Moment of Doubt

CW: Suicide or self-harm, Mental health, Physical violence, gore or abuse

Top of the morning to ya, Officer Knute Torgelson here with the heels of my shoes dangling from the ledge of a Radisson Hotel in Cleveland, Ohio. Sitting on this ledge, I am twenty stories up from the concrete sidewalks below. This is my job. Heights don’t bother me as long as I stay put. I am here because Don Plassic sitting to my right, has decided life is no longer worth living and he wants to jump. I was sent here to talk him out of doing it.

What makes this job a bit risky, is the moment of doubt. It’s that moment when you’re not really sure if the person is going to go through with it. I got here when someone from the front desk called to report there was a person sitting on the ledge of his luxury hotel. When I got here, Don was the person sitting here. He told me to beat it; he had things to do. He was planning to jump. But we sat there for a while and just listened to the wind.

“So, Don, where are you from?” I asked hoping to draw him in or distract him from his suicidal thoughts floating around in his head.

“Euclid.” He nodded.

“I got friends from there.” I lean back and tilt my head toward heaven.

“I got no friends.” He declares.

I become a little concerned since his tone was bit harsh.In my business, this can determine the outcome on whether he jumps or not. Time to change the subject.

“Beautiful day, eh?” I look out over Lake Erie.

“Kinda cold.” He bows his head.

“Yeah, but you know how it is in October, chilly wind blows in from the north.” I glance over at him. He has his fingers interlocked. He is playing some kind of finger game which indicates that he’s not ready to launch himself into oblivion.

St. Vincent’s Charity Hospital over on East 22cd Street sent me a report to the computer in my squad car. They report that patient Don Plassic is paranoid schizophrenic. He has frequent auditory and visual delusions. He is probably listening to the voices in his head and has concluded that I am one of the voices. I have to be careful what I say to him, because he could misinterpret what I am saying. I have gone through college and police courses that teach us how to deescalate a person who is going through a mental crisis. Don is having a mental crisis right now.

There is a disturbing trend call “suicide by police.” When I was unaware of this type of behavior, I shot and killed a suspect in a parking lot. He was menacing the people going into the store. He told them that God had sent him to save them. This made them uneasy which became a problem when he pulled a gun. The radio asked for all units nearby to respond. We were nearby. We responded. When I saw the gun, I reacted just like I was trained to do. I put two bullets into his chest and dropped him. He did not survive the ambulance ride to the hospital.

“I need to have a word with you Officer Torgelson.” Sargeant Olsen called me into his office.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I walked into his office.

“The guy you brought down…ah Gilbert Quincy.” He read the report I put on his desk.

“The guy waving the gun and saying that God had sent him? That guy?” I was a bit on edge since I saw it as a justified shooting.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his temples with his fingers, “He was an escapee from a mental hospital.”

“Yeah?” I shrugged.

“The gun he had was a toy gun. It was not lethal.” He shook his head.

“How the hell was I supposed to know that? When I got out of the car, that gun looked damn real to me.” I put my hands on my hips.

Why did the pencil pushing administration always question us like this?

“Look Knute, I’m just pointing it out because you put in your report you justified your use of deadly force.” He closed his eyes, “It’s been a long day, but I need you to change it to ‘suicide by police.’”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because it needs to reflect what took place.” He shrugged on shoulder.

“What took place was he was waving a gun when we got there.” I said launching my hand from my hip.

“Chief wants you to attend this class.” He handed me a piece of paper.

“The hell with that.” I intended to rip the note in half.

“Or you will be placed on administrative leave.” He exhaled through his clenched teeth.

“Fine, I’ll go, but I’m not going to like it.” I shook my head.

“Do whacha gotta do.” He smiled and shook his head.

“So, why are you out here, officer?” Don looked at me, and I could tell he was having a psychotic episode.

“I care about you, Don. I don’t want you to jump.” I edged closer to him, hoping he wouldn’t notice. I was taught making a quick move could make the person do the deed.

“Why should I believe you?” He scowled. His face was covered with doubt. I was trying to gain his trust. Gaining trust was one of the objectives in this type of situation.

“Why shouldn’t you? I’m sitting here right next to you. I’m not going anywhere until we come to a solution.” I stayed calm as he moved closer to the edge.

“There’s no solution.” He snapped.

“Why not? We can work through this, can’t we?”

He paused letting my words become the voice of reason over the other voices who were telling him he was an unsalvageable loser. The auditory voices seldom said anything positive. The voices would berate and call the person disparaging names.

“You are a policeman. Policemen have lied to me in the past.” He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not here to lie to you, Don.” I squinted, “That will not do either of us any good, right?”

Most of the time, the person contemplating suicide will not go through with it as long as someone continues to talk to them. This is not a hard and fast rule, however as I had a partner who was talking to a woman for over an hour.She got up and walked in front of a city bus.

When I got transferred to the Psyche Unit, there was always that moment of doubt and no matter how many times you go through this with someone, the person may decide to go through with it after all.

“It’s a tragedy.” Professor Solomon brought his hands together as he concluded his lecture for the evening, “You never know what the outcome will be. That moment of doubt. You think you have waved your magic wand and then you watch the person do it anyway. I am warning you to find someone you can talk to, so you won’t find yourself down a deep dark hole.”

I worked with Blake Carson when his wife told him she wanted a divorce. He had two young kids. He was sitting in a lounge chair on his patio when he took out his service revolver, put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His youngest found the body of his father splayed out in the lounge chair. While suicide seems like a solitary act, the final results usually may be like when you throw a stone into the water and watch the ripples run away.

I went to Blake’s funeral. His young boy had an expression that sadness could never capture. I made it a point to talk to his widow about her son, but she told me that children are resilient. I felt the boy’s grief as he took his mother’s hand. His face told the story. He would become just another ripple.

“Did you ever feel like just ending it all?” Don asked me.

“Can’t say I have.” I shook my head.

“I hate going to the clinic.” He scowled, “They treat me like I’m just another sick person they have to deal with. They feel sorry for me.”

“Why do you suppose that is?” I raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged.

“I’ve been in that clinic.” I turned my head toward the breeze.

“You? Are you sick?” He asked.

“No, I went there to visit some of the people I know.” I smiled.

“Who? I know most of them.” His voice was lighter.

“Really? Most of the people I know there are good people. They just need a little help from time to time.” I dropped my head. My eyes immediately register how far it was to the sidewalk below.

“You think they’re good, do you?” He chuckled. “I know most people see us as problems. They have no idea what we have to go through every day of our lives.”

“What do you have to go through?”

“You know.” He looked to the sky shrouded in clouds heavy with moisture. “I think how easy it would be if I just ended it all. The voices would go away and some of the horrible things I see that others don’t will cease as well.”

“Don’t you take medications to help you?”

“Sure, sure, but the medicine causes other problems.” His voice is back to where we started, soft and unsteady. “I hate clozapine.”

“How come?”

“I don’t feel any emotions after when I take it. I’m not interested in having sex.” He puts his chin on his legs folded underneath him, “I used to have girlfriend, but since I started taking it, I don’t have any urges. Do you know what I mean?”

I feel that he is beginning to trust me. This is a good sign.

“Yeah, sounds rough.” I nod.

“It is. I’d rather hear the voices than not be able to get those urges. I miss them.” He sighs, “She isn’t my girlfriend anymore.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Sure, but it didn’t do any good.” His head lolls back until he is facing the sky, “I don’t know what to do. My doctor tells me that the side effects are worth it, but I just don’t agree with him.”

“It’s okay to disagree. Have you told him that you disagree?”

“You can’t tell a doctor he’s wrong.” Don closed his eyes. “I dream about flying.”

I sucked my breath when he said this.

“But you can’t.” I shook my head as an automatic response.

“Have you ever tried?” He glanced over at me.

“No.” I said flatly.

Once I got a call from St. Vincent’s about a patient on top of a seven-story apartment complex. When I got there, the woman confessed she had taken extra medication. After some questioning, she confessed she had taken all the medication in the bottle.

“I was going to be a famous artist, but I flunk out of art school.” She began flapping her arms. I asked her why she was doing that, and she told me she was going to fly. I made the mistake of telling her that people don’t fly.

“Oh silly, I can fly.” She laughed, “All I have to do is step off that ledge over there.”

I watched her flap her arms as she pretended to float to the edge where I met her to prevent her from taking off from the ledge.

“I can fly.” She brought her knee up to my groin. I doubled over in pain from her unexpected blow. Before I could recover, she leapt from the edge and no matter how hard she flapped her arms, she was unable to fly and met the concrete below with an awful thud. Her name was Lilly and the newspapers reported that she committed suicide by jumping off the building. As an eye witness, I disagreed, because Lilly thought she really could fly. The voices had told her she could fly and she believed them. There was nothing I could say or do to change her mind.

“People call me the Big Viking.” I told Don as I moved closer to him hoping he would not notice.

“Why would they do that?” He squinted at me as if I was a runaway patient.

“I’m Norwegian.” I answered with a casual shrug. “My father came to America from Norway.”

“I’m told my ancestors were French.” He batted his eyes as if I was supposed to be impressed.

Acting as if I was impressed, “So, you are a Frenchman, oui?”

“Guilty as charged.” He allowed himself to chuckle.

It was getting dark. I had been up here with him for a couple hours.

“Whadda say we go down the elevator and get something to eat?” I asked.

“Oh no, elevators going down could crash.” He was serious again.

Why on earth would you bring that up when you were contemplating jumping off the roof? There are some things that run through your head you are glad cannot be shared with someone else. This was one of those times.

“How are we supposed to get down?” I asked and wished I hadn’t.

“I have a way.” He looked at me.

“You can’t fly down there.” I tilted my head.

“I know.” He nodded.

“So, elevator it is.” I shrugged.

“I’m not hungry.” He shook his head.

My moment of doubt had arrived. Visions of a simple solution vanished in my head.

“In many cases a person who is contemplating suicide will be unsuccessful about a dozen times.” Professor Solomon pointed to his white board where he had written a few numbers. “But the down side of this can be that the person will attempt it until the person meets their goal. If someone says they are going to commit suicide, ask them if they have a plan. If they have a plan, consider the threat real. If they do not have a plan, it is just an ideation. You should take that serious nonetheless, but with a person who has a plan, you must report this to emergency services immediately.”

Everyone in the lecture hall nodded as Professor Soloman brought his hands together before erasing his white board.

“Do you have a plan?” I asked as the skies prepared for the twilight to come.

“You sound like one of them suicide hot lines.” He shook his head.

“Well, I want to know.”

“Why, so you can report me?” He laughed, “Officer, I do not wish to be reported. Do you know why?”

“I got a pretty good idea.”

“Because they will hospitalize me.” He moved closer to the edge. For a moment it felt like my blood froze. If he decided to leave, I could not stop him, because he would take me with him and I had no desire of that happening. I had heard of some officers who had become victims. I had no desire to go with him. Don was about my size and appeared to have a few extra pounds on me. I would not be able to stop him even if I wanted to. “Have you ever been in the deep hole.”

“Can’t say I have. What is the deep hole?”

“It’s a room they put you in after you take all your clothes off and hand you a paper-thin gown.” He smiles, “And they take your clothes and put you in this padded room for the other patients to look at you. I do not wish to go back there. If you take me, that’s where they will put me.”

“I won’t let them.” I promised.

“You’ll have no choice.” He laughed, but this time I could tell it was more sinister than mirth.

The radio on my pocket buzzed.

“This is Officer Knute Torgelson.” I spoke into my radio.

Don scooted closer to the edge. I felt my blood run cold once again.

“Officer Knute Torgelson you need to come back to the station.” It was Sargeant Olsen.

“I with Don Plassic.”

“Still?”

“Yeah.” I whispered, “I am at the moment of doubt.”

All I heard was silence except from the cawing of the crows against the gray sky.