been watching a man stagger back and forth, repeatedly trying to check his tickets on the Quick Draw machine. Smart locals knew at the time to slip out the back door after the bathroom, unnoticed. Nowadays it gets you banned! When I realized that was likely his plan, I went out the front door and met him as he tried to climb into his Chevy S-10.

I tried reason first, knowing full well it rarely works. I offered to get him a ride. When that failed, I identified myself and told him plainly: I wasn’t going anywhere, and he wasn’t driving. After being given every option, he chose, “Then arrest me.” So I did. I called for a marked unit, had him transported, and then spent the next three hours doing paperwork. The upside? Four hours of recall overtime—and maybe someone’s life saved.

Driving is just the obvious danger when alcohol is involved. I don’t enjoy being around extremely intoxicated people at all; conversation is pointless when reason is absent. And drunk people do some truly unbelievable things. I’ll spare you most of them, but a few are impossible to forget—like the man who ripped out his own tooth, or the alcoholic whose stomach was so damaged he could no longer ingest alcohol. His solution was an anal cocktail. He was found dead in his home, in a position I will never forget.

I could write for days about alcohol and stupidity, and still not cover half of it. I won’t get into family, in-laws, or certain experiences that are easily dismissed with a request for forgiveness from God. I will say this: thank you, Pastor, for showing me the light. Without that guidance, my eyes may never have opened.

I’ve always found it strange how some believe anything can be absolved simply by asking forgiveness, then going on as if nothing happened. I used to joke that Catholic confession was the best deal around: go to church on Sunday, confess your sins, say a few Hail Mary’s, enjoy Sunday dinner, and you’re cleared for another six days of poor decisions. And people wonder why I struggle to trust those who live by instructions without understanding.

I do believe in a higher power. But when the conversation turns to God, I always ask: Which one? Everyone insists theirs is the right one. I define it simply—God is love, happiness, and everything good meant for us. Love lives in your heart. To me, that means God lives there too. I’ve watched people pray to the sky for answers, when the answers were waiting in their own chest. Even non-believers tend to find religion in a crisis. Thankfully, God is forgiving—He doesn’t seem to hold grudges over long absences.

It’s only by listening to my heart that I’ve been able to accept the random unfairness of the world.

I’ve seen children—healthy babies—die in ways that defy explanation. You can only look up and ask why so many times. My mother faced that reality one day at the elementary school where she worked when a second grader with asthma went into crisis. Even with advanced life support, he couldn’t be saved. Scenes like that carve a permanent sense of helplessness.

As law enforcement, even when performing resuscitation on a child, you are trained to keep your eyes open—not just medically, but behaviorally. We live in a world where the unthinkable sometimes comes from those closest. Munchhausen syndrome and other instabilities are real. I was fortunate to be raised around strong male role models who taught me how to compartmentalize these realities. Still, some victims never leave you. They become your ghosts.

One of mine was a little boy named Dylan.

Dylan was about three years old, still in diapers, wandering around the house while his mother—who was babysitting other children—fell asleep on the couch. He wandered out the kitchen door and into the yard, where two family dogs roamed freely. These dogs had never been abused. They were considered lovable pets.

But dogs are still animals.

I believe Dylan began playing with them. His dirty diaper likely triggered instinct. That’s where my “2% rule” comes in: trust things up to 98%, but never forget there’s always a 2% chance something unthinkable will happen. The dogs chased him, grabbed at the diaper, pulled him down, and mauled him. When I arrived, I knew immediately what it took doctors a year and multiple surgeries to confirm—his injuries were fatal.

For a while, I hated all dogs. I can even recall booting my own little mutt that night as if a message he would share in all the circles. We humans are pissed!

There was no one to blame. And that makes it harder. Blame gives people somewhere to put their pain. Accidents don’t. Not so strange for my complete acceptance and handling of my initial accident last summer. However you term the ‘cause’ of my accident, the only important fact is that it impacted NO ONE BUT ME, and as I’ve said before, each time bringing me to tears, thinking “Thank god no one was walking their dog, or riding their bike on that beautiful afternoon”.

I’ve seen death in many forms, including those chosen intentionally. Suicide scenes vary, but for me, hangings are the worst. There is something about seeing a body suspended that permanently etches itself into your mind. Though even that had competition.

One afternoon, I was eating a sandwich at my kitchen table when the call came in: a mannequin—or possibly a human—burning in the roadway four miles away. I took another bite. My wife asked if I was going. I told her honestly: if it was a mannequin, my rushing wouldn’t help; if it was a human, he was already dead—and I wouldn’t want the rest of my lunch afterward.

It was a man. He had parked down the road, doused himself in gasoline, walked half a mile, sat down, and struck a lighter. This wasn’t a cry for help. It was a decision. 

When I became a firefighter, my father once told me from experience, “You’ll never forget the smell of burning flesh.” He was right. Bodies constrict when burned. The man’s arms were frozen in a position that looked like he was curling weights in a gym. Officers today sometimes get into trouble by taking photos. In this case, the image didn’t need documenting. Let’s just say all three of his legs were straight. I joked he went out giving the world the middle finger. I was glad he found his solution—and angry at the work it created. Who am I to judge?

Not everything fades.

One night on the A line shift, I was field training a new transfer from the ACSD, when Russ and I spotted a lone vehicle parked among DOT equipment by Blue Cross/Blue Shield on Rt 85. Something felt off. The young man inside gave a confusing story about groceries. Then it shifted—he needed to change clothes before going home to his mother. He produced a thick hardcover book from the seat: Transvestites and Transsexuals.

The relief on his face when I understood was unmistakable. Still, curiosity matters. I asked what he’d been wearing before. My trainee lost it laughing as the man produced clothing from his bag. “One white blouse.” I say as if being inventoried.Then an olive-drab garment. He quickly added, “I prefer to call it a kilt.”

We sent him on his way—secret intact, spirits lifted.

Some experiences break people. Others temper them. Resilience isn’t about being untouched; it’s about what you carry forward, and what you learn to set down.