LODD: The Worst Four-Letter Word
Regardless of your branch of service, LODD is a four-letter word. Of all the foul curses in the world, none else hits so close to home nor tears the soul as the laying down of a life in the course of duty. If you have escaped most or all of your career without hearing this term, then you are indeed blessed. If you are still new on the job, then steel yourself for the harsh reality of 2019. Even if you work at what you might consider a low-risk agency, motor vehicle accidents can happen to anyone, and wearing a uniform – any uniform – has become akin to painting a bulls-eye on your back. But if you, like me, have learned up close what living hell is all about, then this one is for you.
I was on the job less than a year when I experienced my first LODD. It was a quiet summer night, unremarkable in every way. Unremarkable, that is, until a drunk ran through an accident scene and plowed into two officers. While I didn’t dispatch them directly, our agency provided NCIC and support services to their department, and I knew both by name. In any event, we used a common channel so I was an unwilling witness, and wound up making related notifications later on. My next one, two years later, was not so far removed. This one was a fire call I dispatched directly. A friend of mine tripped while trying to board a responding apparatus. He was instantly killed on the station ramp at the ripe old age of 19; run over by the aerial ladder.
Fast forward six more years, and I’m working the desk at the Nyack Police station during the funeral for my pal Sgt Eddie O’Grady and Officer “Chip” Brown, both mowed down in a hail of bullets from members of the Black Panther and Weathermen. Ed and I built our homes at the same time, and spent countless hours comparing plans. Now, in a surreal scene, snipers line the rooftops of downtown, protecting the thousands in attendance from a fate similar to his. Almost 40 years gone, that village still bleeds.
Which brings me to today. The body of NYPD Officer Brian Mulkeen is being transported home after he, too, became another victim. I didn’t work the call, but I do know another Brian Mulkeen. His dad. He grew up two doors down from me on a street where everybody was friends. In a sense, this one is as real and as painful to me as if I had worked it. The fact that friendly fire was involved makes it particularly senseless.
There have been a litany of names and locations since Officers Kennedy and Reedy fell on Route 303 and Firefighter Landau was taken on Maple Avenue that continue this sad and regrettable story. But this is not about me. This is about you, and everyone who straps on a headset, or a helmet, or a holster, or a hemostat. Take care of yourselves and those around you. We are all here on a trial basis, and there is no guarantee past five minutes from now, let alone tomorrow.
Watch your sixes. Learn your trade. Be aware of your surroundings. Whatever you do, do it well. Do it safely. And tell somebody that you love them while you have the time. If the job gets to you, get help. We lose too many of our kind to their own hands.
While saluting those who have left us, let us never forget to take care of those who remain. More than anything, pray for the best and train for the worst. Wherever you are and whatever you do, LODD is a four-letter word I hope you never get to hear.