A recollection by Retired Officer Glenn Raggio

Occasionally, and only occasionally, you meet someone who inspires you so much that you are willing to let a bit of yourself go to be a bit like him or her. Lieutenant Rich Hutton is such a person. He was my supervisor for nearly ten years, and I am a better cop because of him; I am a more honest person because he was so honest. When he retired there were no ticker-tape parades, and no gold watch was given. But as his fellow officers watched him leave, we knew to a person that someone quite special was about to be conspicuously absent.

*     *     *

When his second ball flew into the water, I braced myself for some screaming or at least some serious swearing. Neither happened. There was a millisecond of silence before the familiar laugh burst out. When I looked over at Rich Hutton, he was bent over laughing—the kind of laughter that infects you immediately, that offers no escape, that always amazes and surprises you. Even our fellow officer Don Heyfron, who smiles about as often as a solar eclipse, was helplessly grinning. Hutton hadn't changed a bit—three years after leaving the department, he was still as happy a man as one could wish to meet. I remembered all over again why I was crazy about this man, why I had secretly choked up during our last handshake at work. And now, on the golf course three years later, I was happy to grab him and give him a giant hug.

When he placed his third ball down on the fairway, I breathed a sigh of relief. His swing had been awkward and mistimed, but the ball responded admirably and shot off the club like a rocket, clearing the water hazard and coming to rest on the green. Hutton casually slipped the club into his bag and began strutting down the fairway as if the first two balls had never been played, as if it was all in a day’s work, as if he were Tiger and had just hit one stiff from 250 yards out. Of course, he couldn't maintain the strut, and we all fell back into that hysterical pre-teen laughter that we "outgrow" but never quite relinquish.

*     *     *

“Rich Hutton” was more like a philosophy than just a name during his years with the Menlo Park Police. Actually, it was more like a verb:

Huttonize- v. 1. To iron or even out. 2. To set straight. 3. To be without fear of political consequence. 4. To scold verbally. Ger. Gescholten wörtlich.  5. To find truth and justice through verbiage.

Rich Hutton said things that made us hope no one else had heard them. He clearly couldn’t have cared less about the consequence of someone else's interpretation of his words. He was the keeper of truth. He went after a suspect or a local rowdy without regard for sex, age, race, or ethnicity. If you messed up and didn't seem to get it, or if you were cavalier about the consequences, well, your nose would meet Hutton's and you’d likely be subjected to a verbal tirade tougher than the trial to come. Teamster blood seemed to run through his veins, and when it reached the boiling point you’d better be listening. The truth never looked as clear or sounded as obvious as when it left Hutton's lips.

Rich Hutton—a Kenny Rogers look-alike, a sun worshiper, an athlete. A brief visit with Hutton's blue eyes after an incident told you most of what you needed to know about how you had handled it. If he grabbed you for a "cup" later it meant you had a "chewing" coming. But you knew that when it was over, it was over. When he smiled—and he smiled more often than not—you couldn’t help but be swept into a grin too. The streets were his, and it was easy to follow his lead. He allowed you as much rope as you needed to do the job, but if he gave you advice you took it. It was that simple and that clear. Under pressure he was sure and confident, yet he kept the balance between caution and risk.

His shift briefings were explorations in tolerance and intolerance. Anything went and usually did. If laughter is good medicine, we were all very healthy. Most Hutton shift briefings began with a big laugh—laughter so loud it could be heard at the other end of the building, making people drop what they were doing to see what they were missing. He was more the player than the referee, and only interrupted when some personal boundary loomed near. Otherwise we tore quite easily into each other's performance—or non-performance—out in the field. He had our answers; we only needed to ask the questions. And when he didn't know the answer, you were honored by having him put his head together with yours to come up with it. He made you feel valuable. He made you feel appreciated.

It takes a month or so to realize that a fellow officer's retirement means he won’t be returning from vacation. After Hutton retired, the familiar work-day environment changed. The building is noticeably quieter. But the little things we do and say remind us that "Hutton would do it this way." He always comes to mind, too, when we realize that some guy “needs to be Huttonized." The citizens of Menlo Park may never notice the difference, but we officers each do our jobs a little differently—a little better—for our experience with Rich Hutton.