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A Journey to the Center of the Mind, Book II The Police Officer Years

By

James R. Fitzgerald

(During the Dark Side years, I needed some extra-curricular, outside-the-BPD activities

to help keep me sane. Youre about to read of one of them. I THINK it worked. Well, maybe a

little bit.)

Bonus Chapter 46a

Starting at the end of 84, and continuing well into 85, and despite my frequently

changing assignments and the ongoing harassment campaign (or perhaps because of it), I found

myself venturing outside of the BPD environs more and more in an attempt to come across other

means of professional satisfaction. I certainly was not attaining any degree of it at my present

gig at the present time under this regime, so it was only natural, if not actually healthy, for me to

look elsewhere for what was clearly a void in my everyday work life.

I very much wanted to expand my existing skillset and further explore alternate channels

of job-related happiness and fulfillment, not to mention gain even just a little bit of appreciation

for me and my various talents from someone for whom I could be working. Maybe somehow,

somewhere, these ventures would lead me back to that level of gratification I once enjoyed at the

BPD, or maybe to a brand new professional opportunity altogether. THAT would be even

better!

So, I started talking to people. One of them was the dean of police training at the

Montgomery County Community College (MCCC). Montgomery County was/is the county
directly adjacent to Bucks County, and I was aware that the MCCC had recently instituted a

brand new training initiative there for those who were interested in becoming police officers in

the state of Pennsylvania. I figured this dean, and this institution, would be a good place for me

to start.

The aforementioned initiative involved the Municipal Police Officers Training Act (aka,

Act 120), which was in place to oversee the training I (and others) had received in 1976 at the

Pennsylvania State Police Academy in Hershey, PA, as well as at a few of their satellite

academies around the state. In the early 1980s, there was an amendment to the original 1974

Act which changed things around a bit. The primary change involved the fact that municipal

police training was no longer solely under the jurisdiction of the State Police. This training

could now be offered elsewhere and in different forms throughout Pennsylvania. Also, an

individual interested in future employment with a police agency wouldnt have to be already

hired by an agency for him or her to attain their police academy training.

How this all boiled down was that this recent amendment/change now allowed an

individual who desired to become a police officer to, in fact, pay his or her own way and attend a

twelve-week training academy at a handful of so-designated community colleges throughout

the state. Then, upon graduating, he or she would be fully and officially certified to immediately

go to work at any in-state police department. Of course, the candidate would still have to go

through the competitive testing, interviewing, for any department which may be hiring, but once

he or she would clear that hurdle and pass all the background checks, their actual employment

would not be far behind. This amendment to Act 120 saved the individual police departments

lots of money too as they now didnt have to pay for their new recruits training and their salary

while they were away at the academy for twelve whole weeks.
(After a few years of the enactment of this amendment in Pennsylvania, only a very few

police agencies, to include Philadelphia, Pittsburgh and the State Police, maintained their own

training academies. Practically every other PD in the state relied on this new means of training,

with their applicants/potential hires already having their certification in-hand upon applying for

an officer position.)

The MCCC was one of the Pennsylvania community colleges which offered this new

program. Learning that, I wanted to look into becoming one of the instructors there. After all, I

had a B.S. in Law Enforcement and Corrections, I was almost three-quarters done my M.S. in

Human Organizational Science, Im a Penn State University POSIT-POLEX graduate, and on

top of all that an eight-year veteran police officer/supervisor in the fifteenth largest law

enforcement agency in the state. With these credentials already under my belt, I thought I would

be a pretty good candidate for an instructors position at the MCCCs new twelve-week civilian

police academy training program. I wasnt even looking for a fulltime position there, maybe

just part-time.

One day in late 1984 I cold-called the dean of the police training program at the MCCC.

His name was Don Nypower. I introduced myself to Don over the phone. I summarized for him

my interests, my background, and convinced him within a few minutes to permit me to stop by

for a visit; an informal interview, if you will. We agreed that on my next scheduled weekday off

I would drive to the campus and we would have that meeting.

Don was a genteel man, in his 50s, and with a masters degree as well as former law

enforcement experience. He wasnt a regular, tenured professor at the MCCC, but instead in

charge of this relatively new and presently much in-demand training program. In his office that
day we talked for the better part of an hour about his professional and academic background, my

own professional and academic background, the present and future of the criminal justice system

in the U. S. (to include training and education), as well as other lofty matters concerning our joint

field of endeavor.

Near the end of our conversation Don enthusiastically advised me that he thought I would

be an excellent candidate to teach Act 120 at the MCCC and he would be glad to hire me as a

part-time instructor. He told me there are other, mostly local Montgomery County police

officers, already on the staff, and having one from Bucks County would only enhance the

program. However, he reluctantly concluded, he noticed that I was missing one important

component to my otherwise impressive professional history so far.

Uhwhat could that be? I inquired of Don, with my own reluctance clearly evident in

the question back at him.

The Dean told me without pulling any punches that upon reviewing my resume and

listening to me talk in his office on this day, he realized that despite all of my career positives I

unfortunately had no formal teaching or training experience. As per the new state law, Don

stated, he couldnt hire anyone as an Act 120 instructor without them having at least forty hours

of demonstrated classroom experience in their not-too-distant past. Almost any kind of formal

classroom teaching would suffice, Don said, but he affirmed once again that he simply couldnt

hire me at his school without that one additional notch on my professional belt.

Dang! Dean Nypower is right. Teaching experience is the one thing I was missing on

my resume, certainly for a position such as the one in which I was now interested at the MCCC.

If I want to have the opportunity to teach in the Act 120 program, there or elsewhere, I got to fix
this situation somehow. But how and where do I go about filling this gaping hole in my life

experience so far?

Don really didnt have too much to offer in regards to this question. He stated perhaps I

could talk to the Bensalem High School principal about doing some formal guest lecturing at the

school regarding drug abuse, drunk driving, etc. That should count toward my teaching

requirements, he told me. However, we agreed with only an hour or so for each high school

lecture, it would take me a long time to get to the forty-hour mark. We also discussed some

private training schools out there which specialize in providing in-service education to law

enforcement agencies, but most of those instructors are retired officers, state troopers, feds, and

the like.

As I was leaving his office that day, I told Don Id reach out for him in the near future

once I figured out how to attain these elusive teaching credits. He all but guaranteed me that IF I

could reach that goal there would, in fact, be a part-time instructor position awaiting me in the

Act 120 program at the MCCC. I thanked Don for his time and helpful advice and we said

goodbye.

Upon leaving the MCCC and driving back to Bensalem that afternoon, I convinced

myself that I could be a good teacher/instructor. I could readily impart my accumulated

knowledge and experience to other interested parties in a classroom environment and I am

confident they would benefit from it. I certainly know lots about criminal investigations,

personnel management, police operations, criminal law, and many of the areas related to my

present field of endeavor - so why not me?


I DO want to do this, either at the MCCC or somewhere else, even if just part-time at

first. I know it would attain for me SOME degree of professional satisfaction in my chosen area

of interest, even if merely from my future students themselves. And, God knows, I could

certainly use a dose of that right about now.

So, how do I address this issue? What do I have to do to be hired for such a position?

Im close, it seems, but without that proverbial cigar yet. Somethings gotta give here though. I

gotta get in front of a classroom somehow, somewhere.

As serendipity would have it, one morning in early December of 84, on a shift which

started at 9P on the previous Sunday evening, I happened to have the Philadelphia Inquirer

newspaper in the police car with me. It was a habit of mine to bring one of the local newspapers

with me for when things would slow down in the wee hours of the night and I wanted something

to read during my in-car lunch break. (If during one of my Villanova semesters, it was usually

a text book or two Id have with me.)

On this particular evening, I had the classified section of the paper with me which, of

course, lists jobs, educational opportunities, etc. As over the last year I had been on almost

constant lookout for new employment options, I thought I would look on this night too, all while

parked near a for-now quiet intersection somewhere in the heart of Bensalem. It was then and

there that I saw the ad in the corner of the newspaper page. The classified ads obvious main

pitch was to potential students to learn a particular trade at this school. But I also noticed, at

the bottom of the ad in smaller print, there were also the words, Qualified instructors needed.

Apply within.
The ad itself was for a private security training center. It was called CIST, which stood

for Center for Investigations, Security, & Technology. (Yes, a fictitious name). Its purported

mission was to train individuals to be security professionals. The newspaper ad advised there

were different programs which were offered, from three months to twelve months in length. The

school/company would even help the interested candidates apply for federal and state loans to

cover their tuition. Lastly, they offered guaranteed employment placement for their graduating

students.

Okay, so maybe this was not the exact type of place where I saw myself spending too

much of my immediate future. But, if I call them, interview with them, they offer me a part-time

instructional position, perhaps, just perhaps, I can do forty hours there over the next few months

and then I would qualify for the Act 120 instructor position at the MCCC.

I guess its worth checking out CIST. So I did.

The Center for Investigations, Security, & Technology was located in a southwestern

suburb of Philadelphia. (For perspective, Bensalem is a northeastern suburb of Philly.) One

afternoon I called the listed phone number and was put in touch with the schools Dean of

Academics. Okay, so they have a dean. Well, that seems impressiveI guess. When the dean

finally got on the line, he introduced himself as Dr. Martin. (Not his real name.)

I told Dr. Martin about who I was, my professional and academic background (including

that I was formerly a private security/store detective in a downtown Philadelphia department

store), and my desire to do some teaching in the area of private security. After hearing what I

had to say, and with barely any hesitation at all, the dean essentially hired me over the phone.

Geez, that was quick, I remember thinking at the time. The $7.00 per hour starting pay CIST
offered me would barely cover the travel costs from Bensalem and back, driving through much

of downtown Philadelphia, to a suburban town diagonally on its other side. But, regardless of

the low pay and long commute, I told the dean I would take the position. The next day, Dr.

Martin sent me some additional information and an application in the mail. Within a week or so,

I was teaching at the CIST campus.

The CIST school, company, or campus was actually a store front in a rather seedy section

of town. It was only a few blocks from the Philadelphia city line. The neighborhood had

definitely seen better days. Regardless, within a day of the company receiving my filled-out

application back in the mail, I was told I would be teaching Retail Security for my first five-

hour instructional block. So, I got to work putting together my notes, preparing my lesson plan,

coming up with a few in-classroom exercises, and was anxiously awaiting my first day at the

head of my new class.

While the BPD wouldnt or couldnt restrict its employees from most outside

employment (working in bars was one of the few restrictions), I still had to tell them about my

new side job anyway. That was in our rules and regulations and I certainly didnt want to give

the regime yet another shot at me if they somehow found out what I was doing during my off

time. So, I wrote a very brief memo to the Lieutenants Office, and advised whoever would

read it of my second job. As I received no response from anyone, I assumed the job was

approved, and I continued to prepare for my upcoming first class day.

Oh, and just to be sure I wasnt wasting my time at the CIST, and while making very

little money in doing so, I called Don Nypower at the MCCC and told him of this just-acquired

position. He stated that he had heard of this school and then kiddingly added that he wouldnt
hold it against me that I was now an instructor there. He laughed a bit, as it seemed he knew

more than I did about CIST, but we left it at that. He assured me that teaching there would be an

acceptable way to meet my forty hour teaching minimum. While again laughing, he advised me

I shouldnt go over the forty hours at that place if I could avoid it.

I simply responded, Okay, and ended the call.

Just what the hell was I getting myself into here at this place? What did the MCCC dean

know about CIST that I didnt know? Well, it wouldnt be long until I would find out.

I probably put at least six to seven hours of prep time over a few day period into my

soon-to-be first ever course at CIST, or anywhere for that matter. I spent some of that time at the

Bucks County Community College library, researching various law books and manuals regarding

trends, statutes, and various occupational features related to the field of retail security. I had

spent fourteen months as a store detective immediately prior to being hired by the BPD, and I

could certainly talk of my on-the-floor experience while there. But I wanted to give the students

more than just that. I was also familiar with the various Pennsylvania criminal statutes regarding

retail theft as I had made a number of those arrests both in my former job and now as a police

officer, but didnt want to just resort to reciting statue sections and sub-sections to them. So,

with everything I had gleaned in my class prep mode, I put together a five-page outline for the

students. I figured it would be a good in-class guide as well as also an at-home study guide for

them before their test.

With my class notes and one copy of the study guide in hand, I made the long drive from

one corner of the Philadelphia metro area to the other. After the hour-plus ride, I was on campus
(on storefront would be more accurate), ready to teach my first ever class of actual, paying

students.

I arrived at CIST early enough to meet with Dr. Martin that day. It was the first time I

had ever met him in person, as it was the first time I was actually on location at the facility. I

realized almost immediately that neither the person nor the building did anything to impress me.

The Dean was a short and clearly overweight man, probably pushing sixty years of age, wearing

a suit and shirt that no longer seemed to fit him or the decade in which he was presently wearing

it. And I couldnt help but notice that his breath smelled of alcohol. This was about 3:00 in the

afternoon. Maybe he just finished his two (or more) martini lunch. If so, I assumed he had

brought his special cocktail thermos with him that day because I was sure there were no bars or

bartenders in the immediate area who would have known how to make a martini, whether of gin

or vodka, shaken or stirred. I recall hoping that the dean wasnt about to drive anywhere

because I dont believe he had the faculties to operate a motor vehicle safely at this time.

However, despite his quasi-intoxicated condition, he managed to shake my hand upon first

meeting me and then proceeded to take me on a tour of the CIST campus.

There wasnt much to the place, just a small classroom or two on the first floor, a small

classroom or two on the second floor, with a few bland looking offices scattered throughout.

Before too long I asked Dr. Martin where the photocopy machine was so I could make the copies

of my study guide for the students that evening. He turned his head away from me to emit a low-

grade belch and then looked back in my direction and told me matter-of-factly that I was not

allowed to make any copies on the campus. I respectfully advised him that these werent copies

for me, but they were for the students to follow along in class with me. He said that such
handouts were frowned upon by the administration and that the students all had their own

custom notebooks and pens (sold at the school) and they could simply write down anything I

taught them which they deemed important. Writing was good practice for them, he concluded,

but not before belching once again.

I half-kiddingly said, God bless you to the Dean, whether that was the appropriate

response or not to his upward and outward oral gas omission. He never said thank you back

to me. Whatever.

With my tour now complete I said goodbye to the dean as he slow-stepped one way

and I the other to the assigned classroom to meet my students for the first time. It was to start at

4:00 that afternoon and was scheduled to go until 9:00.

Right then and there it all of a sudden hit me. I was about to embark on my first teaching

assignment ever, a five-hour course on Retail Security, here at the prestigious (?) CIST campus.

Could I do it? Would it be successful? Would I be successful? Was I up for this

challenge? Would it set the standard, be the benchmark, open doors, for the rest of my

professional life?

Id find the answers to those questions and more soon enough; some of them within just

minutes.

After spending my few remaining pre-class minutes in a converted storage closet which

the Dean previously pointed out to me was the CIST Faculty Lounge, I headed up the stairs to

the second floor classroom. Upon opening the door at the front of the room, I was met with

approximately fifteen faceless students. They were faceless as I couldnt see the front of their

heads. Thats because they were all turned around and looking towards the back of the room.
They were doing so because two of their fellow students decided that the first few minutes of my

first ever teaching experience was the precise time for them to engage in a rockem-sockem

fistfight. The remaining students were circled around the two welterweight pugilists, edging

them on and making no attempts at all to stop the pre-class mini-mayhem.

Geez, I handle these types of situations as a cop all the time, now Im supposed to do it as

a teacher too? And with these, my new students?

I asked myself earlier just what the hell was I getting into here? Just what kind of

campus is this?

Well, now I knew.

As I would learn over the next few classroom sessions with my young charges, this place

wasnt exactly a prep school for higher learning. It was closer to a perp school for lower

learning, if anything. Yes, many of them had criminal records. They would tell me and the rest

of their fellow students during the middle of class. Sometimes theyd raise their hands to make

such pronouncements, other times theyd just blurt it out. I would strongly encourage more

hand-raising and less blurting out as my class time evolved.

The students were mostly all from lower socio-economic neighborhoods in Philadelphia

and only a few of them possessed actual high school degrees. Most of those who had a diploma

of any sort got it through a GED program. As I learned, and which became very obvious to me

before long, there were no minimum educational demands to gain entry into CIST. You only

needed money, up front, and in form of cash or government check. A few of the students may

have been paying their tuition out of pocket, but in most cases it was being covered by

government loans. After all, upon applying to CIST, the small staff there would do the necessary
paperwork for the potential student to attain the loan(s). All the student had to do was come in

and sign the last page. Once the government check came to the storefront mailbox of CIST, the

student was considered officially matriculated.

I managed to break up the fight on that first day of class. I sat the two combatants at

opposite corners of the classroom. As a result, there were no more fisticuffs that evening. Not

between those two, anyway. Another brief skirmish broke out during one of our breaks, but I

quickly squashed that one. I was glad I was wearing my backup .38 in my ankle holster that

evening. I brought it more for protection in the outside neighborhood, not for inside the

classroom. But I could see it was something I may want with me from now on in case any of my

students would decide to bring a weapon of their own to class on some occasion. Maybe I

should bring my handcuffs too for the next class. It couldnt hurt.

I taught this course, and approximately six or seven other courses, over the next few

months. Besides Retail Security, I taught Criminal Law, Report Writing, Court Testifying,

Surveillance Techniques, Arrest Techniques, and similar types of security-related courses. With

the long drive to get to CIST, it was agreed that I would only teach blocks of instruction which

were four hours long or more, to make the drive worthwhile for me. On a few occasions, I even

taught for a whole day.

(I would schedule all of my class time on my regularly scheduled off days from the BPD.

I wasnt going to burn my comp time or vacation time for CIST. I still needed that for my

nighttime Villanova graduate classes where I was, in turn, the student. Fortunately, I never

witnessed a fistfight while there.)


After time, I actually became somewhat friendly with some of the students. While there

were several different cohorts of classes going through the institute at the same time, there was

one group with whom I seemed to spend the most time, and eventually got to know the best. On

many days and nights, we would take time away from the lesson plan that I had prepared for the

course and we would talk in general about my life, their lives, the rights and wrongs of the world

(the two very different worlds in which we co-existed), and potential future jobs and careers for

them in the field of security and even law enforcement.

At some point, after I clearly came to realize what a certificate mill (and not even a

degree mill) CIST was, I would advise the near-graduating students to finish their program

here, get their certificates, and then consider enrolling in an actual university, to include

Philadelphia Community College, and take some real courses there and maybe even earn an

associate degree or beyond in a field of their interest. One or two told me as they were

graduating from CIST that they were going to follow my advice and next enroll in a real

school. That was refreshing to hear.

I also learned around graduation time that CISTs so-called guaranteed employment

placement, as listed in the newspaper ads and touted in the students initial interviews with the

Dean, was nothing more than the soon-to-be-graduates being given photocopies of the previous

Sundays Philadelphia Inquirer want ads covering security and investigative type jobs. No

actual or real placement assistance was involved at all. The students were simply told to call the

highlighted phone numbers in the ads and tell them theyre graduates of CIST. Most potential

employers never heard of the school/company, more than one student later told me, and it didnt

seem to help at all in getting hired.


At some point, Dr. Martin heard about me giving outside academic guidance to my

students and told me, in so many words, to cease and desist from doing so. The administration,

he said, wanted the students to finish their programs, attain their certificates, and not get

distracted with talk of going off to other schools. What if they would quit halfway through the

CIST program? The school would then loose that guaranteed loan money, he told me.

Okay, whatever you say, Dean Martin, as I walked back into the storage closet cum

faculty lounge.

I reached my forty hours teaching goal sometime in early May of that year. I actually

considered staying through the summer months as I was beginning to enjoy spending time with

the students in my favorite cohort, and they were clearly enjoying time with Sgt. Fitz, as they

liked to call me. But I needed just a little bit of an extra incentive to do so. In view of that, I

went to the Dean, and told him Id consider staying but Id like a raise to $8.00 per hour.

Without hesitation, the Dean said No. Okay, so I thought Id present him with a counter-offer.

I asked for $7.50 per hour. He again said No. My counter-counter-offer entailed me then

saying goodbye to him and the CIST. The Dean responded, Are you sure? I responded very

positively to him that now I was.

My last class day at CIST was scheduled for Monday afternoon, May 13, at 4:00. As per

the news and traffic accounts of that afternoon, I knew there was no way I could drive from

Bensalem, down I-95, across the length of Market St. through Philadelphia, to my destination.

It was the Market St. area of West Philly, not too far from the CIST campus, which would be

where the traffic problem, to say the least, was to be found.


It turns out that on what was supposed to be my last class day ever at CIST was also the

last day ever for the existing 6200 block of Osage Ave. This was the date of the second major

Philadelphia Police Department-MOVE confrontation, and highway transportation was at a

virtual standstill anywhere and everywhere near the area. It seems a bomb was dropped from a

helicopter on top of the back-to-nature and civilization-flaunting MOVE rowhome compound.

So, being aware of these activities by early afternoon that day, I called CIST and we

rearranged for my last class to be the following day, May 14.

Market St. was open for two-way traffic that next day as I approached westbound the

barricaded intersection with Osage Ave. As I looked out of my drivers side window, I felt like I

was driving alongside some of the firebombed buildings I had seen in various black-and-white

movies of Dresden, Germany, near the end of World War II. Total urban devastation doesnt

quite describe my view that day as I slowed down to take it all in, especially as there was still

smoke, some fire, and a landscape of tons of collapsed brick and mortar rowhomes just a

hundred feet or so to my left.

As referenced in an earlier bonus chapter, eleven MOVE members, including five

children, died in the holocaust the day before. Sixty-five homes were destroyed, putting 250

residents out on the streets. It was a sad chapter in the modern history of my home town.

These Osage Ave. images would stay in my mind for a long time to come. In 1993, as an

FBI agent in New York City, and after covering a few investigative leads regarding the Branch

Davidian standoff in Waco, Texas, I would mentally draw on my ever-so slow drive past the

burning embers of what was once a viable and lively city block of people, homes, and lives on
that little street in West Philadelphia. I recalled telling a few of my fellow FBI agents who

would listen that any raid of David Kareshs compound would likely have similar results as the

second MOVE standoff, the after effects of which I observed close up. It didnt matter to whom

I said any of this. The 1993 FBI-led raid also resulted in disaster as seventy-six people,

including women and children, lost lives there too, many by fire once again.

Two terrible tragedies, both being avoidable.

I finished my last class at CIST that Tuesday evening, May 14th. I forget the topic I was

teaching, but we talked almost half the class about what had happened just about twenty-four

hours earlier and about one mile east of us. Some of the students lived near Osage Ave. or had

friends or family who actually had resided there. None knew any MOVE members it seems.

That was probably a good thing.

I told the students that night for the first time that I was leaving CIST. At class end I said

goodbye to them, shaking hands and even giving a man-hug or two to several of the cohort

members. I gave a few of the more serious students my BPD business cards and told them to

contact me if they ever needed a reference of any sort. In the next year, at least three of them did

contact me and requested both job and college references. I was glad to help each of them.

I believe at some point in the late 1980s, CIST actually expanded from just its suburban

Philly location to campuses in other U.S. cities. I recall late one night watching a local

television station and a commercial came on for none other than CIST. From the fast-moving

video with its fast-moving music soundtrack, accompanied by a cool, fast-talking announcer, it

was clear in those thirty seconds of airtime that if you wanted to fly in helicopters, drive fancy
limousines, and protect really rich and important people, you wanted to be a graduate of CIST.

That was certainly the image presented by the ad men for this storefront security school/company

located in a rundown suburban neighborhood in the outskirts of Philadelphia.

To the best of my knowledge, CIST closed its multi-jurisdictional doors sometime in the

1990s. Im sure the Dean retired then too, if he wasnt already retired-in-place when supposedly

running the school. I can only hope in my forty or so hours there that I positively influenced

even just a few of the students with whom I came into contact. I think I did. Some of them

were definitely decent young men just looking for a ticket out of their present difficult social and

professional environments. I can only pray that they took their CIST certificates, put them in the

bottom of a drawer somewhere, and went out and got real degrees and found what they really

wanted to do in life.

As for me, later that May I notified Dean Nypower at the MCCC of my recently

completed forty teaching hours. He immediately asked me, When can you start?

Actually, for various reasons involving my work, grad school, and vacation schedule, as

well as the MCCCs already designed academic schedule, we decided to hold off my first

instructional block there until early 1986. Over that next year, I wound up teaching three

different courses in the Act 120 program there to dozens of future police officers. I enjoyed it

very much. And it certainly didnt hurt to have college teaching experience on my resume and

CV when I would be looking for future jobs. Not at all.

Interestingly, I dealt with two different Deans at two different institutions during this

several months timeframe, and even beyond with one of them. Both were interesting and
edifying in their own ways, although as different as night and day. Looking back, as varied as

the two men were, I can honestly say that I learned from both Dean Martin (representing my

means to a particular end) and Dean Nypower (representing that end, i.e., becoming a police

training instructor). In their own separate styles, they taught me something about the

professional world outside of the BPD. They also taught me about ME outside of the BPD, and

these were some lessons I needed to learn back then. The two of them opened doors for me, one

being on a storefront, the other on a large suburban college campus. I ultimately walked through

both and benefited professionally from it for the rest of my life.

Thanks, Deans!