By Lt. Richard Bennett, SDPD Ret

A long-time friend of mine asked if there was one policeman who I thought was the “best officer” I worked with in my career. Even though I spent 40 years with the Police Department, the answer came easily: Jake Eckles.

Jake grew up in Southeastern San Diego, attending Lincoln High School before joining the San Diego Police Department. He was about two years older than me, and was assigned to the Logan Heights area. In the early 1960’s the southeastern part of San Diego was the most active, and physically demanding area of the city. Policemen wore helmets, and only southeastern San Diego had two-officer cars. It was policy to wait for a backup car before entering apartment complexes, where animosity toward police was often displayed in acts of violence.

Jake was the senior officer in our car. He had a wonderful sense of humor, a lovely wife and two happy, healthy children. We lived just a few blocks from each other, so we car-pooled to work. We were partners, and we were friends.

Jake taught me a lot about police work, human nature, and life. We hurried to all our radio calls, hoping to get there in time to make a difference. Jake wore the traditional leather jacket, carried his own long baton and had some lead-lined gloves for when times got serious. He preferred to reason with violent people, but would not hesitate to get physical when all else failed. I never saw Jake lose a fight.

Often on the way to jail with a prisoner, Jake would review the man’s troubles. He would look for the causes and try to find ways the man could stay out of trouble in the future. He gave solid advice, and held people accountable for their behavior. It was common for prisoners to apologize to Jake for what they had done, and promise to stay out of trouble. And they often did.

Jake knew almost everyone on his beat. The most common offenders were known by name, address and family members. The people that he helped remembered him, for better or worse. On one occasion we were sent to serve an arrest warrant in Logan Heights. It was a black family that Jake knew, and the subject of the warrant was a giant of a man, about seven feet tall with no extra fat. 

We waited until after everyone was asleep, then knocked on the door. The old woman that answered directed us to the suspects’ bedroom. When I saw the size of the man, I wished we had four more of us. Jake spoke to the man, giving him time to wake up, understand the situation, and stay calm. When the man stood up, his head nearly touched the ceiling, and standing there in his boxer shorts I could see he worked at hard labor jobs. Jake kept the man calm, and when I was instructed to handcuff him, he complied. I was surprised that his wrists were so large the handcuffs wouldn’t fit. Jake talked the man into coming to the police car and riding peacefully to the station with no restraints. Along the way, Jake developed rapport, as was often the case. 

I learned a lesson in tact and humility from that encounter that served me well the rest of my career. Later that month we saw the man working as a jail trusty at the Pistol Range. He was pushing a wheelbarrow that looked like it was child-size next to his huge frame. I had forgotten how large he was, and seeing him in the daylight surprised me. The man saw Jake, called out his name and gave him a friendly wave. Jake talked with him, and when they parted, both men were smiling.

Jake talked to battered women, convincing them to reveal hidden narcotics that would put the batterer in jail (domestic violence was a civil matter back then). He disarmed a teen-age girl who nicked his arm with a steak knife, then turned her over to her mother instead of taking her to Juvenile Hall. He was tough, and he was compassionate; qualities I tried to emulate.

At shift change, Jake went to “days”, and I was left behind on the afternoon shift. Jake and I were no longer partners but we remained friends.

That summer Jake bought a motorcycle. He had a new Honda 350 Scrambler, the kind with high pipes and dual-purpose tires. He had never ridden a motorcycle before, but enjoyed my tales of dirt bike rides and aspirations of becoming a motorcycle officer. Jake learned to ride by trial and error, practicing on streets around our neighborhood. He used the Honda to commute to work and back.

On his way home from work one summer day, Jake ran off the road and died. Witnesses say he had some oil cans tied to the passenger seat, and he was trying to secure them while riding down the road. He was turned around on the seat, not watching where he was going. Federal Boulevard curved to the left, and Jake went straight. At 45 miles per hour, Jake flew through the air and landed on his face in a streambed filled with large rocks. He died at the scene. Jake was 25 years old.