One of the most versatile officers on the Milwaukee Police force doesn't eat all day, understands German as his first language and works for free.
His bonus for sniffing out hidden drugs is chewing on a rolled-up towel.
While he's not a human cop, Dasty the German Shepherd proves his value every day to his handler, Officer Todd Johnson, as well as to the rest of MPD. Part of the Neighborhood Task Force, Dasty wears a badge, and when he's switched off, he's the most gentle, well-behaved dog sleeping in the back of a modified squad car that you'll ever meet.
When Johnson gives the command, though, well, you don't especially want to be on the other side of his bark. And let's not get started about his bite, though in the 50 to 100 instances that Johnson estimates Dasty has been used to coax a surrender, he's never once sunk his teeth into a suspect.
But subduing or terrifying a suspect into submission is just one side of the almost 7-year-old canine, who was bred in Germany for a sport called "Schutzhund." Dasty also possesses an unbelievable sense of smell that can accurately detect marijuana, cocaine, heroin and to a lesser extent, methamphetamines and Ecstasy.
It's because Dasty is both a loyal partner by day and protective pet by night that Johnson, the senior handler on the force, loves this aspect of his job – one that almost ceased to exist.
I had the unique opportunity to spend a day with both of them as part of our ongoing OnMilwaukee.com "Shift Switch" series. It was an incredibly eye-opening experience.
Johnson has worked as a Milwaukee Police officer for almost 20 years, and though he was assigned to the K-9 Unit in 1997, former Police Chief Art Jones cancelled the program in at the end of 1999. It remained canceled until 2007, and while Johnson worked on the S.W.A.T. Team, the remaining K-9 officers, including his mentors, Dale Racer and Dave Conroy, retired.
With just one K-9 cop left in '07, Johnson was tasked with recreating the program. Until recently, it was comprised of three dogs and three humans, but recently, MPD had to euthanize one of the dogs, so the department is down to two canine officers.
Johnson says he always was a dog lover and had dogs growing up, but until Racer and Conroy picked him – "I had no experience, I was a piece of clay," he says – he was hardly an enthusiast. "I owe everything I ever learned to those two."
But with Dasty, his second dog, Johnson has built a relationship that extends beyond "man's best friend." The K-9 dogs live with their handlers, and Johnson, 44, says Dasty is great with his two young children.
Like every OnMilwaukee.com "Shift Switch," our subject, in this case, Johnson, invited us to participate as much as possible on a typical day on the job. Of course, safety, protocol and common sense prevented me from doing all too much actual police work on this warm August morning. But in my almost seven hours at the side of Johnson and Dasty, I barely left their sides.
I'm fortunate the day began for me at 9 a.m. with a trip to the academy to pick up a bullet-proof vest.
Hitting the Streets
Johnson and Dasty got to work at about 7:30 a.m, and Johnson participated in an 8 a.m. roll call. Meanwhile, Dasty lounged in the back of the modified police cruiser; the car doesn't have a back seat, and Johnson keeps a temperature sensor near Dasty, with the air conditioning and car on almost all of the time. On his belt, Johnson has a "door popper," so at the push off the button he can remotely open the back of the cruiser, and Dasty will come jumping out, instantly ready for duty.
"It's like flipping a light switch," says Johnson.
There are, of course, deployment guidelines for Dasty, explains Johnson. Those include protection and serious felonies. But "barking doesn't equal biting," either, he says.
If it comes to that, Dasty is training to go after to the arm, to bite and hold until the handler says stop. MPD has always used male German Shepherds, and none of their dogs have ever died in the line of duty. Typically, they get the dogs at age 2, though Dasty was 3. They work about five to six years, then retire with their handlers.
Notably, the dogs retain their German names and respond to German commands, like "plotz" for "down." This serves the dual purpose of not confusing the dogs with a second language, but also decreasing the chances of a suspect convincing a dog to back off.
After being fitted for a bullet-proof vest – I'm warned, it's going to be hot – Johnson gets a text at 9:30, asking for help from the Warrant Squad. Even though he uses the police radio and in-car computer, he and his fellow officers also communicate by cell phones at times. This request is actually for a situation in West Allis, related to the possible homicide of a 2-year-old girl in Milwaukee, so the jurisdiction remains MPD's.
As we drive to West Allis, Johnson explains more about Dasty's training. His reward for finding drugs in a rolled up hand towel. During training, Dasty played with these towels that were placed in a pile of seized drugs. Now, Dasty knows that finding that scent equates to the towel. Johnson asks me to hold on to it; he guarantees I'll be tossing it to Dasty before the day is through.
When we're close, I ask Johnson if he's ever fired his gun. He says no, but he's been shot at, and finding himself in situations where his gun is drawn is routine. I had no idea I'd be in such a situation within the hour.
Privately, I'm hoping that Dasty eats this suspect for breakfast.
As a side note, Dasty does eat breakfast early in the morning – but nothing else until his shift is over. Dogs with this type of build can become seriously ill or die if they eat then are exposed to strenuous activity. Throughout the course of the day, he drinks water in the cruiser, then does his business when he's let out.
After we meet the detective from West Allis, we take our staging places around the building where the suspect is believed to be living. Dasty casually pees on a tree then waits quietly.
Over the next 10 minutes, I'm not aware of the danger we may or may not have been in. The suspect refuses to acknowledge the officer who's using his baton to pound on the door. Eventually, he says that he will unleash Dasty, and bluffing, Johnson instructs his dog to start barking.
"Gib laut!" Johnson says, and Dasty obliges. Dasty is fully under control, but he knows this is all business, and I can see the change in his demeanor.
Several toddlers are on the scene with neighbors and other connected parties. The babies look too stunned to cry. I'm taking mental notes and snapping photos now, but the moment is too tense for me to consider what life must be like for these innocent children.
We wait. Nothing. The officers draw their guns, and I stand there, more vulnerable than I realize. Johnson suggests I put my back to the building, and I don't object. The officer upstairs on the porch opens a window and crawls through, placing his face into an unknown situation. From inside, he opens the door for another officer to enter. We hear some yelling, and at 10:55 a.m., the radio announces that the suspect is in custody. He was in the northwest room of the apartment, presumably looking down and Johnson, Dasty and me the whole time.
I'm a little amped up when we leave, but Johnson says this has been a pretty typical morning. He says he's aware of the danger, of course, but he's used to it.
At 11:05, we drive back to the 5th District. The Neighborhood Task Force, or NTF, crosses the boundaries of districts, but Johnson largely stays in the "hot spot" that is the North Side. We stop a few cars with expired or no plates at all, including a maroon minivan with a busted taillight and expired plates at 11:45 a.m. Johnson explains that this car is considered a "target vehicle" to be stolen. Its driver, though, is very cooperative and has no other record, so Johnson lets her go.
"I hate giving tickets," he says.
After gassing up at the Locust Street police station we crawl through a part of town I don't usually see. If you haven't spent much time in what is considered Milwaukee's ghetto, you might be surprised to see people just slowly ambling through the street, sitting on porches and generally loitering. Some of the other people smile and wave to us; many of the younger people scowl.
Then, at 12:04 p.m. we see a young, white male in a shiny black Jetta drive past us at 31st and Fond du Lac Avenue with a terrified look on his face. It doesn't take racial profiling to realize he doesn't fit in.
But he hasn't done anything illegal – yet – so we turn around and see what he's up to. Oddly, his car has disappeared, and we drive a block before seeing him again as he's obviously trying to evade us. Still, that's not a crime. But turning left at a red light, one that's marked "no left turn," is, so Johnson pulls him over at a gas station.
The 22-year-old man from Thiensville is shaking almost uncontrollably when he hands Johnson his license. All the officer had to say is, "What are you doing today?" before he admits he was here to buy drugs.
That was good enough to warrant a "sniff" on the outside of the vehicle. Dasty pops out and goes to work, walking around the vehicle a few times. If he smells anything, he would scratch where it was. Luckily for this man, Dasty smelled nothing.
Johnson tells him he would be mailing him a ticket for an illegal turn, but more importantly, warns him to stay out of this neighborhood for drugs. Forcefully, but still gently and politely, he explains that it's not worth it. People get carjacked and killed here for less. That this man had already given his money to a stranger, who was to return with the marijuana he was allegedly buying, was the least of his concerns. The man, who had already attended rehab and had at least one OWI, went home incredibly lucky today.
Dasty Earns His Treat
At 12:30, Johnson gets another text asking if Dasty can do some sniffing at 12th and Burleigh, a particularly seedy block that is a regular stop on his route.
Several officers are on the scene, having questioned a few men who came up clean but refuse to move on. This leads them to believe that their drugs are nearby; the low-level drug dealers have adapted and frequently don't keep their stash on their persons anymore; rather, they hide them in the nooks and crannies of condemned houses.
Johnson instructs Dasty to smell around the perimeter of two vacant houses, and in minutes, the dog starts scratching at the siding in the southeast corner. An accompanying officer reaches up and pulls out a bag containing several smaller bags of marijuana, a street value of about $100.
I finally get to throw the rolled up towel at Dasty, and he snaps it up with puppy-like enthusiasm.
On the way out, the officers on scene explain to me that their goal is only to disrupt these dealers' business, since there's no way they can stop it. They point out little ripped triangles of plastic lying on the ground, as well as empty cigar wrappers that were turned into blunts. This is where the dealers and users live, yet they treat their block like a garbage can.
We stop a few more suspicious vehicles, and sure enough, every single one of them contains someone with a record. Some even have warrants, but Johnson explains that if it's minor enough, he'll let them go. That warrant may come in handy later, like it did when taking the potential homicide suspect into custody a few hours earlier.
Those officers in West Allis, by the way, are still on the scene, having found more weapons and drugs from the suspects.
At 1:30, we grab some sandwiches and wolf down lunch at Union Cemetery. Johnson likes to eat lunch in cemeteries, because he's rarely bothered. Of course, his radio is always on, and at 1:50 p.m. We drive back up 12th Street. That same group is still loitering, staring at us.
We drive past two pit bulls wearing heavy chains. Johnson explains they are in training for dog fighting. The gravity of the socioeconomic situation in the central city is hitting in me in a more tangible way than usual. It's not until you drive these streets with someone who can point out these kind of details that you will even begin to understand Milwaukee's problems of poverty, segregation and crime.
Finally, at 1:58 we hear a report that shots have been fired in the neighborhood of 3800 N. 19th St. A dozen police cars head to the scene, and Johnson turns on his lights but not his sirens.
I ask why we're driving fast, but not racing in with sirens blaring. The sound of the sirens carry, Johnson explains, and he'd rather not tip off the shooter that we're near.
The dispatcher describes the suspect as a black male with a white shirt, black shorts and white tennis shoes, about 5 feet 2 inches, hiding in the bushes with a gun. As we drive up and down the area, cops are everywhere. Oddly, none of the neighbors are flinching.
Finally, we pull through an alley and ask two older men if they heard anything. Nonchalantly, they point northwest and we drive over there. This neighborhood is fairly well kept up, so we notice a man vaguely meeting the suspect's description slowly walking down the street.
Johnson jumps out of the car, pats him down and questions him, but he's not our guy. Across the street, one of the other officers reports that someone might be inside a house, shot in the foot.
This time, Johnson suggests I keep my distance and I do. After a few tense minutes, it's a false alarm, and we leave. We'll never know what did or did not happen.
At 2:30 p.m., we getting close to the end of our shift, and we see a tricked out, blue Cadillac Escalade driving around. It doesn't have a license plate, so Johnson pulls it over. The car was legitimately purchased recently by an ex-con, freshly out of prison on a cocaine dealing charge. But everything checks out, and the driver is extremely cooperative. Because he was completely honest, Johnson lets him go.
Whether he's still dealing drugs or not, well, I assume he is. Johnson chooses not to speculate.
At 2:45, we encounter one more situation that ends our day on an unusual, yet poignant note. As we cruise around the North Side, we're flagged down by a dad and his three kids. He tells us that two pit bull puppies are wandering around the alley, and he's afraid someone will get bit.
We pull around, and sure enough, two puppies are walking back and forth, wagging their tails and trying to get back into their yard, where two other pit bulls are fenced in. Johnson calls MADACC and explains the problem, but he's not sure how long it will take them to arrive.
We wait in the alley, with our own dog in the back seat, as unattended, small children walk up to these potentially dangerous dogs. We each tell the kids to go home, but they don't pay much attention. We drive around the block, and Johnson knocks on the door hoping to reach the owner, who of course, is not home.
Behind us, two little girls ride their bikes, and we both grimace at the idea of these pit bulls biting them. Johnson asks around if anyone knows the owner. No one knows the neighbor's name, but two men finally admit they do and say they've called him.
And this is when I see the only glimmer of hope all day. These two men, seeing the children getting closer and closer to the dog, put themselves between the dogs and the kids, corralling the puppies back to the fence. One calls out for a leash, as one puppy walks very close to a boy who must be about five.
Then, without saying a word, Johnson gets out of the car and stands between the dog and the boy, sheltering him with his arm. The dogs are being friendly, but make no mistake, they could do some serious damage.
Finally, at 3:12 p.m., the owner screeches up, almost hitting a pedestrian in the process. He seems annoyed that his puppies have escaped yet again, and when Johnson explains that having two loose pit bulls could mean $550 in tickets, the homeowner plays the victim card. Johnson gives him a warning, and we head back to the station.
That's when I realize I'm almost drenched in sweat from wearing this bullet-proof vest, and Johnson actually apologizes if the day was boring.
"Are you kidding me?" I ask. This was one of the most interesting days of my entire career, though I still haven't finished processing the despair, the hopelessness, the segregation and tragedy of what I saw.
Johnson says it was actually a pretty typical day; the only thing I didn't see was Dasty perform a house search.
"Next time," I joke, as I bid farewell to Johnson and Dasty. Johnson will catch up on a few e-mails and head home, where Dasty will transform back into the family dog.
He's a quiet partner (most of the time) to an introspective cop who didn't join the force because of a passion to fight crime. But make no mistake: Todd Johnson – and Dasty – put themselves in harm's way every single day to make Milwaukee better.
Johnson knows his contributions are limited, and I go home a little sad, a lot appreciative and also exasperated from the touch-and-go situations all day long.
After after just one shift with this duo, it's easy to get the sense that, even if in a small way, they continue to chip away at some serious problems in Milwaukee.
Crime isn't going away, but every day that Johnson and Dasty are on duty, under their watch, our city is a safer place.
Andy is the president, publisher and founder of OnMilwaukee. He returned to Milwaukee in 1996 after living on the East Coast for nine years, where he wrote for The Dallas Morning News Washington Bureau and worked in the White House Office of Communications. He was also Associate Editor of The GW Hatchet, his college newspaper at The George Washington University.
Before launching OnMilwaukee.com in 1998 at age 23, he worked in public relations for two Milwaukee firms, most of the time daydreaming about starting his own publication.
Hobbies include running when he finds the time, fixing the rust on his '75 MGB, mowing the lawn at his cottage in the Northwoods, and making an annual pilgrimage to Phoenix for Brewers Spring Training.
