Out here, where the sun scorches straight through your hat–and rattlesnakes outnumber Republicans by a whisper, there’s been a curious development in the affairs of our gallant Nevada State Police.
Col. Patrick Conmay, with half a century of chasing scoundrels under his belt, and Lt. Col. Martin Mleczko, no greenhorn himself—have hung up their badges. The former, likely tired of dust, danger, and being underpaid, may be ready to find a place where his boots won’t need resoling every other week.
Governor Joe Lombardo—who has all the confidence in the world in the tooth fairy, too—assures us the leadership is as sound as a silver dollar. And I believe him. It’s not the captain that’s sunk the ship, but the wages that won’t float a canoe.
The Nevada State Police, formerly known as the Nevada Highway Patrol, or as some still call it, “those fellas with the lights and the ticket books,” are trying to keep the peace with a workforce about as brimming as a dry well in July. They’ve got 218 troopers standing post when the budget allows for 392. That’s nearly half a force missing in action—and not for lack of leadership, but for lack of something that makes men rise early and risk their hides: decent pay and benefits.
Recruitment, they say, is improving. That’s good. But what use is a fresh recruit if they see the salary and choose parole and probation instead—less roadkill, fewer speeding bullets, and maybe even a coffee break? Ask a trooper to ride shot-gun across hundreds of desert miles for the same coin a casino security guard pockets, and you’ll hear the answer on the wind: “Not today.”
Legislators fiddled with raises last session—Senate Bill 440 gave the boys and girls a bit of a bump. But this time around, with the budget tighter than a rusted mule gate and federal dollars drying up faster than a sagebrush puddle, the Governor says more raises are unlikely. That’s a curious way of rewarding the few who still show up to patrol our lawless interstates and desolate towns.
Let’s speak plain, as any man who’s stared down both the barrel of a gun and the barrel of a legislative budget, this ain’t a crisis of command. It’s in the pockets of the men, which are empty. And no amount of titles, rebrands, or political speeches will fill them.
Want more troopers? Pay them as if they matter. Otherwise, the only thing patrolling our roads will be tumbleweeds and free-range horses.
The Old Blog in the Desert 