No typical shift for Sparks P.D.
by J.D. Wilson, Outpost contributor
In the late afternoon sun, I walked right past it. Officer Ray Eccles, my escort for the evening, pointed it out to me. He said it was a reminder of what can happen any day on the job.
"There's no such thing as a typical shift," says Officer Ray Eccles. "If you're laxidazical in what you do out here, [you can] get yourself killed or someone else killed."
Police work, especially in a small city like Sparks (pop. 62,000), consists of hours of tedium highlighted by a few moments of adrenaline rush. Any shift can turn ugly fast. That's why the tree is there.
Eccles recalls the circumstances of Johnson's death with uncanny clarity - almost like he can see it in slow motion as he speaks - even though was three years ago. Johnson had finished his shift and returned to the station when an armed robbery call came over the radio. He responded to the call even though he did not have to.
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Eccles describes other shoot-outs with the same attention to detail - noting in sequence where each shot came from and landed, each movement of each player.
Eccles moved to Sparks from Montgomery, Ala., 10 years ago to get away from the violence. There, he says, it was not a question of whether or not they would find drugs or guns, but who was carrying them. He says every shift was like going to war, and it was making him mean.
That's hard to imagine of Eccles. He's not a remarkably big man, but has the artificial barrel chest of a man wearing a bullet-proof vest. Short hair. Intense eyes. Wide smile. Genuinely friendly.
In the car, he methodically checks all of the lights, the radio, the shotgun. The front seat of the police cruiser is crowded with all of the extra gadgets, and the steel mesh of the cage across the back of the seat makes it feel even smaller.
I glance down the line of police cruisers and notice other officers engaged in the same ritual. On any given night, there are eight officers patrolling Sparks during the swing shift, which runs from 4 p.m. to 12 a.m.
Eccles says he likes this shift because it's more interesting than the graveyard and allows more freedom than the daytime shift.
Before driving out the gate, Eccles has spotted a blue Firebird driving too fast. He follows it into a driveway half a block away and warns the driver that she was going to fast. He also warns her that a citation would cost $99.
Within a few minutes out in the rush hour traffic, he has spots another driver going too fast and pulls him over. Watching from the cruiser, it's obvious the man is nervous. Again, the driver gets off with a warning.
"My job is not to hand out tickets," Eccles said. "My job is to make people a little more safety minded."
5:02 p.m. -- Before he can finish his thought, the first call of the night comes over the radio. It is a call for assistance with a felony traffic stop from Nevada Highway Patrol.
Screeching tires accompany the brief confusion over the exact location of the call. Less than three minutes later, Eccles pulls into a car wash behind the NHP. The patrolman is talking to the driver of a flatbed truck with Oregon plates.
"Keep your head down," Eccles says as he hops out of the cruiser. It is not the last time I will hear that warning.
The red and blue strobes of the two police cars interrupt the early evening darkness. Eccles' voice comes over the radio briefly between crackles.
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The man was cooperative and presented no problems. Because he could not be extradited to Oregon, he was not arrested. When another NHP unit arrives, Eccles returned to patrolling.
He stops at each convenience store to look in, see everything is okay, then flash his lights or honks his horn and let the clerk know he had come by.
Eccles talks to each of them under his breath. He knows all of their names, and everyone of the them waves back in recognition.
As we wind through the back alleys and streets, Eccles talks about his job. The radio talks or squawks almost incessantly. Two, sometimes three, channels run all the time. The radio pours out classic rock.
Eccles filters through all of it without missing a thing, including our conversation. He says the job is getting more violent; that in the past few years, crime has accelerated.
The statistics do not immediately reflect this. The annual report provided by Sparks Police Department shows a gradual upward trend in the number of cases each year.
"I'm telling you right now there's a vast manipulation of those statistics," Eccles says. "It's more violent, more violent towards us than anything."
He attributes political influence to the discrepancy. Violence does not fit in well with the image Sparks wants, especially juvenile violence.
Eccles says juveniles have no respect for authority and no fear of retaliation from the police or anyone else. More and more, the juveniles involved in crimes come from middle to upper income families. He blames the behavior in part on too much money and few little responsibilities.
A closer look at the statistics Eccles lends some credence to what Eccles has to say. Violent juvenile offenses increased 100 percent in 1993 over the previous two years. The number of crimes in that category has only continued to rise since then.
6:23 p.m. -- A call comes in from the Silver Club casino on Victorian Square.
Two security guards are waiting in front of the casino with a man in his 60s when we arrive. The guards explain that they have asked him to leave repeatedly, but he continues to return. He says his truck is in the lot and he can not get it to start.
After a few minutes of discussion, a resolution is reached. The man will leave for the night and not come back. Tomorrow, he can come back to get his truck. If he remains in the area or fails to get his truck and leave, he will be arrested for trespassing.
"They don't like us to come on the property too much," Eccles says of the casinos. "They're a private entity. They've got their set of rules, and they can pretty much say if you can or can't be on their property."
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The casinos bring a mixed blessing to the community. While they provide jobs, the majority of those jobs pay little. The casinos attract millions of tourist dollars and donate to local causes, but Eccles feels they could do a lot more.
"They do do some good, but I think it's superficial," he says. "It all comes down to the almighty dollar."
From the casino, Eccles drives out to the bike path along the river. He says he likes to check the trail at least once every night. There have been some problems on the trail - assaults and rapes.
Under the light of the moon, the river runs silver. The city seems far off, but only because nearby industrial buildings hide the lights.
7:47 p.m. -- A call comes over the radio. A burglar alarm at a nearby business has been triggered. Eccles hurries to the address, no flashing lights, no siren. As we arrive, another officer, Carl Flowers, pulls up across the street. Eccles tells me to stay put as he gets out of the car.
An older Volvo sedan with blackened windows idles in front of the shop. Eccles and Flowers approach the door and find the owner inside. They check the interior of the building to make sure that no one else is hiding inside.
After they emerge, the three men stand in the glow in front of the business, talking. Flowers explains afterward that he arrested the man two and a half years ago for driving under the influence. His four children were riding in the back of his pickup when he was arrested.
The man thanked Flowers for arresting him. Since his arrest, the man says he has cleaned up his life. He considers his arrest the thing that turned him around.
"There's too many stories like that," Eccles says.
9:12 p.m. -- After a quick dinner at home, Eccles meets Flowers back at the station to work on their pet project, a Christmas toy drive. The toys they collect will be distributed to families living in a poor part of town.
10:47 p.m. -- The jovial atmosphere dies quickly as a call comes over the radio about a domestic dispute and a man with a gun. Everything gets shoved aside as the officers charge down the hallway, out the door, past the blue-lit tree and to their cars.
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Back on Victorian Avenue, Eccles pulls halfway into the driveway of a convenience store. Down near the end of the block I can see some activity. Several other police cars are already on the scene.
"Stay here," Eccles says as he gets out. "Keep your head down."
He trots towards the activity, leaving me alone in the car. Conflicting reports come over the radio, but I am able to piece together most of what happened.
Following an argument, a man pulled a gun and put it to the head of a woman at the residence. No shots were fired, and the woman called after he fled the house on foot.
Officers found the man and arrested him at the bus stop where he waiting for a bus. His .22 caliber pistol was in his backpack when the police arrived.
He will be charged with two counts of assault with a deadly weapon and domestic battery, but none of this seems to bother him.
The man smells of alcohol and laughs and jokes with Eccles as though he knows him well. He tells us that he wanted to see his children, but his ex-wife has refused to let him stay. They argued. He pulled the gun.
The man, now in handcuffs, is transferred to the back seat of Eccles car. His backpack, with a large, black Bible sits on the curb.
The ride to the jail has a surreal quality - 90 mph down the freeway with surfer music blaring and a drunk man in the back seat hooting and singing. It's well after 11 p.m., and I'm sure that Eccles is thinking about getting home to his family.
At the jail, a big, muscular guard in coveralls searches the suspect. He takes the man's belt and boots and empties his pockets into a bag.
Eccles steps into a side room to fill out the necessary paperwork. Notes to arresting officers about property, medical conditions and booking procedures cover the walls. It takes only a few minutes before we are walking across the parking lot in the cold night air.
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"The only thing he did wrong was pull that gun and tell his ex-wife to leave him alone," Eccles says. "He wanted to see his kids."
The ride back gives me time to think about Eccles' assessment of the situation. It reflects the way he approaches his job. He deals with people, not the stereotypes that television tends to promote. The real-life stories are much more interesting and involved. They don't begin and end with Eccles' shift.
11:57 p. m. -- Walking past Johnson's tree for the last time, I'm struck by the reality of it. The blue lights glint off the waxiness of the needles, and I can't believe that I walked by without noticing it eight hours ago.
Posted Aug. 26,
1999
Copyright 1999, Nevada Outpost
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