For Central Indiana cops, grappling with new realities of attacks
Police work has always carried risks, but in the age of ambush attacks on law enforcement, the job has changed.
The choice of where to leave her police car at night isn't a simple one for Lauren Carmack.
For the nine years she's worked for the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department, Carmack routinely has parked her cruiser in front of her Indianapolis home. Now she's not so sure it's wise to draw attention to her profession — at least while she's at home, off duty, with her family.
Police work has always carried risks: the nighttime traffic stops with drivers concealed by darkness; the roiling domestic disputes, sometimes involving people abusing substances while armed; the threat of shootouts during massive SWAT raids. But the ambush-style killings of three police officers in Louisiana and five in Texas — plus the shooting of an Indianapolis officer's east-side home and parked police cruiser — have introduced an alarming new dimension to the job.
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A dimension that reminds police that a single person bent on harming an officer can do so with the pull of a trigger, no matter whether that's on a run, at a peaceful protest or outside a home after a shift ends.
Police officers are trained, it's often said, to have their head on a swivel, alert to threats from any direction. And officers from rural, suburban and urban agencies sampled by IndyStar say it's nearly impossible for them to take more precautions than they already do. But it's also true that the officers, and their families, are re-evaluating what it takes to remain safe as a police family.
It has prompted some, such as Speedway's Alex Redding, to conclude that his children should no longer ride in the marked car, a noteworthy change for the 36-year-old dad whose son dresses up like a cop each Halloween and wants to follow in his footsteps. For others, the events have caused them to renew pledges to remain extra-cautious after work. Carmack, for instance, prefers not to wear clothing that identifies her as a police officer while she's out with her stepdaughter.
"You are definitely a little more paranoid, because it's kind of unthinkable that could happen," Carmack, 36, said about recent violence against police. But, she added, "I kind of always tend to think worst-case scenario."
Traditionally, spouses have lived with a deeply buried fear that they'll get a phone call or a knock on the door with news their officer has been critically injured, or worse. With that in mind, they've established rituals of daily reminders to wear their bulletproof vests; of parting with goodbye kisses at the door; and of check-in calls or texts during shifts.
Now, amid a seemingly shrinking hesitation about assaulting police, that formula is changing.
"I think as a family, you then start to set up safeguards. Not necessarily that wasn't always there, but just kind of recognizing the safeguards that we already had in place," said Aaron Hamer, a 33-year-old detective in IMPD's East District, who has a wife and four children.
Like the Hamers, the Redding family stressed the importance of teaching their kids to stay safe while finding ways to delicately describe the dangers of their parent's profession.
"We don't want to scare them, but we also don't want them to live in a bubble where they don't know what's going on," said Redding's wife, Arden. "So it's kind of a balancing act where we make sure that our kids know Daddy does everything he can to stay safe, but unfortunately there are people in the world who don't have the best of intentions."
Indiana residents support law enforcement after Dallas police shooting
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That's been evident this year, as the nation has witnessed 32 firearms-related deaths among law enforcement, a 68 percent increase from the same time period in 2015. The risks faced by police officers were prominently highlighted earlier this month in a letter to law enforcement from President Barack Obama, and last week at the Republican National Convention.
And as bad as the incidents in Dallas and Baton Rouge, La., were, what hits hardest for Hamer are the losses of officers who wore his same uniform. IMPD officer Rod Bradway, killed in 2013 while responding to a domestic disturbance, was Hamer's classmate at the police academy.
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"You put on the uniform every single day, and you may or may not be called to respond to a run that requires a person on the other side of that room with a gun, and they may take your life," Hamer said. "What does that look like for your family?"
Carmack grappled with such violence on a personal level. In 2011, while sitting in his cruiser and filling out paperwork, Carmack’s beat partner was shot in the hip. She watched in disbelief as the drive-by shooters sprayed him with bullets.
Her partner yelled out that he had been hit. Carmack swore in response. In retelling the story, she had to clean up her language.
“I was scared. I remember the one side of my ear, I felt like, rang for days,” Carmack said. “When he went to the hospital, he was more worried about if I was OK than if he was OK. And I was like, ‘You’re in the frickin’ hospital! Shot!’ ”
The injury drew the two officers closer together. They became best friends and started dating. Now they're married.
Lauren and Dustin Carmack no longer patrol together as partners. But Lauren notes that there’s still a particular kind of intimacy you share with your spouse when you’re working the same job. Both have the same hours. Both hear each other on the police radio.
If something happens to one of them, the other is sure to hear it.
"It's kind of a blessing and a curse,” she said. “But I trust him.”
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While news of threats against police officers seems to be growing, so too do the random acts of kindness from the vast swath of the public that’s supportive of police. Since the recent attacks, officers say they are routinely being met by people who offer to pick up the tab for a cup of coffee or a meal, who want to shake their hands or say thank you.
Redding, who works security on the side at the landmark Long’s Bakery when he's not on duty in Speedway, said people regularly offer to buy him a doughnut, even though he’s one of the few cops who doesn’t care for them. Most touchingly, he said, a father came up to him recently with his two sons, asking if they could snap a picture.
Morgan County Sheriff’s Deputy Nathan Clary, 42, took a dinner break with some other officers in the middle of a shift Thursday night in Mooresville, when they were approached by a young woman who said simply, “I want to thank you for what you do.”
Brandi Cornell, 24, said she tries to make such gestures routinely, but in light of the targeting of police, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity in front of her. Her mother, Dee Cornell, was proud of her daughter and sad for the officers. “It breaks my heart,” Dee Cornell said, “because they deserve a whole lot more than what they get.”
Clary says such exhibitions of support for police are common in Morgan County, where the population — 97 percent white — is far more homogenous than in Indianapolis. But he notes that there's a small percentage of young people, mainly in their 20s, who exhibit the worst attitudes toward authority.
"I don't think people respect the police the way they used to," he said.
His own son has as much respect for the job as a 2½-year-old can muster, saying sometimes: "Daddy's going to help people." His wife, Julie, also is proud of her Nathan, though she sometimes worries.
The two of them met when Nathan was an emergency medical technician and they worked on the same ambulance. From working in a hospital, she knows something about life or death situations. But with Nathan one of only a handful of deputies patrolling 400 square miles — at times, 15 minutes from his nearest backup — there's danger to the work she could live without.
"It makes me count the days until he retires," she said.
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Despite the recent spate of violence against police, almost no officers interviewed for this story are looking to leave the job anytime soon. The Carmacks, in fact, intend to stick with it for the long haul.
Lauren Carmack loves being out on patrol, which she says is a combination of peacekeeping, social work, relationship therapy and, occasionally, enforcing the law.
That said, her family has encouraged her, from time to time, to get off the street.
Her father, a retired North District detective, used to send her postings for jobs that would have put her behind a desk. But he gave up, she said, when he realized she was happy with her patrol duties.
"I can't see doing anything else," she said. "We'll retire as cops."
Call IndyStar reporter Robert S. King at (317) 444-6089. Follow him on Twitter:@RbtKing.
Call IndyStar reporter Jill Disis at (317) 444-6137. Follow her on Twitter:@jdisis.