SF Chronicle January 7, 1999 On Retirement Eve, Stanford Cop Reflects on Career Campus police have evolved to professional status during 25 years Bill Workman � ------------ STANFORD -- When Raoul Niemeyer took his job with Stanford University police nearly 25 years ago, the campus cops were viewed as little more than night watchmen who went on patrol in mud-brown former taxicabs. At the time, Stanford was still recovering from the anti-Vietnam War turmoil of student unrest that had overwhelmed the ill-trained and poorly equipped campus police. Niemeyer, a veteran San Jose cop with an outstanding record for training officers, was the first hire in newly appointed Stanford Police Chief Marv Herrington's efforts to modernize and improve the public safety department. One of the first things Neimeyer did after signing on as captain was to order a white paint job, Stanford logo and red and blue emergency lights -- replacing the old taxi-yellow ones -- for the department's patrol cars. His next move was to develop a recruiting and training program, still in place today, that routinely brings to the campus bright, eager deputies. By the time they have been assigned regular duties, they are well on their way to commanding the respect of the university community. ``One of the challenges has always been to get quality candidates who are able to communicate effectively with faculty, students and staff but also able to handle a hardened criminal from outside the campus when things get tough,'' recalls Niemeyer, 60, a wavy-haired man with the firm handshake of someone who spends his spare time working on and racing stock cars. Niemeyer, who retires this month, reminisced the other day about his career and the changing demands of policing Stanford over the past quarter-century. The 8,000- acre campus is a city in its own right with a police force of 35 sworn officers. Born in Berkeley and raised in Hawaii, Niemeyer said he had dealt with his share of homicide cases as a San Jose cop. Yet he was unprepared for the shock that awaited him and Stanford little more than a month after he went to work there. Pulled out of bed by a dispatcher's predawn phone call the morning of Oct. 13, 1974, he went to Stanford Memorial Church where the half-nude body of 19-year-old Arlis Perry, recently married wife of a Stanford student, had been violated by altar candles. Perry had been stabbed in the head and strangled after she had gone alone to the historic church to pray and meditate the night before. She had apparently been accidentally locked inside with her killer. ``It was an awful thing. I was really upset and we became almost obsessed with trying to solve the murder,'' said Niemeyer. Unfortunately, the brutal and bizarre slaying remains unsolved. Slayings are rare at Stanford, but as the university's chief investigator most of his career, Niemeyer has played a key role in helping the campus community cope with the shattering effects of more than a half-dozen. Perhaps the most stressful for faculty, he said, was the case of Theodore Streleski, a mathematics student for 19 years who in 1978 bludgeoned to death Professor Karel deLeeuw in revenge for what he viewed as Stanford's unfair treatment of graduate students. When Streleski was released from prison in 1985, Niemeyer was kept busy for months, he said, taking measures to ensure the safety of other math professors in the event Streleski returned to campus with more mayhem in mind. On one wall of Niemeyer's office hangs a huge map of Stanford and surrounding communities that was once used in the prosecution of Robert Lee O`Connor, the so-called ``jogging bandit'' convicted in 1983 of 21 counts of burglary and suspected of ripping off about 500 Peninsula homes. The map's many dots represent burglary sites. Niemeyer, who led the two-year Peninsula investigation of O'Connor, is taking the map home as a memento when he retires. Because of its tradition-steeped setting, an otherwise minor disturbance at Stanford can often bring the media running, said Niemeyer, who has also been the department's press officer for years. For example, there was the ``kidnapping'' in early November of the Stanford Tree's googly-eyed costume after a break-in at the Stanford Band's since-demolished building. The mascot theft came shortly before the annual Big Game with the University of California at Berkeley. Bay Area media had a lot of fun with the story before the costume was finally returned by its unidentified Cal student captors. However, Niemeyer takes credit for bluffing the thieves into bringing it back by repeatedly posing the threat of possible criminal prosecution, although authorities apparently never intended to take the pranksters to court. A more routine function for campus police has been providing security for visiting dignitaries, said Niemeyer. Of the many world figures he met as a cop, Niemeyer said, one of the most interesting was the Dalai Lama. At the end of his latest Stanford visit a few years ago, the Tibetan religious leader gave Niemeyer an autographed copy of a book of his writings, and in return, Niemeyer fastened a Stanford police pin to the Dalai Lama's robe, he recalled. As they were leaving for a news conference, Niemeyer said his VIP companion grasped his hand and the two men strolled out of the building hand in hand . ``I'm glad no one got any of it on film,'' said Niemeyer, recounting his momentary embarrassment at the gesture. ``No man had held me by the hand since my dad when I was a kid.'' Bill Workman writes from The Chronicle's Peninsula bureau
