Through hours of tedium, moments of terror, officers work together

By DAVE HAMRICK
Staff Writer

The mood is jovial, almost rowdy, as six officers file into the briefing room at Fayetteville Police headquarters to prepare for the evening watch.

When a reporter is introduced, they exchange grins that suggest they're wondering who is going to have to haul this civilian around.

To Sgt. Robert A. Stavenger's announcement that there have been more 10-119 calls (entering autos) at Fayette County High School, officers point out that school hasn't even started yet. "It is the band and the football team," jokes one.

House watch assignments are handed out (officers routinely check the homes of residents on vacation if requested), and other routine items are handled, punctuated by jokes and comments.

The most notable item for the night, Stavenger reports, a resident went to take out the trash last night carrying a .9 mm handgun ("Must be a tough neighborhood," barks one voice in the room). He never came back. County units are searching a small wooded area near his home, thinking there may have been a tragedy. Some of Fayetteville's off-duty officers are helping out.

There's a description, a vehicle to watch for.

No one announces that the meeting is over, but all six officers slide their chairs back into place, hitch their equipment belts and head for their cars as if a whistle had been blown. One by one, black-and-whites pull out of the parking lot to begin the evening patrol.

On the road, radio conversations are brief and coded. Everyone seems to know where to go and what to do without a lot of instruction. These people have worked together before, it appears.

"The credit on this shift does not go to me or to Jeffrey [Lt. Jeffrey Harris, watch commander]," says Sgt. Stavenger, the one who got stuck hauling the civilian around. "It goes to these guys. They are so good."

His instructions are simple, said Stavenger. "I told them the do's and don't's are easy. Do your job and don't get me in trouble," he quips with a grin.

He spots a sheriff's brown patrol car with lights flashing, pulled in behind a rusty red compact in a vacant lot, and pulls in behind them, uncoiling his 6-foot-two frame and ambling over to talk to the deputy.

"No brake lights, no i.d.," the deputy tells him. "He says it's his mother's car." Then he notices the shiny new state accreditation sticker on Stavenger's patrol car. "Where'd you guys get that?"

While the two wait for confirmation from dispatchers that the driver is who he says he is and that the car isn't stolen, Stavenger explains that Fayetteville police recently were accredited by the Georgia Police Accreditation Commission.

Only 24 police departments statewide are authorized to display the stickers, which represent hundreds of hours of training in meticulously written procedures.

When the deputy approaches the car to talk to the driver, Stavenger quietly walks up from the opposite side. He watches the driver's hands, resting his own right hand on the butt of his holstered revolver.

All is well. They let the driver go.

Back on the road, Stavenger explains, "It's really a family thing." Officers watch each other's backs, and "We break our necks when they call for help."

In one incident when Stavenger radioed that he had drawn his weapon on two suspects that witnesses had seen brandishing rifles, he said it was mere seconds before the air was pierced with the sound of sirens coming from all directions. "It was the neatest feeling to stand there and see ten cars just come out of nowhere," he said.

While he drives around the city, Stavenger periodically radios his location, using a short coding system. "R-16" designates the residential area he is cruising through, "B-16" the business complex nearby.

A call comes in. Stavenger is asked to make an arrest. A local retail worker never paid her speeding ticket, and there's a bench warrant out for her. She made it easy on officers by going down to the police station and filling out an application for a beer and wine license, which requires a background check. The warrant turned up in the routine check.

Seconds after the call comes in, Officer Mike James' voice comes over the radio. He is nearby. Stavenger grins. "He's gonna offer to take it." "I can take that if you like," James says. "Told you these guys were good," Stavenger says.

Both officers go to serve the warrant at the retail store where the woman works. James explains to her supervisor that it's not a criminal matter, but she has to be arrested because she didn't show up in traffic court. They walk the suspect to her car to get her purse, acting nonchalant. "We try to be as discreet about these kinds of things as we can," Stavenger says. "There's no reason to embarrass her or the store."

Procedure says she has to be handcuffed. The officers wait until the woman is ready to sit down in the patrol car, and quickly slip a pair of cuffs onto her and drive away.

"They'll probably let her keep her job," says Stavenger, and it seems to matter to him.

It's a slow day. Not much else happens during a four-hour ride-along. That's not unusual, says Stavenger. Some days are busy, some are not. Watch commander Lt. Jeffrey Harris seems almost apologetic. "Sorry nothing happened," he says.

Two nights later, a bomb threat brings a cacophony of sirens and profusion of lights. Fire trucks standby at a safe distance as Lt. Harris and his officers direct traffic around a local restaurant. A police bomb technician and firefighters search for a bomb or incendiary device, but they find none.

The bomb threat is a hoax, but officers and firefighters do their jobs the same as always, not knowing whether the danger is real.

Outside the restaurant, officers are ready to head back out on patrol. "You should have done your ride-along tonight," jokes Harris.