I was nothing special growing up. I was no smarter or dumber than any other kid in the neighborhood, but later in life I realized it all comes down to choices. Some of us make good decisions, and for whatever reason some of us don’t. And the choices we make determine our path in life.
Dan went on to tell me the cops had just been at Jimmy’s mother’s house in New Jersey and notified her that he was dead. When I asked what the story was, he didn’t know much, just that Jimmy was killed in a car accident in Manhattan down on Fifth Street and Avenue D. They told her his body was at the Bellevue morgue and his car was vouchered at the Ninth Precinct for safekeeping.
Right away it didn’t seem to make much sense to me. I knew the Lower East Side neighborhood very well and couldn’t figure out how a car could go fast enough on those narrow residential streets to cause a fatal accident.
I quizzed Dan about exactly what the police said. But from the story the cops gave, Jimmy was dead, his body was at the morgue, and his car was at the Ninth Precinct. The family just assumed it must be a car accident.
If the case wasn’t deemed a homicide or suspicious and the victim lived out of state, it was routine for the detectives to ask the local cops to make the notification. Usually just the basic information was given; if the family wanted more info they had to contact the case detective.
As usual there was not too much for me to do. Dan just wanted to know if I could call the Ninth and get a few more details for Jimmy’s mother.
This was my lucky day. I had recently been transferred to the Bronx, but I had just spent the last four years working in the Ninth Precinct and knew everybody there. I could probably make one quick phone call, get the details, and be back to sleep in no time.
Dan again apologized for waking me up so early but explained he was sitting in Jimmy’s mother’s kitchen trying to comfort her and thought I might be able to help. I told him not to worry about it and that I would make some calls and get right back to him.
I got up, walked over to the bathroom, threw some water on my face, then looked for a pen and paper. I dialed the number for the Ninth Precinct desk from memory and was glad to hear a familiar voice. The desk sergeant was a friend of mine. This was going to make things nice and simple.
After exchanging some pleasantries and catching up on what had been happening in the precinct since I left, we got to business. I gave him what I had so far and asked him to check and tell me what he could find out. I told him about the car accident theory and we both agreed that didn’t sound too likely. Besides, he hadn’t heard of any fatal car accidents from the previous tour. In that neighborhood they’re a little unusual.
On the other end of the phone I could hear him flipping through the pages of the Aided and Accident Index—a large folder used to record all DOAs, sick, injured, and accident victims. When he got back on the phone his tone was a little different, a little more subdued, and bit more cautious. He asked, “Was this guy a friend of yours?”
I explained that he was a guy I grew up with in my old neighborhood and played Little League baseball with, but I hadn’t seen him in years. I told him I was calling as a favor for his mother and just wanted to get a few more details because the Jersey cops who made the notification were a little vague.
He said, “I got bad news for you, buddy, your friend didn’t die from a car accident. He crapped out from an overdose.” I wasn’t surprised. I could hear more pages flipping as he scanned through other reports looking for more info.
He continued, “Looks like your pal was found unconscious in an abandoned building down on Five and D.”
He was reading and talking at the same time. He said, “Looks like EMS found him unconscious—with a hypo sticking out of his arm. They tried to revive him but no luck. He was transported to Bellevue, where he was pronounced DOA.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, then he added, “Sorry to give you the bad news, man.”
I asked him about the car. More pages flipping, more reading. He said, “Looks like the car was double-parked outside the building—and running. The cops who had the job found it, ran the plate, and when it came back to your friend, they vouchered it for safekeeping.”
It seemed pretty cut-and-dried to both of us: he double-parks outside, buys the shit from one of the dealers out front, goes in the building to shoot up, and overdoses. It happens. The call to 911 was made by an anonymous male, probably one of the dealers. They don’t like dead junkies lying around—it’s bad for business, and ruins the ambience for the other junkies trying to shoot up.
The one thing I couldn’t figure out was why the car was left running. This was a bad block filled with junkies, dealers, and every other kind of shithead you could think of, and he was just asking for the car to get stolen. I guess he was in a hurry to get high and not thinking straight. When junkies need a fix they’re all fucked up. They’re physically ill—nauseous, with the shakes and chills, and all they can think about is getting right. When you’re like that I guess it’s easy to forget you left your car double-parked and running.
Over the years while on patrol I’ve passed thousands of junkies on their way to go get high. You can always tell when they are going to score. There’s a purpose in their walk, it’s almost like they’re marching. They can’t think about anything else. They look straight ahead and walk fast, with the exact amount of money they need clenched tightly in their fist. You have to have the exact denominations because dealers don’t give change.
They go to the same spot day after day, even year after year, because junkies are brand loyal. They know who sells the good shit and who doesn’t. They’re educated consumers. You can see it in their eye, they’re on a mission. They need to get high and they need it now.
I copied down the voucher number for the car, the complaint and aided numbers, and anything else Jimmy’s mother might need to claim the body and get his car back. I thanked my buddy for the help and told him I would see him at the next precinct Christmas party.
I called Dan back eager to give him the info and get back to sleep. I had to be back to work in a few hours for another night of fun and games. I called the number and he picked up on the first ring. He must have been sitting next to the phone, waiting.
I told him, “Listen, I’ve got bad news for you. Jimmy didn’t die in no car accident—he OD’d.”
Danny wasn’t completely surprised either, but obviously he felt obligated to protest a little, and said, “Are you sure? How do they know that? How can they be so sure?”
I shot right back at him, “Listen—they found him in an abandoned building in Alphabet City dead with a fucking hypo sticking out of his arm. Believe me, it was no car accident. I got it straight from the cops at the precinct. You don’t have to be Columbo to figure this one out.”
Dan knew I was right and didn’t question me any further, but said, “I can’t tell his mother that.”
I said, “I don’t care what you tell her. Tell her it was a car accident. Tell her he had a heart attack. Tell her whatever you want. I’m just telling you what the facts are.” I could hear Danny breathing on the other end of the line. He was nervous and definitely stalling.
We both knew what the problem was—Jimmy’s older brother had died a few years earlier of a “drug-related death.” I had heard a few different stories out in the street about an overdose or AIDS. I hadn’t seen him, but people told me he looked like shit before he died. Somebody tried floating the cancer story, but nobody bought it. Whatever the cause was, it was absolutely “drug related.”
When I was a kid Jimmy’s older brother and another guy stuck up a store at gunpoint. When the cops stopped him a few hours later, they found them stoned, with the gun, some cash from the store, and a few hundred dollars’ worth of heroin on them. The first thing these two brain surgeons did was to go and get high. Somehow, through some good police work the detectives traced the robbery back to them, and Jimmy’s brother did a couple of years in prison for it. I felt bad for Jimmy’s m
other, she seemed like a nice lady. She just had some fucked-up sons.
Dan was still stalling, contemplating what to say to Jimmy’s mother, when he surprised me and blurted out, “You gotta tell her.”
I couldn’t believe what he just said, so I shot back, “Tell her what?”
He said, “Tell her what happened.”
Again I shot right back, “No fucking way. You tell her.”
He tried convincing me that because I was a cop, I must be used to dealing with this sort of stuff, and I would be better at it than him. He was probably right, but I still wasn’t going to tell her. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Murphy in almost twenty years and didn’t want to get reacquainted under these circumstances.
I gave Dan all the numbers and information they would need to take care of things. I wished him good luck and told him if he needed anything else, don’t hesitate to call. But as I was waiting for Dan to thank me for all my help and say good-bye, I could hear some muffled voices on the other end of the line. He was talking to someone with his hand over the receiver.
Then it happened—it was like a punch in the stomach and just as unexpected. Suddenly I heard the sweet voice of Mrs. Murphy saying, “Hello.”
I couldn’t believe it, that motherfucker handed her the phone. I swore to myself I was going to kill him the next time I saw him. Now I was stuck, there was no getting around it. I was going to have to be the one to tell a brokenhearted mom how the only son she had left met his inglorious demise. Maybe if the building Jimmy was in had been on fire, and he died rescuing a bunch of orphans, breaking the news would be easier, but I wasn’t that lucky. And my baseball teammate and his mom weren’t that lucky either.
There was nothing heroic in Jimmy’s death. I guess the only good thing about dying from an overdose is, it’s a painless exit. All the pain happens in the years prior.
I thought about telling her his heart stopped. Technically that wouldn’t be a lie. But if I was going to have to be the one to break the news, then I was going to tell her the truth. I briefly thought about telling her that the cause of death had not yet been determined and they wouldn’t know anything for sure until after the autopsy. But no, that would be the coward’s way out. That’s not the way my father would have handled this if he was still alive. She would have to hear the bad news sooner or later. I knew this was going to be difficult for the both of us, but I was not going to lie. She would hear the truth and she would hear it from a friend. It was the only right thing to do.
After I said hello we made some quick small talk. I asked about how she was feeling and then I offered my condolences. On the job I had only done this a few times, and even with people you didn’t know, it was always difficult.
Even though she couldn’t see me, I put on my cop face and got ready to get to business. But before I could start she cut me off and asked me how my family was doing. She asked me about my mother and father and even remembered my sisters’ names.
She asked how I liked being a cop and added she was sure my father must have been very proud of me. She was sad to hear my father had passed away but happy to hear my sister had a baby and was thinking about having another. We chatted for a few minutes about the old neighborhood and what a great place it was to grow up in. How everybody knew everybody. She even remembered that Jimmy and I played Little League ball together.
After a few minutes of pleasant conversation we were both running out of things to talk about. There was some awkward silence as we remembered what the purpose of the call was. We were both stalling, trying to delay the inevitable, but sooner or later we were going to have to get down to business.
I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to say. Dan had just handed her the phone and I really wasn’t prepared for this. I wanted to get it over as quick and as painlessly as possible.
I cleared my throat and started. “Mrs. Murphy…I made a call to the precinct and checked some things out for you, and I’ve got some bad news.”
I waited for her to say something, but there was only silence on the other end. She was just listening. It was early in the morning and I just could picture her sitting at the kitchen table, probably in her robe and slippers with a tissue in one hand and the phone in the other waiting to hear what she most likely already knew.
Searching for the right words I continued, “Jimmy didn’t die in a car crash. He died of what looks like it…might possibly…be a drug overdose.” I spoke slowly and carefully, giving her the information as gently as I possibly could.
Still only silence on the other end. I was hoping she wouldn’t protest and say I was wrong, or the cops were wrong. I was hoping to leave out the part about the abandoned building and the hypo sticking out of his arm. She was stoic and seemed not to be surprised. She told me that she was aware of Jimmy’s drug problem. I guess she figured a call like this was going to come sooner or later. I hoped it made it a little easier hearing it from me.
I genuinely apologized for having to give her the bad news and again offered my condolences. I told her that I had given Dan all the information she would need, and if she needed anything else, please don’t hesitate to call. In the kindest voice she thanked me for all my help. I really didn’t do much, but I guess hearing it from me was better than hearing it from some detective she didn’t know.
In a time of such great sorrow she was dignified and gracious. During our conversation she was kind to me, and sympathetic to the predicament I was placed in. Having just lost a second son in such an ignominious and untimely manner she seemed more concerned with my feelings. She took the news as well as could be expected, and I was grateful. This could have been a bad scene.
She thanked me for my help and told me to be sure and say hello to my family for her. When we were done I asked her to put Dan back on the phone.
As soon as I heard his voice I yelled, “You motherfucker. How could you do that to me? I haven’t talked to her in twenty years and you make me tell her.”
Dan was a nice guy. Even as a kid he was a nice guy, and I could tell he felt bad about what happened. I could never be mad at him because in my mind I felt that I owed him. When we were kids Dan was a few years older than I was and he always looked out for me. When we were choosing up sides for baseball or football he would always pick me for his team. As a kid I was a good ballplayer, but I hung out with a crew of older guys and had to struggle and do my best to keep up. When I was too young to have my own paper route, Dan let me help him with his—and paid me. It was my first paying job.
When I finished with Dan I hung up the phone and laid back down in bed. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I was wide awake, and just laid there staring up at the ceiling. I was thinking about Jimmy and the old neighborhood. I felt grateful but I also felt lucky. My life had gone all right. I wondered what Jimmy’s life was like. I wondered how two kids could start out in the same middle-class neighborhood, go to the same Catholic school, and end up—years later and miles away—in the same shit, drug-infested neighborhood, one a cop and the other a dead junkie.
I wondered if I might have passed him on the street one dark night, me on patrol, him going to shoot up. I wondered if I would have even recognized him. Junkies always look old and decrepit. And I wondered how two kids from the same Little League baseball team ended up on such different paths.
10.
Mug Shot
I opened the lid on my coffee, unwrapped my bagel, and propped my feet up on my drab, government-issue, gray metal desk. I was ready to start my day. The clock above the door read 4:30 a.m. I hated waking up so early every day, but I did enjoy the work. I was a sergeant in the Fugitive Division assigned to the Bronx Warrant Squad, and our job was to hunt down the most wanted fugitives in the Bronx.
We call this work, but to me it really wasn’t. I loved this shit. This wasn’t work, it was fun. I had a sign hanging above my desk with a saying by Ernest Hemingway, THERE IS NO HUNTING LIKE THE HUNTING OF MAN. I’m sure going face-to-face with some lion in Africa is pretty exciting
stuff, but going toe-to-toe with a desperate man willing to do anything to get away will also get your blood pumping.
Years of experience had taught us the best time to apprehend a fugitive was early in the morning, preferably 5:30 a.m. Not too many of these shitheads we were hunting had jobs, so we weren’t worried about them getting up early and leaving for work. Usually they were out partying all night or doing something else they shouldn’t be doing. By 5:30 they had found their way home and were lying in bed half comatose, less inclined to fight, pull a gun, or try something else stupid.
I took a long sip of coffee, hoping to get my motor running while I fingered through a stack of fresh bench warrants from the Bronx Supreme Court.
The warrants are all basically the same. Each one specifies the individual’s name, date of birth, address, and the crime they were arrested for. The judge’s signature at the bottom makes it a binding legal document.
This binding legal document commands any and all police officers in the state of New York to take the above-listed individual into custody and bring him or her before the court without delay. It authorizes me to use force if necessary. That includes breaking down the front door of the person’s residence, if needed.
Attached to every warrant is a recent mug shot, and I don’t care who you are, nobody takes a good mug shot. I don’t think Pamela Anderson topless could take a good mug shot. Okay, maybe she could, but no one else.
And these guys sitting on my desk glaring up at me while I have my breakfast are mostly career criminals. They make a point of looking as mean as they can when the flashbulb goes off. So every morning I start my day with coffee, a bagel, and these pillars of society staring up at me with scowls on their faces, defying me to catch them.
The first person on today’s stack to give me the evil eye was an individual by the name of Hector, aka “Flaco.” At a young age he had been arrested numerous times, but it was the latest arrest that I was concerned with. The judge had released him at arraignment and gave him a return date thirty days later—which was now yesterday. Surprise, surprise, he failed to return.
The Job: True Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop Page 19