Street Warrior

by Ralph Friedman

  “Tell you what, Officer, go in that office over there.” He pointed. “That’s the CO. He’s gonna want to hear your story.” He emphasized the word “story” like it should have begun with “Once upon a time.” The lieutenant wanted to get rid of me, and what better person to sort all this out than the precinct commanding officer?

  The CO was about fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair that I figured would turn white when I related my tale. I ran through the facts with him nodding as I spoke.

  When I was finished he said, “So … what you’re telling me is you had this running shootout with three robbery perps, commandeered a cab when they jumped into a getaway car, and lost them because the cabby thought you were holding him up?”

  “Yes sir,” I said. “That’s it.”

  “Uh, huh. And where are the vics?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. I thought they’d be coming here to report the stickups.”

  He smiled. “Well, they didn’t. Tell me, Officer Friedman, this your first shooting?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir, not even close. I’ve been in ten shootings,” I said, then thought about it. “Make that eleven.”

  The captain sat bolt upright. “You’ve been in eleven shootings?”

  “Right,” I said, considering this number not out of the ordinary for the Four-One. Then I realized where I was. If there’s one police-involved shooting a year in the 19th, that’s a lot. “We, uh, have a crime problem in the Four-One … sir.”

  I don’t know what was swimming around in his head, but I knew he wanted nothing to do with me. He reached for the phone. “Ya know, Officer, I’ll get the borough duty captain down here. You can relate your … story to him.” Again with the “story.”

  Everything I told this captain was unsubstantiated. Maria didn’t see the shooting or know what the victims told me, and they had vanished. The cabdriver was just following orders. I was being viewed as a lunatic and could see a world of shit coming down on me. Cue the department shrink: “So tell me, Officer Friedman, have you been involved in any other shootings where there are no witnesses or victims?”

  Wonderful.

  I excused myself to bring Maria, who was waiting outside, up to date. As I left the CO’s office, I saw five people standing in front of the desk talking animatedly to the desk officer. My victims! I don’t know what took them so long to arrive, but at least they made it.

  Within minutes I went from crazy cop to hero. While the bad guys had gotten away, at least I was vindicated. I’d taken proper police action and that would have to do. The CO and desk officer were looking at me now with expressions that combined wonderment and a please-get-back-to-the-fucking-Bronx look of fear that I might stick around the Upper East Side long enough to shoot one of its wealthy inhabitants.

  * * *

  I was on Anti-Crime patrol when two cops in a sector car responded to a radio run of a man with a gun on Intervale Avenue. Gun runs were common, and while many were unfounded or the bad guy got away before officers arrived, this one proved to be the real thing. The incident would escalate into a massive response involving cops from three precincts—the entire division—when things began to go sideways.

  The responding cops pulled up and observed a black male, well over six feet tall and around 250 pounds, brandishing a large revolver later determined to be a .357 magnum. That’s a big deal in the world of guns. He spotted the cops and retreated into a building with the two radio car officers in hot pursuit.

  The gunman was fleeing up the stairs when the cops entered the building. Ordered to stop, the man turned and fired several shots. Both officers returned fire, and a running gun battle ensued as the cops chased the shooter up the stairs toward the roof.

  The shooter, out of ammo, drew a second gun, a 9mm Browning semiautomatic, and unleashed a withering barrage of shots from a seventeen-round magazine.

  The shooter busted through the door to the roof, and it slammed behind him. The pursuing cops knew that the gunman could be waiting for them on the other side of the door and used caution by not continuing the chase.

  The cops had already called in a 10-13—officer needs assistance now—amid the sounds of escalating gunfire. Throughout the command, normal police operations ceased as cars sped to the scene.

  The frantic call for help spread to the 43rd and 45th Precincts, both part of the division, which encompassed most of the South Bronx. A division-wide 10-13, a rarity, and every available cop from those commands raced to help their brother officers.

  Bobby DeMatas, Eddie Fennell, Sergeant Vincent Barone, and Detective Rocco Tortorello, and I were on our way in two unmarked cars. We arrived in front of the Intervale Avenue address to pandemonium. Cops were everywhere: at least fifty uniforms, detectives, and sergeants. While everyone wanted a piece of the shooter, no one had a plan. And without a cohesive strategy, the perp had a good chance of escaping in the confusion.

  Enter the Four-One commanding officer, Captain Tom Walker.

  The captain and his driver screeched to a halt in an unmarked radio car among what can best be described as a cluster fuck of well-intentioned police officers. He immediately began shouting commands and gathering the sergeants to have them establish a perimeter around the block. Within minutes the street was sealed off by a ring of blue. The bad guy was trapped somewhere within that perimeter.

  “Now we search,” he said, as he assigned different groups of cops to different tasks. Captain Walker was what every captain should be: a superb field commander.

  We were directed to an alley adjacent to Intervale Avenue, one building away from the crime scene. Tenements on the street were connected. It wasn’t a stretch to assume that the shooter, in an attempt to escape, had made his way to another building and would try to flee that way.

  As the Anti-Crime cops and I entered the alley, we ran straight into the gunman, who had done exactly what we thought he’d do: jump a building divider to the adjoining building and climb down the fire escape. He had already reached the ground but hadn’t noticed us yet.

  “Big” doesn’t begin to describe him. And in addition to his size, he had a gun in each hand.

  The same thought occurred to all five of us: we would disarm him without a shootout. After all, we had the element of surprise. There were five of us and one of him.

  We pounced on the giant, blackjacks flailing. He put up a passionate resistance: we definitely had a fight on our hands. We pummeled him, careful not to brain each other with the blackjacks. The battle lasted three minutes; we were still mostly standing after it was over.

  Turned out the perp was a card-carrying member of the Black Panther Party, which explained his intense dislike for cops and extensive arrest record. He would have plenty of time in prison to think about his political leanings.

  Those are a handful of stories from a rough few months. But tougher times were coming; I was about to experience a life-altering catastrophe, memories of which I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

  5

  Police Officer Kenneth Mahon

  11/30/45–12/28/74 End of Tour

  “He died as he lived … a hero.”

  —ASSISTANT CHIEF ANTHONY BOUZA, BRONX AREA COMMANDER

  I was at home working out and listening to music on the radio when the hourly news came on. A plainclothes police officer was reported shot and killed in the area encompassing the Four-One. That caught my attention. I became still as I stopped what I was doing and waited for more information, but there were no specifics forthcoming.

  I’ve learned in my time that initial reports of any tragedy, be it police-involved or otherwise, are generally not strong on accuracy. There were many police officers working in plainclothes in the area: not only Four-One Anti-Crime but also City-Wide Anti-Crime, and the Tactical Patrol Force had some of its cops working out of uniform. As my heart raced and I reached for the phone to call the office, I rationalized how the media could confuse all sorts of characters with a “plainclothes police officer”—th
e list was endless. I would prefer no law enforcement officer were killed, but I said a silent prayer: let him not be a cop from my unit … please.

  Sergeant Battaglia, one of my bosses, picked up. He confirmed that the victim was a cop from Four-One Anti-Crime. But not just any cop …

  “It was Kenny, Ralph,” Sergeant Battaglia said quietly. “He’s gone.”

  Kenny Mahon was dead? I couldn’t believe it. My head felt as if it took a direct hit from a brick. My mind went totally blank. I couldn’t think, and I felt faint. Battaglia was still talking.

  “… perp still on the loose … Get here as fast as you can.”

  Regaining my composure, I told him I was on my way. I grabbed my two .38s, a shotgun, and my bulletproof vest. I was in my car in less than a minute.

  The next thing I remember is driving like a madman to the Four-One. The roads were deserted given the early hour. I think I made the usual twenty-minute trip in ten, but it could’ve been less.

  There were dozens of marked and unmarked cars blocking the street leading to the station house. A cop’s murder is the time to circle the wagons—all available officers of every rank converge on the command of occurrence. Off-duty, on-duty, retired, in all manners of attire, police from all over the city and beyond answer the unspoken call to arms.

  I left my car in the middle of Simpson Street, dodged TV reporters in front of the station house, and took the stairs three at a time to the Anti-Crime office.

  The scene was surreal: cops were crying; others appeared cried out and were looking blankly around the room as if trying to figure out what to do. Every available phone was being used. I saw uniforms I didn’t recognize—those of officers from other departments who had heard what happened and had reached out to help.

  My first impulse was to break down. Kenny and I were close, and I was having a tough time wrapping my head around his being gone. But falling apart wouldn’t help anything; I needed facts. If the killers or a killer was still being sought, I wanted to be the one to get him. I had revenge in my heart.

  Sergeant Battaglia came out of his office, saw me, and waved me over. He looked like he’d aged ten years since yesterday. He was the strength of the Anti-Crime unit, the rock-solid boss, someone who would always have your back and have an answer to whatever problem might arise. For the first time since I met him, he actually looked helpless.

  Sergeant Battaglia grabbed my arm, waking me from my reverie. “We just got a tip that the missing suspect in a rape/robbery of a young woman may have shot Kenny, who went looking for him … a guy named Vasquez … Daniel Vasquez is either on his way to JFK or there already looking to board a plane to PR. Grab someone and get to the airport now and see if that rat fuck is there. If he’s on a plane, yank him off—fuck a warrant.” He handed me an old booking picture. “This is him; he’s got an extensive sheet.” He stared at me. “Go! What are you waiting for?”

  I teamed up with Billy Rath, Richie McLes, and another officer whose name I’ve forgotten; scooped up a set of keys to an unmarked auto; and ran for the car. Within minutes we were at the Triborough Bridge coming up on a tollbooth without any cars. At this hour of the morning, the toll taker was probably working on autopilot. He was standing in the booth ready to collect the next two-dollar toll when we shot past him doing eighty-five. I thought for sure the vacuum created by the wind blast was going to suck him out of the booth. I was relieved he didn’t have his arm extended to grab my toll money, or it may have wound up splattered across the windshield.

  I amped up the speed to over one hundred when we came off the slope leading from the bridge to the Grand Central Parkway, which was nearly deserted. We were at the Van Wyck Expressway within three minutes, and I slowed down for the first time since I left the station house to make the sharp turn onto the roadway. The Van Wyck is a straight three-lane road leading directly into JFK airport. Normally a ten-minute drive, we made the perimeter of the airport in four minutes. In two more minutes we were screeching to a halt in front of the international arrivals building on the upper departure level. We’d made a trip that should have taken forty-five minutes (with no traffic) from the Four-One to JFK Airport in fourteen minutes.

  We ran into the building and found a Port Authority cop who told us a direct Eastern Airlines flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico, was loading passengers as we spoke. He gave us the gate number, and we took off running as fast as our legs would carry us. There were no security checkpoints back then to delay us.

  The plane was fully loaded when we arrived. Breathless, we identified ourselves and babbled our mission to the flight attendant at the gate. I grabbed the passenger manifest … there was no Daniel Vasquez listed. Passengers didn’t need passports to go to Puerto Rico, and realistically they didn’t even have to give their actual name to buy a ticket, so we decided to see for ourselves if our man was here.

  The Jetway was still attached to the plane, so we were no longer in a rush; if Vasquez was on board, he wasn’t going anywhere. We slowed down, boarding the plane like we were passengers, dividing up and walking the two aisles. We asked the Port Authority cop, who was in uniform, to stay behind on the Jetway and out of sight. The plan was to pounce on the son of a bitch before he had a chance to react and possibly endanger other passengers.

  This story doesn’t end heroically. Vasquez wasn’t on the plane. There were no other planes leaving for Puerto Rico anytime soon. The Port Authority cop assured us he would put out the word and be on the lookout. I didn’t hold out much hope.

  * * *

  Often, after a particularly heinous crime is committed, rumors fly because solid information is lacking, and sometimes it takes days to sort out exactly what happened. Since Kenny and Emile DeFoe were looking for Vasquez for the rape/robbery, it was assumed that he had been stopped and shot Kenny, but it could’ve been anyone with a gun who hated cops.

  When Kenny and Emile entered the building where Vasquez was known to live, they encountered a man who identified himself as David. When asked for his identification, he told the two cops that he didn’t have it on him but lived upstairs and would get it. He began to walk down the hallway; Kenny must have sensed something was wrong because he started to tell him to stop. But at that moment a second man appeared in a doorway, temporarily distracting Kenny and Emile.

  When they regained their focus, they started down the hallway after David, Kenny leading. Kenny shouted “Halt,” whereupon their subject whirled and fired two deafening .357 magnum rounds from a large revolver, both hitting Kenny, who went down, gravely wounded. Emile returned fire unsuccessfully while using his finger to plug up a badly bleeding bullet hole in Kenny’s side. When he ran out of ammo, Emile seized his partner’s unfired revolver and continued firing at the shooter. The gunman ducked into a stairwell, then reappeared, firing yet another round into Kenny. Emile fired back, missing again, and then the gunman took off up the stairs.

  Kenny Mahon had been hit in the left hip, the left knee, and once in the chest. Emile dragged him outside, intending to get to the street and nearer to the ambulance that was surely on its way. He got as far as the courtyard when he began taking fire from the roof. Emile shielded Kenny’s body with his own and returned fire in the direction of the muzzle flashes. He continued to keep his finger in Kenny’s most severely bleeding wound.

  Kenny would be rushed to Lincoln Hospital, where died on the operating table.

  Meanwhile, Kenny’s wife, Linda, was awoken by Detective Frank Macchio, who’d been dispatched to the Mahon home in College Point, Queens, to get her to the hospital as quickly as possible. Across the city, cops would know what had happened before Mrs. Mahon even got into Detective Macchio’s department vehicle. They were all instructed to maintain radio silence regarding Kenny’s shooting, lest Linda Mahon hear what happened through the radio chatter.

  For hours after Kenny died, a small army of cops searched the building and immediate neighborhood for the shooter, witnesses, or clues. Most of the cops had Vasquez’s picture and
showed it to anyone who would stay still long enough to look at it. There was much confusion over whether the shooter, who’d identified himself as David, was actually Daniel Vasquez, lying about his real identity. Vasquez was, after all, wanted in connection with a rape/robbery.

  Several hours after the gunman had shot Kenny, most of the officers were relieved from the scene and told to go home. Three cops from the 40th Precinct were assigned to remain (the shooting occurred in the 40th, one block outside the boundary of the Four-One). One of those cops, Kevin Henry, went to the roof; the other two, to the courtyard. A fresh set of officers would be assigned to continue the search at sunup.

  At approximately 5 AM (after the JFK search came up empty for Vasquez), Henry heard a sound behind him on the dark roof. He turned to see a Hispanic man. After challenging the man with his gun drawn, the man shouted, “Don’t shoot!” Henry ordered him to freeze and shoved him to the ground. Next to the prone man the officer saw a large gun—a .357 revolver, apparently dropped by the suspect, the same caliber that had killed Kenny.

  Henry called for assistance, and the two cops in the courtyard came running, arriving in less than a minute. As Henry moved in to cuff his prisoner, the man lashed out and elbowed Officer Henry in the ribs. That’s all the three cops had to see; they were sure they had the thug who murdered Kenny, and now the asshole couldn’t resist hurting another cop. They beat the suspect, subsequently identified as David Navedo, bloody, pulverizing his face so badly that Emile DeFoe, the only witness to the shooting, couldn’t identify him. It mattered little. It was Navedo, not Vasquez, who had killed Kenny; he was in possession of the murder weapon, had recently fired a gun (ascertained through a paraffin test of his hands), and was hiding at the scene of the crime. It was thought that he had waited a few hours for things to calm down and was going to make his escape across the rooftops when Officer Henry spotted him. Navedo had a record of five arrests for burglary, larceny, and other offenses, but this would be the crime to end it all.