Decisions Made Along M-28

Trooper Andrew Tate was momentarily startled when he heard the dispatcher over his cruiser's radio. Luce County was a quiet part of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Up here, he was used to chasing speeders or helping stranded motorists he encountered during his shifts. What could cause the dispatcher's sudden activity? Andrew listened to his radio.

"Any unit near Lakefield, please respond,” the dispatcher was saying. “Any unit near Lakefield, please respond."

Andrew thought he recognized the voice. Was it Donna, or Debbie? He put this out of his mind. Luce County had a population of just over six thousand and no local police force, leaving half a dozen state troopers to patrol the streets at night. Dennis was currently on a meal break in Newberry. As for the others, no one had responded yet. Andrew grabbed the radio.

"This is 6-4,” he said. “What's going on?"

"We received a call from a man who says he wants to turn himself in," the dispatcher explained. "He gives his name as Frank Greenrand. He says he's one of the escapees from down in Tennessee and he wants to turn himself in."

Andrew considered what he was hearing. News of the mass breakout reached Michigan for sure, but what were the odds one of the convicts had? Five of them were already back in custody. Still, this had to be investigated.

"Where is he?" Andrew asked.

"He thinks he's walking along M-28," the dispatcher replied, "two or three miles outside Lakefield. It was a spotty connection."

"Copy that. On my way."

Andrew knew Michigan State Highway 28 well. That portion ran through some thick woods. The scenario wasn’t a thrilling idea.

"We'll send you some back-up," the dispatcher said.

Andrew wasn’t comforted.

* * *

Andrew didn't run his siren as he drove towards the approximate location. He didn't see a need to wake people over what was most likely a false alarm. And, if the convict were there, he'd wait.

Andrew considered the possibility of this being legit and the danger towards which he was heading. That area was thick with trees year-round. This offered around a million places to wait and ambush someone. The flying felon could very well make use of such an opportunity.

Frank Greenrand was a former mechanic for the US Air Force. Nine years ago, he’d shot and killed his wife and fourteen-year-old daughter as well as one of the responding officers. He wounded another officer and was captured a quarter mile from his home within an hour of the gunfire, slowed down by a bullet wound in his leg.

It was the officer’s death which elevated the case to national headlines. Allison Joyce had been a Sevierville police officer for a total of four hours and thirty-seven minutes when she died. Law enforcement personnel from across the country and Canada attended her funeral. Andrew hadn’t gone, but he’d caught part of the news coverage.

The case came to the public’s attention again when a jury deadlocked eleven to one on whether to recommend the death penalty for Frank Greenrand. It seemed the defense attorney’s arguments about intoxication or an abusive childhood or PTSD had hoodwinked some of the jurors. Tennessee law required a unanimous recommendation for a judge to impose a death sentence and did not allow for a retrial in case of a deadlock. As public outcry erupted across the country, the judge sentenced Frank Greenrand to three consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole for the murders and an additional forty years for attempted murder and weapons violations. Andrew was among those disappointed about the cop killer not frying for what he’d done.

He again thought about the danger he was heading towards. Frank Greenrand had ambushed the first responding officers who’d arrived at his home after a neighbor called 9-1-1. Allison Joyce never saw her killer and her training officer was only able to draw his pistol after he was shot. Could this triple murderer, with little to nothing to lose, be setting up another ambush? Could his desire to surrender be a ruse? Sure, Andrew was a big guy, running on a regular basis to stay in shape, but that wouldn’t matter if he was on the wrong side of a muzzle during the wrong millisecond.

He understood he couldn’t let his concerns allow him to make a U-turn. It was his responsibility to respond and investigate. Still, He hoped his colleagues were close behind.

* * *

The Michigan State Police had an important distinction over its counterparts across the country. The department's cruisers were still equipped with dome-shaped gumball lights instead of the more modern light bars. Kept for both efficiency and tradition, the single pinkish-red glow could be seen for miles as a cruiser approached its destination. Andrew feared his would become a bullseye and shut it off as he got closer to the escapee’s alleged location.

Seeing nothing in the darkness, he pulled over to the side of the highway and grabbed his radio.

"This is 6-4,” he said. “I’m at the location. I don’t see anything. What’s the status on my back-up?”

He listened to the static-laced responses, indicating other troopers were minutes away and his position offered lousy reception, as he stared through the windshield. He hadn’t parked near an overhead light and kept his headlights off. While this would make him a harder target, it also made it more difficult for him to survey the dark woods on both sides of the highway.

He decided he couldn’t wait. Often working at night, he long ago made it a habit to keep his flashlight on the cruiser’s front passenger seat. Unsnapping the retention strap on his holster, he grabbed the flashlight. Taking a deep breath, he opened the car door.

The first thing he noticed was the severe drop in temperature. Andrew had turned the cruiser’s heat up as soon as he started his shift. It was a slow night so far and He’d almost forgotten about the cold November weather outside.

Not forgetting what, or who, might be drawing down on him at that moment, Andrew crouched down behind the cruiser’s engine. Peeking over didn’t improve his view from when he’d studied everything through the windshield. He had to stand up for that better angle.

He rose, drew his pistol, and turned on his flashlight. It was time to find out what Frank Greenrand had in mind.

“Hello!” he called. “Is anyone there?!”

He got no response.

“State Police!” he tried.

All he got was more silence. He’d turned the volume on his portable radio down low and he could barely hear the continuing chatter. He kept moving, both to stay warm and to not become an easy target.

Then, breaking through the stillness, Andrew heard loud crunching sounds. Whirling to his right, he raised his flashlight and pistol. The beam of light illuminated a leg as thick as a tree trunk encased in dirty jeans. It was moving forward at a slow pace. Andrew could see the top of an equally dirty boot which was crushing leaves and twigs beneath it.

He quickly raised the flashlight to reveal a broad torso. The man was wearing a dirty red sweater and an old army jacket. Raising the flashlight even more, Andrew figured the man was maybe six feet, four inches, about half a foot taller than him.

Studying the figure via the light, Andrew saw a bald African American man. His head was round, and his broad hands were raised up to either side of his chin. Andrew remembered the photos in the bulletin. This was Frank Greenrand. He tightened his grip on his pistol as the fugitive kept moving towards him.

“Hold it right there!” he called.

They were about twenty yards apart now, the highway’s guardrail still between them.

“Don’t move.” Andrew barked.

Frank Greenrand paused.

“Don’t shoot, man,” he said, his tone deep with a slight southern drawl. His voice was shaking a bit. He seemed to be cold.

Andrew kept his pistol raised and trained on the large torso. He thought about this man’s wife and daughter, whom he’d shot during an argument about the girl going to see a movie with some friends. It was so senseless.

Then there was the rookie cop. She’d died on her first day on the job. Andrew couldn’t imagine anything worse.

Frank Greenrand took a few more steps forward. Andrew considered using this as an excuse to shoot him.

What other option was there? Were they supposed to send this waste of human skin back to prison? With the time he was already serving, any sentence for the escape would be a slap on the wrist. Sure, he’d spend a few years in solitary confinement due to being a “security risk,” but some attorney would soon challenge this on some constitutional ground and some judge would fall for the argument.

Greenrand was never getting out anyway. Andrew would be saving the taxpayers a lot of money. He kept his pistol raised.

“Don’t shoot, man,” Frank Greenrand said again, his hands still raised. “I’m lost. I want out of this cold. Don’t shoot.”

Andrew tightened his finger around the pistol’s trigger just a bit. Not enough to fire yet, but just a bit. He could hear distant sirens.

“Move forward,” he instructed. “Towards the guardrail. Do it slowly.”

“Don’t shoot, man,” Frank Greenrand repeated.

“Do as I say.”

Frank Greenrand moved forward again. Andrew kept thinking about Allison Joyce. She was a fellow cop, just starting out. Sure, he had seventeen years’ experience on her, but a badge was a badge. And therefore, a cop killer was scum, no other facts required. Andrew tightened his finger on the trigger a little more.

No one would look too closely at the circumstances. All of Andrew’s colleagues thought Frank Greenrand wasn’t worth a thing. They’d believe his claim of self-defense. Sure, there would be an investigation. The current climate required it. But it would be a formality and the taxpayers’ final expense for Frank Greenrand would be his burial. Better than paying for his comfortable prison life for decades to come.

Frank Greenrand reached the guardrail, Andrew keeping his pistol and flashlight on him. Greenrand looked down at the metal rail and then up at Andrew. Andrew understood.

“Use your hands to climb over,” he said. “Do it slowly and keep them where I can see them.”

“Yes, Sir,” Frank Greenrand said. They were five yards apart now and Andrew could see he was shivering. That jacket wasn’t suitable for late-fall weather in Michigan.

Frank Greenrand lowered his hands, supporting himself on the three-foot-high rail as he swung one leg over it, followed by the other. Raising his hands again, he turned to face Andrew.

Andrew knew this was his last chance to take the man down. The sirens were louder now, and he could see fellow pink gumball lights down this long, lonely road. Soon, other troopers, and perhaps local cops from neighboring jurisdictions, would see them. Many police cruisers had dashboard cams, which would ruin any claim of self-defense. Andrew took aim at the large man’s torso again.

“Get down on your knees,” he said. “Put your hands on your head. Do it now!”

As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just kill this man in cold blood. He was better than Frank Greenrand.

Shivering, Frank Greenrand lowered himself to his knees. As he was putting his hands on his head, a cruiser pulled up next to the scene. Another trooper got out, his own pistol and flashlight in his hands.

“Police!” he shouted. “Don’t move!”

Andrew recognized the speaker as Elliot Valentine, a fellow trooper assigned to Luce County’s nighttime patrols.

“It’s okay!” he called out. “I’ve got him!”

Two more cruisers arrived as Andrew and Elliot moved towards Frank Greenrand.

“You got any friends around here?” Elliot asked, clipping his flashlight to his belt and cuffing the fugitive’s wrists. “Anyone with you in the woods here?”

“No, Sir,” Frank Greenrand said, still shivering. “I’ve been on my own for days. I got lost in these woods here. It’s sure been cold up here.”

“Welcome to Michigan.”

Listening to the metallic clicks of the tightening cuffs, Andrew glowered. Any shot at just putting this animal down were officially gone. Even if the cuffs were later removed, they’d have left marks on the wrists, proving the man had been recently restrained.

“You carrying any weapons?” Andrew asked. “Anything in your pockets we need to know about?”

“I’ve got a revolver in my back pocket. That’s it.”

Elliot found it and handed it to another officer. Andrew covered him as he patted Frank Greenrand down for any other weapons. He found a pre-paid cell phone, a few crumpled bills, and some loose change, but nothing else.

“It’s cold out here,” Frank Greenrand said as an officer cuffed his ankles. “Can you get me inside?”

* * *

Though Luce County didn’t have a local police department, there was a local sheriff’s department whose job it was to serve court papers, secure the courthouse, and manage the county jail. The deputies and corrections officers were ready when Frank Greenrand arrived under the escort of six state troopers. He was soon photographed, fingerprinted, examined, and placed in a cell by himself.

Andrew was walking down the corridor to this cell. It was long past dinnertime when he’d first gotten the call about the fugitive wanting to surrender, but someone had gotten their hands on some chicken noodle soup. Cold and hungry, Frank Greenrand had gulped it down and requested a second helping, something the physician recommended. Andrew felt sick over the lengths people were going to make sure this killer was comfortable.

He reached the cell, nodding to the nearby officer standing watch, and looked in through the bars. Frank Greenrand, now wearing a gray shirt and pants, was finishing that second bowl of soup. He looked up as Andrew’s shadow fell across him.

“How are you doing?” Andrew asked.

“Better,” Frank Greenrand said. “Thank you.”

“I’ve spoken to the Attorney General here in Michigan. He’s talking to his counterpart in Tennessee to work out the details of getting you back down there.”

Frank Greenrand nodded.

“You remember me reading you your rights?” Andrew asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Frank Greenrand replied.

“You understood them?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Where’d you get that piece we found on you?” Andrew asked, thinking about the revolver. It had only had two bullets in it. Still, two bullets could do a lot of damage. Two bullets could provide plenty of support for a claim of self-defense.

“Don’t remember,” Frank Greenrand said. “Memphis, maybe. I’m sure it was before I caught the train and headed north.”

Andrew nodded. Someone else would conduct a more formal interrogation of this man to learn about the escape and his movements afterwards. He was just going to try and extract a few facts right now.

“You know anything about where Wilson Sanford is?” he asked.

Eight inmates, three of them on Death Row, had broken out of Tennessee’s Morgan County Correctional Complex. Five were already back in custody. With Frank Greenrand now in this cell, Wilson Sanford, who’d helped hold up a Walmart, taking eleven employees and customers hostage as his buddies stole over $3000 in cash and merchandise, was the only one still at large.

“No, Sir,” Frank Greenrand said.

Andrew figured that was a valid answer. Most officials believed Sanford was heading towards Oregon, where he had family.

“Most of us split up right after we got out,” Frank Greenrand continued. “Tom and I hung together for a couple days, but I’ve been on my own for most of my time on the outside.”

Andrew knew Thomas Mathers, convicted of raping his eleven-year-old niece and two other young girls in his neighborhood, committed suicide in a Nashville motel as the police were coming to get him.

Andrew noticed Frank Greenrand studying him.

“You hate me, right?” the large man asked in his deep voice. “At least, you hate me for what I did.”

Andrew didn’t move or speak.

“That look on your face when that other cop put the cuffs on me …” Frank Greenrand said, “I’ve seen that look plenty of times. The guards hated me from the day I walked into that prison. They’re cops too. Pedophiles have it tough with the other guys on the inside. That’s why Tom wanted out. But, guys like me … it’s the guards we gotta watch out for. That’s why I got in on the breakout.”

“Didn’t work out well for you,” Andrew remarked.

“No,” Frank Greenrand agreed. “Guess it didn’t.”

“You learn something from this?” Andrew asked. “Would you try again if given the opportunity?”

Frank Greenrand stared at his feet, seeming to consider this.

“Honestly,” he said, looking up again, “I think I might. What’ve I got to lose?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders and turned to stare at the wall across from his bunk.

In the corridor, Andrew couldn’t withhold a slight frown as he considered his own pistol, currently locked up in an office near the jail’s main entrance. Resigned, he took a deep breath.

“Have a nice trip back to Tennessee,” he said, turning and walking away before the convict could conceive a response. The people had been given their chance to put Frank Greenrand down and they had chosen not to. Why should he clean up their mess now? Let them pay the decades’ worth of having to house this cop killer and continuing escape risk. Best wishes.