Suicide by cop: the Chris Raper incident

American Handgunner, March-April, 2009 by Massad Ayoob

Situation: The criminal suspect you are interviewing turns away, then suddenly turns back at you, a pistol coming up in his hand ...

Lessons: Some opponents aren't afraid to die, because they came to the scene to do just that. Training and decisive response can keep you from becoming fuel for the "blaze of glory" in which he wants to depart.

The revolver is a Smith & Wesson Model 66, an early one with no dash suffix in its model number, its .357 Magnum chambers recessed and its barrel pinned to the frame, just the way S&W collectors like them. It began its existence as a round butt snubby, and wears round butt Pachmayr Compac grips. However, S&W installed a 4" barrel on it to better fit its owner's needs. The owner, a police detective, felt the 4" barrel and the rounded K-frame butt gave him optimum feel and balance. It has the Ranger trigger, three-quarters the width of a target trigger and smooth surfaced, and its action has been worn in slick from range work and dry fire.

And if it could speak it might tell of the day when it saved its owner's life.

Prelude

In the early evening hours of August 3, 1983, Detective Chris Raper was at home and on call. He had been with the Wilson, North Carolina Police Department for a decade. Prior to that he had spent five years with Wilson County Alcoholic Beverage Control, and earlier had been a USAF Security Police member serving in Vietnam.

The phone rang. It was the PD, telling him that a man he'd been looking for as a suspect in an after-hours bank break-in was at the station and ready to talk to him. Chris said he was on his way, and grabbed a jacket. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed his round-butt, 4" 66 and strapped it on in a plain black Roy Baker Pancake hip holster.

He did not know then, that this simple act would preserve his life in the next hour ...

Facing The Enemy

At the station, Raper introduced himself to Larry Alan Lamm, age 22, and ushered him into a tiny interrogation room, the size of a small cell with a table, a few chairs, and a mirror obviously made of one-way glass. Lamm was tall and almost skeletal, standing six-feet-three but weighing only 150 pounds. He was wearing a Grateful Dead tee shirt, and was carrying a small paper bag. The detective examined the bag and found only a can of soda and a packet of Nabs crackers. He explained Lamm's rights to him, and the suspect signed the form indicating that he understood them. Lamm dated his signature and marked the time at 6:18 PM.

The soft-spoken detective told Lamm that he had been seen in the vicinity of the bank in question at about the time it was burgled. He had also been identified as having spent distinctive silver dollars consistent with some that had been taken in the burglary.

As he listened to the cop, Lamm grew fidgety, moving his legs aimlessly and beginning to perspire, even though the room was not hot. The body language told Raper that he was on the right track.

The tall man said, "I knew police officers were smart, but I forgot about detectives being smarter." Then he asked Raper, "Would I be shot if I ran?"

That was a new one. "No," Raper answered, hoping to calm him down. "You're not even under arrest. You're free to leave any time you want to."

Lamm stood up, facing the mirror. Sudden movements are not uncommon among people in these situations. Sometimes they signify a change of mood, a sense of "I may as well confess and get it off my chest." Raper waited expectantly as Lamm fiddled with the shade on the one-way mirror. Lamm asked, "Is there anyone on the other side?"

"No," answered Detective Raper. "There's no one here but us."

Sensing a rising tension in his suspect, the seated detective decided to calm him down with some small talk. He said, "Larry, tell me about your tee shirt. You like the Grateful Dead?"

His back still to the detective, the tall man gave a chilling answer.

"That's what I am," he said. "Grateful dead."

And then, everything seemed to go into slow motion as Lamm fumbled for an instant at the front of his belt area, and then turned toward the detective.

There was a small, chrome plated semiautomatic pistol in Lamm's right hand, his finger on the trigger, and he was bringing its muzzle up toward Chris Raper.

Gunfire!

The words that go through Chris Raper's mind are, "I'm dead." But in a moment beyond cognitive thought, the reflexes instilled in his police and military training have taken over. Rising to clear the arms of the chair in which he's been seated, he goes for the gun on his hip. The Smith clears leather, and on autopilot, the officer takes his familiar two-hand semi-crouching stance and begins to fire as fast as he can.

As the bullets strike the tall man, Raper can see him jerking spasmodically, arms and legs akimbo. Lamm staggers back against the mirror and slides downward, slumping into a sitting position in the corner of the tiny room, one leg straight and the other bent.

It is over already. A thick miasma of gray smoke from the gunshots seems to fill the room. Lamm is still holding the pistol, but both he and it are still. Blood pours copiously from the chest area of the Grateful Dead shirt, and a river of it seems to flood down the right arm.