Notes from the Passenger Seat: A Ride-Along in an East Lansing Police Cruiser

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Wednesday, August 22, 2018, 7:36 am
By: 
Andrew Graham

Above: Segeant Tom Blanck

There are few people who have a better understanding of their cities and towns than police officers. Patrolling the streets and interacting with the community daily, these officers have more contact with more people than maybe anyone.

On Aug. 11, I spent a majority of a 12-hour shift with East Lansing Police Department’s night shift supervisor, Sgt. Tom Blanck. It turned out to be an uncharacteristically quiet shift.

From the passenger seat of Blanck’s cruiser, an altered world appeared, one that makes sense from Blanck’s perspective and is foreign to me.

Here’s the night I spent in the passenger seat of a police car.

Saturday — 6:30 p.m.

I walk into the East Lansing police station, let the cadet at the desk know I’m there for Blanck, take a seat, and wait.

Nearly thirty minutes pass, and Blanck should be coming any moment. But another fifteen minutes float off before he finally shows. Quickly, it becomes clear why.

As Blanck picked up his shift at 5 p.m., the usual starting time, ELPD had responded minutes earlier to a complaint that wound up in an arrest for first-degree criminal sexual conduct. As night shift supervisor, it was Blanck’s show to run.

He leads on to his office, shared with three other officers. And despite being in the heart of a police station, it’s like any office. A bookshelf above a desk is crammed with arcane manuals. There’s a microwave off to the right, and a coffee pot straight ahead. Blanck has a bowl of tomatoes stashed in the corner. His garden grew more than he and his wife could eat.

But then there’s the precise map of East Lansing’s boundaries hanging on the wall, the row of radios perched in their chargers, and two riot helmets stacked on a locker by the door.

Blanck and I sit and talk about the night. It’s mid-August, so there are some Michigan State University students around, but not too many, Blanck says. It’s a Saturday night, so the bars will be hotspots, but truthfully, he’s not entirely sure what to expect.

Saturday — 7:45 p.m.

Parked outside the police station is cruiser No. 11, our ride for tonight. It looks like, well, a police car. But the closer I look, the more it is simultaneously a normal Ford Explorer and kitted-out tool.

The first modification I notice is the gun rack, ready with an AR-15. That’s Blanck’s. Most officers buy their own rifles, Blanck tells me. (ELPD allows this, and it isn’t uncommon among police forces.)

I ask about modifications I can’t see. The car comes from the factory with a more powerful alternator — to run the lights and computer — and beefed up suspension. Further, the car comes pre-wired to have roof lights and a computer installed.

The computer sits inside, right in front of the radio, tuned to 101.7. With me, a computer bulkhead and Blanck in the car, it’s a little cramped.

We get underway. I ask Blanck about the routes officers take on patrol, if any.

“(We) do our best to patrol every area equally,” Blanck says, adding that there are no predetermined routes.

“More tax-paying residents live out here,” he continues as we roll past the Meijer on Lake Lansing Road.

It’s better for officers to randomly canvas whole areas, Blanck said, if only for the benefit of staying up-to-date on street names. It may seem trivial, but officers don’t have a chance to use their phone’s GPS when responding to an emergency.

Blanck recalls the months it took to fully relearn the roads after a three-year stint in the detective bureau. Nowadays, there’s not a moment’s hesitation. Blanck knows where he is.

Saturday — 8:10 p.m.

Blanck spots the broken-down Lincoln Town Car before I do. He brakes and I spot what he’s already reacting to. I didn’t notice him turn the lights on.

The issue is clear: The Lincoln is short a rear left wheel.

We’re yards beyond the Trowbridge Road exit on southbound Interstate-127. Blanck pulls in behind the once-green, now-battered Town Car. He looks carefully in his mirror when traffic clears. Then he opens his door slightly. Then fully, before finally stepping out and approaching the car on the safer passenger side.

Brief conversation ensues before Blanck gets back in the cruiser.

“I hate the highway,” Blanck says.

In the car are the driver, a woman, and two passengers: a man and a child. The driver’s mother comes to get her daughter and the child. They leave for a nearby gas station. The man stays until the tow truck arrives, but it’s not a flatbed, so they’ll have to send another. It’s already been a while.

The whole time on scene, Blanck leaves the cruisers lights on. The blue bounces back off nearby signs and the trunk of the Lincoln. Still, cars whoosh by. It’s easy to see why Blanck hates highways.

While waiting for the flatbed, I ask Blanck what the gun mounted next to his rifle is.

“Take one of those out,” Blanck says, gesturing toward the backend of what seems to be a 40 millimeter tear gas grenade.

Instead, it’s the world’s most hardcore nerf dart. It’s a 40 millimeter grenade round for certain, but instead of explosives or gas, it launches a foam slug the size of a kiwi. A non-lethal option, commonly used for riot control.

Eventually, a flatbed tow truck comes, and the Lincoln is hauled away. Blanck and I leave. It’s 9:25 p.m.

Saturday — 10:07 p.m.

The jail office in the back of the police department is an interesting mix. Equal parts high school attendance office and airport check-in desk. But the cells across the hall kill any illusion quickly.

The office itself is clearly designed with safety in mind. Nothing an inmate could snatch to cause harm is anywhere to be seen. Everything in reach is bolted in place.

But back in the far corner, there’s a TV, and a jail officer reclining in an office chair. She’s watching “Live PD,” on A&E. There’s only one inmate in the jail right now. Blanck briefly talks with the jail officer, and they decide to do an advise and release with the man.

Leaving the jail for the other side of the station, Blanck asks if I’m hungry. After all, it’s getting near lunchtime for him.

We drive to Georgio’s where Blanck gets a potato-bacon slice with sour cream. I’m not hungry, but I get a coffee at Biggby afterward. Then, we go back to the station and sit back in Blanck’s office to eat.

I sip my coffee while Blanck gets at his lunch with a fork and knife. He turns on the local news, where reports of a stolen airliner in Seattle are being presented.

After pizza, Blanck checks in on the cadets at the police desk. Kristen, the more experienced cadet, is training Matt. It’s a quiet night, and the conversation quickly moves away from work.

It’s time to get back on patrol. Since we’ve been at the station, a couple foot patrols and bicycle mounted officers have gone out. They’ll be around the bars until close at 2 a.m.

As we walk out, Blanck and I are joined by another officer. They joke about a bulletin and prod each other on putting their name in for captain. Blanck tells his colleague to help himself to the tomatoes in his office. There’s just too many.

Sunday — 12:52 a.m.

Parked in one of East Lansing’s many alleys, Blanck gets a call from the jail. The Eaton County Sheriff’s department has picked up someone with a warrant, and an EL officer will need to go get them eventually.

Blanck could send someone immediately, it’s been so eerily quiet, but the bars are closing too soon to risk it.

At this point in the night, we’re driving with the windows down, letting the cool air flow in. After about an hour more of patrolling, we pull up by the bars just before close and park on the side of the road.

“You might want to roll that up,” Blanck says, pointing at my window. “I leave it cracked. Otherwise you might get spit on.”

We sit, the bars close. Patrons flow out and walk past. You can tell they try to act less drunk when they recognize a police car.

The occasional passerby or group jeers or says something, and Blanck usually replies with a gentle wave or “Have a safe night.”

Still, even at bar closing, nothing across the scanner. It’s not normal, Blanck points out.

Sunday — 2:30 a.m.

Around the corner from us, officer Chad Stemen is in contact with a man who decided to manually raise the exit gate on the Grove Street Garage.

As Blanck and I pull up, I catch part of the exchange.

“... and that’s why we’re having this conversation,” Stemen says.

“And I totally respect that,” the man says, trying to pull the gate back down. It doesn’t budge. Stemen has him sit on the curb, and the situation is clearly diffusing quickly. Blanck and I drive away.

For the first time in nearly as long as he can remember, Blanck had no fights come across at bar closing. There’s usually a couple.

“That was incredible,” he says. “We didn’t have one single fight.”

At this point, we’re closing in on 3 a.m., and we head back to the station. Blanck has paperwork to get through, and the rest of the night was just as uneventful.

For me, it’s a short drive home and a rapid appointment with my bed. Blanck, on the other hand, will finally get off his shift at 5 a.m., a full 12 hours after starting. He’ll go home, and try to sleep until 2 p.m. Sometimes he can’t sleep that late.

But no matter when he wakes up, he’ll be back the next day.

 

 

 

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