PW_4_2020

Article

Once a Cop, always a Cop Steve Cherne , IPA Global Writers Forum & Section USA

The phone rang. I saw it was my youngest daughter calling from the States. “Hi Sweetie,” I answered. “Dad,” she says accusatorily, “Did you stop a man with a spear who was stabbing someone in Mexico? And did I have to find that out from a co-worker?” “Umm, yeah. I did but, …” “ Why did you do that? You could have been killed!” W hy indeed? I have been retired from law enforcement work for five years, serving in Duluth, Minnesota for most of my career. I exchanged the frigid winters for the warm and sunny climes of Mazatlán, Mexico, where my wife and I live in an apartment looking out over the sparkling Pacific Ocean for six months of the year. Martine looked up at me as I approached, and our eyes met. His eyes were not pleading for help. They did not look at me with hope, but only a look of resignation and sadness. His eyes said, “I am going to die.”

Steve Cherne

I was joined by Bob, another retired officer from the States, who lives in our building. We advanced on the attacker, who saw us coming and backed up a few steps, allowing Bob and I to get between Martine and him. Two other expats from our building were able to help Martine into the lobby and close the security door. Bob and I continued to advance on the man in black, as he retreated across the street where he stood at the top of the steps, in the doorway where Martine slept at night. We remained at the foot of the steps to block his escape until the police arrived. I could hear sirens approaching and within minutes several squad cars arrived. The assailant kicked out the plate glass window in the door and ducked inside the building. As soon as additional officers responded, an entry team was formed, and they went inside. A short time later, we heard loud commands and the unmistakable sound of a Taser being discharged. The man was taken into custody and whisked away. We gave our statements and contact information to the officers. Martine was transported to the hospital with multiple stab wounds. Now, my daughter was asking why, why did you intervene, why did you put your life at risk?

Martine is a Mexican man who suffers homelessness, and sleeps in the doorway of the vacant building across the street from us. A giant of a man, he weighs over 21 Stone and stands about 6 feet tall. Some form of mental illness brings about outbursts of laughing, roaring and shouting at imaginary figures. If you did not know him, he could seem very frightening. The expats living in our building often bring Martine meals. We all talk with him and buy seashells from him, which is how he ekes out a meager existence. The local police know him well, and they too bring him food and drink regularly. Martine functions as the de facto watchman for our neighborhood. After dinner one night, I was lounging on my couch reading, wearing my usual Mexican garb; a tank top, running shorts and flip flops, when our neighbour began pounding on my window and shouting, “Call the police, someone is trying to kill Martine.” My wife, who is fluent in Spanish grabbed the phone, while I jumped up and ran down the stairs to see what was going on. As I ran, I thought to myself, what are you doing? You are on a Tourist Visa, you have no legal standing here. You are unarmed and you are certainly not dressed for a street fight. Nonetheless, I continued, bursting out the front door of our building onto the sidewalk. Martine was down on his hands and knees, drenched in blood. His assailant, a man in his early thirties, slim build, shaved head, and dressed all in black, stood over him. He had a hand scythe tucked in his belt and a four foot long wooden spear in his hands, repeatedly plunging the spear into Martine’s back and neck.

“It’s simple,” I said. “Because that is what cops do.” You might leave the Job, but the Job never leaves you.

Caring for Martine after the attack

Martine a few days before the attack

The attack

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POLICE WORLD Vol 65 No.4, 2020