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On June 20, 2005, just before noon, a man walked into the federal courthouse at 700 Stewart Street. He wore a backpack backward on his chest and carried what appeared to be a hand grenade. He ignored security officers standing near magnetometers just inside the front door and walked to a wall in the lobby. He ignored further instructions from personnel in the lobby.

A call came into 911.

I was in the homicide office with my partner Jason Kasner when we heard about the incident. This had officer-involved shooting written all over it. We were next up for a case, so we responded to the location.

We arrived at the chaotic scene and stayed on the perimeter.

A call was made for SWAT. A visiting head of state was leaving, so most of the on-duty SWAT officers were escorting him to the airport. Tim Pasternak was the only SWAT officer available. He responded from the SWAT office on Airport Way South. Bill Collins was a patrol officer who had recently transferred from SWAT. When Pasternak arrived, Collins joined him in the lobby.

Pasternak was armed with an M-16 rifle. Collins had a shotgun loaded with slugs. Several other patrol officers joined them in the lobby of the building.

The lobby of the federal courthouse was ensconced with bomb-proof glass. That’s very helpful when the threat comes from outside the building. When it is inside, the threat is exponentially worse. The glass will capture the concussion within the building rather than releasing it through broken glass.

People peered over rails from the exposed landings above. If the suspect had a bomb in his backpack, as officers suspected, it was likely they would all be killed in an explosion.

“I don’t like this,” Pasternak told Collins. “I’m going to give him one more chance, and then I’m going to shoot.”

“Drop the grenade!” Pasternak yelled, “and lie down!”

The suspect ignored the commands.

Pasternak fired one round, striking the suspect in the lower lip and through his brain stem. At about the exact moment, Collins fired his shotgun, striking the suspect as well.

Jason and I were outside when we heard the “shots fired” report over the radio. We prepared to go in but had to wait. The Bomb Squad needed to make the scene safe.

Detective Scott Karahawa, dressed in his full bomb suit, entered the lobby. He approached the deceased suspect. He examined the hand grenade the suspect had been holding. It was a blank, with no explosive charge in it. He then carefully opened the backpack. Inside he found a wooden cutting board.

Once he secured the scene, we entered and conducted our investigation. This was clearly a suicide-by-cop.

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I mentioned the “Hokey Pokey” incident in a recent post about my past partners.  Since several people have asked me to elaborate, I’ll do so.  I’m pretty sure I posted this on Facebook earlier, but anyway…

 

In the late 1980s, I was working in Patrol out of the East Precinct of the Seattle Police Department.  My partner at the time was Bill Brandner.

Our precinct adopted a bar as our own.  Charlies on Broadway, 217 Broadway Avenue East.

We frequented Charlies for coffee when we were working and for other libations when we were off duty.

The bar at Charlie’s was Cheers-like.  We knew all the regulars who went there and called each other by our first names.

There was Kevin, the Boston-born cab driver, and John, the recently divorced bank manager.  Both were great guys, and we had fun swapping stories whenever we were there.

Two guys at night tended the bar.  Dave Roduin, an aspiring writer who later went to work in the Starbucks corporate headquarters, and Tim Sweeny, a Vietnam veteran who flew spotter planes in the war, had a Master’s in finance but landed at Charlie’s.  Both great guys who became great friends to us and all the other East Precinct officers.

One night Bill and I were in the bar at closing, as we were wont to do.  Tim Sweeny spoke to me.

“Man,” he said. “I thought I was in trouble the other night.  I was driving home on the lake,” he lived near Seward Park near Lake Washington, “ and I was going a little fast.”

Lake Washington Boulevard follows the shores of the lake and is a very scenic drive.  The speed limit on the boulevard is 25 miles per hour.  Tim lived on a house just off the boulevard near Seward Park.

“I was cruising along after work,” Sweeny continued, “when I shot past a south-end car.”

Tim knew all the officers in the East Precinct, but didn’t know any in the precinct to the south.

“I saw him start out after me,” he continued, “and when I got to a curve, I turned the corner and shut my lights off.  I saw him fly past the street I was on.

“I’m afraid he’ll be waiting for me down there,” he said.

“You’d better be careful,” I said to him, laughing.

A few nights later, Bill and I were in Charlies at closing again.  It was a beautiful summer night.

“Tim,” I said.  “Are you going to take the lake home tonight?”

“Probably,” he said.

“We got a call,” I said, and we left.

I was driving.  Once we got to our car, I headed for Lake Washington Boulevard.

We were outside our precinct, but I backed into a spot near Mount Baker Park.  Then we waited.

About twenty minutes later, I heard the unmistakable sound of Tim’s MG convertible traveling down the boulevard well over the speed limit.

I waited until he passed and then took out after him.  I didn’t turn my headlights on until I was right behind him.  When I did, I heard his car slow by compression.  Then I turned on our red and blue lights. Again, his engine slowed as he pulled to the curb.

“Let’s let him sweat a minute,” I said to Bill.

After a moment, I switched on the PA system.

“Driver of the car,” I barked, “get your hands up where I can see them!”

Tim’s hands shot into the air, his convertible top down.

“Reach outside the car and open the door!” I ordered.

He did.

“Step out of the vehicle!”

Again, he did.

He looked over his shoulder at us.

“Look forward!” I commanded.

“Now, walk backward to the rear of your vehicle!”

He followed the instructions.

“Place your hands on the rear of the car!”

Again, he did.

“Step away from the vehicle!”

He complied.

“Now, put your right foot in!”

He did.

“Now, put your right foot out!”

Again, he complied.

“Now, put your right foot in!”

He did.

“Now, put your right foot out!”

Again, he did.

“Now, you shake it all about!”

By that time, Bill could take no more.  He laughed so hard he opened his door and fell on the ground.

Tim looked back at us, an incredulous look on his face until he finally realized it was us.

“You asshole!” he yelled, “ I thought you were going to shoot me!”

The story of the Hokey Pokey spread quickly.

I was at roll call a couple of weeks later.  The precinct captain, John Pirak was there.  It was an 8PM roll call. Captains aren’t usually there.

After roll call, Pirak approached me.

“Cloyd, can I see you in my office?”

Great, I thought.  I’m going to get jammed up over this. I was way out of my precinct.

I went into his office.  He was at his desk.

“Close the door,” he said.

I did and took a seat across from him.

His face broke out with a grin.

“Tell me the Hokey Pokey story.”

I guess that really is what it’s all about.

 

 

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In my book, Homicide: The View from Inside the Yellow Tape, I spoke of an informant I used many times.  I called him Paul in the book (not his real name). He’s still alive. I’ll still call him Paul in the interest of not altering that fact.

I first had contact with Paul when he called the homicide office.  He was an inmate in the downtown jail and had information about a murder.  I went to the jail to get him and bring him back to my office.

Paul was a white guy with slicked-back hair.  He looked like a mafioso type.  He told me details about a murder case that I knew to be true.

When an inmate calls from the jail telling you about a crime, you can’t assume they’re not lying to you. Is there some way they could have gotten the information?  Were they cellmates with your suspect and read court documents?  One has to be diligent.

One of the ways I check the veracity of someone giving me information is to ask probing questions.  If the person has an answer to everything, they are suspect.

Paul didn’t do that.  I asked him about several things he just said, “I don’t know.” That gives him credibility to me.  He isn’t making things up so I’ll believe him.

Paul had an extensive criminal history.  Nothing particularly violent.  Next, I had to ask myself what he wanted in exchange for the information.  I asked him.

“Nothing,” he said.  “I don’t like murderers.  My girlfriend was raped and murdered a few years ago.”  He told me about the case.  I remembered the murder.  He wasn’t making that up.

I followed up on what he told me.  He was telling the truth.  We made an arrest.

“I’ve spoken to other detectives,” he told me.  “They just blew me off.  You’re the only one who listened.”

Paul was a problem child in the jail. He got into fights when he was in custody most of the time.  For that reason, he was placed in Administrative Segregation.  In a cell on the 11^th floor of the downtown jail by himself.  Twenty-three hours in his cell and one hour out every day.  The Ultra-Security prisoners were also housed on that floor: People facing severe consequences such as the death penalty or life without parole.

Though he wasn’t in direct contact with other inmates, they would communicate through gaps in the cells or when one was out and stood at another inmate’s door.  Little did the other inmates know when they talked about murder, Paul took copious notes on his yellow legal pad during the conversation.

Paul and I established a relationship.  He called me directly from then on, letting me know when he had information on a murder.

He always told me he would call me when he was out of custody.  He never did.  He was a severe alcoholic and drank himself into oblivion when he was out.  He also didn’t contact his probation officer, which was required, so there were always probation violation warrants for his arrest.

Every month or so he would be arrested.  About a week after he was booked, he called me.

I looked at his booking photos for a couple of years.  It reminded me of the Portrait of Dorian Gray.  Each image looked worse than the one before.

Finally, after giving me information on another murder, he asked for something.

“Would you call my mom and tell her I’m doing something good?” he asked.

He explained that he had always been a disappointment to his mother.

“Sure,” I said, and I did, speaking with his somewhat skeptical mother, who finally thanked me for telling her.

During our relationship, he gave me actionable information for about ten murders and two solicitation for murder cases, where someone tried to hire him as a hitman.

One morning after Paul had testified in a high-profile case I was working, I was getting readly for work in the morning.  I sipped coffee while the morning news was on. Suddenly Paul appeared on the news leaving the courtroom after testifying.  The caption on the screen said, [Paul’s real name], Police Informant.  I almost spit my coffee across the room. Thankfully, most murders don’t watch the morning news.

Paul explained to me once, “I tell you this stuff because you treat me with respect. Not like I’m a criminal,” though he was.

After I retired, my old partner Jason Kasner called me.

“Paul called looking for you today,” Jason said.  “I told him you retired.  There was a pause and then he said, ‘That guy is like a brother to me.’”

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I sat and looked back today at all the partners I had in my career at the Seattle Police Department.  Not counting the ones I worked with for a week or two, I had a lot of partners.  Many people saw the good, the funny, and the profoundly tragic things someone sees in a career as a police officer and detective in a large city in America.

My first regular partner in the police department was Bob Alexander.  Bob and I came on about the same time, but he was from another world from me.

A young black man who grew up in Yakima, his and my experience in the world was different, though we worked well together, had a great time, and became close friends.

Next was my academy classmate, Steve Sparby.  An ex-Marine, stiff-collared, a few years older than me. We were often paired together during our academy days and gained the nickname “Husky and Starch.”  I wasn’t Starch.  We were great friends, and our families spent a lot of time together.  Several years later, I was near his bedside when he died, much too young, ignoring symptoms that could have saved his life had he sought treatment.  Our partnership ended when he left for the K-9 unit.

Ken Hooper was next.  Another great friend.  We had a lot of fun (and got into some trouble) together.   He lived near me and invited my wife and me to dinner at his house one night.   I stopped at the store and bought a bottle of Thunderbird enhanced wine.  When his wife, Pam, opened the door, I said, “I brought wine,” and handed her the bottle.  “Thanks,” she said, looking at the bottle for which I’d paid a dollar and a half, a bewildered look on her face.

Ken transferred to the K-9 unit too.  I began to see a pattern: I was being traded for dogs.

Later, after my transfer to the East Precinct, it was Bill Brandner.  Again, a lot of fun, including an incident involving the Hokey Pokey.

Finally to the detectives and partners like Gary Nelson (East Precinct detectives), Chris Lyon (Sex Crimes), and finally Homicide, where I had great partners including Sonny Davis (yes, even Sonny), John Nordlund, Donna O’Neal, Greg Mixsell, Mike Ciesysnki and finally Jason Kasner, my longest tenured partner from 2004 to 2016 when I retired.

I learned a lot from each of my partners.  I hope I taught them a thing or two as well.

 

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In the late 2000s, I received a call from a detective in Prescott, Arizona.  They were investigating a series of murders of gay men there.  She had information that the man was in the Seattle area.

“Do you think you could help get this guy?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

She and her partner were going to fly up in the next week.  I told her we’d be ready for them.

Once they’d arrived and were settled, she filled me in.

“There have been a few gay men murdered in Prescott,” she said. “A guy was in jail and told two different inmates he’d done it, but the prosecutor wouldn’t charge based on that.”

Give me a break.  If you have two separate inmates telling you the same thing, and they don’t know about each other, you hook that guy up.  I understand being cautious, but some of my best arrests have been made through jailhouse snitches.  You have to corroborate the information they’re giving you and see if there is any way they could have gotten that information anywhere else.  If that works out, you’re good.

We formulated a plan. We’d approach this guy with an undercover detective and see if he’d talk about the crimes.

We looked for the guy for a few days but couldn’t locate him.  Finally, the detectives had to go back.

About a month later, I got another call from the Prescott detective.

“We have information the guy is in jail in Bellingham,” she told me. “Do you know anyone there you can refer me to?”

“Refer you?” I said. “Hell, no. We’ll still help.”

They made arrangements to fly back up.  In the meantime, I formulated a plan.  We would have two undercover detectives, in this case, Todd Jacobson and Dave Redeman, get booked into the Whatcom County Jail. We’d have them placed into the nurse’s area and then bring in the suspect.  They would start up a conversation and see what happened.

The day arrived, and we all went to Bellingham.  We went to Bellingham PD.  They transported Jacobson and Redeman separately to the jail, into the booking area, and book them.

Jacobson went first.  He arrived, was fingerprinted, and photographed like any other inmate.  Then he was put in a jail jumpsuit and taken to the nurse’s area.

Jacobsen wore a wire.  My partner and I were outside in a car.  We monitored the wire.

After a few minutes, the suspect was brought in. As we expected, the suspect initiated a conversation.

“What are you in for?” he asked Jacobson.

“A gay guy touched my nephew,” Jacobson said.  “I beat the fuck out of him.”

“I killed some f*gs in Arizona,” the suspect said.

I was stunned.  We got an admission in less than five minutes.

The Prescott detectives were very happy.  Jacobson went to Arizona and testified at the trial. The guy was convicted.

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Bart Foster was homeless.  He slept under the Alaskan Way Viaduct, which runs along the waterfront in downtown Seattle.  One night, while sleeping, Foster became another statistic of the dangers of living homeless.  Someone crushed his head with a cinder block across from the downtown ferry terminal where tourists and commuters take boats to Bainbridge Island and Bremerton.

I was next-up for a murder.  My partner was Sonny Davis.

I arrived for work in May 1997 to learn that a murder had occurred the night before.

We weren’t called to the scene of this murder; a horrible thing for a detective trying to solve a case like this.  Tom Pike and Paul Suguro were the on-call detectives who went to the scene.  Foster was taken to Harborview.  They didn’t think he was going to die, so they didn’t call us out.

They were wrong.

After he died, I called Richard Harruff, the Medical Examiner, who had conducted the autopsy on Foster.

“He had injuries to the left side of his head,” he said.  “It’s consistent with being hit with a large block.  It caused a fracture to the base of his skull.  There were also abrasions to his knees and his right cheek.”

We (actually I, since Davis had little to do with this case) were behind the eight-ball from the beginning, but I caught a break early on.  Keith Kzmirski, a cab driver, was reportedly a witness to the assault.  I tracked him down to a West Seattle address.  He wasn’t very cooperative at first, but I got him to tell me what he knew.  I have a way with people like him.  This is a murder, not a Goddamned car prowl.  I let him know I wasn’t going away.  If I had to drag him before a judge to tell me what he knew, I was going to do that, and I’d do it on my schedule, when it was convenient for me, with no consideration about imposing on him.  He decided to cooperate.

I knew he would.

He was working for Pioneer Cab Company as a supervisor.

“Where were you between four fifteen and four twenty-five in the morning, on May 20th?” I asked.

“I was near the power plant,” he said, “down on the waterfront.”

“Is that across from the ferry terminal there?” I asked.

“Right.”

“Tell me what you saw there,” I said.

“Well, I was pulling right up by the power plant.  I saw a black gentleman, twenty-five to thirty.  He had a cinder block, and he brought it down on something behind the dumpster.”

“Was it a full cinder block?” I asked.

“No, a half cinder block.”

“So, you saw it was up over his head?”

“I saw it up over his head,” he said, “and then he was bringing it down.”

“With both hands?”

“Both hands.”

“Did he bring it down hard on something?” I asked.

“Well, he didn’t bring it down soft,” he said.

“Could you see where he was standing?” I asked.

“He was standing right behind the dumpster,” he said.  “I had a shot of him from the waist up.  There’s two couches there.  I didn’t realize at the time what he was doing, or I would have called the police myself.

“But then I realized that there’s two guys sleeping on those couches and that he must have been doing something to one of them.”

He’d gotten a good look at the suspect, so I had him help create a composite drawing.

Betty Kincaid was the forensic artist I used.  Betty was a civilian employee of the police department and a very accomplished artist.  I’d had excellent results from her before.  It wasn’t just because she was a good artist—she was.  Her drawings always look like real people, not the alien-looking drawings I see other police departments put out.  She was also an excellent interviewer.  She had a hypnotic way about her that drew extra information from the witness she was working with.  On several occasions, when she developed a sketch of an unknown suspect, the drawing looked just like him once the suspect was identified and arrested.

I set her up with the cab driver.  After about three hours, she had a sketch.  She gave it to me.

I made up a bulletin using the sketch.  I walked it down to the SWAT office on the third floor of the old headquarters building.

When not training (which is most of the time), SWAT officers drive around in plain cars.  I gave them the bulletin.

“Do you think you could grab this guy by seven?” I asked jokingly.

I was back in the office at seven-thirty when my phone rang.  An operator in the 911 center was calling.

“There’s a Zebra Unit (the designation SWAT uses) who have a person stopped at 2nd South and Washington Street that matches a bulletin you put out tonight.”

“I’ll be right there,” I told the operator.

I pulled up at that location.  Officers Joe Fountain and Rudy Gonzales had two people stopped.

“We saw this guy,” Fountain said.  “He looks like the sketch you put out tonight.  The guy he was with said he told him he’d assaulted a guy down on the waterfront a few days ago.

 

That was all I needed.

“Hook ‘em up and bring them to my office,” I said.

Once there, I put the guy that looked like the sketch, whom we had identified as Nathan Payne, in an interview room.  I walked in and advised him of his rights.  Then I took out the sketch and laid it on the table in front of him.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s me,” he said.

After three hours of intense but quiet interrogation, he’d confessed to the murder.  I was getting ready to book him into jail when Sonny came in.

“Who’s that in the interview room?” he asked.

“That’s the killer in our latest murder.  I’m about to book him.”

Sonny had a sheepish look on his face.

“I wasn’t’ there to help you with this at all.  Good job.”

I appreciated the comment, at least.

Fifteen years later, after an appellate court decision that affected his case, I saw Payne again in court, where he was for a resentencing.  He greeted me like we were old friends.

I get that a lot.

 

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I was home on November 29, 1996.  Thanksgiving Day.

Seated in a recliner in my living room watching football, dinner had not yet been served when my phone rang.

It was work.

As one might expect, I muttered an expletive and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“We’ve got an officer-involved shooting at 7518 20^th Avenue Northeast,” my sergeant Don Cameron informed me. “SWAT is on the scene.  There’s one fatality. I need you to respond.”

I grabbed my gun and keys to my work car and headed out the door, the aroma of a great meal wafting behind me.

When I arrived at the location about thirty blocks north of the University of Washington, dozens of Seattle Police vehicles, including several SWAT trucks and armored vehicles, clogged the residential street.

I stepped under the yellow tape into the chaotic scene and approached Cameron.

“I don’t know if you heard about the bank robbery yesterday afternoon,”—I hadn’t.

“It was a take-over job by a group that has been robbing banks the last couple of weeks.  A robbery unit spotted their car in traffic, and a chase ensued.  They fired shots at the Robbery detective.  They were last seen in this area.

“The owner of this house has a camper in the back yard.  He was getting ready for Thanksgiving dinner and noticed movement in the camper.  He called the police.

“The responding officers realized this could be one of the suspects in the robbery and shooting.  They surrounded the camper and yelled for the person to come out.

“A shot was fired, and several of them returned fire.  The suspect still didn’t come out, so they called SWAT.

“SWAT arrived and, after also getting no response, fired tear gas into the camper.

They finally approached and found the guy dead inside.

Cameron asked me to go to the precinct where the officers were and talk to them.

I arrived at the precinct.  Four officers and a sergeant, Howard Monta, whom I knew, were in a conference room.

“We yelled at him to come out,” Monta told me, “and then there was a shot.  I was pretty sure he was shooting at us.  We returned fire.”

I returned to the scene.

Myself and my partner, Sonny Davis, were detailed to enter the camper and photograph the inside. Because the camper had been shot with several tear gas rounds, we donned hooded Tyvex suits and gas masks.

As we entered the camper, the CS gas flakes laid thick on every surface.  As we moved, the flakes swirled in the air.  I had to wait until they settled again to take a clear photograph.  Bullet holes pocked the walls of the unit.

The body of a white male, later identified as William “Hollywood” Scurloch, the leader of the band of marauders, lie strewn on a chair.  The nickname Hollywood came from his applying makeup as a disguise before conducting a robbery.

There was a single gunshot wound to the side of his head and a semiautomatic handgun in his hand.

There was what appeared to be a bullet wound to one of his fingers as well.  The tip of the finger was severed off, but there was no blood.  That told me Scurloch had been dead when that shot was fired.

After taking the photos, we exited the camper.

I removed the Tyvex suit and my gas mask.  I knew what would happen since it had happened to me before.  The CS particles swirled around me.  I was gassed as much as I would have been if I had been inside the camper when this happened.

Tears rolled down my face, and my nose ran.

Ann Rule later wrote a book about Scurloch. The first, but not last, time my name appeared in one of her books.

I got home well after midnight.  I entered through the garage and into the laundry room, taking my clothes off and placing them in a plastic bag, not wishing to gas my house as well.

I completely missed Thanksgiving.

 

 

 

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Listen here to a podcast I recently recorded with my former partner, Mike Ciesynski.

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I was called from home one Saturday to report a shooting in Westlake Center just after noon.  Westlake is in the heart of downtown Seattle, just blocks from Pike Place Market, and always bustling.

One man had been shot and taken to Harborview Medical Center, where he died.  A suspect was in custody.

I arrived at the scene; yellow tape encircled the area, a crowd of tourists and shoppers downtown on a lovely afternoon gaping at the spectacle.

“We got the report of the shooting,” a patrol sergeant told me.  “When we arrived, the victim was down on the street.  The suspect stayed.  He told us that he shot the guy.  I had him taken to your office.”

After looking the scene over, I went to my office to interview the shooter.

When I arrived, I ran his name in the computer systems.  He had a history of nickel and dime offenses, but nothing serious.  He had what appeared to be a valid permit to carry a concealed weapon.

I entered the interview room.

The shooter was a Black male in his fifties. He sat quietly in a seat in the room.

He made it clear early that he didn’t much like the police.

After advising him of his rights, we chatted for a while.

“Tell me what happened,” I said finally.

“Man,” he said.  “I was minding my own business.  I was going to see a movie.  I walked across Westlake, and this white dude just attacked me!  He grabbed me and threw me on the ground!  I didn’t know who he was or why he was attacking me!  He started banging my head on the ground.  I thought I was going to die.  I had my gun, and I took it out and shot.  He fell off me.

“When I got up, I put my gun on the ground. People told me to run.  I didn’t do anything wrong.  I wasn’t going to run.  When the police showed up, I tried to tell them it was me.  They kept telling me to step back.  Finally, one of them realized what I was saying.  They cuffed me and brought me here.”

He had a slight scowl on his face as he told the story.

“How’s the guy doing?” he asked me.

“He’s dead,” I told him.

His shoulders shook, and he began to sob inconsolably.

“I didn’t want to kill him!  I just had to get him off me.”

I left the room.

Other detectives brought in surveillance video.  It had been controlled by a person in the security section of Westlake Center.  It wasn’t pointed at the scene when the shooting occurred but quickly panned there afterward.

It showed the victim lying on the ground and the shooter standing over him, placing the gun on the sidewalk.

Just like he said, he stood there until the police arrived and tried to let them know he had been the shooter.

A couple of hours later, I opened the interview room door.

He looked up at me, a look of dread on his face.

“Do you need a ride home?” I asked.

“What?” he said, incredulous.

“I asked if you need a ride home,” I said.  “You had a right to defend yourself.”

“Yes, please,” he said meekly.

I drove him to his apartment in the SODO area.

As it ended up, the man that attacked him was a Canadian. He had severe mental issues.

His family in Canada wasn’t happy the shooter wasn’t charged. It is what it is.

I think the guy’s opinion of the police changed that day.

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