By Noelle Russell | Correspondent
GREENFIELD — They call themselves “Old Troopers and Friends,” the informal club of former lawmen that gathers at Jim Dandy for breakfast.
Nick Gulling was a regular, trading stories over bacon and eggs at those monthly get-togethers. He talked about policing in Greenfield’s Mayberry days and all the change the county’s seen since then.
The man would know. He led much of it.
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Over the course of a career in law enforcement that spanned a half-century, Gulling championed every cause he believed would make Hancock County a better place to live and work. He did so as a state trooper, as a lawmaker, as a four-term sheriff. Along the way, he shaped the lives of countless community leaders.
Gulling died Monday surrounded by loved ones at his Greenfield home after a battle with pancreatic cancer. He was 78.
‘Because of Nick’
Gulling was quiet about his diagnosis after doctors delivered the news a little over two years ago. He had always been a private man; he didn’t care to have anyone make a fuss.
But word spread quickly across the law enforcement community. After all, Gulling brought them up as a family, and they still considered him their patriarch.
They visited, brought meals, encouraged Gulling to join them for one of those morning chats at the restaurant when he felt up to it. It was the least they could do for the man who gave so many of them their start.
They say Gulling had a way of seeing the potential in people, sometimes — or perhaps especially — when they couldn’t see it for themselves.
Pat Powers went to work for Gulling in 1979. Gulling had already retired after 12½ years with the Indiana State Police and opened his own business selling and installing security systems. At 19, Powers didn’t know what he wanted out of life, but he needed a job, and Gulling was hiring.
When Gulling returned to law enforcement in the early ’80s, Powers continued to run the business. And he might have kept at it, too, had his boss not suggested he dream a bit bigger. There might be a place for him at the sheriff’s department, Gulling said, if he was willing to put in the work.
Powers joined the department in 1983, the start of Powers’ law enforcement career and the continuation of Gulling’s in his first year as sheriff. Today, Powers serves as executive director of the county’s community corrections center, a post he owes to the friend who pushed him when he didn’t even know he needed the nudge.
“I didn’t think he saw me as a career alarm-installer, thought maybe I had a little more potential than that,” Powers said. “It’s because of Nick that I am where I am.”
A forward-thinker
Over the course of his 16 years as sheriff, 1983-1990 and 1999-2006, Gulling led the department through tremendous change.
The ‘80s welcomed technology that transformed police work. Gulling had always enjoyed gadgets, and it excited him to modernize police work.
Gulling championed efforts to connect reel-to-reel recording equipment to the department’s phone system, creating the first record of police broadcasts. He had a personal computer before they became the ubiquitous tool they are today and encouraged the department’s transition to digital technology.
“We stepped out of … Andy Griffith times into the real world, and he was proud,” said Greenfield Police Chief Jeff Rasche, who worked for Gulling at the time.
Rasche was just a high-schooler when they first met. Rasche was among a lucky few who got to skip class one morning to stump for local candidates. It was Election Day 1982.
Rasche handed out leaflets as voters headed into the polls, making a quick pitch for the would-be sheriff he’d never met.
He remembers looking up as a tall man approached.
Rasche greeted the towering stranger — as he had every voter — with the same one-liner: Nick Gulling would sure appreciate your vote.
“He says, ‘Oh really, he would?’” Rasche remembers. “He sticks his hand out and says, ‘Hi, I’m Nick Gulling.’”
High expectations
Not long after that, Rasche joined the department and started getting to know the man who had greeted him that day.
He quickly learned of Gulling’s reputation as a by-the-book leader who demanded excellence from his deputies, whether on-duty or off. They didn’t just represent the department; they represented him.
But he also led with fairness. And as a result, no one wanted to disappoint the man in charge.
That might have led to a secret or two over the years, Rasche sheepishly admits.
When Rasche first had a computer installed in his squad car — the first deputy entrusted with the device — Gulling offered a warning Rasche still remembers. The eager young officer was just about to hit the road for the first time, the new-fangled distraction at his fingertips, when Gulling stopped him.
“He says, ‘Jeffery, don’t wreck that car,’” Rasche said.
Within 15 minutes, Rasche had nailed a curb. The collision flattened two tires, and he barely managed to limp to Riley Park Tire.
The mechanics were sworn to secrecy.
“I walked in and said, ‘Fix this car, I’m paying for it, nobody knows I was here,’” he said.
Gulling would laugh about it when Rasche finally confessed — many, many years later.
A listening ear
Gulling was unfailingly kind to his deputies, even when doling out discipline. They always knew their value, even when Gulling made it clear he was upset with their actions.
But Gulling’s character is perhaps better illustrated by his treatment of those others overlooked, friends say: the inmates in his jail.
Gulling saw beyond their mistakes, treating them as equals worthy of his time and attention, said longtime colleague Jim Bradbury, also a former sheriff who served two terms in between Gulling’s administrations.
Gulling spent time in the cell blocks, listening patiently to prisoners’ problems and carefully considering solutions.
And he helped when he could.
Gulling arranged for those accused of minor crimes to leave the jail for family funerals, provided they agreed to submit to a drug test upon their return. It was a mutual respect that brought them back every time, Bradbury said.
He also started the county’s first GED program for inmates. He believed not just in rehabilitation but quality of life for those behind bars.
It wasn’t unusual for Gulling to dial up Mozzi’s Pizza at the end of the day and order a couple of dozen pies for the folks in back.
Leading through loss
That compassionate nature carried the department through one of its darkest times.
On May 8, 1986, Gulling’s chief deputy, Malcolm Grass, was shot and killed during a police stand-off. Gulling lost a colleague and a friend.
It was Gulling’s birthday.
The popular two-term sheriff left behind a wife, Carolyn, and two sons.
Gulling stood by the Grass family as they grieved the loss together. He was there when the man responsible was convicted; when his petition for leniency 21 years later was denied; when he died in prison a year shy of his release date.
Gulling never left Carolyn’s side. They never married but raised Carolyn’s boys and built a life together. Gulling spent the rest of his days alongside the only person who truly understood what they had lost.
Carolyn was with him Monday when he died.
‘Straight-shooting’ lawmaker
When Gulling finally retired from the sheriff’s department in 2007, some 400 people turned out to the celebratory “Pick Nick” — a nod to Gulling’s longtime campaign slogan. Then-state Sen. Beverly Gard surprised the guest of honor with the governor’s Distinguished Hoosier Award that night.
“He is one of the most incredible men that I’ve ever known and worked with,” Gard said, looking back a few days ago over a career that also included three terms in the Indiana House of Representatives starting in the early 1990s. That time overlapped with Gard’s early years as a state senator, and she fondly recalled their time in the legislature. She remembered him as a “straight shooter” who always had time to talk with constituents; he would tell them his honest views and take the time to explain, leaving even those who disagreed with a positive impression.
Gulling was concerned with keeping state spending down, Gard said, which led to some good-natured teasing from his colleagues as well as many disputes during budget sessions. He was serious about his fiscally conservative views but always had a good sense of humor, she recalled. He once brought a chainsaw to the House floor and joked that he would use it to cut the budget.
An active retirement
Even after retiring from the sheriff’s department in 2007, Gulling didn’t leave community service behind entirely. Gulling went on to serve as a consultant during the construction of the emergency operations center, which centralized 911 dispatching for the first time in the county’s history.
He served as 911 coordinator after the center opened, assuring a smooth transition for the county’s dispatchers.
When Gulling finally did make way for a well-earned retirement, he endured some good-natured ribbing from his younger counterparts. He and Carolyn wintered with friends in Florida, and those left back in Indiana teased him about their vision of a Sunshine State retiree: Gulling was surely playing shuffleboard in knee-high black socks and far-too-short shorts.
Many of those winters were spent with the family of Denny Fisk, a former county councilman who said Gulling was like a brother. The two men bought motorhomes and spent time visiting car shows and going to Florida.
Whether professionally or as friends, Fisk said, the two saw each other just about every day for decades.
“I’m going to miss him an awful lot,” he said.
A careful planner
No matter the challenge, Gulling could be counted on to make the right call, setting into motion whatever would serve the greater good, his friends say.
But he did so in his own time, and such meticulous decision-making could irritate even the most patient among them.
That measured approach endured to the end, Rasche said.
Gulling’s loved ones kept constant vigil in his final days as he received hospice care at home. After he slipped into unconsciousness, he surprised them by holding on for several days, lingering between one world and the next.
Same old Nick, Rasche told them: He’ll go when he’s good and ready.
Shortly before Gulling’s passing, he rallied long enough for a final heartfelt conversation with Rasche. He made sure Greenfield’s chief knew how proud he was of him.
When Gulling grew tired, Rasche tucked him back into bed. He offered the same jovial signoff Gulling used to call out whenever he departed a get-together: “Say goodnight, Nick!”
Gulling was already asleep.
A few moments later, he cracked one eye and quietly echoed back, “Say goodnight, Nick.”
Lasting legacy
Gulling will be remembered as a champion of his community, the kind who pushed for what he believed no matter the feathers he ruffled.
He remained invested in happenings around town long after he left public office. He raised questions and offered advice — solicited or otherwise — to local leaders he mentored early in their careers, including Rasche and Sheriff Brad Burkhart.
But those conversations went both ways, Rasche added; those who followed in Gulling’s footsteps knew they could call on him for guidance.
Like so many who spent years under Gulling’s tutelage, Burkhart, hired by Gulling in 1988 as a jail officer, credits him for the lawman he’s become.
“It depends on how people look at me, but it’s probably his fault I am where I am today,” Burkhart said with a laugh.
Sure, Gulling taught them all the fundamentals — how to thoroughly investigate a case, to follow their instincts. To vow to protect and serve — and mean it.
But more importantly, he taught them how to treat people along the way.
Today, Burkhart carries those lessons — and through them, a little piece of the man they lost — with him.
“He was a great guy,” he said, “One of the good ones — he really was.”
