The Last Shift

My last shift was yesterday.

I started my career back in 1992 as a reserve officer with CPD, and went full time in 1993. I was assigned to Team Three, which covers the James Island and Johns Island areas. It was a sleepy patrol team back then, and convetional wisdom had it that it was not the best place to get one's feet wet as a cop. I was lucky in that I had a hard charging FTO (field training officer) who took me into the busier areas when time and staffing allowed. In the seventeen years since those days, I spent time in every patrol team in the department.

A few weeks ago, before I was given the offer by the State Department, I was transferred back to Team Three from what had been a seven year stint in our department's toughest district (Team One downtown). I suppose there is something about things coming full circle. I only spent about two weeks in Team Three before I dropped my resignation papers. I hardly had time to get to know the new squad I was commanding.

Having been used to very busy shifts for several years, it was somehow numbing to spend my last day on patrol with very few calls. I suppose that was a good thing. I really don't need to be subpoenaed back to Charleston while I am trying to do my training in DC. I still have a few cases that have not been disposed of yet, but there are other police witnesses in those cases which will likely allow them to go forward without me.

It was a lucky day for a most of the people I came into contact with in the official sense. All traffic stops ended with a warning ticket, all investigative detentions ended with a release. I looked for aggressive panhandlers out near Secessionville Road. I dispersed some of the local dope peddlers around Ferguson Village. I had lunch with one of my patrolmen who I have known for some time. I made my way around the main headquarters saying goodbyes. I signed off on a couple bank fraud and B&E auto reports. Ditto for a couple of traffic accident reports.

At the end of the day, around 1700, the evening shift checked in service. It was time to take the car to the barn for the last time. I decided to take in a couple places along the way, so I drove past where Ricky Love bled out years ago. I took in the cemetery on James Island where Brian McEvers is buried. I drove downtown past the corner where Dennis LaPage was murdered in cold blood. I then pointed the old car towards headquarters, passing the police memorial in Brittlebank Park where all of our line of duty deaths are remembered. I turned into the parking lot and found a spot close to the building. It was time to get on the radio for the last time, to record officially on the dispatch tape that I was no longer in service. Not just for today, but forever. I sat in the car for what must have been ten minutes, looking at the citizens and officers walking around, going about their business. I sat there with the mike in my hand. Perhaps somebody was out there listening, waiting to hear the Sarge check out of service for the last time, for good or ill. I should consider myself lucky. Some guys' last acts on this job have been to stop breathing, and a bugler marked their passing. I wish I could still hear them on the radio today.

I replaced the mike on its hook without saying anything, got out of the car, and walked away.