A story from Officer Glenn Raggio

I learned most of what I know about police work from my FTO (Field Training Officer), Don Heyfron. One of the earliest and most important lessons he instilled in me was to suspend my expectations: "This is what the situation appears to be, but it may turn out to be something altogether different …"

The following event occurred several years ago …

It was a summer evening—short-sleeve weather, and busy. I had just cleared an alarm call and was making my way toward another when the call came out:

"Menlo units: Report of a woman screaming in the area of University and Middle Avenue."

When I answered the call I was only a block away. As I approached the intersection I could hear the screams. I exited my car and began working my way toward a huge apartment complex, then through a maze of hallways and doors. The screams continued; the echoes they created through the apartment courtyard made it more difficult to identify which apartment held the distressed woman. I was amazed that no residents had emerged from their apartments to investigate. When I finally reached what I thought was the apartment, I radioed the number and asked how far away my backup was. My nearest cover informed me that he was trapped behind the train gates at Ravenswood, waiting for a freight train to pass.

I decided to try the door. It was unlocked. When the woman began screaming again I had little choice but to go in. I knew no one inside would hear me open the door over the screams. I slowly turned the knob, positioned the door an inch or two ajar, and peered in. The living room was vacant, and from what I could see the kitchen was empty as well. I slowly opened the door wider and slipped in, leaving the door half open and my lit flashlight on the stoop so my cover unit would have an easier time finding the apartment. I stood in the living room and listened for a moment. I could hear quick, urgent voices down the hall and then suddenly more screaming. I drew my gun and began to walk down the long wood-floored hallway before me. Murder? Rape? Many possibilities crossed my mind as I made my way down the hall.

Walking on the outside of my shoes to reduce the noise of my steps, I came to the room where the screams originated. The door was shut but not secure. When the woman began screaming again I knew I couldn't wait. I raised my gun and flung the door open, screaming, "Freeze!" as I entered the room.

The scene before me was not at all what I expected, and it was certainly one for which I was not prepared. The woman on the bed was bathed in sweat, knees bent and legs apart to accommodate the baby who trying to make an appearance. The woman to the right of the bed was older, confident, and completely unfazed by my entrance. The man standing in the corner (presumably Dad) also looked unsurprised; he quickly returned his gaze to the event at hand. The mother-to-be was entirely oblivious to my appearance.

I quickly pocketed my weapon and backed from the room, closing the door gently as I exited. The radio was begging for a status report. I could hear my cover units rushing up the stairs. The neighbors began filing out as police arrived, wanting to know what had happened. They had not responded to the screaming because they had been warned earlier when the contractions began.

I stood outside on the sidewalk with my fellow officers and explained the incident. We all laughed, and I took some appropriate heat from the others. It sure had looked like …

Heyfron's words rang truer than ever in my mind as I drove off. What I didn't know, and what no one could have guessed, was that I would return to that very apartment a few days later, on a matter of life and death.

Three days later...

I had rotated through the three beats of the city since the fateful night. I again was on Beat One, coincidently near the same intersection, when the call came out.

"Menlo Park unit: Report of a three-day-old baby not breathing …"

I recognized the address and knew right away that the fire-department paramedics would have a difficult time finding the apartment. I radioed my response and was "9-7" (on scene) before I cradled the microphone. I dashed upstairs; the familiar door was wide open and a different kind of sound filled the hallway this time—the sound of two people weeping. I entered the room and saw a woman holding a limp, bluish newborn in her hands. The man was standing in the same corner, his eyes stretched open, his face red, and his hands covering his mouth.

I took the tiny infant, and gently pushed down its chin. Fluid began to seep from the sides of its tiny mouth. I lifted the baby to my mouth and gently sucked out the fluid, spitting it out onto the floor. The woman quickly assured me, "It's okay, it's mothers milk." I rubbed the infant's chest and began CPR—small puffs into a mouth the size of a dime, chest compressions with fingertips on a chest not much bigger then my hand. I'm sure it was only seconds, but it seemed so much longer before the baby began to cough, then move, then cry.  The crying quickly became unanimous.

Fire-department paramedics arrived almost five minutes later, having experienced the same difficulties I had in finding the apartment.

It was, and remains, one of my proudest moments. I never stop thinking about the coincidence, about the importance of the first call, and the impact it had on the second one …

A footnote for readers: If you have an infant or small child in your life, take the time to learn CPR at a local Red Cross branch or fire station. The Palo Alto Chapter of Red Cross offers easy-to-learn CPR classes regularly.