Shepherds in uniform: Meet the cops ensuring that Paradise is not lost
| Paradise, Calif.
Eric Reinbold鈥檚 rise through the ranks of the Paradise Police Department peaked on September 17 last year. During a brief swearing-in ceremony, he became police chief of his Northern California hometown, 11 years after joining the force as a cadet. The native son had climbed a career summit in the shadow of the Sierra Nevadas.
The next 51 days brought little out of the ordinary as he settled into the job. On Day 52, the town he had known his entire life ceased to exist.聽
A wildfire ignited outside Paradise early on November 8, and within hours, a day that had dawned bright and blue turned black with smoke and ash and anguish. The inferno claimed the lives of 85 people, destroyed more than 14,000 homes, and forced the town鈥檚 27,000 residents to flee, along with another 23,000 who lived in nearby communities.
Why We Wrote This
One year after the deadly Camp fire threatened to wipe Paradise, California, off the map, the town鈥檚 police chief is helping to restore the bonds of the community.
Recovering from the deadliest and most destructive wildfire in state history presented an existential crisis for Mr. Reinbold and his department. How do you patrol a town that is no longer there?聽
鈥淚t was overwhelming,鈥� he says, sitting in his office three days before the one-year anniversary of the blaze. The flames spared the police station but torched his home and those of several of his officers. 鈥淚t鈥檚 one thing to lose a portion of your town. But when you lose basically the whole thing 鈥� the houses, the businesses, the hospital, most of the schools 鈥� there isn鈥檛 anything quite like that.鈥澛�
The story of his efforts to hold together the department parallels the larger narrative of Paradise鈥檚 struggle to reclaim itself. The Camp fire at once gutted the town鈥檚 landscape and its daily routines, and as Mr. Reinbold and his officers attempted to restore a semblance of order, the fallout engulfed them.
The police force represented one of the few aspects of Paradise that remained intact after the fire 鈥� at least for a time. In the ensuing weeks and months, 10 of its 21 officers departed, lured away by other jobs and the chance to leave behind their own sense of despair.
鈥淭hey lived here, too,鈥� Mr. Reinbold says, 鈥渁nd driving around and seeing the devastation day in and day out, that could be retraumatizing.鈥�
He understood their reactions. He felt the emotional weight of the town鈥檚 sudden absence, the burden of its broken future. He realized the Paradise of his lifetime 鈥� the tight-knit idyll tucked into forested foothills 鈥� would exist only in memory.
The chief chose to stay. He wants to rebuild his depleted department on a foundation of empathy and resuscitate his hometown on the strength of belief and persistence. He resolves to move forward, gathering what he calls 鈥渓ittle bits of hope鈥� out of the shattered portrait of Paradise.聽
鈥淲ith so much in limbo, his presence has provided stability,鈥� says Mayor Jody Jones, whose house burned down. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not just a job to him. This is his home.鈥澛�
A somber anniversary
The morning of November 8 dawned bright and blue again this fall in Paradise. Almost nothing else that came after resembled the same day a year ago.
Last November, as ash rained from a darkening sky, the town emptied out in harrowing slow-motion, its four main roadways clogged with traffic as residents sought to escape.
Wind-swept flames devoured home after home, store after store. Pine trees and utility poles exploded like giant Roman candles amid booming detonations of propane tanks and abandoned cars. Sparked by broken power lines owned by the Pacific Gas & Electric Co., the Camp fire incinerated 90% of the housing stock, more than 500 businesses, and the unseen bonds of community.聽
Two weeks ago, under a resplendent sun, Paradise filled back up. Thousands of displaced residents returned for a day of events to commemorate all they had lost.聽
Most entered along Skyway Road, the town鈥檚 primary thoroughfare, where 85 American flags swayed in the breeze, one for each person who died in the fire. Old friends and onetime neighbors hugged, cried, and reminisced. City officials delivered speeches that blended somber homages to the victims and the hardships of survivors with spirited assurances that Paradise will rise again.
The surge of visitors created the illusion of a town that had already recovered. In reality, an estimated 3,000 people live here 鈥� barely one-tenth of its pre-fire population 鈥� and fewer than 20 new houses have gone up in the past year. Former residents list various deterrents to rebuilding, including battles with home insurers, California鈥檚 high construction costs, the town鈥檚 鈥� and fears of another inferno.
鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if that feeling ever goes away,鈥� says Megan Rawie, who had lived with her husband in Paradise for 19 years when the blaze reduced their house to rubble. The couple moved to a town an hour鈥檚 drive north and remain unsure about whether to keep or sell their vacant lot. 鈥淭here鈥檚 always the thought that this could happen again.鈥�
The gathering of Paradise鈥檚 refugees laid bare their enduring privations. The Camp fire cost Amy McFarland her nursing job and razed the home she shared with her husband and two children. They now occupy the cramped confines of a mobile trailer parked on family property 30 miles away.
鈥淭here鈥檚 still such a strong feeling of loss,鈥� Ms. McFarland says. She paused to wipe away the tears behind her sunglasses. 鈥淓verything is just gone.鈥�
Making deeper connections聽
The distress of residents after the Camp fire reached as far as the police chief. Mr. Reinbold鈥檚 public stature provided thin armor against personal adversity.
The toll went beyond the home where he lived with his wife and three children. His in-laws鈥� house burned to the ground; they since have moved to Idaho. A cousin lost his place. Familiar family landmarks 鈥� his childhood home, his father鈥檚 old auto repair shop, his late grandmother鈥檚 house 鈥� wound up as piles of ash and gnarled metal.
鈥淚t feels,鈥� Mr. Reinbold says, 鈥渓ike even your memories are stripped from you.鈥�
The town鈥檚 collective vulnerability guides the policing strategy he has nurtured since the disaster. Isolation ranks as perhaps the greatest source of anxiety for residents scattered across the fire-scarred mountain ridge. So he instructs his officers to patrol Paradise in a manner that could be dubbed stop-and-chat as they drive through nearly deserted neighborhoods.
鈥淭here鈥檚 a bigger emphasis on making deeper connections with people,鈥� Mr. Reinbold says. 鈥淏ecause when you talk to them, the thing you hear most often is, 鈥業鈥檓 the only house left on my street. What can you do to help me feel safe?鈥欌�澛�
The sharp drop in crime following the Camp fire altered the role of his officers from typical law enforcers to something akin to shepherds in uniform. They tended to shell-shocked residents returning to a town as ravaged as their emotions.
If those duties proved too sedate for a handful of cops 鈥� 鈥渟ome decided this new normal just isn鈥檛 for them,鈥� Mr. Reinbold says 鈥� others embraced the change. Perry Walters, who joined the force four years ago, realizes he might be the sole person a resident encounters on a given day.
鈥淵ou鈥檙e showing compassion because people are struggling,鈥� he says, easing his police SUV down a pitted road on the town鈥檚 east side. A year after the fire, most lots stand barren, the debris and dead trees hauled away by cleanup crews. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e going through something unlike anything most of them have gone through before.鈥�
He notices a silver-haired woman standing outside the street鈥檚 lone house and opens his passenger window to greet her. He spends 10 minutes talking with Pat Zinn, a retired bank manager, whose ranch-style home survived unscathed. They discuss the day of the fire, a neighbor who died after refusing to evacuate, and her concerns about scavengers and thieves.聽
鈥淚鈥檓 the last one here 鈥� it鈥檚 kind of lonely,鈥� she says. Mr. Walters nods and tells her that officers will try to devote more attention to her area. He hands her a business card.
鈥淐all us anytime,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e always want to make sure you鈥檙e safe.鈥澛�
Stages of healing
Mr. Reinbold served as acting police chief for seven months last year after Paradise鈥檚 top cop retired in February. Town officials conducted a wide search for a successor before appointing him to the position in the fall. The calamity that arrived 52 days later revealed an unexpected benefit to choosing a native son.聽
鈥淚f he had come here from somewhere else, he might鈥檝e decided not to stick around,鈥� says Lt. Anthony Borgman, a member of the department since 2016. 鈥淲ith all that chaos, it helped that he was somebody people could count on being here.鈥�
Mr. Reinbold and his officers witnessed Paradise鈥檚 almost total obliteration as they worked to evacuate residents. The baptism by wildfire gave him insight into his own and his hometown鈥檚 capacity to bear misfortune. He suggests that communal ties will deepen as more people return and move through the stages of healing from a shared ordeal.
鈥淭he bonds are being strengthened because they know they鈥檙e not going through this alone,鈥� he says. For the sake of stability and their kids, he and his wife bought a house this spring in Chico, a college town 15 miles away, but he continues to devote most of each day to Paradise. 鈥淚 feel like the future does look brighter.鈥澛�
Evidence of slow progress has emerged even as questions persist about rebuilding in a fire-prone region. Stop lights and street signs have reappeared. The town has issued 300 building permits and some 200 businesses have reopened, ranging from grocery stores and restaurants to auto shops and beauty salons. The police department will add three cadets by early next year, and town officials authorized Mr. Reinbold to offer a $20,000 hiring bonus to recruit veteran cops.
He plans to boost his force from 11 to 17 officers to shoulder the dual roles of empathy patrol and law enforcement. A rise in crime since summer 鈥� the work of car thieves, burglars, property squatters 鈥� offers another, less desirable sign of gradual recovery. 鈥淚t鈥檚 funny because people say, 鈥極h, it must just be dead in Paradise,鈥欌�� he says. 鈥淲ell, no.鈥澛�
Mr. Walters has found himself responding to more emergency calls in recent months. He crisscrosses town in his SUV, passing over shallow abrasions in the roads where abandoned cars melted as Paradise burned.聽
A year ago, in the confusion and panic of a mass exodus, he aided some 250 people when traffic ground to a stop. He told them to leave their vehicles and follow him to a strip mall parking lot where the pavement would act as a buffer against the fire. They watched the orange flames approach in the smoke-choked darkness. Tense hours passed. The danger receded.聽
鈥淭hat day changed me. It made me feel more loyal to the community,鈥� Mr. Walters says. As Paradise tries to mend, he waits for residents to return. 鈥淚 definitely want to be here for them. I want to help them come back home.鈥�
