Reporter gets ride of her life with police officer

It isn't often an ordinary citizen gets to ride along with Metropolitan Police Department officers. So when such an opportunity arose, this reporter was quick to grab a notebook and pen to learn just what it's like to go on calls with those committed to protect and serve.

I arrived at the northwest command center on West Cheyenne Avenue a few minutes before 3 p.m., gave my name and was told to take a seat in the lobby.

About all there was to do was scan the rack of pamphlets on the wall above me. If anyone wanted to know who was living on their street, they could start Neighborhood Watch. If they saw graffiti, there was a number to call. A wealth of information was on that wall -- the Secret Witness program, being safe in shopping centers, how to be a safe jogger.

The last topic stuck in my brain. I recalled reading about a female officer who lost her life jogging alone, her headphones masking the sound of her attacker's approach from behind.

In the lobby, the acoustics made it impossible not to overhear conversations. There was the shaky voice of a mother of two hyperactive children asking for protection from an abusive former boyfriend. Then there was the cell-phone-addicted teen who had a group of bullies after him for getting two of their buddies in trouble at school.

Another man reported his credit card stolen, with thousands of dollars of charges showing up on it.

Then the door to my right opened and my host for the 3 p.m. shift stepped out to greet me.

I shook hands with Officer John Maholick, 38, an eight-year veteran with the department. His stance and haircut told me he was a former military man. The gold pin below his name tag told me was rated an expert with firearms.

He led me back to the briefing room where roughly two dozen officers, most of them male, were seated. They were jotting down last-minute notes.

Lt. W. Graham advised them I was a "ride along" and had me stand up "so everyone can get a good look at you and know who you are out there."

Thinking of all the releases I had to sign before being allowed to be here, I took that to mean "so you won't be unintentionally shot." I was suddenly glad I was wearing a bright pink top.

The briefing was just winding down, but I caught the gist of the latest concern: some teenage boys were breaking into houses and a recent incident had netted them a cache of guns, not a good situation.

The officer in charge mimicked a line from "Hill Street Blues" before sending the officers into the field, "Be safe out there." Not a very original line, I thought as I hid a little smirk.

We got into a squad car and pulled out of the command center. Traffic around us suddenly slowed to the speed limit.

But Maholick's attention was on other things. The computer bleeped and a list of pending calls popped on the touch screen. They were all in code so Maholick gave me a quick lesson.

Officers memorize hundreds of code numbers. A 401, for example, was a car accident. A 401-A was a hit and run. Car accidents with injuries were 401-B. And code 401-C indicated property damage.

We took a 404-A call. Someone dialed 9-1-1 then hung up.

The call came from an apartment complex. Even with the large numbers on the buildings, the exact address was difficult to find.

It turned out to be a boyfriend and girlfriend who were "goofing around" and the phone's automatic dial feature was hit inadvertently.

Maholick and another responding officer separated the pair to make sure they had the same story. When they were certain there was no indication of violence, the officers left.

Maholick said more than half his time is spent on domestic violence calls of one type or another. They ranged from being a tiff between a couple to more escalated violence.

Another large part of his time is spent checking out suspicious people or drivers.

"If you drive by and see someone standing on a street corner, that may not be suspicious," he said. "But if you go by 15 minutes later and that person is still standing there, inside your head you go, 'Something's not right.' You've got to check it out."

Speaking of gut feelings, something told me playing host to a reporter didn't evoke the same reaction as the last chopper out of 'Nam. So I brought it up.

"And you drew the short end of the stick, huh?" I said.

To his credit, he just smiled.

Call No. 2 led us to a storage unit on Cheyenne Avenue near Rancho Road. Someone had broken into it and stolen two television sets and a stereo. The unit was packed so tightly the owner couldn't be certain if anything else was missing.

Maholick took preliminary information, then called a special crime unit officer to come take the report, freeing the squad car for more pressing situations.

As we drove away, our next call came up -- a 73-year-old woman called 9-1-1. She just found her elderly husband on the bedroom floor, dead. It would be a sad call.

We were headed west with the rest of traffic on Cheyenne Avenue toward her address when the computer bleeped again. It was a code 413, whatever that was. I noticed Maholick quickly glance over to make sure I was wearing my seat belt.

Then everything changed in an instant.

He flipped on the lights. He flipped on the sirens. Then he floored it.

We were yanked back into our seats like Han Solo going into hyper-drive. The Crown Victoria blasted down Cheyenne, passing the cars that pulled far right, going around others who seemed oblivious to the screaming siren.

I saw an intersection ahead, blocked with traffic at a red light. We careened around them, taking the wrong side of the street and causing the jaws of oncoming drivers to drop in unison before they beat a path to the far shoulder.

We swung back. Then Maholick floored it again. So this was what he meant by Code 3.

Drivers scurried out of our way. Maholick expertly swerved when a clueless motorist nearly cut us off.

We charged at the U.S. Highway 95 bridge -- clogged with stopped traffic. We flipped to the left side of the road again and passed them in a nanosecond.

Another turn of the wheel and we flipped back to the right side, braking only enough to avoid skidding off the bridge into oblivion.

We skirted more stopped traffic at Buffalo Drive and careened left to take it south.

I glanced at the speedometer -- 60, 63, 65, 67. Dang, but we were moving.

"I have to be careful not to outrun my siren," Maholick said as calmly as though he was reading a bedtime story to his 7-year-old daughter. "If I go too fast, people don't have enough time to react."

An old Bronco with a bad paint job changed lanes to be in front of us and Maholick slammed on the brakes.

"And, see this guy who just pulled into my lane in front of me?" he casually asked.

See him? I was about to wave to the idiot, not using all my fingers. But Maholick continued as though nothing happened.

"Now, you can't pass someone like that on the right because they might go, 'Oh yeah, I'm supposed to pull over to the right when there's a police car right behind me with his lights and siren on,' " he explained. "So if we try to pass him on the right, chances are we'll get hit. We just have to wait for him to get out of the way."

To get the guy's attention, Maholick flicked the siren to a nerve-rattling stutter-mode he'd used at intersections. The wayward driver woke up and cleared the lane.

The pedal went back down and we blasted across Lake Mead Boulevard, the undercarriage lifting like stones over a lake.

It was only then I thought to ask what type of emergency he was racing to handle. Seems 9-1-1 operators were flooded with headline-worthy calls: Four teenage boys were brandishing guns in the shopping center at Washington Avenue and Buffalo Drive.

They fit the descriptions of the ones connected to the recent house break-ins, he said, the ones who had taken a cache of guns.

I mentally calculated if my life insurance policy was enough for my children's college tuition.

Maholick told me we were one of the four units close enough to respond. I spotted a police helicopter circling overhead, heard its transmission alerting officers to the teens' exact positions.

We charged down the dock side of the shopping center. Maholick expertly reined the cruiser to a stop at the corner of one building.

"They're right over there," he said to me, pointing to where three other squad cars were skidding to a halt. "Get out and get down. And stay here!"

As soon as I was clear, he gunned it around the corner. He screeched to a stop near the teens' white pickup. I saw Maholick jump out pointing his semi-automatic handgun, his opened door an extra shield.

All four officers had their weapons trained on the robbery suspects.

Orders were yelled out, "Drop your weapons, now! Drop them! Do it now!"

Shoppers scattered. Diners at McDonald's instinctively ducked. Store clerks, lured by the excitement of sirens, now peeked around decorative pillars.

Just like the clueless Bronco driver, the boys seemed oblivious that there was some expectation of compliance being requested.

They stood there looking at each other with a "Who me?" kind of response.

One continued holding a black handgun at his side. If he dared raise it even an inch ...

"Put the gun down! Put it down! Now!"

After a lifetime, the teen finally dropped the gun and all of them were ordered to put hands on their heads. But none of the police officers advanced, not yet.

"OK, get on your knees," one officer yelled. "Now lie face-down on the pavement."

One by one, the boys obeyed.

Then the officers approached the four boys as a unit, guns still trained on their targets. The black handgun was kicked out of reach, just like in the movies.

The boys' hands were yanked behind them, handcuffs slapped on.

It was only when all four were bound did a collective sigh seem to emanate from the officers. But things were still not totally secure.

A rifle had been noticed being tucked under the seat of the white pickup truck and once the boys were all marched to the squad cars, an officer checked it out.

Maholick waved me over at that point and I got to witness the officer's expressions when they first saw the boys' rifle.

On the butt, written in a happy-go-lucky script to mimic a cowboy lasso were the source of every parent's worst nightmare: Red Ryder.

"Omigod," one of the officers moaned. "It's just like the one in that Christmas movie, the one where the kid's mother thinks he's going to put his eye out with it."

And the black pistol, even though it looked identical to the semi-automatic weapons the officers wore, was also a BB gun.

"Here we are, looking for a bunch of 17-year-olds who we know have weapons and a call comes in with these kids fitting the description, pointing guns everywhere," Maholick said, shaking his head. "This is why my friend Jim, a cop in Philadelphia, this is why he shot and killed a 14-year-old."

Each of the teens received a sharp lecture on the stupidity of brandishing what looked like real weapons "in a shopping center filled with 5,000 innocent people."

Only one witness could be found who saw the "weapons" actually being pointed at people in a threatening way, not enough for a one-way trip to juvenile hall.

One teen, however, had a tin of Altoids in his pocket. Upon opening it, the odor of heavy-duty weed burst out like a nuclear cloud.

That boy's father was located and the officers waited for him to arrive. The man pulled up in an SUV, slammed the door shut and strode over, obviously none too happy with his weed-toting son.

After talking with the officers, the man signed off the paperwork and the teen was released into his custody. They got into dad's SUV and I watched them pull out. I could only speculate on the polite conversation they were enjoying.

We got into the squad car to take the next call. Leaving the scene, now with no trace of the high-anxiety situation we'd been called to, the parting words of the officer in the briefing room came back to me.

"Be safe out there." They suddenly didn't sound so amusing.


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