White Death

by Philip C. Baridon

  Tina was one of several dykes who, like most, kept her distance from me and the other cops. Nina, a gregarious femme, was Tina’s favorite girl. They were an item in the Zombies. Carol froze a little at my implied question, then recovered.

  “They got popped buying a little action.”

  I pushed, “Buck action caps, black beauties, greenies, or what?”

  Carol hesitated, looked at the wall behind me as though it would help her avoid the question.

  “Cocaine.”

  “Shit,” I replied. “This is a smack and speed town. Where did they score coke?”

  “I don’t know, Jake; you got the badge and gun. I hear talk that it’s starting to make the scene.”

  Although I was curious, I knew that Carol would not elaborate. After a few more minutes of socializing, Jansen and I took our beat.

  We settled into a “footman’s stride” – a little faster than a slow walk, but slower than a normal gait. The idea was to see and be seen. Storeowners loved cops on the beat and complained if they came too infrequently. Commanders had to balance this with the demand on resources and the volume of calls that cars could handle, in contrast to mostly uneventful foot patrols. We pulled the boxes, chatted with storeowners, and ate some greasy chicken along the way.

  “Mike, turn slowly to the left and look across the street. See the big, light-skinned black man with the reddish-orange hair?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s Big Red, a notorious police fighter. They’re rare, not really discussed much anywhere, not even among cops, but we need to know who they are. Until a few months ago, we had a woman police fighter with a well-known address. She was skinny as a rail, but fought like a wild animal each time we arrested her. When she overdosed, we breathed more easily. Big Red is meaner and much stronger. He has an uncontrolled, fanatical hatred for the police that respects no boundaries. Take a close look and stay away, if possible.”

  I asked Mike if he was up for a little fun. Mike had endured some of my fun in the Zombies and eyed his partner with suspicion.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “There’s a really tough bar called McCombos Lounge at the edge of our beat. It’s a place with an attitude. The patrons are holdup men, thugs, a black motorcycle gang, Black Panthers, and other seedy characters. I like to walk in as a white cop and feel fifty eyes on me as all the conversation stops. I always order a Sprite and turn around for the stare down.”

  “Jake, you’re as crazy as me. Let’s do it.”

  At 6:00 p.m., as Mike and I entered, McCombos was filling up with the usual suspects. The bar was a male enclave, although a few brought their girlfriends. The smell of beer and cigarette smoke filled the air. Common interests dictated who clustered together. Bikers sat with bikers, Panthers with Panthers, and other characters seemed grouped by geography or criminal specialty. The bartender came over and asked the usual double-edged question: “What do you want?”

  We ordered two Sprites and turned around for the stare down. Soon, we heard a taunt from one Black Panther to another.

  “I guess the white pigs are here to show us how tough they are. Maybe we should treat them with the respect they deserve. You know, help them find the door.”

  A few chuckles and curses seemed to foreshadow a consensus for action. I turned to Mike and whispered in his ear, “See the biker covered with tattoos near the left corner?” Mike’s head nodded gently. “He’s wanted for a robbery homicide.”

  Meanwhile the Panther table seemed more agitated. We were running out of time. I turned to the bartender and said, “I need your phone for about a one-minute call.”

  “Fuck you,” he replied.

  “Listen, asshole, I can get the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board to shut this place down because I know you don’t serve food. Now hand me the phone.”

  I called dispatch, telling them we needed at least two backup units at McCombos for an arrest in a hostile crowd. We would wait outside for help. I silently wondered how many guns were in the room.

  “Finish your drink, Mike. The welcome mat has been pulled out.”

  As we headed for the door, several Panthers stood up and moved to cut us off. One was now directly in front of us with the door to his back. We probably could not fight our way out so I decided on one of Preacher’s tricks, namely, kindness.

  I smiled at him and said, “We appreciate you fellows offering to help us find the door, but I can see it now, and we are leaving.”

  The cordial tone caught him off guard and bought us enough time to slip past him to the exit.

  Several cars pulled up within a few minutes, including Lieutenant Dominik. I explained the situation to him, but he took more time than I expected to respond.

  “Are you pretty sure this is the guy who’s been knocking off restaurants, the one who later killed the owner of the dry cleaners after he resisted?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “The description is dead on, especially the red and blue tats on his arms.”

  Dominik called for additional units from the adjoining precinct and laid out the plan after they arrived.

  “We are going to make the arrest with such a show of force that resistance will be unlikely. Although we will move rapidly and try to avoid trouble, we know what kind of people hang out here. If someone pulls a gun, defend yourself. I want Stone to go in front directly to the suspect. All of us will follow with drawn revolvers at our sides and sticks in the other hand. Questions?”

  No one asked anything. The only sounds were sticks being pulled out of their carry rings and weapons from holsters.

  “Okay,” said Dominik. “It’s show time.”

  The sight of ten or eleven officers walking in with drawn weapons had the desired effect. Nobody moved or talked. I cuffed the suspect, and all of us were outside in less than two minutes. The lieutenant thanked everybody. Meanwhile, a wagon had arrived to transport the prisoner to the precinct. Fortunately, the cold-water pipe was not in use. I gave the collar to Mike and coached him on the paperwork.

  An Ugly Rite of Passage

  Mike came to court the next morning with me to watch the process. The arresting officer sits down with an Assistant U.S. Attorney who reviews the arrest report and criminal history of the defendant. After a few questions for the officer, the AUSA decides whether to press charges or release the defendant for lack of evidence or improper police procedure during or after the arrest. Outstanding warrants for robbery and murder made the decision simple in this case. Later, we caught a few hours of sleep and arrived for the 3:30 p.m. roll call the same afternoon.

  The room was full, like nobody was on leave or sick. Excess manpower translates into two-man cars and foot beats.

  Townsen began bellowing out assignments. “Stone and Jansen, one and two, pull on the hour, and stay the fuck away from McCombos.” A few ripples of laughter followed the admonition.

  An occasional foot beat gave patrol officers the opportunity to meet merchants and common citizens alike, listen to their crime problems and complaints while trying to repair some of the mistrust and racial tension, hanging thick in the air after the riots of 1968. Fast-moving cruisers on the streets cannot take in details such as hidden alleys, fire escapes, apartments above stores, and other information that might be helpful later during a disturbance or pursuit.

  Footmen also have the luxury of pulling a box, then ducking into a restaurant to eat real food. The greasy pork fried rice and Kung Pao chicken we finished off was fair.

  Resuming our trek north on Georgia Avenue, I turned to Mike and said, “See those two hard cores in long coats who just entered the liquor store? Their fronts were open, and the one nearest to us was using his arm to hold something against his body.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a sawed-off, twelve-gauge suspended by a leather sling from the shoulder. Easy to conceal, ready for action. Holdup artists here use a lot of sawed-offs.”

  “Jake, what’s the plan?”

  “We walk in t
ogether with pistols drawn but down at our sides. If everything is cool, we quietly holster our weapons. If not, we make the collars.”

  As we approached the door, the shouting to hurry with the money gave me a shiver. This would not end well.

  Rushing into the store, I screamed, “Police! Drop the weapons or die!” The clerk dropped straight down behind the counter as the shotgun swung directly at Mike. The ex-Green Beret fired a deadly two-round burst to the center of the chest, or as the instructors like to call it, the “center of mass.” Standing behind and slightly to the left of Mike, I ducked instinctively as the other robber fired a wild shot into the wall near me. His eyes told me I was the target. I hopped to the left away from Mike and got two clear shots at the gunman’s right shoulder. He twisted right as he was hit, and dropped to his knees; a .32 caliber semi-auto skidded harmlessly across the floor. In a few seconds, the action ended. The young man with the shotgun had locked eyes with Mike. Even heart shots can allow the brain a minute of oxygen before unconsciousness and death. For Mike, in those few moments, there was no right or wrong, no lawful killing, just humanity and death hanging in the air. Later, the grim setting would permeate the armor of most who came and went.

  “This had to be wrong,” Mike thought. “I am a Christian.” The eyes pleaded and accused at the same time. I’m going to die now because of you, they said. Seeing the exchange, I tried to break it off by moving in front of Mike and yelling at the clerk to dial 911 and hand me the phone.

  “I’ve got a robbery holdup with two bad guys down from gunfire. Georgia and Allison Streets. No officers or civilians injured. Stone and Jansen.”

  In a few minutes, officials from the precinct, Homicide Division, and one of the night inspectors converged on the crime scene. Order belied the apparent chaos. Ambulances carried both men to the Washington Hospital Center. Homicide officials separated Jansen and me for preliminary statements. A Homicide detective also interviewed the clerk, who was recovering from staring down both barrels of a shotgun. Lieutenant Dominik walked slowly up to us after listening to the statements.

  “No widows to notify, two bad guys off the street, no civilians hurt, a righteous killing, it doesn’t get any better. Great work.” Dominik was sincere in his praise, but melancholy eyes belied his smile. “Both of you will be on administrative leave for about three days while Internal Affairs finalizes its investigation. Jansen, it is just a formality in these cases. Scout 66 will take you back to the station where you can turn in your badges and weapons to the desk sergeant.”

  Mike and I rode in silence, and we gave a perfunctory thank you to Preacher for the lift.

  Desk Sergeant Joe Allen had done the paperwork. Two badges, two guns, and two signatures. For Mike the process was surreal – like this happens all the time.

  “Mike, let’s go to my place and talk. Karen is out of town.”

  No response. “Mike?” I tried again.

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  “Karen’s house,” as I called her place, could be featured on the cover of Southern Living. Both of us, however, skipped the pleasantries, headed straight for the bar, and poured two stiff ones. The bar was located amidst beige leather chairs and sofas situated on thick, chocolate brown wall-to-wall carpet in a spacious, sunken living room. At the other end a huge picture window looked out over a manicured lawn and a Japanese-style garden.

  “I have some idea where your head is,” I offered.

  “You don’t have a clue,” snapped Mike.

  I kicked off shoes, leaned way back in my favorite chair, and said, “Tell me.”

  “I spent a year in ‘Nam and didn’t kill anybody. Some VC probed our positions once, but the South Vietnamese did all the dirty work. We counted the dead guys in black pajamas and gave them advice on perimeter defense. Tonight, I killed a man, up close and personal. As the two rounds jerked him back, I knew I made a heart shot. I couldn’t break away from those eyes staring at me as he died.”

  I took a long drink. “Where is your head now?”

  “Saying I should puke and resign.”

  “I had a similar reaction once; couldn’t work for two days. My mistake put me on the wrong end of a gun. Would you care to hear the story?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My partner, a rookie, and I responded to a domestic shooting call. The wife had shot her husband, who had managed to make it out of the front door with five wounds before collapsing on the steps. I asked the small crowd of neighbors who shot him. Several said, ‘Mrs. Wilson, and she’s inside.’

  “I asked where the weapon was and someone said, ‘Next door with her aunt.’

  “I told the rookie to make sure an ambulance and Homicide had been called, do what he could to stop the bleeding, and get names and addresses of witnesses before they drifted away.

  “This happened in 1968, and I wore a heavy reefer, which covers the service weapon. With the new Sam Browns, everything you need – gun, cuffs, nightstick are outside. That cold day, the reefer was buttoned. After all, the gun was next door, and she had finished off her target. Another routine, violent domestic dispute. As I walked in, I saw a middle-aged black woman rocking gently in her chair. She had a shawl over her lap.

  “‘Are you Mrs. Wilson?’ I asked.

  “‘Yeah.’

  “‘Mrs. Wilson, I have several witnesses who saw you shoot your husband. You’re under arrest and will have to come with me.’

  “‘Ain’t no white motherfucker taking me nowhere cause I’m going to do you just like I done to the other sack of shit.’

  “She casually pulled back the shawl with her left hand, revealing a loaded .38 caliber pointed directly at my chest. Less than ten feet separated us. I went speechless. Did you know, when staring at a cocked, six-shot revolver, you can see two live rounds on each side of the cylinder, which means one is at the bottom and one is under the hammer—waiting for the firing pin. I also noticed the six spent shells on the floor in plain view. I had really fucked up, and was now awaiting execution. I couldn’t get to my gun, I couldn’t run, I couldn’t do anything except wait for the blast.”

  Mike sat forward, “You’re still here. What did you do?”

  “I pleaded for my life. It wasn’t pretty. I started talking. Trying to buy time and wear her down. I gambled that her husband was abusive and asked how often he hurt her.

  “‘Often enough,’ was the hard reply. ‘You motherfuckers didn’t do nothing except lock him up once for disorderly conduct.’

  “I appealed to her self-interest saying the court might go easy on her because of the history of abuse. Her actions may even be self-defense. In contrast, for the first-degree murder of a policeman, she would die behind prison bars. I watched her shift in her chair for the first time. Some progress. I could hear sirens coming, and she looked up.

  “‘Your house will be flooded with police in a few moments. Don’t add another body. I’m not your enemy. He’s dead on the front steps. Just hand me the gun, and we’ll walk out together.’ She took a deep sigh and tossed the gun at my feet. I picked it up, de-cocked it, stuffed it in my reefer, and held out my hand to her. We walked out together just as a Johnny Yates, a Homicide detective I knew, was stepping around the body.

  “‘Any problems?’ he asked.

  “‘No,’ I lied. ‘Here’s the murder weapon. Based on her statements to me, her husband abused her for a long time. It may have been self-defense.’ I kept quiet about her threat to kill me.”

  “Why?” said Mike.

  “I wanted to put the incident behind me. She wasn’t a danger to society. For a few minutes her rage, which had been building over the years, was displaced onto me. I almost paid the full price for being careless. I knew the Assistant U.S. Attorney would have charged her, resulting in some jail time. She was already a broken woman; I didn’t want to pile on.”

  By then, we had poured a second, or maybe a third, round of drinks.

  “I finished the paperwork, went home, and got drunk. The next morning
my hands started to shake as I reached for the uniform. I couldn’t put it on. I called in sick and reported to the police clinic, as we’re required to do. The intake physician sent me to the shrink. He listened to the story, told me I did a great job, and should be ready for work after another day of rest. And I was. I still remember the date as sort of a second, secret birthday. I thank God for each day since.”

  “Wow, and I thought you were a hard ass.”

  “I am a hard ass,” I said, perhaps a little defensively. “I try to maintain some perspective as the radio sends us from one calamity to another. Many of the brothers lost that ability long ago. For them, dealing with their emotions is not an option. Too complicated, too much pain. It’s easier to lump people and situations into categories and drink away the pain with other cops who feel it too. I’m not immune from that. Few cops share their emotions with their wives; it’s not macho. An unspoken bond says that only cops understand other cops, especially those who work in the city.”

  “You know,” said Mike. “I might have to drop the hammer on someone the day after I go back to work. I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “The odds are really small. Most cops retire without using deadly force. However, you have to know that it could be necessary again. Another thing, just to cheer you up. This incident will stay with you unless you accept that it was necessary; accept that it is part of the job; and accept that the people have a right to expect justice and safety. Hey, the store owner is alive and in business because of your actions.”

  “Man, did you practice that speech?”

  “No, but remember how I said that most cops have trouble dealing with their emotions. Having strong emotions are inconsistent with the swaggering, tough-guy image of ourselves. And fear is a forbidden topic. You will find, as you rotate through partners, everyone who has killed someone in the line of duty has the need to tell you about it sometime during that eight-hour tour. You are expected to reassure him—it was a righteous killing, you did the right thing, had no choice—especially, if the killing was a little gray, unlike tonight. They have not accepted it and made peace with their actions. That must be your priority.”