Eric Strange's wife woke him around 2 a.m. on Aug. 18, 2004.

Something bad was happening in the south district, she told him. That was where Strange had worked as an Indianapolis Police Department patrolman for the past two years. He considered the men and women he worked with his family.

Strange rushed to his squad car to query the run. His heart sank when he learned more about the shooting. It plummeted further when he recognized the address.

“I just knew this was my nightmare, and it's happening,” Strange said in an interview with IndyStar shortly after the 15th anniversary of the rampage.

Hours after the shooting, as day began to break, the blood of five police officers was being power-washed off the street while members of the neighborhood gathered in horror.

Three people were dead: the man who started the rampage, his mother and a police officer. Four other officers were wounded.

The Toll:A newsletter exploring Indianapolis' years of growing violence.

The shooter in Strange’s nightmare was Kenneth Anderson, a mentally unstable man from whom Strange confiscated nine guns and hundreds of rounds of ammunition just months before the tragedy.

The guns he used were returned despite Strange’s grave misgivings about Anderson’s mental state and his belief that the troubled 33-year-old man would try to take the life of a police officer the next time he was given the chance.

Strange is still haunted by the tragedy, which claimed the lives of Alice Anderson and Officer Timothy “Jake” Laird. But after 15 years of silence, he's opening up about his experience as the "red flag" law established in Indiana in the wake of the crime is becoming part of the national gun control conversation.

Red flag laws allow law enforcement to seize guns from people who are deemed a danger to themselves or others. The laws also guarantee due process for those gun owners, requiring a court to decide whether to return or hold the weapons.

But no such law existed in Indiana in 2004.

Retelling his story more than a decade later, Strange's voice and demeanor wavers and breaks. Without warning, he transforms from the firm 17-year law enforcement veteran he has become into the heartbroken rookie patrolman he was then.

But he soldiers on, the emotional weight he carries is supported by his new purpose of fighting for nationwide red flag legislation that honors Laird’s memory and aims to prevent the same nightmare from happening again.

"Do I think this law would have prevented some of these mass shootings? I don't know," Strange said. "But it would have stopped this one. I guarantee you it would have stopped it."

'A dangerous person'

The police report for the original Jan. 20, 2004, run to a home on Dietz Street categorized it as a "combative patient" call.

Strange, a 26-year-old who had been with the department for just over two years, and Officer Aaron Sullivan responded to the call at the home of Anderson's mother, Alice.

Sullivan, now an IMPD sergeant, was one of Strange's training officers at the time. Strange credits Sullivan with helping save his life that day.

"Aaron is one of those guys where he could take you in a fight, but he'd rather take you with his mind," Strange said. "Very good at verbal judo."

For Sullivan, who was only three years into his law enforcement career, it was clear as soon as they arrived that Anderson required a gentle approach.

"That day it was very immediately apparent to us that Kenneth Anderson was a dangerous person, and we are confident that if he would have made it back into that house ... there would have been an armed conflict on that day," Sullivan said.

"Kenny was sitting across the street on the steps when we got there," Strange recalled. "I went and talked to his mom, and his mom hands me a pistol and says 'Kenny told me to shoot the police when they came.'"

Kenneth Anderson looked "soulless," Strange said. He was also adamant that all of them should go back to his house, just a short walk away. But Strange and Sullivan felt that getting him to the hospital was the best way to keep everyone safe.

Anderson told police that he had gotten in too deep with criminals and couldn't escape, the report said. He said only the FBI could save him now.

The police report said Anderson's eyes were "very pinpoint" and "totally unresponsive" when a flashlight was used to check them.

Alice Anderson gave the officers a key to the Gimber Street home that Kenneth Anderson shared with one of his brothers and asked officers to check on her other son.

She was afraid that Anderson had killed his brother.

Police called an ambulance to the scene, but Anderson continued to protest. He kept insisting he needed to go home to check on his brother. Sullivan managed to talk him down.

Kenneth Anderson was placed under immediate detention and taken to St. Francis Hospital in Beech Grove. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia and prescribed medication.

At the house, police found no signs that Anderson had hurt his brother. But they did find "a large quantity" of guns and ammunition. There was a loaded SKS rifle on the bed, two banana clips and a Jason mask from "Friday the 13th."

It wasn't until much later that Strange believed he understood why Anderson was so insistent on getting the officers into his house.

"I was naive," Strange said. "I didn't think at the time that he was going to ambush us. That came after. To me, at first it was, 'man, this guy has got a lot of guns.' But it didn't hit home that this guy was going to kill me right then. He was going to lure us back to his house and then shoot us."

Strange took Anderson's weapons to the police department property room until investigators could check on Anderson's brother. It was later determined that he was alive and well.

The report says the officers confiscated two pistols, six rifles, a shotgun and 227 rounds of ammunition.

'I just cried'

"I thought, 'OK, that's the end of that. He's not getting his guns. We did our jobs,'" Strange said. "So a few months later I get an email, and it says I need to sign off on (returning) these firearms. I was young. I said no. I'm not. I'm not doing it."

But Strange was required by law to sign the release. Because the weapons were taken as part of a warrantless seizure, the department had no legal standing to hold them once Anderson was released from the hospital.

Still, Strange expressed strong concern about returning the weapons to Anderson. He said he made it clear that he believed Anderson's mindset, fear of law enforcement and access to powerful weapons made him a danger to any officer who may cross his path in the future.

Strange made a phone call to share his worries, but it was too late. On the afternoon of March 12, 2004, he received an email from city legal officials informing him that although they tried to hold the guns as long as possible, there was no legal reason to refuse once Anderson "made a fuss."

Strange didn't mince words when he responded with an email of his own.

"I have a feeling this guy will be a suspect in a homicide very soon," he wrote. "Plus this guy is anti-police and paranoid the FBI is out to kill him and his family. I just hope I don't get dispatched to his house. He has enough firepower to give our SWAT team a long fight."

Strange did his best to move forward. He said the months that followed included a spiritual trip to Ireland to retrace his family history. He returned feeling rejuvenated and full of life.

"I was on cloud nine. I was on the police department. I was happy. Life’s great being a cop," Strange said.

Then came Aug. 18. His wife shaking him awake. The address he recognized at once.

One of the first 911 callers said Kenneth Anderson had killed his mother and was walking the streets firing at cars and houses. His rampage down Dietz and Gimber streets lasted just minutes, but it left IPD officers Tim Conley, Leon Essig, Andrew Troxell and Peter Koe with gunshot wounds.

It claimed Laird's life when a round hit above his protective vest. The shooting stopped when Koe, a SWAT team member, was able to grab his own rifle and return fire. He struck Anderson in the head and chest, killing him.

Anderson had stopped taking medicine for his schizophrenia in the weeks leading up to the shooting, according to family and friends.

Remembering Jake Laird: Whose death inspired Indiana's 'red flag' law

Strange still becomes emotional when discussing his connection to the shooting.

While a "hazard" was placed on Anderson's home to warn other officers of potential danger, the officers who responded that day never saw it. Anderson's rampage didn't start at the house — it started in the street.

"So (those officers) were blind, and that's one of my biggest guilts," Strange said.

Former IPD Lieutenant Brian Clouse remembers the whirlwind of emotions he felt after the shooting.

"I had been around serious police injuries before. Even death. But not to the degree that I had seen thereat Wishard Hospital in the ER," Clouse said.

Clouse, an IPD lieutenant and executive assistant to the director of public safety, was stationed right outside the trauma room where Laird fought for his life. He was one of the first to learn that the medical team was unable to save him.

Clouse left the hospital and went directly to the crime scene. First light was dawning, and as he approached, it was very clear that the neighborhood had just played host to a tragedy.

"One of the most vivid memories I have is the fire department hosing off the pools of blood on the street," Clouse said. "And again, I had seen that before. I'd been a police officer 26 years. But when I knew it was a police officer’s blood, it affects you a lot differently."

Low on sleep and losing track of the hours that had passed, Clouse returned to his office for his first moment of quiet.

"My secretary came by, and she could tell I wasn't doing well. She shut the door, and I just cried. I cried incessantly," he said. "And after about 30 minutes of that, then I got mad."

Never again

Details of Anderson's prior encounters with law enforcement came to light. Clouse learned that police had confiscated Anderson's guns months before. That they knew he was unstable.

"How did this happen? How could something like this happen?" he asked.

Clouse, who earned his law degree from the Indiana University School of Law in 2000, was determined to create a mechanism that would prevent another tragedy like this, while also protecting citizens' Second Amendment rights.

While Clouse and others worked on a solution, Strange went back to work. But he said he wasn't in the emotional space to serve his community.

One day, Strange broke down.

"I just couldn't keep it together," Strange said. "And my sergeant at the time is like, 'Eric, you need to go home.' But there was no 'Eric, take some time.' or 'Eric, go talk to this person.' It was basically, 'Man up. Go home and man up.' You know? I don't think he meant it that way. That's just how stuff was handled then."

During the week leading up to Laird's funeral, the questions in Strange's head grew louder. But his quest for answers was interrupted by an ongoing investigation and an unexpected turn in the spotlight.

Strange's March email, in which he'd warned the city's legal department that a tragedy like this could happen, ran in the Indianapolis Star the day after Kenneth Anderson's shooting spree.

"That kind of hurt me, too, and made me feel bad later on because I felt after that came out, now I look like a coward," Strange said. "But I wasn't saying I wouldn't go back there. I was trying to show concern."

Sullivan also remembers the investigation, a probe made even more emotionally difficult because of the timing, and the suggestion that he and Strange had somehow missed something.

Sullivan said investigators with the city insinuated he and Strange should have done things differently when it came to returning Anderson's firearms or following up on the investigation. But there were no legal mechanisms in place at the time to permit them to do those things, Sullivan said.

"But yet they were almost making myself and Eric feel like we had not done something ... and this was two days before we’re burying a friend and coworker of ours."

That pain sat with Strange until the funeral. It only grew stronger when he saw Laird's family, including his wife and young child, in mourning.

"She has to look at him in the casket, and it got real. It got real," Strange said through tears. "And it put a damper on my marriage, because my wife wouldn't understand why I wouldn't talk to her about it and why I confided with other officers and not in her. She's never forgiven me, you know?"

Strange called Laird's funeral the worst day of his life.

He reached out to Laird's family. Afraid that they blamed him for Laird's death, he was hoping to make peace. He was relieved to learn that the family did not hold Strange responsible for what happened.

Strange described the mourning and investigation as challenging, but it gave birth to an important friendship and hope for the future.

He expected Clouse to "come at" him. But he didn't. Instead, Clouse made a promise.

This isn't going to happen again.

'Why I've kept quiet'

Once the red flag law took shape, Clouse was invited to speak before the Indiana General Assembly about its importance. Sullivan also testified.

Laird's family also made a significant push for the legislation. In February 2005, Mike Laird told legislators that he supported the bill, and that he knew that his son would want him to back the measure.

He told lawmakers that if the law was in place, his son would still be alive.

But Strange distanced himself from the campaign to create and eventually pass what would become known as the "Jake Laird Law" in Indiana.

"To me, it was like saying to myself, 'How dare you do that? How dare you put yourself in the spotlight?'" Strange said.

Strange said there are two documents that he often carries with him on a clipboard while on duty today. One is the incident report from the original call to Kenneth Anderson's on January 20, 2004.

The other is an IPD Roll Call Read-Off dated Jan. 31, 2005. The document is only three short paragraphs, but the impact it would have was significant.

The announcement read during that Roll Call was a notice that the Indiana House Committee on Public Safety & Homeland Security would meet the next day at the state capitol to hear House Bill 1776 - Seizure of Firearms from Mentally Ill Individuals.

The notice explained that the law, if passed, would continue to allow officers to seize weapons from an individual if the responding officer believes that individual to be mentally ill and dangerous.

The legislation also allows officers to petition the court so a firearm can be permanently retained or eventually destroyed, should a judge see fit.

The Indiana House eventually passed the law 91-0; the Senate passed it 48-1.

Rep. Susan W. Brooks, an Indiana Republican, is among those in Congress now pushing for federal legislation that would urge states to adopt similar laws. Red flag laws also have support among Democrats such as Rep. Andre Carson, who has cosponsored Brooks' bill the past two years.

Brooks' bill, called the Jake Laird Act in his honor, would provide grants to states to enact laws similar to Indiana’s Jake Laird Law. That legislation has not been called for a vote.

How it works: Indiana's red flag law

Strange believes the law has worked in Indiana because it is not a complex rewrite of what was already on the books. It was a simple addition that allows another level of oversight in certain situations.

Sullivan said that it can provide help to families living with someone who may be potentially dangerous.

"Who knows how many families are dealing with something that maybe Kenneth Anderson's family dealt with for a long time," he said. "Maybe they felt like there wasn't anything they could do, or no way to get help. So hopefully this law gives the general public an idea that there is a mechanism ... families who say, 'We know they are dangerous. We know they have access to firearms, but we don't know what to do.'"

For years, Strange has struggled with the idea of coming forward in support of red flag laws. But now, as they become part of the national conversation, he feels compelled to speak.

"But to be remembered for being involved in the death of an officer and the shooting of four others, I don't want to be remembered for that. That's why I've kept quiet," he said. "But now, I just want to make sure the right thing gets done."

Call IndyStar reporter Justin L. Mack at 317-444-6138. Follow him on Twitter: @justinlmack.