BARRE — In the darkness before City Hall Park, engulfed by sheets of rain, the police cruiser looked like a little boat tossed out at sea. Inside, hands resting on the steering wheel, Sgt. Chad Bassette listened to the rain thrum on the windshield and waited.
“They’ll be here soon,” Bassette said. “They’re wonderful. Did I tell you they’re wonderful?”
On the evening of Aug. 8, Bassette was waiting for Osa Busch, a community health worker with Good Samaritan Haven, a nonprofit organization that helps people experiencing homelessness in central Vermont.
With both of their cars loaded with food, clothes, camping gear and medical supplies — and the remnants of Tropical Storm Debby unloading torrents of rain over them — the two were about to spend their Friday night checking in on folks sleeping outside.
Bassette leaned forward, scanned the empty streets and shook his head. He had sent nearly 40 individual texts to unsheltered people earlier in the day, telling them where to find his cruiser if they needed anything. So far, no one had shown up.
“With the rain, people are bedding down,” he said. “Lots of them have wifi-only phones, so they’re not going to get the text until it’s too late because they’re out in the woods.”
Headlights flashed and a car pulled up beside Bassette’s.
“That’ll be Osa!” he said.
Chatting, the two walked toward a building behind which they know folks often take shelter when it storms. Side by side, they made a curious pair: Bassette towering in his police uniform, Busch shorter and dressed in a tank-top and shorts despite the pouring rain.
In the past two years, though, the two have forged a partnership that is as remarkable as it is unlikely.
Bassette is 51, a father of three and cop of 28 years, has worked for the Berlin Police Department since 2008, though his work helping the unhoused extends well beyond his on-duty hours and the Berlin town limits. Busch is 35 and a gender-fluid Barre resident who began working for Good Samaritan four years ago.
Often teaming up, the two conduct the bulk of the “street outreach” in Washington County — meeting unsheltered people where they are to get them help and develop relationships with them. Almost always at night, with supplies donated or bought with money out of their own pockets, far beyond typical work hours, the two crisscross the area visiting sleeping spots and responding to emergencies.
Sometimes, the sheer amount of need in the community can seem overwhelming. Homelessness continues to rise in Vermont, according to point-in-time counts, and more could be left without shelter when the state’s new motel room limits go into effect on Sept. 15.
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The state has also seen a steep increase in blood infections — the majority of them in unhoused people — likely caused by xylazine, an animal sedative cut into opioids that causes necrotic flesh wounds that become entry portals for bacteria.
“I say that I work 24 hours a day,” said Busch, who has a phone line where people can reach them anytime they need urgent help, whether it’s bandages or a hot meal.
“What, just because you’re not working, you’re not going to respond? Their crisis is not on your own time,” Bassette said.
If the two are very different, that has been the root of their success. Despite more than 20 years of outreach work, Bassette said some people still distrust him because of the badge and the uniform.
“They always think we’re looking to jam them up and make their life heck,” he said. “People are more willing to take stuff from Osa.”
Busch, on the other hand, is aware that visiting encampments alone at night has its own risks. They said Bassette’s presence, especially when delivering help to someone with a violent rap sheet, is an enormous reassurance.
In a more fundamental sense, however, the two are more alike than might appear at first glance. Both are possessed by an undiminished good humor as, night after night, they care for those experiencing homelessness and people who have substance use disorders.
Arriving behind the building, Busch and Bassette recognized two women and a man camping on a fire escape. Their bedding and clothes were soaked. Inviting the group back to their cars, Bassette handed out plastic bags for them to fill with anything they needed.
Socks, underwear, ready-made meals, candy and drinks made their way into their bags. The group passed each other deodorant and knew each other’s shirt sizes.
“This is fucking Christmas!” one said.
“Thank you,” said another, turning to Bassette. “I’m so glad I met you that day.”
From across the street, they heard a sudden voice yelling obscenities at them. The group quickly dispersed. Out of the rain and dark, a man appeared.
“Hey, Mike!” Bassette hurried over to him. “What’s going on, man?”
For more than 20 minutes, under the unceasing rain, Bassette had his hands on Mike’s shoulders and listened to a stream of grievances and wrongs done to him. Finally, Bassette led him to the car and filled a bag with food and clothes. Mike went in for a hug, his small frame nearly enveloped by Bassette’s embrace.
“I love you, dude,” Mike said.
“Me too, man. But you’re losing way too much weight. I can talk to your doctors,” Bassette said.
But Mike was already crossing the street, bag slung over one shoulder, yelling: “I love you, dude!”
Back in the driver’s seat of the cruiser, wiping water from his face, Bassette sighed.
“He’s … a tough person. Gets into a lot of fights. But he’s so darn addicted it breaks my ever-loving heart,” he said.
Bassette said his only responsibility as a person was to make sure people like Mike didn’t go to bed on an empty stomach.
“You see the faces of addiction,” he said. “You see the faces of people who have been taken advantage of. You can’t just not see that.”
Bassette fell silent for a moment. Pulling out onto Route 302, the cruiser’s high beams illuminated two long strips of rain.
“You knew them when they were 15 years old and didn’t have the xylazine wounds,” he said. “You know their mothers, their kids. Why should you not help them?”
The cruiser pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall. This was Bassette and Busch’s last stop as a team for the night. In the woods beyond the lot, they knew a woman was camping alone by the Stevens Branch river. The pair wanted to warn her that she might get flooded out with all the rain.
Hacking through vegetation, their shoes sucked down in mud, their flashlights suddenly found a tent.
“Careful,” Busch said, fording a stream and pointing down. “That’s human feces.”
This time, Bassette hung back and let Busch approach the tent. The woman was suspicious of men and had an angry, protective dog. After a few minutes, Busch returned with mixed news.
“Well, she doesn’t want to leave,” they said. “But at least now she knows there’s a possibility she might get flooded.”
“What can you do?” Bassette replied. It is his favorite saying, punctuating his speech and repeated as a mantra, not of despair, but of a sort of calm, unmoving resolve.
This time, he added: “And what even is the right thing to do these days?”
But for Busch and Bassette, the question is merely rhetorical. They have no doubt as to what they must do.
“Well, it could be helping someone less fortunate,” Bassette said.
Read the story on VTDigger here: Cop and community health worker form ‘unlikely partnership’ to help unhoused residents in central Vermont.