Adam Brown drove his SUV out of the Anchorage Police Department parking lot downtown, with a list of contacts to follow up with.
"I have been inundated with getting people into detox because everything filters through me," he said.
For the last two months, Brown has worked directly with the Anchorage Police Department in a new, grant-funded role. His job is to help people in crisis enter recovery and get connected to resources like food and housing.
Brown pulled up to a McDonald’s where he was supposed to meet a couple interested in detox, but they weren't answering their phone. So he pivoted to call an unhoused man who wanted to go to a Mat-Su detox center but didn't have a ride. He called him on speakerphone, telling him he was on the way.
"I'm tired of being on the streets and using," the man told Brown.
We're not identifying him by name to protect his privacy.
After picking the man up, Brown told him, "I'm so glad you called."
As someone in long-term recovery himself, Brown knows the urgency of taking advantage of the often-tiny window when someone is open to help. He also knows it might not stick. It's not the first time Brown has taken this man to detox. Last time he left early. Recovery work can be daunting and rocky, so Brown tries to focus on building relationships.
"At least that seed gets planted and they have a place or a person to call and go to for help when they decide they want it," he said.
A pilot program that’s already showing results
The new program, a partnership between APD and True North Recovery, is one of the first of its kind in the country: pairing police with someone with lived experience in substance use recovery. The police department thinks it has the potential to reduce crime by getting people the help they need.
Lt. Brian Fuchs, who heads the program, said the department wants drugs off the street, not just to decrease the harms of drug use, but also to prevent the ripple effect of addiction.
"The reality of this is that active addiction often leads to other crimes," he said. "Whether it's theft, assault, rape, whatever, it leads to other crimes. And so, stopping that flow coming into our community and then stopping the supply, we've got to try to do both, in my opinion."
The department knows it works because they tested a similar model twice a week starting in fall of 2024. Fuchs said the results were palpable; in just the first two months, he said peers helped get 16 people into treatment. So now, with grant funding, they're piloting the model full-time.
The program doesn’t fit neatly into the traditional policing model. One example: many people in recovery have criminal records, which would normally be disqualifying for a police job, so the department had to be flexible with that requirement.
Rolling it out has produced trepidation on both sides. Most police have had bad experiences with people with substance use disorders, meeting them at their low point, and many people in recovery have learned to fear cops. But that's also partly where the power of the program lies, in humanizing both sides.
The power of access
Fuchs said it’s a cultural shift and the next step is to educate officers about peers and the resources they can offer on-site. He said another strength of the program is the access officers have to people who need help, for example, during a domestic violence assault.
"There's no behavioral health folks going in there," Fuchs said. "Oh, but there are. They're mine, right? And they're in there at the tip of the spear, and now I've got peers that can go in there and immediately assess the situation and provide services."
Right now there's one person full-time and more part-time and soon they'll add a second full-time specialist. Fuchs said eventually the aim is that a police officer at any level, from patrol officers to detectives, could work with a peer.
Josh Engle, who oversees the program from the peer side, said it has the potential to help interrupt cycles of addiction and crime, even though he said the state's system of care is under-resourced. And he said peers are especially poised to help.
"From the 15 years of bad decisions that I made in my life and the lifestyle I lived, I got a lot of experience and knowledge from that that you only get from living that life," Engle said. "Who better to do outreach and work with somebody that lives in a tent than somebody that used to live in a tent?"
On the way to True North's detox facility in Wasilla, Adam Brown offered the man advice. He was starting a short-term detox to help manage withdrawals, and said he wanted to continue onto a longer rehab program afterwards. He told Brown he hoped to stick with it.
"I'm running out of time," the man said. "I hope and pray I don't run 'cause it's so dangerous out there in the streets and that fent(anyl)- eventually I'm gonna die if I don't figure out how to stop it."
"Yeah, you have it in you. You just have to figure out a way to pull it out," Brown said. "'Cause all of us have it in us."
Brown encouraged the man to talk to multiple people, including staff, if he felt the urge to leave detox and he gave him his phone number, in case he needed to get in touch again.
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