Matthew Hunter woke up disoriented, his cheek against concrete. He looked around and saw a rectangular bench, a camera and a toilet. There was no window. He sat up and noticed what he was wearing: cargo shorts and a Mötley Crüe T-shirt, same as the night before. Socks but no shoes.
Hunter, who had been an officer in the Des Moines Police Department for 21 years, was on the wrong side of a cell door. He searched his memory, straining to make sense of how he got there, but found only fragments. Long stretches of the previous night had gone dark. He remembered arriving at a relative’s house in his Chevy Silverado pickup truck, walking inside with his wife for a family celebration. He recalled finishing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He would learn more about what happened later from body-camera footage and police reports, which said he tried to drive off in his truck, insulted officers, called them “podunk” and worse, banged his head against the side of a police van, threatened a jail guard, collapsed on the ground and wept inconsolably.
He had been in trouble long before that night. Hunter, who was 45 and recently promoted to sergeant, had been spiraling for months, ever since his best friend died by suicide. Hunter and Joe Morgan had been paired up as partners early in their careers, patrolling the mostly blue-collar neighborhoods of the city’s east side. Morgan was a couple of years older and more seasoned; he previously worked at a smaller agency and served as chief in a town of 500 before joining Des Moines, the state’s largest Police Department. The two men clicked instantly and became close. Both fanatical Minnesota Vikings fans, they found much to commiserate about during football seasons. When it snowed, they wore matching hats with furry flaps covering their ears.
On Sept. 16, 2020, Hunter was in his bedroom, changing out of his uniform, preparing to help his wife make dinner for their three children, when he received a call. “Joe Morgan just killed himself,” a sergeant told him. Hunter didn’t believe it at first. If he had been asked to name cops who might hurt themselves, his friend would not have been on the list.
He climbed into his truck and drove five minutes through the suburbs to Morgan’s home, parking on a quiet street with tidy lawns. He walked past a dozen patrol cars and approached the crime-scene tape that circled his friend’s driveway. He had ducked beneath yellow tape hundreds of times in his career, but that night he felt his pace slow, as a familiar act suddenly became filled with foreboding. He approached the officers crowded around Morgan’s S.U.V., peered between them, then stepped closer. He saw Morgan lying on his back, his shirt removed. One of his flip-flops, left behind as officers had dragged him out of the driver’s seat, dangled from the S.U.V.’s running board. There was a dark hole in his friend’s chest.
Read it all.
