One thing quickly became clear to the police reporter after a short collaboration with Detlef Puchelt, the long-time head of the press office at the Bavarian State Criminal Police Office: This Mr. Puchelt is a really fine person. Integrity, correct, polite, reliable and blessed with enough humor. He helped when he could help and sometimes said no when he couldn’t or didn’t want to reveal information. No lies, no stalling. Just straight forward. Just as you as a journalist would want from your counterpart.
Puchelt, who everyone just called Ted, joined the police at the age of 18, and after just a year he slipped into a horror scenario: On a September night in 1972, he was summoned to his office in Fürstenfeldbruck via a loudspeaker van. He should stuff ammunition into his pockets, grab a submachine gun and get into a VW bus. The destination was the air base.
As the police bus rolled onto the airfield, a helicopter exploded. One of the Palestinian terrorists who had taken athletes from the Israeli Olympic team hostage had thrown a hand grenade into the helicopter. Puchelt was supposed to drive onto the tarmac in a fire truck to protect the volunteers. His order was: “If you see a terrorist, don’t let him shoot.” He was glad he didn’t see anyone. Then he had to collect body parts.
Ted Puchelt dedicated 42 years of his life to the police profession, 23 of them with his LKA, ten years as head of the press office. He also dared to take unusual actions, letting a journalist accompany him on a drug surveillance mission. For this he received a lot of scolding from the higher ups, the wind blew in his face. But he stood by it. Whether it was about Oetker kidnapper Dieter Zlof or the murder of Ursula Herrmann, when Ted Puchelt came home exhausted in the evening, he crouched down in front of his bonsai trees. In the Dachau hinterland, he and his wife had created a small paradise on the edge of the forest. And as head of the Fürstenfeldbruck bonsai working group, he had around 30 magnificent specimens in his garden. He could sit in front of the trees for hours, with a pair of special scissors in his hand, and think about which branch should be trimmed to ensure what he sees as perfect growth. “You won’t be there anymore,” his wife would always say.
Now Ted is actually gone. He retired in 2013, had a good time, went on motorcycle tours and had all sorts of projects. But his unretirement was suddenly destroyed by an insidious illness. He fought for two years and never lost heart. The day before his death, he wrote that he would have to stay in the clinic longer than expected. Nevertheless, he signed with a smiling smiley face and a waving hand. He died a day later at the age of 70.