Shot by Another Police Officer : Disabled Ex-Bell Gardens Detective Wins Suit

There are nights when Ron Kunkle wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. Other nights his right arm twitches nervously, waking his wife. And there are nightmares. When he can remember them, they are always the same.

“I get shot, knocked down, and I can’t move,” Kunkle said. “I can’t get help.”

Three years ago, Kunkle, then a Bell Gardens detective sergeant, was accidentally shot by another police officer during a narcotics raid in Maywood that involved officers from Bell Gardens, Bell and Maywood. Five shots were fired. Three hit him. Kunkle survived but lost 20% of the movement in his arm and took disability retirement in 1987.

Recently a Los Angeles Superior Court jury awarded Kunkle a $912,000 judgment in a civil lawsuit against the city of Bell and John Zsenyuk, the Bell police officer who shot him. The suit alleged negligence and sought compensation for physical and psychological damage. According to Kunkle’s attorney, Charles S. Mazursky, the jury determined that there was negligence by both Zsenyuk and his employer, the city of Bell.

Zsenyuk will not have to pay any of the damages because the city was held liable, said Raymond Fuentes, attorney for Zsenyuk and the city of Bell. The officer was not disciplined or dismissed, according to Bell police Cmdr. Jim Edwards. Fuentes said Zsenyuk has left Bell and become a deputy with the Fresno County Sheriff’s Department.

“There will be a motion by the city of Bell for a new trial based on legal errors during the trial and other legal grounds,” Fuentes added.

Doesn’t Want Desk Job

Kunkle, however, said he hopes to close that chapter of his life and move on. He worked for the Bell Gardens Police Department for 12 years and does not want a paper-shuffling job in law enforcement. No other career interests him. The accident, he said, has forever altered his prospects.

“Seventeen years in law enforcement. That was my life,” Kunkle said, shaking his head in disappointment. “Being a cop was something I looked forward to. It was exciting. It was challenging. To lose that has really set me back. I hope someday to come to grips with that.”

Kunkle, 44, said his decision to retire was not immediate. With sick leave, he was allowed up to a year to recuperate. During the quiet days at home, his fellow officers and family members lent support and encouragement. At night, however, he was haunted by dreams that gnawed away at his confidence.

“I lost the edge,” Kunkle said. “I lost the mental advantage. I was afraid of under-reacting or over-reacting.”

He worried about being shot by fellow police officers. He wondered if he was gun-shy and if his street smarts had eroded. After more than a year, he concluded that he could not do the job and retired on physical and psychological grounds.

“After a police officer is injured, he needs to go through an agility test to be able to go back to work,” Mazursky said. “He never took the test, so we don’t know if he would have passed with a 20% motion loss.”

A former colleague, Sgt. Doug Kingery, recalls: “Everyone knew Ron Kunkle. He goes way back in the southeast county. He was a born narc and knew how to put dope dealers behind bars.”

Kingery was one of four Bell Gardens officers who assisted Kunkle on the drug raid in Maywood three years ago. “We used up a lot of luck that night,” Kingery said.

It was Feb. 28, 1986. A week earlier, Kunkle had been promoted to detective sergeant and put in charge of a special investigations unit.

Shot Through Window

The plan was for Kunkle to lure a suspected heroin dealer to a parking lot in Bell Gardens. The dealer, however, opted to stay at his house on 56th Street in Maywood. Kunkle, Kingery, three other Bell Gardens officers and several Maywood officers went to the house at about 8 p.m.

One officer looked through a window, saw the suspect with a gun and shot through the window. All of the police took cover. Kunkle jumped over a wall into a neighboring yard and waited. The suspect was in the house, the shooting stopped, and there was silence. Back-up police were called in from Bell. Several blocks away, Zsenyuk heard the call for assistance. He quickly arrived at the house.

Moments later, Kunkle looked over the wall and was suddenly knocked down. His pants leg jumped, and when he put his hand in his jacket he felt blood.

Nearby, Bell Gardens Officer Richard Elizondo screamed: “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! He’s a cop.”

But Zsenyuk had already fired five shots. One bullet bounced off Kunkle’s flak vest, one hit his right ankle and a third went through his shoulder and lodged in his back, narrowly missing his spine. As blood filled his shoes and poured down his chest, Kunkle limped down the driveway toward the street.

At the trial, Zsenyuk testified that when he got to the suspect’s house, he saw a dark figure in a jacket, jeans and tennis shoes pointing a gun over a wall in the direction of other officers. His lawyer, Fuentes, said: “Zsenyuk shot because he thought he (Kunkle) was the suspect.”

Kunkle recalled: “It was probably the most scared I had ever been. I didn’t think about dying, but inside I was very afraid.”

Boldly Lettered

On a recent evening, Kunkle picked up the blood-stained jacket he wore during the raid. It was navy blue and had the word POLICE boldly lettered in white across the back--and a dime-sized bullet hole in the shoulder. During the trial, Kunkle had to wear the jacket and the flak vest as evidence. Asked to do so again, he turned grim and his lips suddenly tightened. He shook his head and said he isn’t sure whether he will throw them away or store them.

After two years of physical therapy, the damage to Kunkle’s body is not readily visible. There is a bullet scar on the inside of his right ankle. He has high blood pressure. And he can’t throw a baseball to his son anymore. But he escaped spinal damage and said he is lucky to be alive and walking.

Other wounds have not been so quick to heal. The bad dreams and panic attacks turned to frequent outbursts of anger or depression. Some of this has been alleviated by counseling and anti-depressant drugs. Still, Kunkle says, he has been no prince to live with, venting his frustration on his family.

Kunkle’s wife of 23 years, Joanne, said the incident has put a strain on the family. With a partner, she runs a gourmet coffee store in La Verne and has become the breadwinner.

Future Uncertain

Her husband’s medical and counseling expenses were paid by Worker’s Compensation, but his early retirement canceled the family’s insurance plan. Before the jury’s decision Aug. 1, the Kunkles did not know if they would have to move to a smaller house or if they could afford college tuition for their two children. So far, they have received none of the money awarded by the court, and the prospect of a motion for a new trial makes their financial future uncertain.

Their daughter’s grades have dropped, and their son, who now gets into trouble at school, is in counseling.

“He wanted to be a policeman when he grew up, but not anymore. He is scared,” Joanne Kunkle said.

Dr. Jerome Tepperman, the clinical psychologist who has worked with Kunkle for three years, said the shooting was a traumatic event that triggered the stress and nightmares. He compared it to the post-traumatic stress syndrome suffered by Vietnam veterans. Tepperman, who has many police officers as clients, said there is an unwritten code among them to get well quickly and meet the needs of the department.

“But Ron was not able to get well,” Tepperman said. “And he is angry at himself for not being able to get it together.”

Not Granted Permit

Kunkle is also angry that his retirement did not come with the usual permit to carry a concealed weapon granted to most police officers. That decision, he said, relegates him to being a member of the “rubber-gun squad” or “bow-and-arrow squad,” police jargon for inferior officers.

Most days Kunkle spends at home tinkering on his vintage Chevrolets. He had hoped to do free-lance security work, but without a permit to carry a concealed weapon his opportunities are limited. She is considering opening a local coffee store; if she does, he will work with her, he said.

“I am a recluse,” Kunkle said, adding that he has lost most of his friends. He is unsure about the future and what he will do.

Memories of the past linger. On the back of his den door, Kunkle’s holster and police uniform hang, gathering dust.

“I’ll always be a cop,” Kunkle said. “And as far as finding (another) identity in society, I don’t know.”