Flow, Flashbangs & Theory

A story of two flow events, and choosing one path afterwards.

I stood on the garage roof, peering into the brightly lit second story apartment window a few feet away. The target rushed towards his front door, which was at the top of the shotgun stairwell. They’re called “shotgun” stairwells because one dude at the top with a shotgun could make quick work of a scrum of cops climbing the narrow, straight stairway with a single lazily aimed blast of double aught. Fish in a barrel; all that. I could see the target was armed with a handgun, just like the intel said. And there was indeed a scrum of my fellow cops making their way up that stairwell.

I broke the window and screamed.

The target spun towards me, gun in hand.

Yup, definitely more fun than working out the practical applications of inductive reasoning.

This was one of the more fun nights from an especially busy time of my life some years ago. I was on the SWAT team and in Grad school. I was also doing half a dozen other things, like pursuing financial independence, learning parkour, training MMA, and other ridiculousness. Busy, busy…busy.

Academia

That night I had my favorite grad school class; research methods. It was also the hardest, but I loved it. The professor was everything you wanted in an instructor; extremely knowledgeable with real world experience and well versed on current research, patient, able to effortlessly use the socratic method to help you arrive at a deeper understanding of the topic being studied, and he had a sweet beard.

The class itself was also super engaging. Research methods was all about how to design studies in the murky social science world of criminal justice and try to make it as objective as possible. We examined all the common pitfalls of research design, all predicted by cognitive biases. We became well versed in these biases, and also learned how to build ethical research that would clear an Institutional Review Board, but still provide data which could suggest ways to improve current practices in the real world. Or in normal people speak, make a study that would test if some new crime reduction program actually reduced crime.

During that class we were discussing the differences as well as the complementary nature of inductive versus deductive reasoning.

Man, this graphic sure would have been nice.

I was having a hard time grasping the utility of inductive reasoning, as the concept of making generalized conclusions sounded antithetical to the whole point of reducing bias in our research.

I expressed this, and the Professor and I then spun off on a long back and forth digging into the topic. He slowly led me to the realization that such reasoning did actually have utility, especially when trying to come up with new ideas to be tested deductively. I’m sure more than a few of my classmates were annoyed by the long discussion in the middle of a two hour class which was notoriously hard to pass. But I didn’t give a shit, I was having a ball. As I came to an understanding which the Professor was leading me to, I felt the tectonic plates in my head shift until they fit perfectly together like a jigsaw puzzle. And when they finally settled I experienced what I can only describe as intellectual joy. Harcore nerd shit.

A week or so before this night, this professor and another I respected (who also had a magnificent beard) called me into a meeting. I had started Grad school for a variety of reasons, but most of it could be summed up by these two points:

• My GI bill had a few years left before it expired, and I had enough left over that would pay for a Masters. Having gotten the GI bill to pay for the last couple years of my undergrad, I knew how to work the system so I’d end up coming ahead by a few hundred bucks a month.
• Criminal Justice seemed like the only interesting program that my local state school offered, which was also flexible enough to fit around my crazy work schedule.

I really didn’t have much in the way of aspirations or goals when I started grad school. Just figured I’d plug away, hang out on campus, make some extra cash, and who knows? Maybe the masters would help me down the line in my law enforcement career.

Then I had the above mentioned meeting. By then I was over halfway through the program, had a 4.0, and was thoroughly enjoying my studies more than I thought possible. Like I wasn’t even trying to get good grades. I just really liked everything the courses entailed. Reading, writing, data and discourse. So much fun!

I was also heavily motivated by the research I was seeing. There were real solutions to crime problems I was knee deep in as a cop, and these solutions were backed up by legit data. But we weren’t using them on my department, nor were most cities, because of the siloed nature of the entire criminal justice system. Academica and cops rarely intermingled. During my studies I kept trying to figure out ways to bridge that gap.

The two bearded dudes brought me in and broke it down. Long story short, they thought I should continue on after my masters, and I should start applying to PhD programs. Something I never even considered. I was head down in study mode and work.

They laid it out; I seemed to have aptitude and discipline to obtain my doctorate, and with that, I could help bring about real progress to this whole system. I could help build that bridge that I dreamed of; cops would listen to me because I was one. Academics would help because they respected my intellectual chops.

I was very flattered, but I had just started my dream job a year prior. Our department’s SWAT team used to be a part time commitment. We worked full time as patrol officers or detectives, then responded to call-outs and trained on top of all of our normal cop gigs. After a bunch of us got shot and violence in our city rose, half our team was placed on full time status. I’d gotten picked for this new unit, and was really enjoying just doing SWAT stuff and not having to split my time. Since the unit was brand new, it was also cool being able to help build out the procedures and frameworks we operated off of.

I was conflicted. I wouldn’t be able to do a PhD part time while working, especially not with my crazy schedule. And I was almost halfway to a pension worth a million dollars-I’d have to leave that behind. But the world of academia was alluring. I felt challenged and stimulated in grad school, which is something I couldn’t always say about being a cop-even in the high risk SWAT world. And having almost flunked out of high school twice, I was surprised how much I enjoyed the intellectual flow state I entered whenever I pushed myself to learn something especially complex and figure out ways to apply it. I was finding a new part of me that I didn’t know existed. What would happen if I leaned into this?

All this was running through my head as that night’s research methods class wrapped up. I loved the discussion I just had with my professor and the new understanding I possessed. Maybe it’d be even more gratifying to be on the other side of that, something that was a real possibility if I pursued a PhD. But for now I had to concentrate on getting back to work.

Flashbangs

Class finished at 9pm. Our team was scheduled to hit the target’s residence at 11pm. It was winter, so it’d be full dark. Intel said the target of the investigation was up late into the night. It was the standard story; always armed, convicted of multiple violent felonies, currently selling meth. His dealing had attracted violence to the area. Shootings, stabbings. The usual.

Detectives had obtained a search warrant for his residence, and an arrest warrant for him. He lived in a low income area, specifically in an old dilapidated house that had been split up into several apartments (did anyone just hear a real estate bro scream “multiple streams of income!!!!”?). He lived on one of the top floor units. A shotgun stairwell had been added on to the back of the house which solely served his unit. Intel said that our team would have to go through a bottom door, then straight up the stairwell, then go through a final door which opened up to his apartment.

This would take time. Breaching the bottom door with a ram was no problem. But then a dozen of us in big heavy armor and helmets would have to squeeze up the tight stairway, and then breach the second door. The ram guy would have to swing from uneven stairs that had never heard of a building code. We’d done this before; it was doable, but far from ideal.

This was the bad old days, and the Judge had granted us a No-Knock search warrant. We’d make announcements as we breached the first door, then rush as fast as possible to get to the target.

Normal Knock and Announce warrants require the cops to wait a reasonable amount of time after making announcements before breaching and entering. This was time that was regularly used by violent career criminals to either:

1. Retrieve a gun and start shooting at us.
2. Destroy the evidence needed to make the case.

Back then No-Knocks were granted if there was evidence that the target of the investigation was highly likely to do either of the above. The theory was that eliminating the wait allowed us to reduce the likelihood of bad stuff happening. Hopefully we could get to the target before they could get to a gun or flush drugs.

Looking back, some of, but not all of the logic underlying this was flawed. We didn’t quite comprehend it at the time. It would take more of us getting shot until we figured this out. But that discussion would take a few more thousand words. We’ll stick to that night.

We had to break down a door, get up some stairs, then break down another door. “No-Knock” is a bit of a misleading term; we were still legally required to make loud and clear announcements at the same time we started our first breach. As fast as we were, it would take time to get up those stairs and through the next door. Plenty of time for the target to grab a gun and start blasting away. What to do?

Normally, we’d use a flashbang. The PC term is “Noise Flash Diversionary Device (NFDD)”. Also called stun grenades. It works and looks like a grenade-a small metal cylinder with a pin and a spoon. Pull the pin, let go of the spoon and chuck it. A second later the flashbang lets off a blinding flash and loud boom, enough to disorient most people for about 5 seconds.

If we could get a flashbang next to the target as he got close to the stairs as our team was coming up, we could buy some time for our guys to get between him and the gun. And if he already had the gun, we could startle him before he could shoot at us. Experience had shown that once a person came out of the fog induced by a flashbang and realized they were surrounded by a bunch of cops, more often than not they gave up. We’d even been able to slap a gun out of a few people’s hands after ringing their bell with a flashbang. Much more preferable than a shoot out. Despite what you may have heard, the purpose of a SWAT team is to save lives. We took our purpose seriously.

But how to get a flashbang onto the second story of this old house, let alone next to the target? For this our Team Leader had a solution. The target’s second story apartment had a kitchen window, which according to intel was the same room that the door from the top of the stairwell led into. And next to this window was the roof of the attached garage. If we could get a guy on top of that single story garage, that guy could watch through the window for the target to run towards the stairs. And then that guy could get a flashbang through the window to disorient the target before he could start shooting at the team coming up the stairs. That guy was me.

The plan was like this. We’d have two teams. One would be the guys going in; they’re the ones breaking down the bottom floor door while yelling “Police, Search Warrant!!”, running up the stairs, breaking down the upstairs door, then going in and taking the target into custody.

The second team was me and another guy we’ll call Bob. Bob and I would go to the other side of the house carrying a ladder and a bangpole (Flashbang on the end of a steel pole, which you can break windows with). We’d quietly place the ladder on the side of the garage. Bob would hold the ladder steady while I creeped up, and then he’d hand me the bangpole. I’d peer through the window, and let the other team know I was set. They’d start breaching that ground floor door and making announcements. If the target came out into the kitchen, I’d break the window with the bang pole, put it inside, and use the lanyard on the other end of the pole to set the flashbang off. If I did break the window, by our policy I was required to make announcements as well. But since I wasn’t breaking anything or entering the house (legally defined as crossing the threshold inside a residence) , I wouldn’t have to announce my presence until I broke something.

We had a few days notice before we hit this search warrant. We practiced like hell beforehand. We tried various ladders until we found one sturdy enough for me to climb quickly, but quiet enough to run with as we carried it from our van to the side of the garage a half block away. We tried different variations of armor. Typically on search warrants we’d wear heavy armor with shoulder protection and big plates that would stop rifle rounds. But I couldn’t get the armor completely quiet as I crawled on top of various roofs we found to practice on. So I settled on wearing a thin stripped down armor vest. This armor didn’t cover as much of my body, and was only rated to stop smaller handgun rounds. But it’s all that worked.

Crawling around on roofs was noisy with my standard rifle and large handgun in a drop leg holster, so I went with a smaller handgun in a belt holster and ruled out bringing a long gun.

Our normal armor had big white reflective block letters that read “POLICE” on all sides, as well as a bright silver cloth badge on the front. We did this so there was no mistake that we were cops. But in our tests before this warrant, this marking could be seen even from a lit window looking out into the dark. And that could give me away as I crawled around this dude’s roof. So I was now dressed in all black. The team leader suggested I wear a black mask to further reduce my signature, plus he half joked it would complete my ninja ensemble. I tried it on a practice run, but it fogged up my goggles. Thankfully the mask was out, that would have been a little too douchey anyways.

We settled on an extendable ladder, and honed in our choreography of getting it out of the van, extended, and placed on the garage. I got my climbing and crawling down until I could do it blind. Bob and I practiced passing the bang pole up, and me swinging it through a window. I practiced dropping flat to the roof right after chucking the bang pole through the window, in case the dude started firing out at whatever broke his window. In our tests, with my black clad outfit, he wouldn’t be able to see me since he’d be in a bright room looking out a dark window. So hopefully he wouldn’t be able to adjust his aim to hit me lying flat and would instead shoot straight out. Hopefully.

If the dude did start shooting out at me, I planned on rolling off the roof immediately. This was one of the reasons I was to be the guy on the roof. Our team leader, a former HALO qualified Jarhead, knew about my job back in the military, which included me being trained in ways to fall that minimized injury. He figured I’d be more apt to roll off a roof if shit went south, since we’d both done similar stupid things in the past. Yay me.

And so it went.

I left class, and headed to the briefing area. There I changed out of my academically acceptable sweater/khaki ensemble into a black jumpsuit, helmet, and strapped on a small glock. Bob and I worked the ladder a few more times before we got the final brief. The team leader gave his spiel in front of various diagrams and maps. We loaded up into the vans, and followed the plan.

I sat shotgun in the van, so I’d have a good view of the house and could lead us to the correct one. Besides seeing it on google earth, I’d driven by a couple times in unmarked cars so we knew exactly where we were going. I directed the driver to stop, and pulled the handle to get out. It wouldn’t open.

You may think from the above description of our equipment, that we had a full inventory of nice stuff. Yes and no. Guns and armor? Pretty alright. Vehicles? Not so much. Our vans were old and finicky. Which was good for blending into rough neighborhoods. Not high in reliability. The van in question had a weird feature where none of the doors opened from the inside if they were locked. And the doors automatically locked above 10 MPH. So our drivers would religiously unlock the doors as they slowed to stop. Mostly. This time, not so much.

Look, the driver that night is a squared away dude. Former Ranger Battalion guy who I’ve witnessed do amazing shit under extreme stress. But everyone has off days. He had already pulled the keys out of the ignition when he stopped the van, but forgot to hit the unlock button before stopping. So he had to find the keys, get them back into the ignition. In order to find the keys, he had to twist around in his seat. And as he twisted in his seat, a pouch on his armor connected with the center of the steering wheel.

HONNNKKKKK!!!!!!!

Our horn going blaring right before I try to sneak on top of a roof was probably not helping our attempts at stealth. But hey, loud noises are pretty normal in low income neighborhoods, right? I hoped so, at least. I looked at Bob, he looked at me. We both shrugged and said “fuck it”. Our driver finally got the doors unlocked, and we booked it to the garage.

Despite my outward nonchalance, the key/horn fiasco had definitely bumped my adrenaline up a notch. I felt my heart pumping, and focused on controlling my breathing as we ran through the dark. As we quietly stopped by the side of the detached garage, my pulse settled some and I focused on the job.

From there it was just like we practiced. Ladder, extended. Placed on the side of the house. I climb up, nice and quiet. Bob hands be the bangpole. I sneak up the roof until I’m looking through the window, ready to go.

I hear the first “POLICE, SEARCH WARRANT!!”, and can feel the house tremble as the ram makes contact with the first door. The team leader confirms the position of the entry team over our radio. I see the target come running out the back of his apartment into the kitchen, towards the door at the top of the stairs. A black and silver handgun in his hand. Time slows. I do three things at once; shove the bang pole through the window, scream my own “POLICE, SEARCH WARRANT!!”, pull the lanyard on the pole which sets the 1.5 second fuse on the bang. A long wait as time slows.

The target spins towards me. He has the most quizzical look on his face. If I could read his mind, I’d guess he was thinking “what is this pole that just came through my window? How did my window break? What is the meaning of the beautiful complexity that is our cosmos?”

Or maybe he was just thinking “What the fuck??”. But he probably didn’t finish that thought. By the time he got to “th-“, the flashbang went off. I’m not sure what his reaction to the bang was, as I’d thrown myself flat on the roof by then. But according to the guys who came in through the upstairs door, he looked pretty dumbfounded. They yelled at him to drop the gun, and when he shook the cobwebs loose and realized he was now surrounded by a bunch of cops, he quickly complied. No one had to lay a finger on him.

I climbed down, the target was arrested. More guns and lots of meth was found inside. We debriefed the operation, and identified a few things to improve. Honking horns in front of the target residence was listed as something we should try not to do in the future. The driver apologized profusely, we all made fun of him in a good natured way. Everyone there had done something just as stupid, and we all knew we weren’t immune to the occasional fuckup. We filed the ladder/bangpole routine under something to remember for similar situations.

Now what?

I drove home, read a little, and then laid in bed waiting for sleep. It was a weird day.. Sure, I did plenty of fun school stuff, and I did just as much crazy tactical stuff. But I’d never had a day where I’d done something at the edge of both fields within a few hours of each other. Their closeness allowed me to compare how I felt about each as I hadn’t been able to do previously.

I’d had good days at class followed by shitty days at work, and on those days the PhD option seemed the best. I’d also banged my head against the wall trying to figure out what a journal article was actually trying to say buried under all the esoteric academic terms, only to be relieved by the simplicity of chasing down some armed robber at work. Those times it felt obvious that sticking with what I had was the clear choice. However that night, it definitely felt more like apples to apples. Academic flow compared to rush of high risk tactical fun.

I didn’t apply to a PhD program, and stuck around the job for another seven years. There were a lot of factors that played into it, but in hindsight that night was a big part of that decision. I loved intellectual stimulation, but ultimately the rush of police work coupled with continuing with the known won out.

As the years passed, the fun wore off. The adrenaline high trickled down, and burnout set in. It’s easy to look back and think I made the wrong choice. Maybe I did, but then who knows how things would have turned out had I gone the other way. Maybe academic flow would have petered out to, who knows.

It’s fun to look back, but the only thing to do now is go forward. Should I go back for the PhD now that I’ve left police work, especially since I’ve got ample free time thanks to FIRE? Or is that just another way of going back and sticking to a known path? I’m not sure. But I do think the more I sit in this unknown, the better I’m able to enjoy where I’m at now, and the less I care about making sure my next course of action follows some perfectly laid path to normal. I’ll take that.