NEWS

Police recruits' sobering lesson: Death is a daily danger

Robert King
robert.king@indystar.com
Brittany Waltz, one of 26 Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department officer recruits, subdues an instructor playing a resistor during training.

Police academy recruit Robert Chamberlain survived a tour of duty in Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne. He doesn't elaborate beyond "yes" when asked if he shot anybody there. And he is the sort of guy you'd want at your side in a tough spot — commanding presence, calm under pressure, seemingly fearless.

Yet in a recent police academy training scenario, Chamberlain and his recruit partner were, as far as the simulation goes, shot down dead.

Recruit Gerson Cardona, a former Bible college professor who keeps the scriptures in his car, loves people and sees police work as a new ministry. But he, too, ended up "dead" in training after he failed to spot a suspect's gun.

And what of Brittany Waltz, the only female recruit in her 26-member police academy class? She bought it in the chaos of a crowd.

In fact, nearly every member of the Indiana Metropolitan Police Academy's 10th recruit class has — through the course of training simulations — been killed at one time or another. In most cases it's been at the hands of a trainer, acting as a bad guy, who pulls out a plastic gun and says, "Bang, you're dead."

But it's one of the more indelible lessons so far through half a year of training — that this line of work can get you killed.

As Waltz put it, "It is very sobering."

Sobering could describe much about IMPD's police academy training. Routinely, it includes dashcam videos of real officers who made one mistake and wound up getting run over on a highway or shot during a traffic stop. Training that teaches recruits the hand-to-hand combat "survival tactics" needed to stay alive in a scuffle until backup comes.

Finally, there is the police academy itself — with a wing named for a fallen patrolman and a display case with portraits of dead officers.

At a time when the nation seems to be confronted daily with stories of questionable police behavior — when Ferguson has become a cultural touchstone — police work is under more scrutiny than ever. Yet new police recruits are confronted with another harsh reality: Every three days a police officer dies in America.

Chamberlain, Cardona and Waltz, who are members of IMPD's 10th recruit class, have undergone six months of academy training. They've just begun another five months of field training, where they will be working alongside veteran officers on the street. Initially, they will be on a very short leash, but by this fall they will be given a patrol car and pushed out on their own.

For all practical purposes, they are already fully-operational cops. They are under close supervision, yes. But they wear the uniform, wear the badge, carry a gun, and accept the risks and responsibilities that go with it. They could get killed or injured. They could take away someone's freedom. They could take a life. As IMPD Police Chief Rick Hite told them before handing them their badges, "It is a responsibility that will change your life."

Indianapolis will hand that responsibility to about 80 new officers this year and to another 115 next year. It's part of an effort to address the 1,500-member force's looming retirement bubble and confront violent crime in the city.

State law requires that new officers get 12 weeks of training in their first year. The biggest trainer of new cops in the state, the Indiana Law Enforcement Academy, requires 16 weeks. But IMPD recruits get a minimum of 47 weeks and — unlike some smaller departments around the state — all of it must be completed before they take to the road alone.

That kind of training costs the city north of $10 million a year — about $125,000 per recruit. Yet in this era of Ferguson-inspired distrust, and the legal bills bad policing generates, it may be a bargain. "What's the cost of a bad hire?" asks Maj. James Cleek, who runs IMPD's academy. "I would venture to say that it will blow away the $125,000."

In today's world, an ideal cop would have the physical capacities of a soldier, the legal mind of a lawyer, the people skills of a diplomat and the empathy of a priest. They are trained in areas you might expect — marksmanship, physical fitness and investigations. And other things you might not — "policing the teenage brain," understanding sovereign citizens (vehement anti-government types) and working with a K-9 unit without getting mauled by the dog. And they are taught things particularly relevant these days, such as a subject's constitutional rights, how to "verbally de-escalate" tense situations, how to be "people-reading experts." And they are taught about the use of force.

"Why do we use force?" defensive tactics trainer Jeff Patterson asked the trainees after one session.

"To gain control," came the response back.

"How much force is appropriate?" he asks.

"Reasonable force to stop an imminent attack."

What's reasonable can vary wildly. The recruits are taught how to gain compliance with touch pressure on nerve endings. They're taught how, in a scuffle, to kick someone in the shin or chop them to the neck, how to spray pepper in a face or zap someone with a Taser. For the most dire circumstances, they're taught how to shoot to bring a man down.

"If I don't engage my enemy," Patterson tells the trainees, "I may not go home to my family."

One of the hardest lessons for the trainees is that using force may actually make their subjects safer. Barking orders forcefully and clearly is much better than confusing a person who then doesn't follow your directions. Tackling someone quickly and putting a knee in their back is better than shooting them.

"Sometimes when people are hesitant to use an appropriate or reasonable amount of force," said Sgt. Nathan Barlow, who has overseen the training of this latest class, "they make the situation worse."

One tip trainers offered the recruits with regard to armed subjects: "Tell him if they move to the gun they'll be shot."

The recurring theme of the training — that a potentially lethal encounter lies just around the next corner — is to be expected from a police academy, said Ken Falk, executive director of the American Civil Liberties Union of Indiana. Teaching recruits about the risks — and how to respect a suspect's rights — doesn't have to be mutually exclusive, he said.

"The work is extremely challenging," Falk said, "and I could certainly see why trainers would want to instill both the recognition of how dangerous the work is but at the same time recognizing that constitutional rights have to be observed."

In the post-Ferguson era, the recruits are also taught that it's beneficial to yell instructions loud enough so that onlookers and people capturing the moment on a cellphone — people who might be potential witnesses — can hear them, too.

All of these competing interests were wrapped into the scenario training conducted in a darkened building once home to Wanamaker Elementary School, which in some ways became the most dysfunctional neighborhood in America.

The school cafeteria was converted into a darkened nightclub, complete with ear-piercing soundtrack and a cast of characters darting in excitedly from all directions. The library became a park where brawls erupt every 15 minutes. Various classrooms became a homeless camp on private property, a house full of people concealing a person wanted on a drug warrant, a scene of a domestic disturbance and a bank lobby where there was a robbery every 20 minutes.

Veteran officers — drawing inspiration from characters they've arrested over the years — play the roles of the belligerent drunk, the felon giving a false name, the street tough with a short fuse and a host of other miscreants. Their primary motivation: Make the recruits think on their feet.

"People's true character comes out under stress," said Sgt. Roger Tucek, one of the trainers. "So we try to put these kids under as much stress as possible."

To add to the effect, the scenarios are created to be both murky and chaotic.

Chamberlain, the Afghanistan veteran, "died" for instance after entering the scene of a domestic dispute. He and his partner found a man (played by a trainer) getting beat up by his wife (played by another trainer). They presumed the guy was innocent because he was getting pummeled. Suddenly, though, the guy pulled out a gun.

Chamberlain saw it coming. But, he said, "It was too late."

Cardona, the former pastor, is someone who is blessed with empathy for his fellow man and the assurance that, should he die in the line of duty, he knows he'll go to heaven.

But that concept became a little more real after he and his partner were killed during the simulation of a melee in a park. People were swirling around. The recruits arrested a woman and handcuffed her. Somehow, though, they missed the gun in her waistband. She got her hands on it and used it to "kill" the pastor turned cop. After his simulated death, Cardona's first thoughts weren't about heaven. It was "Wow, we blew it."

Waltz, who as a teenager was a swimmer, a diver, a soccer player and softball player, was exposed to the idea of becoming a cop by a high school coach who joined the force. It didn't hurt that Waltz's mother and grandmother taught her that, even in a male-dominated field, she should push to go just as far as the men.

And in the scenario training, Waltz died just like one of the guys. It happened in a crowd. The scene was chaotic. Someone had a gun. She and her partners didn't see it. She got taken out.

Beyond just facing the danger, the recruits get a glimpse of just how confusing some situations can be.

In the bar brawl scenario, for example, the first trainee through the door is met by a bouncer who gets in his face and even puts his hands around the trainee's neck. He wants to show what the combatants inside are doing, but it's jarring and awkward. Further inside, the room is dark. The music blares. Two men are locked in a clinch. Punches fly. Around them are people from the dance floor who take turns running up to the police trainees and yelling in their ears. Some are trying to be helpful, others are not. But it's hard to know. In such uncertain territory, any of them could be a threat.

The ideal solution is for the recruits to tell the bouncer to shut off the music and turn up the lights, then to grab the one guy throwing the punches by the collar and haul him outside. Sounds simple. In practice, it's less obvious.

Pair after pair of the trainees go about it poorly. They want to wrestle the bar patrons to the ground. They slap the cuffs on people trying to help break up the fight, sometimes even the guy getting beaten up. As deafening music roars on, as drunken patrons swirl around, the officers even want to pull out their notebooks and start conducting interviews.

When the drill is over the veteran trainers unload on the recruits. They tell Cardona, the pastor, he was too trusting of the bar patrons, that he allowed too many people to hang behind him, out of his field of vision. They tell Waltz she did a good job quickly arresting the aggressor in the fight, but that it was a bad idea to start an investigation in the middle of the raucous bar. Her partner made a more grievous error: He hauled the bar brawler outside and left his partner alone in a crowd of belligerents. The coaches tell Chamberlain, the soldier, he allowed bar patrons to get too close to his holstered gun, that he and his partner let the fight go on too long as they sized up the situation.

"Bad. Bad," says one of the trainers. "All the way through."

Some trainers are sharp with their criticism. Others, are gentler. But mistakes — even getting "shot" with a spoken bang and a plastic gun — are part of the learning. Better to fail and learn at the academy than on the street. But the inescapable fact, according to veteran trainers, is that it takes an officer three to five years on the job to be a "complete" officer.

"It's a long process," Barlow said.

Even this early in their formation, there are signs that the trainees are making progress.

In one scenario, two recruits are called to a "home" where there's been a disturbance and a request to check on the well-being of those inside. A recruit knocks on the door, but a woman tells him to go away. The recruit asks to see the other people inside the house. He hears only grumbling from the darkness. Just visible inside the door is a bong — suspicious but off the subject. Eventually, the trainee coaxes the man to the door. He's OK. The recruit has done his job.

In another scenario, the recruits must serve a drug warrant at a darkened house. They bang on the door and draw their guns. A groggy man at the door is alarmed and won't let them in. For a few minutes, the recruits are stymied. Then they remember the authority their warrant grants them. They push their way in and haul the man at the door outside. They move through the dark house and encounter drunks, sleepyheads and eventually, the subject of their warrant, who gives them a fake name. They check a photo and take her away.

Both scenarios show points in which the subtle aspects of policing come into play.

In the first, seeing the bong might justify going back for a search warrant and making a drug arrest. But it would take hours and result in only a minor drug possession arrest. The trainers suggest that the recruits were wise to let it go and stay in service, to maybe even use it as leverage to push the unhappy couple into counseling. "What's the bigger picture? Are we all about making arrests or are we serving the community better by defusing a situation?" says officer Larry Stargell, a trainer who coached the recruits after the scenario. "If we arrest a husband for having a bong, what did we accomplish? The city is pretty busy."

In the second, the coaches say the drawn guns and the banging on the door escalated tensions more than necessary. A softer approach might have gained them entrance much more easily.

Discretion and other nuances take time to master, the trainers say. "There is no black and white when it comes to dealing with human beings," said Tucek, one of the coaches. "We try to give them as many gray situations as possible."

To that end, Chamberlain the veteran of Afghanistan has had to learn to dial back his inner soldier. "I guess my biggest worry — I wouldn't say my fear — is getting it wrong," Chamberlain said, voicing a worry shared by others. "If the suspect takes me out and I know I did everything right, I'm happy. If I do something wrong and it gets my partner shot or the suspect that didn't have a weapon gets shot, it's a whole different world."

Rather than just issue orders, he's had to learn diplomacy. His trainers say he is making progress.

Cardona, the pastor and Bible teacher, has had to become more assertive and direct — to realize not every person will relish his calm counsel or understand he's there to help. "I want to treat people with dignity," he said, "but I'm afraid that people don't want that."

Waltz, who had wondered if she could meet the physical demands of the job, said she has been pleasantly surprised in that department. What's been more fascinating is how the training has affected her at home. She finds she now gives her two small children clearer directions. She also has a cop's eye for details.

"I am much more aware of things that go on around me in the world," she said, "and not so closed off living in a bubble."

With their field training ahead, chief Hite gave the recruits a pep talk before giving them their badges. He told them Indianapolis was not like Ferguson because "we make sure people understand we care." He warned them to do nothing that would force him to take their badges away. And then he told them to take care of each other, and to take care of the city.

"Now it's up to you," Hite said. "Go forth and use what we've given you."

Robert King covers crime and public safety. Call him at (317) 444-6089. Follow him on Twitter: @RbtKing.

ABOUT ROBERT CHAMBERLAIN

Robert Chamberlain raises his hand to answer a question during class at the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department training academy Friday, Jan. 9, 2015.

Originally from Gary, Chamberlain spent 6 1/2 years in the U.S. Army, serving one tour in Afghanistan as a member of the 101st Airborne Division. Chamberlain, 34, moved to the Far Eastside last year and decided to join IMPD as a way to continue to serve others while staying in one place. He's married and has two children.

Part of his desire to be a cop, he said, is to make the streets safer for his own children and for others. He sees an opportunity to be a bridge to minority communities that may be distrustful of police, and perhaps influence young people to join the force.

"Hopefully, I can get through to communities to start young, to let them know at a young age that police aren't bad. They are actually here to help, not just to lock you up."

ABOUT GERSON CARDONA

IMPD officer recruit Gerson Cardona attended the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department Law Enforcement Training Academy.

Originally from Guatemala, Cardona's parents brought him to America when he was five. They were undocumented immigrants. He became a citizen after marrying an American woman in 2003. Cardona, 35, has two degrees from Crossroads Bible College in Indianapolis, where he taught for two years. He's married and has two children who live with him on the Southside, plus three grown stepchildren.

Cardona has assisted local Latino pastors in serving as a police chaplain and saw a new opportunity for ministry. Cardona said police corruption in their home countries has conditioned many Latinos to distrust police here, too. Some that are here illegally also fear interactions with the police. Cardona wants to change their perspective on police.

"We want to let them know we are human beings," he said.

ABOUT BRITTANY WALTZ

IMPD recruit Brittany Waltz receives her first silver badge during a badge pinning ceremony, Wednesday, April 10, 2015.

Originally from Indianapolis, Waltz was an athlete in high school who saw one of her softball coaches eventually enter the IMPD, planting a seed that she never forget. Waltz, 23, took college classes at Indiana State and IUPUI and worked as a bailiff in Marion County Criminal Court 15. She's married, has two children and lives on the Southside.

As the only woman in her academy class, Waltz said he fellow recruits have become like older brothers but, she adds, "They don't treat me like I'm fragile."

She's tried to explain he new career to her two children, ages 2 and 3.

"They understand it to the best of their ability," she said. "They know Mommy wears a uniform and that Mommy is going to fight bad guys."