On March 19, 2018, Deputy Ryan Thompson was on patrol in Kittitas County Washington. He and another unit with a student officer and FTO located a suspect in a reported road rage incident. The suspect attempted to elude the Deputies and led them on a pursuit that ended in a parking lot. Deputy Thompson exited his vehicle and apparently believed that the suspect was now eluding on foot, but the suspect stood in wait and shot Deputy Thompson as ran right into the gunfire, mortally wounding him. The suspect also shot Deputy Chavez in the thigh before the FTO shot the suspect who would later die of his wounds.
I got word of officers down that night while at home in Seattle. As a member of the department’s peer support team, I notified other team members, and then got updates that the deputies were in the process of being transported via Life Flight to the Harborview trauma center in Seattle. We later got an update that only one Life Flight would be arriving as Deputy Thompson had succumbed to his wounds. Our peer support team still responded to the hospital and provided comfort and security for the injured deputy and family.
The next week, and in a manner that only fallen heroes are honored, a memorial was held in Ellensburg WA. I have attended several memorials over my nearly 3 decades in law enforcement, and each one brings a concert of emotions. The impressive gathering of officers from around the world, dressed in their Class A uniforms, honor guard units, mounted units, and the signature giant American flag on display between two fire department ladder apparatus at the entry to the event is a spectacle to behold. Each memorial is an impressive display of respect for the fallen hero and their family and friends. The family is escorted with ultimate care to the memorial, and the crowd of first responders pause and give salute as they enter the venue.
Deputy Thompson’s memorial was a wonderful spectacle of tradition, process, and honor. The family was seated in the front row of the auditorium, with Thompsons young daughters huddled by their mom. One of Ryan’s long time friends spoke of fond memories, including a story about a day that he heard gunshots in the area of the group of homes that he and Thompson lived. They each had family homes on the compound that shared a fire pit and large yard areas. The friend looked out to see Ryan outside with his girls. The girls were stomping frantically on the ground, while Ryan walked around with a 22 caliber pistol in hand, shooting into the ground. As the friend walked closer, he could see that Ryan had employed his girls to stomp on the ground to roust moles so that Ryan could shoot them. The friend described the scene as one that was typical of Thompson’s crazy adventures with his girls. Its not hard to visualize the girls stomping their hearts out to dad’s encouragement, while he dispatched the moles as they popped up. While this might be shocking to city folk, this is the spice of life in country life. Thompson was obviously a wonderful dad who was immersed in his daughters hearts and lives. One of those legacy moments that, had he lived on, would be recalled in jubilant sentiment every time the story was told.
At the end of the memorial there was a video tribute to Thompson that was synchronized to some of his favorite songs. The last song was “The Dance” by Garth Brooks. As the video transitioned from one photo to another, his little girls got up and spin danced to the music. The scene of their beloved father being memorialized on screen, knowing that he was gone forever, and his girls dancing to one of their favorite songs, was too much to handle. At the end of the tribute, one last photo held the screen. As the littlest daughter looked up she threw her hands in the air and exclaimed, daddy!” as if she was happy to see him come home. As a senior member of out department, and surrounded by young officers who look to us old sergeants for strength, I did my best to hold back any show of emotion during the ceremony. I did pretty well, but damn did it hurt inside. I felt a concert of emotions from sorrow, to anger, to hopelessness. The scene played over and over again in my head for the rest of the day.
After the memorial, I stopped by a local coffee shop to get a cup before heading back to Seattle. As I started to pay for my cup, the barista said that it was taken care of. She said that several folks from town came in a loaded up cards to pay for all uniformed personnel’s coffee that day. It was a generous sign that maybe we aren’t the hated after all; at least in small town America. As I drove home, and against my better judgement, I loaded “The Dance” on my tunes and played it. Tears welled up as I listened to the words to the point that I was barely able to see the road. As I was still in uniform, I tried to suck it up to avoid the embarrassment of crashing on a major interstate in uniform. I managed to recover and vowed to listen to something else for the remainder of my ride. When I got home, I was doing OK until I stepped into the kitchen and saw my wife. She asked how it went, and I started to describe that scene of Thompson’s little girls dancing to his tribute. I blew up in a waterfall of emotions while recounting the day and couldn’t even finish the story. I sat and reflected in a sobbing mess for the rest of the night.
The next day and in subsequent days, I pondered the uncontrollable flood of emotions that the memorial brought. I reflected on all of the wonderful times that I have had with my own kids. I was grateful for those memories, and they made me smile while thing of them. I would then think again about the tragedy of the fact that Thompson’s memories were the only thing that his daughters would have of him for the rest of their lives. Daddy’s life cut short by a savage thug with a gun. The thought of the weight that Deputy Chavez must endure as he tries to heal from his grave injuries, as he likely replays the incident over and over again and probably debriefing what he could have done to produce a different outcome from that night.
As a seasoned veteran sergeant with my own long list of critical incidents, and years as a peer support member, this memorial caused me to reflect again on the impact this job has on our hearts and souls. I believe that the outpouring of emotion that I experienced was a culmination of my own exposure to years of traumatic incidents. I know that trauma is stored in our brains like a word file in a hard drive, and am graced with the knowledge of how our emotional systems work. I also know that nobody is immune from the cumulative affects of repeated exposure to trauma. Add to that the social media climate of “everyone hates me because I’m a cop”, daily stresses of inadequate staffing, typical rigors of personal life, family responsibilities etc. and it should be no surprise that, according to several studies, a large percentage of first responders have some level of PTS related injury. I have dedicated a substantial amount of my time and effort to find responders who are suffering from those affects, and to provide effective resources to help them when the affects become overwhelming. I have seen several heroes who are failing due to symptoms, job issues, and self-medication, and have also provided solutions to bring those heroes back to a healthy life.
Bottom line: If you are suffering, ignore any “stigma” that is imagined. Reach out and get help, there is a better life ahead if you fall in to the caring hands of effective caregivers. You are brave and honorable. You deserve to be nurtured. It’s the least we can do to honor your service.
Responder Assistance Program 