‘All we can do is try again’
Riding along with Mesa police’s Crisis Response Team
The 19-year-old threatened to commit a mass shooting. ❚ He warned that he would force police to shoot him. ❚ The two Mesa police officers found him sitting in a gas station parking lot on a sweltering summer evening. ❚ The temperature had yet to dip below 100 degrees, but the teen wore a thick black hoodie zipped up to his neck and dark-colored pants. ❚ All of his possessions were in the beat-up black backpack slouched on the concrete behind him. ❚ This was his second run-in with police in 24 hours.
They tried to explain to him that a judge had signed papers to have him involuntarily evaluated at a mental health facility.
They were there to take him.
“Over my dead body,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His thick glasses were foggy.
The encounter could have resulted in the officers killing the teen, as many similar instances in Arizona have over the past several years.
But it didn’t.
The two Mesa patrol officers didn’t attempt to overpower the teen or force him into the back of a police car. Instead, they waited under the glow of the buzzing streetlights for two members of Mesa police’s Crisis Response Team to arrive.
Police shootings involve mental illness
Police officers throughout the state routinely respond to calls just like the one in Mesa. They’re tasked with getting someone in the midst of a mental health crisis into a police car and to a facility to get help.
The person trapped in the haze of mental illness often doesn’t want to go. Some might reach for a weapon with the intent of harming themselves or the officer coming toward them.
An investigation by The Arizona Republic found that at least 90 of the 600 people Arizona law enforcement shot at between 2011 and 2018 were experiencing some form of a mental health crisis. Experts and officials estimate the actual number is likely far higher.
People with untreated mental illnesses are 16 times more likely to be killed
An investigation by The Arizona Republic found that at least 90 of the 600 people Arizona law enforcement shot at between 2011 and 2018 were experiencing some form of a mental health crisis.
during a police encounter as other civilians approached or stopped by law enforcement, according to a 2015 study from the national Treatment Advocacy Center.
Mesa is trying to change that. Drivers passing through the bustling parking lot on that warm September night slowed to watch as Detective Brandi George and Detective Jamey Cox spent almost an hour speaking to the teen. Both officers are trained to help those experiencing a mental health crisis.
By the end of the conversation, the teen agreed to voluntarily leave with them. He was never handcuffed and weapons were never drawn.
Gently, George and Cox each took the teen by an elbow to lead him to the idling police car. He slipped into the back seat secured behind a transparent enclosure and pushed his earbuds into his ears for the drive to the treatment facility.
Kayden Clark’s death spurs change
Police officers are often the first responders to a mental health crisis. Families don’t know who else to call and officers must serve as counselors when they might not have the proper training to do so. It’s a reality many police departments across the nation face daily.
That was the case with 24-year-old Kayden Clarke, who had been diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, bipolar disorder and depression.
Clarke intended to kill himself. He documented his struggles on YouTube.
On the morning of Feb. 4, 2016, Clarke emailed a friend a final request: Take care of his service dog.
The friend called police.
Mesa police had dealt with Clarke before. They were aware of his developmental and mental health issues.
Officers approached the darkroom where Clarke was hiding, armed with their duty weapons. They spotted the glint of the knife Clarke was holding and ordered him to drop the weapon and come out from the darkness.
A lawsuit filed by Clarke’s family says the teen was “clearly confused and terrified” at the sight of the officers. He screamed that he wouldn’t be taken back to the psych ward, according to the lawsuit. He refused to be medicated.
An officer turned on the lights as Clarke walked toward them. Clarke was still clutching the knife as two officers fired. One bullet struck Clarke in the abdomen. He died later that night.
“They cornered (Clarke) in a small darkened room. Instead of trying to calm (him), the officers drew and pointed their guns in the dark and shouted demands, terrifying (Clarke),” the lawsuit said.
Clarke’s shooting came on the tail of a series of high-profile shootings.
The department had a small-scale crisis-intervention training program on the back burner for a few years, but Clarke’s shooting highlighted the importance of freeing up the funds and resources to create a full-time unit.
“It (mental health) was already a priority with the Police Department, but it also had to be a priority with the city to get the funding and bodies to match it,” Detective Amanda Stamps explained.
The unit has since expanded to eight detectives, a sergeant, a coordinator and a licensed clinical social worker.
The number of mental health calls has increased by nearly 25% since 2016 to more than 7,000 calls in 2018, with the Crisis Response Team handling a significant portion of that.
Serving as officer and counselor
“We’re kind of like a taxi cab,” George said as she drove an unmarked police car toward Desert Vista Hospital.
A middle-aged man with the laces removed from his white tennis shoes sat handcuffed behind the protective partition in the back seat. He was silent on the drive from the jail to the hospital.
His answers to George and Cox’s questions were coherent and polite. He didn’t seem like a man facing criminal charges for taping bullets to the door of a bank. He was approved to attend outpatient mental health treatment while his criminal case drags on in court.
The appearance of the Crisis Response Team has been carefully crafted so its members look more like counselors and less like police officers. They all use unmarked patrol cars and wear gray polo shirts with an embroidered police badge instead of the traditional uniform. Many of the officers opt to wear their body armor under their clothes and even their duty belt appears more streamlined.
They often introduce themselves by their first names and forego ranks entirely in an attempt to be more relatable.
The man appeared comfortable with the two officers. He quietly shuffled from the police car to the front door of Desert Vista Hospital, careful to keep his laceless shoes on his feet. His bad back was giving him some trouble that morning, he explained to the officers.
Inside the intake room, Cox removed the man’s handcuffs for him to sign insurance paperwork, like in any other doctor’s appointment.
“Bye, girls,” the man yelled out as the two officers left.
Most days are filled with petition pick-ups. The team handled more than 1,800 mental health detainer pick-ups in 2018 — and that number is growing each year.
A friend, family member or other concerned individuals can file a petition indicating they believe the person is a danger to themselves or others and is in need of immediate mental health assistance. The petition is signed by a judge and then the team locates the person and takes them to a mental health facility for an evaluation.
The petitions are a civil order. The team doesn’t have the legal right to enter a residence and force someone to go. Some use this to their advantage. One man whose wife reported he was becoming abusive toward her and refusing to eat or sleep as his paranoid schizophrenia worsened stayed hidden behind the closed screen door of his house. Cox and clinician Jenenne Redd stood outside his door for three hours talking in circles with the man as they pleaded with him to come with them.
“You can’t rationalize with an irrational person,” George explained.
After two hours, the man stopped responding to their questions. He shut the door and retreated back into the home despite the pleas of the officers and his own mother.
“I tried everything,” Cox said, her voice hoarse from talking for hours. “All we can do is try again.”
It took two more visits over the course of a week to get the man to come with them. They spent nearly 15 hours in total on that one case.
Some agencies prioritize crisis training
At first, it was hard to distinguish all the blood from the woman’s red T-shirt.
But it was impossible to miss the laceration that turned her forearm into a deep canyon, even via the police bodycamera footage of the incident.
Blood began to pool on the white tile floor surrounding the young woman.
The woman was sitting up with her legs folded underneath her, eyes staring down at her forearm resting lifelessly on her thighs when the officers arrived. The stolen box cutter was still grasped firmly in her other hand. Blood rained down from the deep cuts on her neck.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed. There was so much energy behind the roar even though her life was quickly slipping away from her.
“Please, let us help,” Officer Andrea Talley said.
“This is what I need,” the woman said. “Trust me.”
The woman put up a half-hearted attempt to fight as one of the officers grabbed her forearm and slipped handcuffs on her wrists. They kicked the box cutter out of her reach. Their black gloves glistened with the shiny dark blood as an officer put pressure on the deep self-inflicted wounds on her forearm and neck.
The woman had run into a Circle K
across the street and asked to use the phone, Talley told the other officers. She then ran into the Walmart across the street and stole a box cutter. It was the middle of the afternoon.
“What made you do this to yourself ?” Talley asked the woman as she laid on the floor, the officer’s hands still holding onto her forearm and neck as they waited for the fire department to arrive.
She began to spit up blood as she tried to get out an incoherent response. Her legs kicked as the color drained from her face.
“They are going to take me,” she said shortly before the paramedics pulled her onto a stretcher.
Talley and the other officers at this call weren’t on the Crisis Response Team. However, she is one of 249 Mesa police officers who have gone through a 40-hour crisis intervention training program.
It’s the same training the team relies on.
All officers statewide graduating from the police academy receive a brief training on crisis intervention. However, law enforcement agencies throughout the county have prioritized sending officers to the extended training.
About 30% of Mesa’s and 20% of Phoenix’s patrol officers complete the in-depth training.
Participating officers hear from those currently struggling with mental illness while also learning more about mental illness, substance use, Alzheimer’s and traumatic brain injuries during the course of the week. The training is run by medical professionals, not police officers.
Members of the Crisis Response Team gathered in the briefing room to watch the body-camera footage of the suicide attempt the next day. They were charged with taking the woman from the hospital to Desert Vista for mental health treatment once she’s physically stable enough.
They needed to know what to expect. Redd speculated that the woman may have been suffering from delusional thoughts, noting her allegations that someone would get her and her desperate pleas to use the phone before taking the box cutter to her own skin.
‘Get your gun and shoot me’
Terri was waiting when the Crisis Response Team stepped under the shade of the carport attached to her house.
Her partner had called police the night before.
Terri was armed with a butcher knife and would try to force officers to shoot her, her partner said.
The officers had to be strategic in their approach given what they had already learned about Terri. They arrived at her house the next day with nearly the entire team. They didn’t know what they were getting into and thought it best to be prepared.
Terri was angry.
She was mad at her partner, her phone company, the world and now the police. It was clear she didn’t want them there. Before arriving, the officers saw in their records that she had been previously diagnosed with a number of mental health issues and she had a history with police.
Police body-camera video shows the team formed a semicircle around Terri, moving in closer as Terri babbled angrily about her allegiance to the devil. Terri was fixated on their guns and the idea that they would hurt her.
She asked each officer for their name. She stopped momentarily to take a short puff from a marijuana pipe before resuming her monologue. She talked and they listened, often interjecting with questions to try and understand what was happening inside Terri’s head. Her walker sat in front of her like a barrier separating her from them.
“Are you ready, Terri?” DetectiveTroy Clevenger asked her.
“Shoot my ass,” Terri said. “Get your gun. Get your gun and shoot me.”
“That’s not going to happen today,” Sgt. Victor Tapia responded.
Redd joined the group shortly after the others arrived. She gestured to the large “COUNSELOR” patch adhered to her body armor and explained to Terri that she’s not a sworn officer and doesn’t carry a gun. Redd opened her clipboard to prove there wasn’t a weapon hidden inside.
Redd asked Terri if she knew why they were there, attempting to ensure Terri had the mental capacity to comprehend what was happening and the next steps.
Redd explained that they had a petition to take Terri to a facility for an involuntary mental health evaluation.
The minutes passed as the officers talked in circles with Terri. She repeatedly asked them to kill her.
‘There’s no reason to rush’
In several of the cases in recent years in which an officer shot at someone, the shooting happened within minutes of the officer arriving.
There was Michelle Cusseaux, who Phoenix police killed in 2014 after she answered the door with a hammer above her head. Officers were tasked with taking the 50-year-old, who suffered from bipolar disorder, schizophrenia and depression, to a mental health facility.
Akbar Aziz was shot nine seconds after he jumped in front of a Mesa patrol car in 2018. He charged the officer and asked where his gun was.
Aziz had called the police himself because he believed he was being chased. He had a schizophrenia diagnosis and had not been taking his medication, according to the Mesa police report.
But the Crisis Response Team has time. It’s the primary resource that distinguishes them from other officers. In 2017, the team spent an average of nearly three hours on each mental health call.
“There’s no reason to rush,” Detective Angel Rea said.
The Crisis Response Team isn’t dictated by incoming 911 calls or criminal activity. Its main focus is to handle the pick-ups and to assist patrol officers with mental health-related calls.
The team can afford to spend hours trying to coax one individual to leave his or her home or to get into a police car without ever having to use force, Stamps explained.
“Patrol doesn’t have that luxury,” she said. “They have to make the decision whether to just walk away and leave this potentially suicidal person or to find another option. Sometimes that means they’re a little quicker to (go hands-on).”
The lack of time is often what results in the use of force, Stamps said. The team’s use of force numbers are significantly lower than other units, she said.
She estimated there are only about one or two each year.
A different ending for Terri
More than 30 minutes passed as the Crisis Response Team officers continued to tighten the semicircle around Terri.
They were looking for the right opportunity to calm the woman down, but she kept insisting they needed to shoot her.
“It’s not going to happen,” Detective Michael Colon said. “It’s not going to happen.”
After 45 minutes, Sgt. Victor Tapia and Detecti. Kim Kurian pulled Terri up by her forearms and walked her slowly to the police car parked less than 10 feet away.
“I will grab a gun,” Terri warned. She threatened to kill herself, the officers and whatever doctor tries to help her with her bare hands.
Body-camera footage from one of the officers showed Terri attempted to reach for a weapon.
The Arizona Republic database of Arizona police shootings between 2011 and 2018 includes numerous incidents where people were shot and killed for making the exact same move.
But Tapia and Kurian weren’t fazed by it.
Clevenger took hold of one of Terri’s arms and he and Tapia started the slow process of getting her into the back of the police car.
Terri mustered up the saliva in her mouth and spit on both officers. She repeatedly demanded a face mask.
“I want a f- -king Hannibal Lecter!” She yelled. “Hurry the f- -k up and shoot my ass!”
Terri yelped a joyful “yoo-hoo” when they secured a spit mask over the lower half of her face before putting her in the back of the police car for the drive to the mental health facility.