offi cer down: Slowly Developing Threats: The Kyle Dinkheller Incident
Dinkheller, just 22, had already earned the respect and friendship of everyone on the small sheriff ’s department. Known for his hard work, enthusiasm, and good natured attitude, he was well liked by both his fellow deputies and the citizens he served. He was currently assigned to day shift on the Inter- state Criminal Enforcement Team, a proac- tive traffi c and drug interdiction unit, and he was in the last hour of his workday when he spotted Brannan’s Toyota pickup truck. T e pickup was obviously speeding as it approached him from the opposite direc- tion on the interstate, a fact that was verifi ed almost immediately by the LED reading of “98” on his moving radar unit. Dinkhel- ler locked in the speed, quickly braked, and made a U turn through the median as soon as the truck shot past him. He was still speeding to catch up when he saw the pickup exit the interstate and speed down an intersecting county highway. Dinkheller activated his roof lights and siren, called out his intent to stop the pickup, and followed it onto the county highway. Far ahead, he could see the small truck make a right turn onto a secondary road and keep going, still at a high rate of speed. He followed it for about another quarter mile and through a long curve. As he came out of the curve, he saw the truck slowing down, soon caught up, and pulled in behind it as it pulled over. It was a lonely place, cut off from the traffi c on the interstate by a dense row of trees to the right.
Dinkheller stepped out of his patrol car,
eyes fi xed on Brannan, who seemed to be debating whether to get out of the truck. T e driver’s door popped open a couple of inches, closed, opened again, this time far- ther, and closed again.
“Driver,” Dinkheller shouted, “Step back here to me!” his voice tinged with a hint of nervousness. T e door opened all the way as Brannan turned and said something to a midsized dog in the seat next to him. Brannan got out but just stood there in open non-compliance with Dinkheller’s order. T ough not overtly threatening, Brannan’s silent resistance was unsettling. It was later learned that he had no arrest record, which was surprising con- sidering the kind of man he was. He was a hothead with a violent streak who didn’t like
anyone—especially a young inexperienced cop—telling him what to do.
“Come back here to me,” Dinkheller repeated.
Still, Brannan stayed put and Dinkhel- ler repeated the order yet again. Brannan paused, pushed the door closed, walked to the back of the truck and stopped. “How you doin’ today?” Dinkheller asked. “Great,” Brannan responded, “how’re you
doin’?” “Good. Come on back here,” Dinkheller
said. As Dinkheller spoke, Brannan slipped both hands into his coat pockets. Without pause, Dinkheller added the command, “and keep your hands out of your pockets!” “Why?” Brannan demanded, his voice ris- ing in both volume and pitch. Now faced with the fi rst sign of open de-
fi ance, Dinkheller responded by repeating the command, “Keep your hands outa your pockets, sir!” Brannan took a half step backward and turned to his left. “Sir,” Dinkheller repeated in a louder voice.
Brannan turned back toward the deputy. “F__k you,” he spat out, “Goddamn it!” T en, suddenly throwing his hands into the air, he started to back up into the street. “Here I am, shoot my f__kin’ ass,” he yelled as he launched into an ominous, wildly exaggerated jig.
“Here I am. Shoot me!” Brannan cried, leaping into the air with his arms fl ailing about as he continued his strange dance. Dinkheller ordered the man to come over to him twice more but Brannan conspicu- ously ignored him, prompting the young deputy to call for assistance on his radio. T is action elicited another sudden switch in Brannan’s behavior. Abandoning his dance as suddenly as he had begun it, the man charged Dinkheller. Dinkheller took a step back into a defensive stance, placed his hand on his collapsible baton, and commanded, “Sir, get back!”
Brannan stopped short, and de- fiantly screamed, “Who you callin’, moth-erf__ker?”
“Sir, get back now,” Dinkheller responded as he drew and extended the baton. Brannan backed off . “Why don’t you f__kin’ kill me,” he roared as Dinkheller or- dered him to get back yet again.
Brannan started forward a second time,
his fi sts now clenched, amid Dinkheller’s repeated commands to back off . “I’m a Goddamned Vietnam combat veteran,” he snarled and moved forward to attack, “and I am not…”
Dinkheller swung the baton, deliver- ing a strike to Brannan’s left thigh while again ordering him to get back. Brannan winced and stopped his advance; then backed away, his face ablaze with anger. He turned and walked rapidly to the rear of his truck, where he turned and glared back at Dinkheller before moving up to the cab. Clearly, he had made up his mind about something, and it didn’t look good. Dinkheller stayed next to his patrol car and placed another call for assistance. Now at the driver’s door, Brannan turned toward Dinkheller again, pointed angrily at him and howled, “F__k you!”
“Sir, step back now,” Dinkheller responded.
Brannan opened the door, leaned inside, stood up again, shot a quick glance toward Dinkheller, and reached back into the cab. After feeling around inside the cab for a brief moment, Brannan leaned all the way in and began to manipulate something deep inside. Up to this point, Dinkheller had been re- peatedly ordering Brannan to get back, but it was quickly becoming apparent that Bran- nan’s actions inside the cab were developing into a serious threat to Dinkheller’s safety. “Get outa the car now,” Dinkheller yelled; then repeated the command.
Brannan heard the orders but refused to comply. He turned toward Dinkheller, screamed out a curse, and then jabbed an angry fi nger toward the deputy while letting loose with a string of profanity. He turned back to the cab, reached inside, and grabbed something. Turning back toward Dinkhel- ler, he kept the object out of view while continuing his angry outburst. Dinkheller responded by again ordering Brannan to come back to him, prompting an ominous one-word response from the man. “No!” Brennan screeched out, his voice cracking with anger.
“Step away from your vehicle,” Dinkheller commanded. T en he saw it! T e object in Brannan’s hands was a rifl e, its dark barrel angled above the back of the seat but point-
35 The Police Marksman May-Jun 2014
www.policemarksman.com
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