Wearing badge and gun, Barry Sweitzer strides into the classroom at Joppa View Elementary School, a man with a mission.
Sweitzer, a strapping Baltimore County policeman, has come to read nursery rhymes. He squeezes into a chair, opens a book and greets Donna Dillon's fascinated first-grade class.
"Mary had a little goat. . ."
"LAMB!" the children shout in unison.
Sweitzer feigns disbelief.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
The room explodes in laughter.
"Officer Barry" is a hit at Joppa View, a regular stop on the policeman's beat during his difficult recovery from a gunshot wound nearly three years ago. Sweitzer is part of a program designed to develop a closer and more cooperative relationship between young people and the police.
The visits have been therapeutic for the 29-year-old officer who came face to face with death and is still haunted by the episode.
Twice a month, Sweitzer visits the school in Perry Hall to share his experiences with first-graders and to explain the tools of his trade, from nightstick to ticket book.
Someday he will show them The Scar, a grim 14-inch reminder of his struggle with a drug-crazed gunman in 1989.
Harder to reveal is Sweitzer's wounded psyche. He is a police hero, but even heroes suffer. There is no bulletproof armor for an officer's mind, no matter how courageously he has acted.
Sweitzer, still recovering from that attack, believes his classroom appearances favor both kids and cop.
"I can walk in and just feel the warmth," he says. "I think they know now that policemen are good."
The children are also curious about the assault on Sweitzer, named 1990 Policeman of the Year by the Maryland Chiefs of Police.
"The kids always ask me to relive [the shooting]," he says. "They want to know what the other man looked like, and was he a bad man.
"The questions don't bother me. The kids don't know it, but this is therapy for me. It keeps me from exploding. I come here to be with a roomful of little psychiatrists, about 20 of them."
A 6-year-old in a purple dress gazes curiously at the pouch of 9 mm ammunition attached to the policeman's belt.
"Those bullets can really hurt, can't they?" she asks innocently.
"If you've ever been burned on a hot stove, it's 50 times worse," he says -- and recollections of the gunfight come swirling back.
At 2:42 a.m. on Jan. 23, 1989, Sweitzer confronted a suspicious-looking long-haired man outside an Essex apartment complex. While he was being frisked, the man spun quickly, aimed a pistol at Sweitzer's head and threatened to kill him. Then, pressing his weapon into the officer's back, the attacker said, "I'm gonna take your gun, and we're gonna take a walk."
As the man yanked Sweitzer's pistol from its holster, the officer whirled and grasped both guns, which were pointed at him.
Enraged, the gunman fired wildly eight times. The last slug, from a .357-caliber Magnum, ripped the patrolman's bladder twice before exiting through his right buttock.
Sweitzer recalls feeling "a tremendous burning sensation, but I blocked out the pain in a second."
The men were still wrestling when help arrived.
A helicopter rushed Sweitzer to the Shock-Trauma Unit in Baltimore, where he underwent two life-saving operations to repair the internal damage.
Sweitzer's life has changed dramatically since the shooting. For a while, he had a phobia that the gunman was stalking him and would strike when Sweitzer was asleep.
"I could almost see him coming down the hallway toward me," the officer says. "Several times his image in the dark was so vivid that I took my pistol off the nightstand and pointed it at the door."
The visions ceased when Sweitzer learned that the suspect had committed suicide in his jail cell four months after the shooting. Sweitzer, who is not married, still keeps a revolver at bedside alongside the rosary that someone hung on his hospital IV pole following surgery.
Sweitzer returned to duty following months of rehabilitation, only to collapse with fierce cramps while guarding a prisoner at Franklin Square Hospital last September. Abdominal scar tissue had constricted his intestinal tract. Sweitzer says the pain recurs about once a month.
More troubling, he says, was his increased agitation while on patrol. Responding to certain calls, Sweitzer noticed men with long hair and scruffy beards who resembled his assailant.
"I would become terrified, though I knew people were depending on me," he says. Once, after quelling a domestic dispute, Sweitzer asked another officer to complete the call while he excused himself from the scene.
Sometimes Sweitzer worried that his attacker was not dead but dialing 911, and that his police unit would respond, and that the two men would finally "fight to the death."
Six months ago, Sweitzer sought counseling and a transfer. He is now a firearms instructor at the county's pistol range.