Live Better Chemically
Back on May 25, 1990, Barry Shapiro was working unit 169 out of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department's Carson Station. He was working the EM shift, or earlies, as we called it. Most people refer to it as the graveyard shift. Barry was patrolling the area of Alameda Street and 220th Street. This is a road that doesn't get much traffic at night. The only nearby neighborhood is on the east side of the street and is fairly small, the west side of the street is taken up by railroad tracks, a rail yard and refineries. South of where he was were more refineries and a, mostly closed, industrial area was north of him. He stopped a Mexican guy for a drunk driving investigation and asked for a unit backup.
Rick Cocke was working unit 163 and was the closest unit, being about two minutes away. When Rick arrived, Barry was patting the Mexican down, near the trunk of the Mexican's Chevy. While Barry did that, Rick went to search the driver's side of the Chevy. Finding nothing of interest, Rick stood up and looked over at Barry. Barry's eyes were bulging out and he was frothing at the mouth. The only thing that came to Rick's mind was the Mexican had stabbed Barry. Rick rushed over, as he drew his 6" revolver from his clamshell holster. He grabbed the Mexican by the neck and threw him to the ground, he put the barrel of his gun to the Mexican's head and was in the process of squeezing the trigger when he heard Barry gasping out,
"No...don't shoot..cho...king"
Confused, Rick looked down at the confused, and terrified, Mexican, ordered him not to move and turned to Barry. Barry's face was turning dark. Rick holstered his weapon, went behind Barry and started to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Barry pushed him away and shook his head, no, as he started to stagger. Barry started throwing up. Rick, who was confused and frightened by what was happening, saw, in his peripheral vision, that the train was stopped on the tracks about thirty feet away from them. He had a moment of clarity and focused on the train. The cars near them were chemical cars and Rick immediately realized there was a chemical leak. Before he could react to this realization, Rick felt and heard what sounded like a firecracker go off in his brain and the hairs on his neck and head stand up.
Rick yelled at the Mexican to,
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"
Then, Rick, who was about 6'04" and 230 pounds of muscle, picked up, the much smaller and lighter, Barry and tossed him into the back of Barry's car, because it was the closest. Rick got into the driver's seat. That was the last conscious decision Rick made for about ninety minutes.
In the Carson station dispatch office and in all of the deployed Carson patrol units, deputies heard,
"fuuuuuuuck..... fuuuuuuuuck..... fuuuuuck...", being slurred over L-tac, the car to car frequency. At first it was ignored, as people thought somebody had accidentally keyed their microphone and was mumbling in frustration to themselves. The listening deputies quickly began to realize that there was something wrong. One voice came on the air asked if somebody was screwing around. Another voice came on and said,
"Nooo, that sounds like Cocke.... Something's fucking wrong!"
A third voice asked,
"What unit is he working and where was his last known location?"
The dispatcher advised,
"Cocke is working 163 and about eight minutes ago he was rolling to back up 169 on a T-stop at 220th and Alameda!"
Units began rolling code-3 to 220th Street and Alameda Street, which, at that time, was a fairly long roll from any of the typical areas a patrol car on earlies was likely to be. As they rolled, units tried to get Barry Shapiro on the air in 169. Of course, there was no response, which upped the pucker factor by about ten fold.
Keith Wall and his trainee, John Snapper, were the first to arrive at 220th and Alameda Street. They advised that they had found unit 163, but Rick Cocke was gone and unit 169, with Barry Shapiro, was not there. Now, a unit asked for an aero unit to respond to start a grid search for the missing deputies. Few things will scare a cop more than not knowing where one of their partners are AND knowing that same partner is in danger. Keith spotted some overhead lights rotating in the distance south of them and advised he was rolling to investigate.
As Keith and John reached the patrol car, with the rotating overhead lights, they saw it was Rick Cocke. Rick was staring, unblinkingly, straight ahead, driving slowly in reverse, southbound in the northbound lanes. Keith rolled up next to him, paced him, and yelled through the windows,
"COCKE! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"
There was no resonse.
"COCKE!"
Rick slowly turned his head and gave Keith a slack jawed, blank stare in response.
"STOP THE FUCKING CAR! NOW!", Keith ordered.
Rick slowly turned to look at his steering wheel and after several seconds of just continuing his slow roll in reverse, he slammed his foot on the brake, jerking his head to rebound off the headrest.
Keith and John stopped. Keith Wall was a sharp, no nonsense, cop and made a quick evaluation as he advised the station over the radio,
"The outstanding deputies are located on Alameda near 223rd. Deputies are down, with no observable injuries. One deputy is barely conscious, the other is unconscious and frothing at the mouth. All units stay away! Don't send paramedics. We will transport to Harbor General."
With that, Keith told John to help him get Rick into their car and then had John drive their car with Rick in the front passenger seat. Keith took the lead in Shapiro's car with Barry in the backseat. They started rolling in tandem to HGH. Keith advised that they were rolling code 3 and what their route would be. Their route would take them north on Alameda Street for a little less than a mile and then about three miles west on Carson street to the hospital. It was expected be a four to five minute roll.
As Keith drove, he kept updating his position over the radio. In between those updates he tried, unsuccessfully, to get Barry to tell him what happened. When Keith got to the back doors of the emergency room, he realized that the other car, with John Snapper and Rick Cocke, was nowhere in sight. After unsuccessfully trying to get his trainee on the radio, Keith got back on the radio and told the other station units to backtrack his route to locate John and Rick. He followed the nurses into the E.R. as they pushed Barry in on the gurney. That was Keith's last memory of the evening.
Deputies Mike Chacon and Irvin Deroche found the missing car crashed at Carson near Ravenna Street. John Snapper was unconscious in the driver's seat. Rick Cocke was gone. Mike and Irv moved John into Irv's car and Irv drove him the remaining mile and a half, or so, to HGH. When they got there, John had not regained consciousness. A few minutes later, Irv lost consciousness.
Mike found Rick, curled up in some bushes near the crash site. His eyes were open, but nobody was home. Mike, who is as big as Rick, loaded him up in his car and transported him the rest of the way to HGH.
Some time later, Rick awoke in a hospital bed wondering what happened. He looked around to the beds on either side of him and saw, Barry Shapiro, Keith Wall, John Snapper and Irv Deroche filling the remaining beds. A deputy standing guard filled Rick in as best he could. Rick laid back, stared at the ceiling and thought,
"What a great fuckin' birthday."
Back on May 25, 1990, Barry Shapiro was working unit 169 out of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department's Carson Station. He was working the EM shift, or earlies, as we called it. Most people refer to it as the graveyard shift. Barry was patrolling the area of Alameda Street and 220th Street. This is a road that doesn't get much traffic at night. The only nearby neighborhood is on the east side of the street and is fairly small, the west side of the street is taken up by railroad tracks, a rail yard and refineries. South of where he was were more refineries and a, mostly closed, industrial area was north of him. He stopped a Mexican guy for a drunk driving investigation and asked for a unit backup.
Rick Cocke was working unit 163 and was the closest unit, being about two minutes away. When Rick arrived, Barry was patting the Mexican down, near the trunk of the Mexican's Chevy. While Barry did that, Rick went to search the driver's side of the Chevy. Finding nothing of interest, Rick stood up and looked over at Barry. Barry's eyes were bulging out and he was frothing at the mouth. The only thing that came to Rick's mind was the Mexican had stabbed Barry. Rick rushed over, as he drew his 6" revolver from his clamshell holster. He grabbed the Mexican by the neck and threw him to the ground, he put the barrel of his gun to the Mexican's head and was in the process of squeezing the trigger when he heard Barry gasping out,
"No...don't shoot..cho...king"
Confused, Rick looked down at the confused, and terrified, Mexican, ordered him not to move and turned to Barry. Barry's face was turning dark. Rick holstered his weapon, went behind Barry and started to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Barry pushed him away and shook his head, no, as he started to stagger. Barry started throwing up. Rick, who was confused and frightened by what was happening, saw, in his peripheral vision, that the train was stopped on the tracks about thirty feet away from them. He had a moment of clarity and focused on the train. The cars near them were chemical cars and Rick immediately realized there was a chemical leak. Before he could react to this realization, Rick felt and heard what sounded like a firecracker go off in his brain and the hairs on his neck and head stand up.
Rick yelled at the Mexican to,
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"
Then, Rick, who was about 6'04" and 230 pounds of muscle, picked up, the much smaller and lighter, Barry and tossed him into the back of Barry's car, because it was the closest. Rick got into the driver's seat. That was the last conscious decision Rick made for about ninety minutes.
In the Carson station dispatch office and in all of the deployed Carson patrol units, deputies heard,
"fuuuuuuuck..... fuuuuuuuuck..... fuuuuuck...", being slurred over L-tac, the car to car frequency. At first it was ignored, as people thought somebody had accidentally keyed their microphone and was mumbling in frustration to themselves. The listening deputies quickly began to realize that there was something wrong. One voice came on the air asked if somebody was screwing around. Another voice came on and said,
"Nooo, that sounds like Cocke.... Something's fucking wrong!"
A third voice asked,
"What unit is he working and where was his last known location?"
The dispatcher advised,
"Cocke is working 163 and about eight minutes ago he was rolling to back up 169 on a T-stop at 220th and Alameda!"
Units began rolling code-3 to 220th Street and Alameda Street, which, at that time, was a fairly long roll from any of the typical areas a patrol car on earlies was likely to be. As they rolled, units tried to get Barry Shapiro on the air in 169. Of course, there was no response, which upped the pucker factor by about ten fold.
Keith Wall and his trainee, John Snapper, were the first to arrive at 220th and Alameda Street. They advised that they had found unit 163, but Rick Cocke was gone and unit 169, with Barry Shapiro, was not there. Now, a unit asked for an aero unit to respond to start a grid search for the missing deputies. Few things will scare a cop more than not knowing where one of their partners are AND knowing that same partner is in danger. Keith spotted some overhead lights rotating in the distance south of them and advised he was rolling to investigate.
As Keith and John reached the patrol car, with the rotating overhead lights, they saw it was Rick Cocke. Rick was staring, unblinkingly, straight ahead, driving slowly in reverse, southbound in the northbound lanes. Keith rolled up next to him, paced him, and yelled through the windows,
"COCKE! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"
There was no resonse.
"COCKE!"
Rick slowly turned his head and gave Keith a slack jawed, blank stare in response.
"STOP THE FUCKING CAR! NOW!", Keith ordered.
Rick slowly turned to look at his steering wheel and after several seconds of just continuing his slow roll in reverse, he slammed his foot on the brake, jerking his head to rebound off the headrest.
Keith and John stopped. Keith Wall was a sharp, no nonsense, cop and made a quick evaluation as he advised the station over the radio,
"The outstanding deputies are located on Alameda near 223rd. Deputies are down, with no observable injuries. One deputy is barely conscious, the other is unconscious and frothing at the mouth. All units stay away! Don't send paramedics. We will transport to Harbor General."
With that, Keith told John to help him get Rick into their car and then had John drive their car with Rick in the front passenger seat. Keith took the lead in Shapiro's car with Barry in the backseat. They started rolling in tandem to HGH. Keith advised that they were rolling code 3 and what their route would be. Their route would take them north on Alameda Street for a little less than a mile and then about three miles west on Carson street to the hospital. It was expected be a four to five minute roll.
As Keith drove, he kept updating his position over the radio. In between those updates he tried, unsuccessfully, to get Barry to tell him what happened. When Keith got to the back doors of the emergency room, he realized that the other car, with John Snapper and Rick Cocke, was nowhere in sight. After unsuccessfully trying to get his trainee on the radio, Keith got back on the radio and told the other station units to backtrack his route to locate John and Rick. He followed the nurses into the E.R. as they pushed Barry in on the gurney. That was Keith's last memory of the evening.
Deputies Mike Chacon and Irvin Deroche found the missing car crashed at Carson near Ravenna Street. John Snapper was unconscious in the driver's seat. Rick Cocke was gone. Mike and Irv moved John into Irv's car and Irv drove him the remaining mile and a half, or so, to HGH. When they got there, John had not regained consciousness. A few minutes later, Irv lost consciousness.
Mike found Rick, curled up in some bushes near the crash site. His eyes were open, but nobody was home. Mike, who is as big as Rick, loaded him up in his car and transported him the rest of the way to HGH.
Some time later, Rick awoke in a hospital bed wondering what happened. He looked around to the beds on either side of him and saw, Barry Shapiro, Keith Wall, John Snapper and Irv Deroche filling the remaining beds. A deputy standing guard filled Rick in as best he could. Rick laid back, stared at the ceiling and thought,
"What a great fuckin' birthday."
Wow! Did everyone fully recover?? What sort of chemical was it that would have that effect on people??
ReplyDeleteI don't recall. But anytime you are driving down the street behind those tanker trucks, you'll see a diamond shaped placard. The placard will have codes and symbols that say what it is and what it's major dangers are, like if it's corrosive. Cop cars and fire trucks should have a booklet in the trunk, or glove box, so if there is a spill, they can quickly determine what it is that's been spilled and what the danger is. Thanks for reading. Rick Cocke, one of the first two guys in the story is still having medical problems and fighting with the L.A. County lawyers. He has lost his house and is living with friends. His wife has stuck with him though. He tells me he thinks his case is finally close to being settled. (Close in court room terms could be a week, could be a couple years). Thank you for reading
ReplyDeleteThis one is funny and sad, we realize the danger you face every day. Hope everything turns for the best for Rick Cocke, after that story it would seem self-evident.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the dedication of people like you guys.
Thank you. It's been seven months since I wrote the comment to Rhiannon above, regarding Rick, and he is still trying to get Los Angeles County to pay his pension and cover his medical costs related to the chemical exposure incident. Hopefully, it will be soon.
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