For twenty-three years, I wore the badge of a state trooper—and I had one specialty: pulling over bikers.
Three miles over the limit, a tinted visor, pipes a little too loud—I’d write a ticket when a warning would have done.
I told myself I was protecting the public, but the truth was simpler: I had a bias.
My first mentor, a veteran sergeant, looked me in the eye on my rookie day and said,
“Bikers are nothing but trouble on two wheels.”
I believed him. And I let that belief guide my career.
Then, last summer, it nearly cost me my daughter.
Emma was sixteen—bright, focused, a swimmer with Olympic dreams.
When she didn’t come home from practice one evening, I tried to stay calm.
An hour later, I called her coach.
By nightfall, she was officially missing.
The department launched a full-scale search—helicopters, K-9 units, door-to-door canvassing.
But by the second night, the optimism was fading.
My colleagues—the same men I’d worked beside for decades—were giving me the look that says, Prepare for the worst.
Continue reading on the next page…