By Bobby Kerlik
Pittsburgh Tribune Review
Copyright 2006 Tribune Review Publishing Company
All Rights Reserved
Thirteen years after the accident, Penn Hills firefighter Randy Wilson still can see the girl in his dreams.
The 6-year-old was killed along with her father in a car crash on Thompson Run Road. Wilson, 55, a volunteer fireman with Penn Hills No. 7, arrived on scene moments after it happened.
“It was the first death I’d ever seen. When I walked up to this little girl, all I could see is my little girl,” Wilson said. “She was just laying there, on her dad’s arm, like she was sleeping.
“She looked just like my little girl. They were even the same age at the time and had the same name — Courtney. When I went home that night, I picked up my little girl and just held her the rest of the night.”
Wilson is not alone. First responders see horrors hidden from public view. Long after the wreckage is cleared, the evidence gathered and carted away and the flashing red strobes on squad cars, ambulances and fire trucks are turned off, the memories linger for the men and women who answered duty’s call.
“That’s the way post-traumatic stress works — you don’t feel the effects until later,” said Dr. Sandra A. Davis, a psychologist who works with Pittsburgh police officers after shootings or crashes. “They might see a child get killed. Everyone is devastated by that, but most are OK clearing the scene. It’s not until a week or two later that officer might see a similar child in a grocery store and break down.”
Many responders have nightmares, daydreams and feel guilt and remorse over the accident — sometimes blaming themselves for not getting to the scene quick enough, Davis said.
“It’s very difficult work,” Davis said. “It’s minimized how stressful the work is and the emotional toll it takes.”
Northern Regional police Officer Bryan DeWick was the first emergency responder to arrive on Route 8 in Richland two months ago when a woodchipper broke free from a dump truck and smashed into a minivan, killing Spencer Morrison, of Cranberry, and two of his triplets, Alaina and Garrett, both 4.
DeWick can’t shake the accident scene from his mind.
“I have flashbacks. I can’t explain it,” said DeWick, 30. “Certain stuff triggers it. Even just driving through that stretch of road — the scene plays out in my mind.”
DeWick is not alone. Several Northern Regional officers say they will never forget the April 13 crash.
But emotion, initially at least, took a back seat to duty for Northern Regional officers such as DeWick, Tim Hohos, Roy Chiaramonte and Lt. John S. Love say. After the woodchipper crash, officers were busy racing to get medical treatment for lone survivor Ethan Morrison, 4, secure the scene and investigate the case.
“You develop a switch; you just go into work mode,” said Love, 50. “It’s the nature of the job. We’re in the people business and the disaster business.”
Emergency medical technician Puddie Taggart vividly recalls a fiery Butler County crash that killed a family of five three years ago. She sometimes passes the Slippery Rock intersection where memorials with crosses and a teddy bear mark the site.
Taggart arrived to find a car in flames with Janet Kerr, 35, and her three children inside. Kenneth Kerr, 35, crawled from the wreckage and called desperately for his family after a truck driver ran a stop sign and smashed into his car. He died the next morning.
“Over and over again, he kept asking about his family,” Taggart, 43, said. “And then afterward, what he said in the back of the ambulance, was the most difficult for me. I knew it was the last words he was ever going to say.
“He was asking me if he was going to make it. I just told him, ‘You’re talking to me and that’s a good thing.’”
Davis said it’s important for first responders to talk to someone about the emotional toll. She is on call 24 hours a day and frequently is roused from bed to meet with Pittsburgh officers after incidents.
“Most think they’re OK because they’re trained very well,” Davis said, “but they’re also human.”
William Allan, 48, another Penn Hills firefighter, said volunteers frequently are unwilling or unable to talk with professionals about their emotional suffering.
“We’ve never had grief counseling,” Allan said. “We just have to take it home and talk about it with our families.”