Legacy
- by Wendy Rockburn

Fifty-five pages of double-spaced, 10-pitch Courier on white bond lie in a plain brown envelope on my editor's desk. Their submission usually marks the termination of my involvement with the subjects of my in-depth exposes. We go our separate ways, neither party suffering any ill effects.

The article will be successful, of that I am sure. The twelve brief days spent together were filled with enough detail for a novel -- taking us from a murder scene to the Coroner's office, from the forensic labs through to a tense yet bloodless apprehension of the suspect.

The words were easy to find, and the story almost wrote itself. Sentences flowed effortlessly from my typewriter, as they had done many times before. Anyone familiar with my work would notice no difference in style.

Only I know just how much those two men have changed my life.

In the twenty years since beginning my investigative features, many people and events have caught and held my fancy for various lengths of time. But never have I been drawn into a story like I was with this one. Thus the reason for this ... diary, if you like. No one will ever read it; it is for my use alone. Hidden someplace safe, whenever the pressure gets to be too much or the loneliness to oppressive, I'll dig it out and reread what has been written, and marvel once more that such people do exist in this world.

It all began innocently and routinely enough -- I have done numerous treatises, both pro and con, on police departments from one end of the country to the other. This one would be no different, or so I thought. I have ridden in squad cars, sat in on all-night stakeouts, attended night court and murder trials, and even endured a short stint in an academy. Yet it was with wary scepticism that I approached the Chief of the San Francisco Police Department for permission to spend a week or so with a Homicide detective team. Homicide is the 'Holy Grail' of police work -- the romantic profession of murder mystery novels and innumerable television shows and movies. Most detectives I had encountered did nothing to dismiss that myth, and a few went out of their way to perpetrate it. I wanted to probe beyond the lore - discover just who were these men to whom corpses and violent death were a livelihood.

Passed down the ladder of the SFPD hierarchy, I finally found myself in the office of Captain Rudy Olsen, Chief of Detectives. In deference to my somewhat formidable reputation, and my sex no doubt, he was most eager to oblige, with a few binding 'conditions' -- the department would select the pair of detectives I would follow; the duration would be a maximum of two weeks; I would not become involved, in any capacity, should a potentially dangerous situation develop; and the department would receive, prior to publication, the story to be filed. They assured me no demands for changes or deletions would be made -- it was merely a precautionary move, should they need to come to the defense of the department, its policies or its officers.

If they only knew the things I left out.

I was informed that, should I present myself to Room 450, Hall of Justice, Bryant Street, at 8 o'clock Monday morning, I would find myself in the company of a Lieutenant Michael Stone and an Inspector Stephen Keller. The names meant nothing to me. Hoping that this assignment would provide the catalyst to elevate me from what I was beginning to suspect was a professional rut, I settled in to enjoy the weekend in one of everybody's favourite cities, and awoke Monday morning with what I hoped was an open mind.

What I expected when I walked into the Homicide office I don't really know, but after the introductions to the subjects of my next fortnight of scrutiny, I was more than mildly surprised. They were not what I had anticipated; they matched none of my foolishly preconceived ideas. But, more than that, it was the incongruousness of their partnership that intrigued me. Never had I been confronted with such an unlikely pair.

First impressions? I usually don't indulge, but for some reason I'll never understand, this time I made an exception. They were seated in a small, windowed inner office, engaged in conversation over a desk piled high with files and reports. And for a few minutes before crossing that line that changes me from detached observer to involved participant, I stood across the room and watched.

Physically, they were miles apart. The lieutenant, older by at least twenty years, was tall and solid. Surprisingly slim for a man of his build, he moved with the grace of a natural athlete as he rose and paced the small room. His face was a story in itself; what I saw was a tough, humourless boor, opinionated and narrow-minded. An oddly misshapen nose reflected a life of struggle and disadvantage, I surmised -- a hard life manifesting itself in the visage of an ex-pug or street-tough kid. An up-from-the-ranks career cop, probably with little formal education beyond grade school, he most likely was an 'old school' proponent who liked to use his fists and wasn't the least bit hesitant about using his gun.

As tough as nails as the veteran looked, the inspector presented me with a totally polarized impression. If the lieutenant was Potrero and the Tenderloin, this young man was strictly Nob Hill. From the dark-haired, green-eyed good looks to the tailored clothes, he was not my idea of a homicide detective. He seemed too slick, too polished; an Ivy League know-it-all from a well-to-do family, no doubt he considered his tenure in Homicide only a stepping stone to the upper echelons. College trained, and smug about it, he probably cares more about his wardrobe than the people with which he has to deal.

And together? These two an actual team, working day-to-day, shoulder-to-shoulder? The obviousness of the department's little ploy was almost laughable if it wasn't so downright insulting. "She'll never know the difference, " they must have assumed. "We'll give her the old plodder and the college kid, so what if they hate each other. It'll be good for the image of the department. " Well, I wasn't about to fall for that one. I'd go along, at least temporarily; my irritation turned to amusement as I accepted their little challenge.

But the moment the introductions were complete, I had the sinking feeling that the conclusions I had just jumped to, feet first, were wrong. My curiosity barometer began to scale new heights.

The primary reason for my presence there at all, of course, was to harvest enough fodder for an in-depth article about these men, in their professional lives, that I could sell and, thereby, continue to earn a living. That remained my priority over the next two weeks. But I also found myself being drawn toward them in a way I had never experienced before, and I began to study them from a purely personal point of view. I was to be great rewarded.

My first preconception, that they weren't really partners, was disproved in a heartbeat. Their level of communication, physically and verbally, was that of people who have spent many hours in each others' company, enabling the development of their own 'shorthand'. That was apparent after the first few moments; from then on I began to look for other signs that my snap judgements were going to snap right back at me.

Ground rules re-stated, I proceeded, like always, to attempt to blend into the woodwork and observe, taking the occasional note but never asking questions or interfering in any way. Mine was an observational piece, not an interview.

It usually takes a day or two before most subjects relax under the constant scrutiny and begin to ignore my constant presence. Others never do. But these two seemed to be adjusting fast, as if confidence in themselves and each other, and perhaps an inner knowledge that they had nothing to hide allowed them to be themselves even in the company of a stranger.

As story material went, our first day together provided excellent copy, but over a room-service supper in my hotel room that night, pouring over my reams of notes, I began to sense that the focus of my story was threatening to shift from the job itself to the two people who held that job. To many that observation may have seemed only a question of semantics; for me it was a revelation.

I have always prided myself on the ability to bring in a story devoid of a 'personal angle'. There is no embroidery to a Sherwood report, no humanizing, no proselytizing -"Just the facts, ma'am." The score of awards and plaques that adorn my walls attest to that.

Yet, that night, sitting alone in my half-lit hotel room, a cup of cold coffee in one hand and an idle pen in the other, I tried to figure out what it was about Mike Stone and Steve Keller that had shattered my equilibrium. It wasn't a physical thing -- of that I was certain. True, I have been attracted to a few of my subjects at one time or another, and am very familiar with the feeling. No, this was much different. A hollowness, an emptiness I couldn't express with the tools of my trade -- this was what I was experiencing, and I wanted to know why.

So, for the next two weeks when the opportunities presented themselves, I studied the two detectives and began to note behavioral characteristics usually lost to the casual onlooker. These observations would never see print; they weren't important in the context of the article to be written. I set them down for my personal rumination at a later date, in the hope that the more pieces I could identify, the more puzzle I could fit together.

Singularly these idiosyncrasies meant nothing; together they created a more complete picture of remarkably ordinary, yet remarkably special individuals. There was the right-sided tilt of Mike's ever-present gray fedora. The black topcoat. A penchant for leaning on anything and everything, including his obliging partner. Hands thrust deep into pants pockets. Sparkling blue eyes, broad smile, quick laugh. A seemingly overwhelming need to touch -- people, cars, walls, anything. Foot bracing the car door as it snapped back, almost always halfway out before the sedan had come to a full stop. The gentle teasing.

Sunglasses pushed back on his head, hands run through bushy brown hair were Keller trademarks. Wide genuine smiles that reached his eyes. The almost comical way he unwittingly mimicked Jack Benny as he listened intently. Finely tailored clothes. The expert, effortless way he handled the large sedan. Fingers jammed into front pockets, thumbs hooked over the top. Police-issue revolver worn backwards on his left hip. The sly, sideways glance he would give his partner as he cracked a joke or made a bad pun, in gleeful anticipation of Mike's reaction.

Beyond these characteristics, though, more subtle facets began to emerge. Both men held great distaste for the .38 Smith & Wesson Police Specials they carried; surprisingly, it was the older man who drew his less often, usually at the last moment. And it was always one of the first things he removed when returning to the office, placing it out of sight in a desk drawer.

There was the respect, compassion and concern they showed, not only to each other, but for the people with whom they came into contact, people whose lives had been touched, in varying degrees, by violent death.

There were the emotions held in check, just below the surface, which could be read and gauged by the other, one always knowing just how far to let the other go before stepping in, verbally or physically, before things got out of hand, for these were men in emotionally-charged, high-stress situations. And then there was the love, never verbalized yet underscoring everything they did. It was in their touch, two men not afraid of physical contact to express how they felt. A hand on an arm, a pat on the back, a brief touch to emphasize a point -- they engaged in a continuous reality check, as if constantly assuring themselves of each other's continued existence.

And it was in their eyes; how they followed one another with their eyes. Whether in conversation, or across a room, as if drawn to each other, they gave and received something that others could only wonder about. Most probably not aware of what they were doing, to them it must have been as natural as breathing.

In retrospect, two incidents, separate and relatively minor, stand out in my mind as perfect examples of the subtle complexities of their relationship. The first, the third day we were together, only fueled my desire to know more. From the start, their obvious mutual respect and admiration was a refreshing change in an age when the generation gap is a very strong reality. But I was soon to learn that this relationship went far beyond my feeble, naive attempts to understand it.

After responding to a 2-11, a brief though furious gunfight with a cornered liquor store hold-up man luckily resulted in only one minor injury. A magnum slug tearing into a doorframe inches from Mike's head had driven wooden splinters into his face, and frighteningly close to his left eye.

When I was eventually allowed into the building, blue uniforms were everywhere, with more arriving by the minute; the small store teemed with activity. Near the back, Mike sat on the floor, leaning against a counter. Steve knelt alongside, gently holding a moistened handkerchief against Mike's injured eye. With the other hand he loosened the older man's tie and unbuttoned his collar. And though a few concerned officers hovered nearby, these two seemed to exist in a world of their own, oblivious to all but each other.

Too far away to hear the words, I watched in fascination their quiet interplay and the subtle shift of command authority from one to the other. What was remarkable was not so much the inspector's acceptance of the responsibility, but rather the veteran's unhesitating confidence and trust, and the unspoken compliance of the other officers present. And though no one else seemed to notice, a gentle, loving display of genuine, unembarrassed affection, stunning in its honest simplicity, played out before me.

Amid the bustle of activity, the low murmur of Steve's voice could be heard, and the one person his words were intended for smiled. Steve turned his head slightly. "Bob?" he called, and a patrolman was instantly at his side. Together they helped Mike to his feet and guided him outside and into the back of a waiting black-and-white. As they left the store, a uniformed sergeant reached out and briefly touched Mike's arm, a curious, unexpected gesture of concern. And I knew then that whatever it was about these two, I wasn't the only one aware of it.

I slid quietly into the front seat of the cruiser while the patrolman quickly climbed in behind the wheel. As we pulled away from the rapidly growing collection of police cars and bystanders, my attention shifted to the back seat, where Steve sat close to Mike, continuing to gently hold the hankie in place. Mike's head was back; hands pressed flat against the seat were the only indication of any discomfort he was feeling.

The short trip to the nearest hospital was completed in silence, Steve's concerned eyes never leaving his partner. Looking back, I shouldn't have been at all surprised when he accompanied the lieutenant into the examination room. Alone, I retreated to a nearby waiting room and attempted to shed some light on what was becoming, for me, a growing preoccupation. I was determined to at least begin to unravel the mystery before these all-too-brief weeks were to end.

What was it about these particular men that set them apart from anyone else I had encountered? I have ridden innumerable hours with assorted police partners in various forces from one coast to the other. But something about these two put them in a universe of their own unintentional creation. Was it the disparity of their ages? Never before had I met a team of detectives so far apart in years. Was it the diversity of their backgrounds? One had fought a war, the other had protested one; one had a high school education, the other graduated college; one had learned his trade in the streets, the other in a classroom.

Or was it how they behaved toward each other?

I thought about what I had just witnessed, my focus on the younger member of the team. Stephen Keller exuded an aura of maturity and confidence far beyond his years, and I began to understand just what it was about this handsome young man that commanded, unasked, the respect and affection I had witnessed.

This was no ordinary 30-year-old police officer. Here was the youngest man to ever make the rank of inspector in the San Francisco Police Department. Here was a young man of such poise and maturity that a veteran with 20-plus years more experience would unhesitatingly relinquish his mantle of authority to, and in whose capabilities he had no question. Here was someone who radiated intelligence, fairness, confidence, and above all, contentment, a quality I could only attribute to the unique partnership he shared with a man old enough to be his father.

But this was no father-son relationship; it went much deeper than that.

I sensed in Steve a young man very much of his time, of a generation that had lost faith in the world they were inheriting. Yet, somewhere along his road, his life had been turned around, and he had chosen a career that must have seemed anathema to his peers. What had done it? What was the catalyst in his life that had sent it this direction? I would never know, and would never get the opportunity to ask. He probably didn't know either.

But I also sensed no regret, no second thoughts. His was a rising star; he had nowhere to go but up. Was that his magic? Was that what he projected so strongly -- a gifted, affable, ambitious young man on the rise? Yes, that was part of it, but there was so much more I was just beginning to understand, and more at which I could only guess.

Several days later found us in court. A publicity-shrouded case they had been involved with months before was finally going to trial. Mike and Steve had been the chief investigators, and this morning Steve was the officer on the stand, a large part of the prosecutions' case resting on his shoulders.

I arrived at Bryant Street extra early that day, only to find my two friends (for we were becoming friends now) had been there for hours, going over their notes. Everyone wanted this conviction, and the tension could already be felt.

The ride to City Hall was abnormally quiet and Steve seemed uncharacteristically nervous. Reporters, news cameramen and spectators were everywhere when we arrived at the courtroom entrance, and the feeling of impending confrontation increased as we took the short elevator ride to the second floor.

The two police officers went immediately into conference with the Assistant District Attorney, and I slipped into a seat at the front of the gallery. From the buzz of conversation around me, I gathered that the defense lawyer, a flashy sort with a sharp mind and a 'go-for-the-jugular' reputation, had promised to "blow the cops' case out of the water". More than just a few reputations were at stake here.

The two Homicide detectives detached themselves from the others and huddled together, deep in conversation, against a far wall. Steve was shaking his head and shrugging, projecting an attitude of concern and uncertainty. Mike gripped Steve's shoulders with both hands, forcing the younger man to meet his eyes. As Mike talked, Steve listened. They stood that way for a few minutes; Steve began to relax, to nod, to smile. Suddenly Mike flashed a broad grin and grabbed the back of Steve's neck, shaking him playfully. Steve laughed, and, as the older man turned and walked away, affectionately slapped Mike's shoulder. It was a gesture so natural that I knew it had been done many times before.

The proceedings were eventually called to order, and they slipped into two vacant seats further along the front row. The packed courtroom watched and listened intently as the trial reconvened and Steve was called to the stand.

As he rose, Steve glanced at Mike, and I saw the older man smile slightly, briefly touching his partner's forearm in quiet support.

From that moment on, I paid scant attention to what was being said. The details of the trail had nothing to do with the material for my article, and that release left me free to pursue a more personal interest. So, instead, I focussed on the subtle interaction between the man a few seats away from me and the one on the stand.

I shifted in my seat so I could take in both men without being obvious about it. I was not disappointed. Mike's gaze rarely left his partner -- shifting only occasionally to throw visual barbs at the defense attorney. When on Steve, the blue eyes sparkled with pride and affection; every triumph for Steve was one for him, not only in a professional sense, but in a personal one as well. A palpable aura of love and paternal pride surrounded him, if one were observant enough to notice it. I had spent enough time in their company to know, and envy, what I was seeing.

Steve gained confidence as the cross-examination continued, and he began to relax. His eyes would slip into the crowd every so often, invariable finding Mike's, receiving silent approval and encouragement.

I took advantage of the time to study the 54-year-old man sitting a few feet away, chagrined at how far off my first impressions had been. A face that had read so cold and unfriendly now radiated a wonderfully refreshing blend of age and youth, toughness and tenderness, wisdom and innocence. There was so much about him that defied convention. In a profession that turns many cynical and withdrawn, here was a man who had managed to retain not only a marvelous sense of humour, but a child-like enthusiasm for life and everything it held.

Warm, sincere, candid, he seemed almost too gentle to have chosen such a violent, dehumanizing profession. Yet there was a strength of purpose to everything he did; an impression that although he was, manifestly, a born leader, he accepted that role with reluctance, preferring of lead by example rather than command. Of a generation unfairly labeled narrow-minded and rigid, he was a striking exception.

And, as if drawn together like magnets, this genial middle-aged romantic had crossed paths with a dynamic young idealist, and in each other had seen a need only the other could fill. A bond had been formed that was, in many ways, not as obvious as it appeared on the surface. The strident lines of age and rank blurred, and at time disappeared altogether. Confidence in who they were, what they did and how they saw the world were strengths which bound them together. But there was something else -- an indescribable chemistry, a magic that, from these two diverse personalities, produced a human equation whose solution was, indeed, greater than the sum of its parts.

In a world that is too often quick to judge, quick to condemn, quick to hate, it is easy and sometimes preferable to erect emotional walls rather than risk misunderstanding. It took inestimable courage for these men to reach out to one another, across the barriers of generational mistrust, as they so obviously have done, and neither was found wanting. Their love was an energy, infusing everything they did, reaching out to envelop anyone lucky enough to know them.

I was lucky for those two weeks. I was privileged to experience first hand their specialness, to envy them their casual intimacy. Many people strive in vain for such a relationship, or con themselves into believing they have one -- Michael Stone and Stephen Keller lived it, purely and naturally, each and every day.

My life has been forever changed since those swiftly flying days we spent together. I see the world a little differently now -- not as jaundiced as before. Each day is welcomed with anticipation, each new assignment brings the prospect of unanticipated wonders. But wherever I travel, whatever I do, my thoughts frequently return to the beautiful city by the Bay, a tan four-door sedan, and two extraordinary men who rekindled my faith in humanity.

- A. Sherwood