Trooper Down! Page 3

  But it was 1970 and the Vietnam War, like a bad case of flu, was hanging on, spreading its virulence. Several days after Louis found out he could join the patrol, he received notice that he had been drafted into the army. Again, he put his plans for becoming a trooper on hold, and enlisted in the Air Force. He spent the next three and a half years stationed in Las Vegas, Nevada, all the while thinking of the North Carolina Highway Patrol.

  “I’m not sure what it was that fascinated me about the highway patrol,” he said later. “I had an uncle who was a trooper in the 1930s and I can remember being very impressed with him as I was growing up. I guess part of it was the uniform, the shiny car, and the prestige.”

  It is the prestige that draws most troopers into the North Carolina Highway Patrol.

  “In this state, the patrol is like being in the major league of law enforcement,” said one officer. “In the town where I grew up, even people who didn’t like cops respected the patrol.”

  Louis now believes that, for him, finally being able to join the highway patrol was an act of God, a predetermined fate that would challenge and change him in ways he would never have imagined.

  By 1974, he was out of the Air Force, married, and living in Mount Airy, North Carolina. Uncertain about his future, he returned to college for technical courses and says he would have become a professional student had it not been for his wife.

  “You can’t stay in school for the rest of your life,” she told him. “Get a job.”

  Still drawn to law enforcement, Louis became a sheriff’s deputy in Greensboro, North Carolina, where he stayed for two years. Then the highway patrol beckoned again. On November 15, 1976, he was officially accepted into the organization and began basic training as a cadet. It was his third try at becoming a trooper.

  The course was hard for Louis. At twenty-eight, he was older than most cadets, and he did not fit the mold of the classic hard-nosed, aggressive trooper who “kicks ass and takes names.”

  Six feet tall, 175 pounds, he is dark-haired and fair skinned, with warm brown eyes, and a shy smile that masks a strong sense of purpose. A sensitive, soft-spoken man, he gives the mistaken impression that he is more at home with a good book than a .357 Magnum. Yet underneath that mild manner is a steely, stubborn determination to succeed at whatever he sets out to do. And in 1976 he was determined to become a state trooper—with some prodding, that is.

  “I was the type who had to be pushed,” he recalled. “The physical training was especially rough. We had to be out of bed at 5:00 A.M. and were expected to run up to seven miles a day. There were many mornings when my physical training instructor literally moved me along with his foot.”

  Even after Louis graduated from the patrol academy (third from the top in his class) he found his first few weeks as a trooper relentlessly difficult.

  “The first night on the job my training officer took me into the patrol office and dumped a huge stack of paperwork on the desk. Then, with no instruction, he said, ‘Here, do it.’ I thought, this isn’t for me. I wanted to go back to the security of the sheriff’s department where I knew what to do and everybody knew me.”

  Throughout this time Louis wanted to quit, and proceeded to tell his sergeant so.

  “If you’re gonna quit,” replied the officer, “at least wait until you get out of training. That way, I won’t look so bad.”

  Louis, however, decided to stay, and by the end of the six-week training period he was feeling better. A trooper at last, he was ready, willing, and able to work alone.

  March 6, 1984: Louis, thirty-six, was now in his eighth year with the North Carolina Highway Patrol. After completing on-the-job training he was stationed first in Hoke County, a rural community eighteen miles west of Fayetteville, then sent to Burke County in 1979. Once known for its backwoods violence, the region, situated in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, had grown and matured into a respectable, pleasant place to live. By 1984, the county, named for Revolutionary War governor Thomas Burke, was 506 square miles of farmland and furniture factories, with a population of 75,000 and an average per capita income of just over $10,000.

  Cutting through the center of Burke County is Interstate 40, a major transportation artery that channels the flow of traffic heading east from Tennessee and states beyond.

  During his eight years as a trooper, Louis had distinguished himself as an active, competent officer, having encountered his share of drunk drivers, speeders, violators, accident victims, and other motorists in distress. And, not surprisingly, he’d gotten into a fight or two, once with a 240-pound drunk who had wrapped his arms around Louis, nearly squeezing him to death, and once with an irate driver who, in a fit of temper, pulled a gun.

  Though aware that the potential for danger lurked daily in a trooper’s job, Louis truly believed nothing serious would ever happen to him on the road. It would always be the other guy, another trooper whose name and face would appear on the six o’clock news. As a result, he was more enforcement-conscious than safety-conscious, a lopsided attitude inadvertently encouraged by highway patrol policy. Since an officer’s abilities as a trooper were measured by the number of tickets he wrote weekly and the types of arrests he made, it was imperative that he present himself as an active, aggressive trooper who did his job well (i.e., wrote a lot of tickets). Conscientious patrolmen like Louis were particularly susceptible to such internal pressures.

  That March night, Louis’s shift began as a routine patrol.

  Louis left the house around midnight in his unmarked cruiser, checking on duty through the Newton Communications Center.

  “F-138, Newton,” he said, identifying his call number. “I’m now 10-41 (beginning tour of duty).”

  “Ten-four,” the telecommunicator replied,

  Since the patrol was short-handed in both Burke and adjoining Catawba County, troopers shared the responsibility of patrolling long stretches of Interstate 40. So for the next hour, Louis headed west before turning around at the McDowell County line (which also adjoined Burke) to backtrack east.

  About midway on his assigned route, he clocked several tractor-trailer rigs exceeding the fifty-five speed limit. One trucker was barreling along at seventy, so Louis pulled him over and, after arresting him, took him to the Morganton County Jail where he was fined forty-seven dollars for speeding, and released.

  Heading back toward the interstate, Louis should have patrolled the stretch of highway he had not yet covered. Instead, without knowing why, he turned and drove to the same location he had just patrolled. When he reached the McDowell County line he crossed over as he had done earlier, cruising toward Morganton.

  Moments later he spotted a light gray 1978 Cadillac in the westbound lane going much too fast. Using his radar, Louis clocked the driver at seventy-four miles per hour and crossed the grassy interstate median to pursue him. Nearing the McDowell County line, he caught up with the car, activated the blue patrol light, and turned on the siren. But the driver sped forward.

  The chase continued across the county line until the Cadillac finally slowed, then eased onto the right emergency lane to stop. Louis pulled up behind. With the engine still running, he stepped out of the patrol car. The air surrounding him was gray and foggy, heavy with the threat of a bone-chilling rain.

  In his left hand he carried a patrol-issued flashlight. Inside the car lay his bulletproof vest, slung carelessly across the front seat. Hot and bulky, it was an optional piece of equipment that Louis and other North Carolina state troopers seldom bothered to wear.

  As soon as his feet hit the pavement, instinct took over. Something told him not to move too quickly, for this would be a traffic stop like none he had ever encountered. Yet he still had to act.

  Slowly and methodically, Louis moved to the left rear door of the Cadillac. The back window was halfway down, and he could see a portion of the driver’s head. At first he thought the man was wearing an orange hat, then realized that what he had seen was a thick, curly mop of reddish hai
r.

  Neither the man nor his passenger spoke, moved, or turned around. The trooper felt a sudden stab of fear.

  “Driver! Put your hands up on the steering wheel!” Louis demanded.

  Without warning, the man turned and fired a single shot from a .22-caliber revolver. The bullet passed through the half-opened back window and struck Louis in the left side of the chest, glanced off a stainless steel pen in his shirt pocket, and entered his lung.

  Staggering backwards, he fell to the ground, then got up and ran between the patrol car and the Cadillac. Grabbing his .357 Magnum, he intended to fire at the driver, but as he reached up to aim, he saw the passenger get out of the car and aim a .22 revolver at him. The man fired six times, hitting Louis in the upper left leg, right knee, and right side of the stomach. Seconds later, he jumped into the Cadillac and the car sped away.

  Bleeding heavily but still conscious, Louis managed to fire all six rounds from his gun. Two bullets shattered the Cadillac’s back window, but missed both occupants.

  Alone now and seriously hurt, Louis struggled to return to the patrol car radio that would link him to help. On the pavement behind him lay his hat and the flashlight, along with the scattered remains of numerous .22 shells.

  Crawling towards the safety of the patrol car, he was engulfed with a sense of shock and anger. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, he looked down. There was little pain from the wounds but he could see thick red stains seeping across the front of his shirt and trousers. Afraid to examine himself further, he concentrated on getting his gun back into its holster.

  Despite his condition, his first thought was, “I have to get my gun back where it belongs.” Over and over he tried replacing the weapon, but each time, the empty holster on his hip swung round and round.

  Finally, still holding the gun, he picked up the radio.

  “Signal 25, Newton,” he gasped into the mike (I need immediate assistance). “This is F-138. I’ve been shot.”

  “Ten-four,” the telecommunicator responded. “Can you give us a description of the vehicle and the direction it was traveling?”

  Louis provided what details he could and in turn was reassured that help was on the way.

  Convinced he could help himself, Louis turned the wheel of the patrol car and started east on the interstate, unaware in his state of shock that he was driving in the westbound lane. The last thing he remembers was slamming on the brakes as the guardrail rushed towards him. It was 1:36 A.M.

  Less than a mile away, John Angley and his wife were sound asleep when the police scanner next to their bed relayed a message that a highway patrol officer needed assistance on Interstate 40 near Dysartsville Road. An emergency medical technician and paramedic for the McDowell County rescue squad, Angley was on call as a “first responder” to any crisis that arose within his district during the night.

  Without a word, he got up, dressed, and was out the door. Randall Brackett, McDowell County fire chief, and Bruce Gwyn, another local fire fighter, had also responded to the call. All were en route to Louis at about the same time.

  Angley and Gwyn arrived at the scene simultaneously. As they ran towards the patrol car, both men noted it was stopped in the wrong lane, with all four headlights burning. The blue light, sitting atop the dashboard, was still spinning, and a blood-splattered bulletproof vest was draped across the passenger seat.

  Angley saw Louis slumped forward in the driver’s seat, his gun still in his hand. Turning to Gwyn, he cautioned him not to open the door until they had clearly identified their purpose.

  “Sir,” said Angley, leaning towards the patrol car. “We’re here to help you, sir. Can we open the door?”

  Louis’s head moved slightly and he mumbled.

  Reaching into the car, Angley gently pulled the officer back against the seat to check his vital signs. He could tell by the trooper’s ashen color and weak pulse that he was in deep trouble. Louis was also having difficulty breathing. As he gasped for breath, he looked up at John and asked imploringly, “Am I gonna die? Am I gonna die?”

  “Not if we can help it,” said Angley.

  The Burke County rescue squad was the first ambulance to arrive. Emergency medical technicians Tommy Waters and Phillip Reece began preparing IVs while Angley and Gwyn administered oxygen to Louis. As the medics were lifting the trooper out of the patrol car and onto the stretcher, he suddenly vomited and stopped breathing. Angley quickly repositioned him and Louis took one breath, then another.

  A short, stocky man in his late thirties, Angley took his work seriously, sometimes getting emotionally caught up in the traumas he witnessed as an EMT. He hoped fervently that the trooper would make it and the night would end on a happier note.

  At Grace Hospital in Morganton, nineteen miles from where Louis had been shot, doctors, nurses, and other emergency medical personnel were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. They had already been notified that a highway patrol officer was badly wounded and would probably require immediate surgery. Among the operating room nurses off duty that night was Scottie Rector, Louis’s thirty-two-year-old wife.

  The call came shortly before 2:00 A.M. Scottie, a medium-built woman with brown hair and a soft, lilting voice, picked up the phone. A registered nurse, Scottie couldn’t understand why the hospital was calling her when she wasn’t scheduled to work.

  “It’s Louis,” said Scottie’s nursing supervisor. “He’s been shot and you need to come to the emergency room.”

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “How bad is it? How bad is he hurt?” She sat up in bed, now wide awake.

  “I don’t know,” answered the woman.

  He’s dead, Scottie thought. Louis is dead and they don’t want to tell me.

  “I’ll be right there,” she responded. Dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt, she drove through the rain to Grace Hospital, certain that all of her fears over Louis’s job had finally come to pass. At home, their daughter, Chanda, twelve, and son, Bryan, eight, slept on.

  In the hospital emergency room, John Angley and the ambulance crew had completed their job and were waiting for word on how Louis was doing. Almost immediately, he’d been whisked into a trauma room and surrounded by physicians and a well-trained medical staff who knew exactly what to do. The E.R. was teeming with law enforcement officers, reporters, hospital personnel, and patients.

  Almost immediately after the telecomrnunicator at Newton received word that Louis had been shot, highway patrol officers from Burke and surrounding counties were alerted to stand by for emergency duty. Many off-duty troopers donned their uniforms and checked on voluntarily so they’d be ready when the first official orders came through.

  One of those troopers was Don Patterson. He heard the news through a telecommunicator who called him at home.

  “I went straight to the McDowell County line where other troopers were already securing the area,” Patterson recalled. “We set up roadblocks, stopping to check all traffic going through. Detectives from the State Bureau of Investigation were there too, taking photographs and looking for evidence. Louis’s patrol car was still running, the radar unit still flashing 74 mph where he had clocked the Cadillac. Even the commercial radio was on. Then I saw Louis’s revolver lying in the front seat. At that point, all we could think of was, ‘What happened here? Who did this? And when are we going to find them?’”

  Nearby, at Grace Hospital, Louis was undergoing emergency surgery. Though he had lost a substantial amount of blood, all four bullets had passed through his body and he was expected to recover. Days later, he would learn that the ballpoint pen had saved his life. Had the first bullet not deflected off the pen, the surgeon told Louis, it would have entered his heart instead of his lung.

  While Louis lay in the intensive care unit following surgery, McDowell County deputies, asked to assist in the manhunt, located the ditched Cadillac behind an elementary school in Nebo, a tiny community a few miles from where the shooting to
ok place. There was no sign of the driver and his passenger. Several troopers were dispatched to Nebo where they joined the deputies in sealing off the area. Not yet sure who they were looking for, the patrolmen stopped everyone coming through Nebo and checked their licenses.

  Meanwhile, with help from the FBI and other law enforcement agencies, the highway patrol office in Morganton began gathering the first important bits of information about the Cadillac’s occupants. What eventually emerged was a chilling portrait of two deadly criminals on the run.

  The driver was Ronald Sotka, forty-one, better known as Ronald Freeman, a Tennessee prison escapee who was serving consecutive life sentences for the 1970 murder of his pregnant wife and stepdaughter. A former church deacon from Knoxville, Freeman had maintained his innocence even after he had been found guilty and sentenced to 198 years in prison.

  His passenger was James E. Clegg, thirty, a habitual criminal who had escaped with Freeman and three other inmates from Fort Pillow State Prison in Tennessee on February 18. Two of the five convicts had been captured within days. Clegg, Freeman, and a third man were still at large.

  Authorities considered Clegg and Freeman “extremely dangerous.” Three days after their escape from prison, the pair had walked out of the woods near Brownsville, Tennessee, and shot and killed a fifty-nine-year-old businessman who was grilling steaks in his backyard. Afterwards, they kidnapped his wife and drove her 400 miles across the state to a rest stop near Knoxville, where she was released unharmed. The fugitives were then picked up by an unidentified woman who apparently harbored them in her home.

  From there, Clegg and Freeman drove to Asheville, North Carolina, where they rented a car and traveled to Cleveland, Ohio, to see Freeman’s brother, who gave them $1,200. Returning to Asheville, Clegg and Freeman purchased a two-tone older-model Buick for $850. On their way east, seventy miles past Morganton, the engine gave out. The men ditched the Buick and stole a 1978 Cadillac from a Mocksville garage. In an apparent effort to mislead police, they got back on Interstate 40, heading west again, when they were stopped for speeding by Louis Rector.