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In May 2004, a search party descended upon a remote stretch of woodland in central Minnesota. Crowded with copses of hackberry and bur, marsh-laden and slick with springtime thaw, the landscape was not only difficult to traverse, but disorienting. The searchers had prepared for this; as wind rattled the branches overhead, a bloodhound’s snout rose to meet it, paused, and bolted.
The dog was gone, carried away with the scent and swallowed up by the morass. Without her, the day too, was lost.
On the morning of the second day, the hiss of two-way radios broke the morning gloom. An urgent development, a request for assistance, crackled through the formation.
The missing hound, curled up and ragged with exhaustion, had been found by a local nearly 7 miles off a hiking trail.
Next to her, a shallow grave; dark soil, flecked white with human bone.
“You obsess about it every day and night, you know, until it’s resolved,” recalled Col. John Bolduc, acting superintendent of the Nebraska State Patrol since 2017. “It consumed every minute of my day for a year-and-a-half.”
Nearly two decades ago, Bolduc served as police chief in Brainerd, Minnesota. Early on in his tenure, a young woman named Erika “Sunny” Dalquist vanished, her absence immediately felt by the quiet lakeside community of just under 15,000. The discovery of her body some 18 months later represented both a tragedy and the most pyrrhic of victories—charges filed against the prime suspect in Dalquist’s disappearance had initially been dropped due to a lack of physical evidence.
The proceeding manhunt activated law enforcement agencies nationwide, including the Omaha Police Department, resulting in the capture and eventual conviction of Dalquist’s killer.
“Fortunately, in our case, we did resolve it,” Bolduc said. “But some of those cases go unresolved, and that can be haunting.”
Cold cases have a chilling effect on communities, especially in low-density areas. For the families of victims, the emotional whiplash between hope and grief offers no respite. For investigators, the lines between duty and personal responsibility can blur. Well-intended promises made at the onset of an investigation ring hollow as days turn into weeks, into months, into years; guilt hardens into obsession, or worse, shambles toward disillusionment.
Yet, despite the trials of the prior 18 months, dedication, compassion, “and a lot of tireless police work” found the then-young police chief accepting an invitation to speak at Dalquist’s funeral at her family’s bequest. He hadn’t reached the dais, nor the sense of closure it promised, alone.
“Thankfully, I had a good support system around me; friends at church that I could confide in, my family. My wife has been a great sounding board all these years,” Bolduc said. “(If you’re) coming on board, have a good support system around you because you’re going to need it. There are many challenges with this job.”
As Bolduc can attest, such protracted, high-stakes investigations leave an indelible mark on one’s career, and for some, a fracture that never heals. However, Nebraska’s high homicide clearance rate of 82% (average between the years 1865-2023, according to the FBI’s most recent Uniform Crime Report) means such cases are relatively rare in the cornhusker state. For most Nebraska officers, and most officers in general, it’s the day-to-day encounters innate to police work—volatile, occasionally dire scenes graciously liminal to the pedestrian experience—that underlie a heightened risk for psychosis.
Recognizing this, the Nebraska State Patrol maintains programs designed to restore and reinforce the resilience of its staff, both sworn and civilian. This includes confidential peer-support groups, a wellness app tooled specifically for first-responders, and an in-house psychologist available for sessions upon request.
“We see things in law enforcement that most people don’t see. I call it the ‘Good, the Bad, and the Ugly’ effect. We’re exposed to traumatic incidents. We’re exposed to danger. This is part of the job, and when you put others ahead of yourself, you’re willing to make those sacrifices,” Bolduc affirmed. “That’s why it’s so important that we hire the right people, but we also have to take care of those people…In today’s modern law enforcement agency, we really have to be focused on the wellness of our personnel and how we can accommodate this thing of cumulative trauma that we know is the reality today—where 38 years ago, when when I started, there wasn’t a focus on it.”
“But thankfully,” he said, “We’ve evolved.”
Omaha Police Chief Todd Schmaderer shares Bolduc’s gratitude. Having served with the Omaha Police Department for 29 years, the last 12 as chief, he’s “seen quite a few things” in his day, including serial killers on the lam, internal corruption scandals, and his share of “carnage.” As a result, the good in the world appears in sharp relief for Schmaderer and he’s keen to point it out.
Take the recent trends in precinct mental health care, for example.
“The mental health of our staff and their general wellbeing took on an elevated need over time,” Schmaderer explained. “I would say over the last 10 years, the advancements in that aspect have vastly improved. It used be, ‘train, train, train’ to ensure your physical protection, train you how to do the job—the laws, the procedures, policing tactics, all designed to keep you physically safe. Now we clearly understand that there’s more to that.”
Schmaderer noted stigma as an enduring barrier to this understanding. He’s glad to see it diminishing, and he’s proud of the men and women at OPD who prioritize their health over pride and tired pejoratives.
“In the past, when I first became chief, nobody would ask for mental health support. It was viewed as a weakness,” Schmaderer said. “Now, when they ask for (support) it’s viewed as a sign of strength. They recognize what they have seen is traumatizing and could cause them problems, and they want to get that help right away. It’s a respectful endeavor.”
Indeed, peer-reviewed studies conducted in the last 20 years indicate law enforcement officers may be nearly twice as likely than the general population to suffer from depressive symptoms as a result of work-related stress and trauma. This can lead to burnout, and in severe cases, suicidal ideation. Unfortunately, these realities went largely undressed until the turn of the century.
Schmaderer drew comparisons to the shift taken by the armed forces, wherein lackadaisical terms such as ‘shell shock’ matured into serious diagnostic nomenclature, i.e. post-traumatic stress disorder. With this refinement of language came a greater comprehension of pathology and thus, preventive measures.
Beyond voluntary peer-group and counseling services, Schmaderer described an agency-wide ‘early warning tracking system,’ which alerts command staff of behavioral patterns indicative of diminished mental fitness. If an officer appears to be spiraling, direct intervention can be a career, even life-saving act.
“This early warning system keeps track of nearly every aspect of every officer's career. ‘How many times have you been in pursuit? ‘How many times, within the month, have you used force?’ ‘How many times you’ve been off on sick leave?’ You name it,” Schmaderer explained. “And sometimes, when you get that alert, you have to reach out to that employee. And oftentimes we find that employee is going through a divorce, or where they’ve lost a loved one, and that allows us to get them help.
“The last thing I want is an employee that’s a police officer that’s there to make things better suffering themselves. And it’s a huge thing for me as chief, not only for my employees, but for the macro-health of the community and department. It’s imperative that we make sure their mental wellbeing is solid at all times.”
Still, Schmaderer acknowledged how difficult being vulnerable, especially among peers, can be. He also admits to stifling his emotions throughout much of his own career, as was customary for his time. And stepping into leadership roles, he often felt compelled to put on a brave face for the sake of his subordinates.
“If I could say anything to any CEO or police chief out there, it’s: take care of yourself too. Because there was a time when I didn’t, I just was so concerned about everybody else,” Schmaderer said, recalling the fatal shooting of on-duty Officer Kerrie Orozco in 2015 as a major inflection point in his career. “Obviously, after the death of Kerrie Orozco, I spent my time ensuring my staff was well…and it wasn’t until after her funeral, (that) it hit me like a ton bricks.”
He continued, “As chief, I make sure my people are taken care of, but I also want to lead by example…and so I have somebody that I regularly talk to about every six months and we go to lunch. It’s something I look forward to.”
Through it all, Schmaderer remains a perennial optimist. He believes breakthroughs in policing—training, technology, community relations, and of course, the wellness of his officers—aren’t just exponential, but a bellwether for the advancement of society.
Omaha, with its relatively low crime rate and high trust in law enforcement, is where this belief has found praxis, and to Schmaderer’s credit, compelling results.
Still, progress never sleeps.
“In 2017, I made a public plea…to have more beds in the community, more resources for mental health, and this community stepped up tremendously,” Schmaderer said. “My plea today is this: we need more mental health providers. More of these professional employees that can come in and fill these voids, fill these jobs.
“That unique subset is hard to find, right?” He remarked.
That ‘unique subset’ is the domain of Shelley Pool. A licensed therapist working directly for the Omaha Police Department, she’s one of six mental health professionals (one for each precinct) who comprise the Co-Responder, or CORE, squad of OPD’s Behavioral Health and Wellness Unit.
She’s not there to practice psychotherapy on the officers. Rather, her support of the department is hands-on, utilizing her expertise to assist officers by request or fielding calls and dispatching on her own pending the security of a given scene.
She’d first heard of ‘co-responders’ decades prior, when the idea of licensed mental health professionals aiding officers during nonviolent, mental-health related emergencies was an intriguing but largely theoretical prospect. Formerly a principal at the faith-based Omaha Street School, she jumped at the opportunity to turn theory into a “dream job” with the OPD when the co-responder pilot program was fully integrated in 2020.
“Lutheran Family Services had a mobile crisis team, which was started and headed by my boss, Lindsay Kroll, and that had been around seven or eight years,” Pool said. “And then I think OPD began to see the need for mental health assistance with consumers because officers were attending so many non-law enforcement calls and mental health calls. Lindsay was able to transition into OPD and start our own co-responder program which is very unique because we’re embedded in the police department, right? Most police departments contract with social service agencies.”
Stationed at the northeast precinct, Pool is issued her own radio, call signs, and city vehicle. Typical calls include suicide intervention, on-site shock and grief mediation, and any situation that may be better served by de-escalation, active listening, and a measured dose of empathy. Follow-up is another important function of Pool’s job, checking up on individuals post-crisis and connecting them with resources and agencies throughout Omaha. However, the earlier Pool can shift the trajectory of a crisis, the better—helping callers to avoid pricey ambulance rides and hospital stays, or even hard landings behind bars.
“People just really, truly want to be listened to, and being in crisis is a rollercoaster,” Pool explained. “Somebody could call requesting police because they have a loved one who’s stating they’re suicidal and very much intending to complete suicide. But then, once officers arrive, co-responders arrive and begin to interact and through (our) training, understanding what questions to ask, using those basic active listening skills and mirroring back and reflecting what people are saying—they’re being heard, and that helps bring that crisis at the moment down.”
Beyond providing unique skills and access to service networks, time is among the most valuable resources managed by Pool and her unit. Last year, co-responders intercepted a large volume of 911 dispatches, keeping cruisers on the move by de-escalating 425 crises over the phone.
“The average mental health call takes 60-90 minutes for two officers. That’s a lot of officer time being taken for nonenforcement calls, right?” Pool said.
As for Pool herself, the role hasn’t just been rewarding, it’s been revelatory.
“It has been so rewarding to be in this position and see what police officers do. Prior to taking this job, working in an alternative school, my opinion would flip-flop frequently based on how I would see officers and my school families interact,” she said. “Now that I’m on the law enforcement side, I see the heart and compassion of the officers, but now I (also) understand why safety has to be first…and it’s just really been a good experience for both sides to grow together in our program—to realize you can be present and have authority, but you can do that in a way that’s building rapport (with the community).”
With OPD’s inaugural in-house Crisis Response Intervention Team session held the week of Feb. 3, organized and led by the Behavioral Health and Wellness Unit, Pool is excited for yet another opportunity to build upon this foundation of trust and mutual respect. In the meantime, her colleagues in uniform continue to impress.
“One of my favorite parts about my job is to pull up to a scene and watch an officer who’s had a rough day, maybe they were on the scene of an accident or children died, and now we’re here with this frequent caller with mental health issues,” she added. “But they’re just so calm and patient and compassionate with their voice tone.
“Their resiliency just continues to amaze me.”
Just down the hall at the northeast precinct, her words are echoed by Lt. Dan Martin, exchanging the singsong quality of Pool’s voice for a brusque, staccato delivery tempered by 20 years on the force.
“Some of the qualities you need to be a successful police officer are grace, compassion,” Martin said. “You see everybody on their worst day. But, in my opinion, you shouldn’t judge someone on their worst day. We’ve all been there, we’ve all had bad days. We’ve all been through things in our lives, and everybody’s going through something different. We’re human, and we err.”
Martin continued, “And you know, unfortunately, we have to see a lot of that, and you just hope at the end of it, they become better people.”
This grace extends to his fellow officers. As vice president of the Omaha Police Officer’s Association, and with 36 officers and three sergeants under his command, Martin is well acquainted with the peaks and valleys of the profession.
“I think cops are professionals, and a lot of times, whether healthy or not, compartmentalize different aspects (of the job),” Martin said. “I highly recommend everybody go talk to a therapist or a counselor, clergy member, good friend, because a lot of times cops want to keep it inside…I’ve talked to other police officers that sit in the parking lot and cry before they go home, because they need to get it out, or they need to talk to someone, because they need to go home and be a good father or a good mother and a good spouse.”
Indeed, there are some circumstances that simply can’t be dealt with alone. Martin, with clear difficulty, recounted a particularly harrowing call to which he and fellow officers in the northeast precinct recently responded. Some circumstances, he’s quick to acknowledge, defy experience—rattling both rookies and seasoned vets to their cores.
“We were originally dispatched to a shooting,” Martin began. “Based on our experiences in the past, the way this was dispatched, it sounded like it was going to be an adult that shot themselves. Suicide. Still tragic, but something we see more regularly.
“I was the second one there after a two-officer unit showed up—and these guys are some of the best. They’re SWAT, highly trained, veteran. And I could tell, turning the corner, that their stress level was up based on the radio traffic. And a ‘help’ was actually put out, which is a city wide call for all cars. And if those guys are putting something like that out, I know it’s got be pretty bad…so I go into the house expecting to see an adult who had shot themselves, and I see on of my officers performing CPR on a 6-year-old girl…not what I was expecting. It was a chaotic scene, a lot of family, a lot of kids. And you also, at this point, have a crime scene to maintain—but how do you balance that with compassion for the family? These people are going through something I’ve never seen or experienced on a personal level. Their child, their sister, their brother, has been tragically killed. You feel horrible, but you also need to maintain control so the medics can get in. It could potentially be a crime scene with charges, or it could be an unfortunate accident. A lot of things go through your head at the time, and it's kind of a blur.
“I haven’t gone back to watch the body-worn camera…I don’t want to.”
Martin emphasized that he’s “not the victim” here. His primary concern during the subsequent debrief was the wellbeing of the victim’s family. He’s remained in contact, even raising funds along with others in the precinct over the Christmas season to aid them in their time of crisis.
In the immediate aftermath of the incident, Martin and other responding officers were contacted by peer support and other OPD counseling resources. He’s glad that the department has become “more proactive” in this regard, and considers it a strong indicator of OPD’s progress in officer mental health care.
“I think that’s really good,” he said. “Because we can’t help people if we’re hurt or broken, too…We’re human beings, and if this doesn’t affect you, then you’re probably not normal.”
Scenes such as these represent some of the most heartbreaking, challenging aspects of an officer’s career. Yet, as Bolduc is quick to point out, there’s far greater weight to the ‘Good’ in the ‘The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly’ equation of the work. Schmaderer couldn’t agree more:
“Law enforcement is a very unique profession. In my opinion, it’s the greatest profession on earth,” Schmaderer affirmed. “When I have an employee retire, they’ll spend 15 minutes with me to talk about their career. And one thing I’ve noticed, that they all say, is ‘This job went so fast.’ And I’ve analyzed that statement, because no other career says that. Because you were making a difference, because you were making an impact, you were dealing with things that were high-octane. You were having fun with the camaraderie of your coworkers. You were getting satisfaction from helping others, and you were able to take care of yourself along the way."
For more information, visit police.cityofomaha.org and statepatrol.nebraska.gov.
This article originally appeared in the March/April 2025 issue of Omaha Magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.
