On Tuesday, I met Killer in the parking lot of a grocery store in Utah County. One of my closest friends from the time we spent together as cops, he moved to the Northwest decades ago.
Nearly 30 years later, Kelly “Killer” Clark is back in town for a few days because his son is getting married. Did I want to get together and catch up?
Both of us had abbreviated police careers, deciding independently and of our own accords that we were better suited for other careers. Killer is a radiology technician now. I’m a newspaper hack.
Weird how that happened. Certainly neither of us saw those things in our future when this picture was taken in the early 1980s. Back then, it would have been inconceivable that we might be smart enough to do anything else.
On Tuesday, Killer and I took a long drive down the memory lanes of our old patrol areas. It was astonishing what leaped out at us — and how little we had changed.
Killer marveled at all the housing developments and business districts that had replaced the farms and pastures of our police days. There’s a truck stop now where we used to shoot skunks on graveyard shift.
Him • “When did they put that Walmart there?”
Me • “Beats me. But the pharmacy area where they have the condoms now is right about where we caught [Mr. Prominent Utahn] and his secretary.”
The field that a drunken driver turned into a corn maze is now a tire center. The area where Mike shot the guy who shot the Provo officer looks about the same. So does the shoulder of the road where Utah Highway Patrol Trooper Chuck Warren was gunned down.
Some places were easier to determine because the marks remain decades later, like the scratches on an overpass guardrail, where I once handcuffed a guy who kept threatening to jump.
Killer • “Oh, I remember that. You went and sat in the patrol car until the guy got so cold that he promised to behave.”
Me • “Didn’t work. He hung himself a few months later.”
Neither of us said anything when we drove past the spot where a little girl was hit and killed one evening. I don’t know what Killer thought, but my own mind flashed “112 feet.” That’s how far it was between her body and her shoes.
We drove past the house where I once performed CPR successfully on a boy. It was just two houses away where an elderly man sometimes stripped naked and stood in front of his picture window when the elementary school let out.
Killer • “Whatever happened to him?”
Me • “Grew up, went on a mission, got married and runs a business.”
Killer • “No, Herr Wiener.”
Me • “Oh, Boone and I kicked his door. He kept saying Hitler told him to expose himself to kids. We booked him into mental health. He died at the State Hospital.”
There was the railroad crossing where what’s-her-face killed herself, the creek where we found most of a murdered woman, the house where carbon monoxide killed an elderly couple, and the museum where a crazy guy interrupted a reception line and punched the father of the bride all bloody.
House after field after alley after intersection after business where the memories leaned toward us like old haunts.
Fortunately, not all of them were bad. The public swimming pool where we once caught a beauty pageant winner and five of her friends skinny-dipping at midnight is gone. Thankfully, that memory is still there.
On Thursday, another bit of memory lane will be added when Killer’s youngest son gets married. It’ll be a happy one. That’s all memory lanes are — collections of experiences that you can’t forget. The secret is trying to keep a balance.
Generally speaking, bad memories are forced onto us. It’s the good ones we have to seek out and hold onto.
